The great round-up
By gz
- 322 reads
To sit amongst a melange of pears and cakes, sleeping bags, bicycle
chains, hunting rifles, sweet decaying treacles, jars of ancient mango
slices and a complete set of 'Hound and City' magazine issues 1931 -
1979; M is in a paradise of apathy, contained in a gloating attitude of
deep, delicious sunken defeat. But he follows the signs that drag him
and other softly spoken degenerates away from their city of powder and
dust, unused piles of enthusiasm and expertise.
To work! To work! He cries; slinging a shotgun over one khaki clad
shoulder - for the occasion may require it.
M finds himself led to a huge bus, into which is thrown, an entirely
unlikely set of people, only connected by their disillusionment and
aimlessness. In various states of apprehension and bewilderment, the
occupants stare blankly ahead at 6am sky, a day of hard gruelling work
expected of unknown specification, no previous knowledge needed.
The Great round up has begun! The driver hiccups at his reflected grin.
All these fools have run to lick a. for some gold to buy them pickles
and cheap bread for tea.
But little do they know! A Gift is in store! A free gift from the men
in suits to the kids in uniforms, for all the unemployed and desperate.
The bus steers away from the drudgery of restaurant tables and dirty
dishes and towards a field filled with big wheels, spinning, dipping
roller coasters and candy floss. M cheers, what an unexpected turn of
events, what a rare treat indeed! No work, but a day at the fair!
Hurrah for new deal employers everywhere.
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