Hounslow: Part X – Rebels


Look around you, citizen; everywhere there is filth and decay. Everywhere there is degradation. Everywhere suffering. Everywhere injustice. Everywhere pain.
Why? Why should this be so?
Those who reign in the sickening citadel laugh at your condition. They live off of your efforts, they grow fat off of your hunger, they gain strength off of your weakness. They inhale fresh air and wallow in their wealth as you struggle into your air units or gag on smog for want of the credits to pay for the privilege of breathing.
Why? Why should this be so?
Your children are doomed to the same impoverished existence that you now curse. Their children are guaranteed the most bountiful future in the bubble that they now enjoy. Your children must play in Jersey Gardens, a monstrosity reflecting the elite’s grotesque image. Their children can play in state-of-the-art playgrounds, wonders reflecting the unappreciated’s labour. Yours will die young. Theirs may live forever.
Why? Why should this be so?
The corporate criminals who have engineered this state of affairs have saddled you with an overwhelming debt. One that would break the back of the greatest Titan. One that only grows larger. One that is a death sentence.
But it is not yours.
It is theirs.
They have amassed this debt. It is a debt to us. To the people. To the workers who built their city. To the unfortunates whose disadvantage precipitated their privilege. To you. To me. To us. We are owed a debt by them, not the other way around.
A debt unpayable.
It cannot be collected, citizen.
It can only be wiped out.
They must be liquidated.

Yours truly,


“Memf mnll mnrfy mnm”.

Bromley started. Dench’s face, greasy with sweat and still bearing the marks of the AirFilt™ mask, was inches away, peering askance at the message in his hand. Instantly, the paper was crushed into a ball once more and jammed into the recesses of Bromley’s jacket.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, fuck’s sake.”

Dench tittered, spewing some half-chewed morsels into his face. Bromley sighed, and wearily closed his eyes for a moment.

“Lovely, D.”

The Compliance Officer’s host made a show of swallowing what was left, giving an exaggerated “Aaah” before waiting, with smug confidence.

“What?!”, snapped Bromley eventually.

Henry Dench’s eyes gleamed, and he slapped Bromley on the shoulder with friendly machismo.

“We will bury them.”

At that, Nolbert Bromley’s blood ran cold.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…


About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
This entry was posted in Gibberish, Politics, The Hounslow Saga and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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