An Unsustainable Policy

Her deadened eyes were devoid of compassion as she shrugged her shoulders indifferently. In pointing at the door she sent the poor defenceless boy to his death: out into the harsh winter night.

“Please,” the boy half moaned-half whimpered at her cold, expressionless face, “Its wintertime; its virtually murder to send me out there like this.”
Her two gormless goons advanced menacingly either side, flexing their biceps in a way which suggested that the infliction of pain was not just a job, but also a hobby. The time was 3.30am. The icy wind screamed through Prague, rattling whole buildings, piecing thick layers of concrete and implanting the fear of death in the young boy’s heart.

“You know the rules,” she barked back.
“I never read the rules – where are the rules?” he cried.
She raised her arm, in a movement as graceful as a Seig Heil, and pointed to the rules pinned on the wall:

COATS AND BAGS WILL ONLY BE RETURNED UPON PRODUCTION OF A VALID TICKET – THOSE WITHOUT A TICKET CAN COLLECT THEIR COATS THE FOLLOWING MORNING

Bob had lost his ticket; he’d also lost a packet of cigarettes, a gram of weed, most of his friends, a majority of his self-respect and all of his patience. He had not however lost his drunken stubborn streak, which had in the past seen him try to throw a large recycling bin into his friend’s window at 4am wearing nothing but a pair of stylish white Y-fronts. Right now this same stubbornness was alive, kicking and aiming all of its self-righteous blows at the impassive cloak room lady in one of Prague’s  few watering holes which also boasts a dance-floor. It was somewhere on this dance-floor that Bob believed his cloakroom ticket now resided.

Down With the Imperialist Pigs

“!!!Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please!!!!! Can I have my coat?” Bob pleaded.

Nothing.

“!!!Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please!!!!! Can I have my coat?” Bob pleaded again.

The girl’s face still failed to show any trace of emotion: no anger, no frustration, no aggression, so sympathy, no empathy, no rage, no enjoyment, no happiness, no sadness, no nothing. In short she was an inhuman uncaring, unthinking cyborg; if Bob had decided to jump over the counter, cover her in petrol and set her alight he would have committed no moral crime. He scanned the room. There was no petrol, but he did have a cheap disposable lighter, and seeing as he’d lost his skunk he might has well set at least part of her on fire….

“’scuse me mate, is that your skunk you’ve dropped?” said a passing kind and wonderful man.
“!Why! Yes it is kind sir. I thank you immensely. Good day to you.” Bob replied. Happy as he was to rediscover his green, he now could not waste his last bit of gas setting the Cloak-Room-Cyborg on fire.

“Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please”

Discounting the option which could leave him languishing in jail, Bob instead decided upon appealing to the machine’s rational side.
“You realise that the current escalation in cloak room security is, in many ways, as unsustainable as the recent escalation in so called ‘defence’ undertaken by the US, Russia, China and Iran.” The Cloak-Room-Cyborg’s face remained as blank as photocopier paper.

“You see,” continued Bob unwaveringly,

“America claims that by building a radar base in this country for their ‘Son of Star Wars’ project they are helping make the ‘free-world’ a safer place. Protecting us from: rogue states, terrorism and other – as yet to be decided – EVIL THINGS.”

“You claim that by enforcing a stringent cloak-room policy to the letter you are protecting me from: coat thieves.”

The Cloak-Room-Cyborg moved away from Bob and sat down by the radiator, rested her head and attempted to slowly dose the rest of her nightshift away.

“So, in this undeniably accurate comparison,” Bob hurtled on, “you are the USA”

“The coat thieves are Russia, China, Iran etc.”

“Whatever the US builds, be it military hardware, weapons in space, army bases, a radar… Russia, China, and to a lesser extent Iran, also build. We have an unsustainable escalation.”

“If I were a coat, bag and/or umbrella thief I would simply walk up to the cloak room with a ticket the same as the ones which you issue and receive, illegally, a coat. The tickets are, you have to admit, a simple paper design and easily purchasable in many shops throughout the country. Whatever scheme you design – the evil-coat-thieving-Mafia which plague the Czech Republic and this particular part of Prague at 4.30am on a Saturday morning, will no doubt match. Again we have an unsustainable escalation.”

“The imperialist US can continue to spend millions on ‘defence’ whilst, forgive an aside, failing to provide its own people with adequate healthcare, but the arms build up cannot continue ad infinitum, so there must either be either:
1) a fuck off massive war which now will also include the Czech Republic as a viable target.

OR
 
2) a sensible realistic pragmatic approach to international security with gradually less and less nasty things which blow people’s arms and legs off.”

“You, Ms Cloak-Room-Cyborg, can continue with your quest to construct a vast array of ‘rules and regulations’ to thwart the coat thieves (and also deny an honest boy his coat at some ungodly hour of the morn – 5.30am) or develop a pragmatic approach to your job: and give me my fucking coat you evil fucking cyborg before I fucking set you on fucking fire you fucking fucker.”

Evidence Which Even a Combination of Sherlock Holmes, Poirot and Dirk Gently Could Not Counter

The Cloak-Room-Cyborg continued to play the ‘my face would show more signs of life if I had been dead for twenty years game’ and Bob continued upon his righteous path,
“Look in my pockets, in there you will find:
1) a beautifully light blue patterned scarf purchased by a (now ex) Parisian girlfriend in Cambodia;
2) a battered paperback copy of ‘Dirk Gently returns in: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul’;
3) a travel ticket stamped on the number 6 tram at approximately 8.05am on Wednesday morning;
4) a half completed ‘to do’ list which includes ‘send parents Happy Anniversary Card’ (not yet crossed out);
5) a pair of yaks-wool gloves in which the 3rd and 4th fingers are only one, hand-sown by a one eyed grandmother and purchased from a Tibetan refugee camp in the Indian Himalayas.

If, by some remarkable chance, somebody else in this club has the exact same coat and all of the above items in their pockets then, I would not only happily give them my coat and all of the precious items contained within it, but I would also happily spend the rest of my life as their personal gimp locked in their cellar with a gag shoved in my mouth. But as we can both clearly see the chances of this happening are similar to the chances of the US declaring itself a force for world-wide pacifism and redirecting its massive military budget to stop people starving to death – so please, for the love of coats, bags, umbrellas and other assorted cloak room items – give me my fucking coat before I cry.

Viva el Bob

The Cloak-Room-Cyborg, after tales of extreme sexual pleasures, being compared to an imperialist killing machine and threatened to have all of her skin burnt from her body looked as if she might muster a response – her mouth slowly opened, there was definite brain activity under the metal plating, her vocal chords contracted and and and …. – she yawned.

The fucker.

2 hours, six trillion ‘pleases’ and much threatening of violence from the two goons/doormen later, Bob witnessed at 7.30am the ultimate contradiction (no, not the condemnations of Iran’s nuclear weapons programme by countries such as Britain, France and Israel who both possess nuclear weapons and regularly commit severe and brutal human rights abuses) but the Cloak-Room-Cyborg giving Bob his coat….  Bob looked at her and screamed on the inside (he didn’t want to be beaten up by the doormen) “AND IT WASN’T EVEN THE LAST FUCKING COAT, THE 2 E’d-UP KIDS DOWNSTAIRS HAVN’T COLLECTED THEIRS YET – SO YOUR ENTIRE POLICY WAS MASSIVE MASSIVE MASSIVE WASTE OF TIME BECAUSE I COULD HAVE BEEN STEALING THEIR COAT YOU EVIL FUCKING STUPID CYBORG.”

Bob had won a victory of sorts, he had defeated the evil Cloak-Room-Cyborg, now he realised he must turn his attention to (the admittedly less important) problem of the US and its determination to defile the Czech lands with her early warning radar system and soldiers who rape village girls and yet remain immune from national and international law… compared to the Cloak-Room-Cyborg from Hell it would be a doddle.

This article was posted in Sustainable and tagged .

Comments are closed.

^ top