This story is inspired by and is dedicated to the women of Poland

#CzarnyProtest #BlackProtest


What are the two pillars of freedom? A pillar itself, in cases when it is one of a pair, is strong enough to hold the loftiest of ideas, yet fragile enough to collapse a vast society. Freedom itself is a notion, an idea, there is no purity or truth to be found beside it. When we look through the lens of ideology we are reminded of the reductive nature of the universe. Ideas simplify the universe and make it more palatable. Ideologies complicate simple ideas and are a cancer on the foundations of reason.

The individual is a Gemini, a yin and yang, a Jekyll and Hyde. Each of us is two. This idea, oriental in origin, has been plagiarised, bastardised, and truly sodomised beyond itself. When seen alone, as a notion, with no tendrils of belief, it is possible to recognise that each of us exists on two plains, on the inside and on the outside. The internal I is the thoughts, the private dialogue we maintain within ourselves. It is an expression of existence that belies us, that stands before us, that we celebrate secretly in our desperate hope that we are unique. The second I, is the external I, the physical us, the bodies that drive us and eventually kill us. The mere fact alone that a human being is capable of falling in love with only one of the two Is is convincing enough to suggest that they are separate entities.

Freedom itself is an expression of the absence of constraints. Mentally we can be so free from the constraints of society that we can become serial killers, investment bankers and politicians. We are able to disregard the rules that are meant to separate us as unique, and turn the idea of ethics upon its head. Physically, we are rewarded for our adherence to ethics, by the opportunity of not living inside a prison. The problematic association here is that to be truly free we would require both.

Thus, it is possible to assume that the enemy of freedom is the state that dictates your way of life. If only one I is free, there is only delusion. Freedom is only evident in one condition, if your thoughts are only yours and yours alone, and if your body belongs only to you. Prisons are born in many shapes and forms. The problem is that it is near on impossible to see the bars on your windows, when prisons contain an entire population. However, there is the tiniest shred of hope. No matter how many people are stuffed inside a prison cell, there is always someone that can see through the window.


When a room lit by television alone, contains a couple, it may be perceived as romantic, and yet when the said room contains a single person, it is the perfect picture of twenty-first century loneliness. Oddly, loneliness is the most romantic of notions. A person, comfortable within their own skin, will fail to notice precisely how alone they are for months, if not years at a time. Alas, a person in love, from the moment they part from those that matter, are almost immediately overcome with a desolating, inconsolable sense of precisely how alone and unimportant they really are.

In all subjective matters it is possible to be a fundamentalist at heart. Love is no different. If a human being holds principles that are set in stone, they themselves are a tenet, a beam in the construction of an entire image. In the case of love it could be a person that is set in their belief that love requires marriage. That there is only a single person in existence on this planet of billions, out there for them, and when they arrive they will marry before they ever consummate their relationship. This notion, oft promoted by the industry of religion, offers a magnificent rabbit hole for homosexuals that reside in bigoted backwaters.

It is rational to suspect that a loveless life leaves holes across the sphere of human existence, holes which only delusions of grandeur can ever possibly fill. To survive the monotony of life, the subject has to elevate other non-essential components of life such as work, and ideals to a plain high enough that enables them to convince themselves that their calling is what defines them, and not the genetic imperative. In essence it requires a person to be able to shape reality in their own image. Peculiarly, history has proven that human beings tend to be rather good at that.


The Great Leader sat in her chair. Her chair. Not her sofa. Although she had a sofa for receiving guests, she never sat on it, actually nobody ever had, as she never had the kind of guests that required a sofa for receiving, however, normal people had a sofa, thus, it was essential that she too had one, so that, normal people would think her normal. Her chair, a dark red recliner, the colour of royal curtains in dull costume dramas, had a smell of history to it. It had been her mother’s chair, the mother that shared the home she resided in for over fifty years. It comforted her, like the warm embrace of someone else’s mother, the kinds of mother you see on glitzy American dramas. Not her mother though, she didn’t believe in hugging. It was undignified and certainly ungodly. In her mother’s opinion the only women that ever hugged had obviously caught gayness.

The living room was dark and wooden and smelled of old. It could not have been due to the cologne of a grandparent, yet it hung in the air like time immortal. The Great Leader sat hunched in an old grey dressing gown. It was the kind of grey that blended seamlessly into the background of a throng of rush hour commuters. It was a cloak of invisibility, a colour so boring that few people could ever recall seeing it. She sat with the remote control on one arm of the chair, and a tiny glass of port in the other.

The glow from the television illuminated the Great Leader’s face, giving her both the look and the pallor of a troll. Suffice to see, nature had not been kind. She was a short, chubby woman; her face had an unnatural roundness, more suited to toad than human. It was part of the reason why she chose to hide in the shadows. Years before she had attempted a political career in the limelight until her sister was ruthlessly murdered by a weather system sent by a neighbouring country to destroy their government. Nowadays she felt safest in the dark; free from the eyes of her enemies, where she could play the role deemed to her by God himself, that of the master puppeteer.

On the television a scene was playing out of a clan in a fantastical mythical age. It was apparent that summer was coming, and that was the emotional fuse that forced a half-naked gibberish babbling warrior to force himself upon a pale, blonde waif.

“Disgusting,” muttered the Great Leader as she absolutely made no move whatsoever to change the channel. As limbs were entwined, and garments removed, the Great Leader did not stir, she did not even take her eyes from the screen for one second. A bell rang out from a clock in the hallway to announce the hour; the Great Leader smiled and took a sip from her port. As her lips were flooded with the embrace of the grape, her mind was flushed with guilt. She felt her cheeks redden and she spoke aloud, “just one mother, just one.”

Silent nights carry a menace seldom acknowledged, solitude. No man or woman is an island, because only islands are islands and it is rather pretentious of humans to think otherwise. Time spent alone is time wasted, and the human race is nothing but inventive in their bid for companionship. Regrettably it is apparently difficult for many humans to separate their two Is, the physical and mental I. This difficulty created the pathway for the invention of prostitution, paedophilia, bestiality, inflatable dolls, and all manner of sex aids designed for the same simple reason; to offer the human psyche an alternative to being alone. Astonishingly, to absolute nobody, almost all of the fore mentioned inventions and discoveries have a single thing in common. They are all vastly more popular with men. Yet there is one aid, one item, one organism, designed singularly with women in mind, to fill this chasm, caused by loneliness.

The Great Leader hung her dressing gown on a hook on her bedroom door and stepped out of her slippers. She knelt beside her bed and locked her hands in prayer. It is called prayer because it is somewhat more mystical sounding than whispering to oneself.

“Dear Lord, I pray that all fornicators may be given the grace of purity, a chaste life, and in case of fornication, of not using contraceptives, and, in case of pregnancy, of giving birth to the child, and, in case of not wanting the child, of finding good adoptive parents for the child. Amen,” the Great Leader whispered. A cat quickly entered the room and leapt onto her bed. “Hello Lord, who’s a good boy?”

“Me,” the Lord replied, “Are we ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes, Lord, yes we are.”


In the annals of history great precedent is giving to the power of words. Orators across vast swathes of time have been celebrated for the versatility of their vernaculars, promoted to pedestals for the power of their punctuation. These heroes of literature and life have carved their names in the passage of time by their ability to seemingly create the immortal from ink alone.

Words are more powerful than man. Words have launched wars, created and destroyed Gods, and annihilated vast empires. They are worshipped, castigated, celebrated and venerated. Yet in the entire history of the human race, there are not five words that have been used more than these.

“What about a blow job?” Our Hero pressed himself again his wife’s back. She could feel him through her nightshirt, and his wrinkled pyjamas.

“Piss off,” spat his wife as she squirmed away from him.

“You can touch it if you want,” the offer, as generous as it was, was ignored with all the enthusiasm of a penguin with a frostbitten, never mind. Our Hero rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, and lost himself in the intricate nipples of plaster, so prevalent in modern housing.

This scene of love and marriage, of war and peace, the infinite battle of the sexes, that takes place across the world billions of times every single night, if often forgotten about within the carnage of existence. Irrespective of sex, as in chromosomes, the act of sex itself, in most cases, should be a contract of sorts, a reciprocity agreement. The truth is, it rarely is.

It is hard not to blame the artists of time, when in reality, the leaders selected by our gods should also accept a fair share of the blame. Artists elevate love and the act of consummation to grandiose heights. Religious Leaders have diluted its meaning to one of mere function alone. Thus, there is a single question to ponder; can one still make love when there is an absence of passion?

“Are you sure?” asked Our Hero has he attempted a gentle grope. His wife slapped his hand away and lay still, like roadkill in the dead of night.

Through night and day man seeks release. Prostitutes and poofs, old men and the young, women and women, and horses and donkeys. The earth’s carnal appetite is unrelenting, a Bain upon our existence, a wish unfulfilled. As the world continues to turn, life will continue the making and wasting of lives. Or will it?


Every monster has its mouth. Inside the mouth are teeth, atypically described as being as sharp as blades. The trouble with a description is that it stems from observation and observation is the least reliable form of evidence, short of ‘God told me’. The truth of the matter is that even sharks have to chew their food.

In society we appoint leaders to make decisions for us, under the misguided belief that they not only know, but have an actual interest in what the best thing is for the general population. This is an idiotic form of self-mutilation. Moralistic voters, those that vote for the extremities of the ideal, are the most morally repugnant, deluded, self-absorbed members of society, that quite frankly, should be banished to somewhere French speaking. A sensible adult only has one path available when voting, the path to the person that promises to fuck up their lives the least.

The trouble with the beauty pageant of an election is that we are in effect, asking political parties to market an image of a candidate that is absolutely and unequivocally not true. The mouth of the demon is this case is often in the form of a Prime Minister, a decision maker that is spoon fed information by minions, intent on influencing the final outcome to their own advantage. Every politician is surrounded by aides and advisors and civil servants and servants and friends and acquaintances and a whole host of temptation which makes a politician’s independence as likely as a cock’s indifference to sex.


The Prime Minister of PiSlamistan brushed down his suit jacket and adjusted his sleeves.

“How do I look?” asked the Prime Minister. The Great Leader met his eye.

“Like you are about to make history,” replied the Great Leader with a sly smile. “Remember, stick to the facts. God, Honour and the Motherland.”

“God, Honour and the Motherland,” repeated the Prime Minister somewhat unconvincingly. A young attractive aide appeared from behind a curtain. The Prime Minister felt a surge of lust, a primitive heat as he gazed hungrily at her. “Yes?”

“They are ready for you now Prime Minister,” said the aide carefully.

The Parliamentary Press Room was rather elaborate for a country of such a young age; it was all squeaky marble and IKEA chairs. On this day it was standing room only as it was over capacity and likely contained closer to six hundred than the four hundred and fifty people allotted by the fire marshal. The room inside contained a buzz, low conversation and people checking and rechecking equipment. Whenever a press conference was announced with short notice it always gained more credence, and a larger audience than average.

The Prime Minister strolled out onto the stage with all the effort of a Sunday morning golfer. He stopped in front of a dark lectern, and placed a hand on each side just as he had been taught. The intent was to make him look casual, unfortunately, due to the Prime Minister’s tenseness he looked very much like a man holding himself up on crutches.

“At approximately fifteen forty-five this afternoon the government of the people of PiSlamistan signed the ‘Protection of Life’ act. This act will prevent the legal murder of children before birth. The sanctity of life is a matter that is fundamental in protecting the families of our nation. Every day hundreds of millions of our citizens are needlessly terminated and we, as your government, have decided that it ends today,” the Prime Minister paused to sip a glass of water, his cheeks ruddy and his head caked in sweat. “Every single day an estimated eighteen million men gratuitously waste the future of our country, by needlessly ejaculating one hundred million citizens of our country, which had they been born, would have made us the strongest country on the planet. The men of our great country are leading genocide against us. We have stepped off of the path towards God, and only we, your government, can set you in the right direction.” The Prime Minster paused, unsure of his next lines. He ran back through what he had practiced and remembered the clicker in his hand. He pushed a button, and suddenly a microchip appeared on a giant screen behind him, it looked the size of a small meteor. “Every man of God in this country has until the end of the month to install the ‘Manbortion’ 500,” the Prime Minister pointed at the screen behind him, “This microchip has sensory detectors that will prevent citizen wastage, and thus, safeguard the future of our great nation, and place us at God’s bosom once again. Thank you.” There was a loud hubbub from the assembled crowd.

“How are these chips installed?” called a voice from the crowd. The Prime Minister nodded as a voice came to life inside his ear.

“They have to be installed by a trained medical professional,” replied the Prime Minister noncommittedly.

“What do the sensory detectors detect?” cried another voice. The Prime Minister smiled until he heard the voice in his ear.

“Vag… Vagin… Vaginal fluids,” stuttered the Prime Minister, somewhat dumbstruck by the sounds of the words echoing through the chambers of his mind.

“How does the ‘Manbortion’ 500 prevent citizen wastage?” asked a short man in the front row. The Prime Minister scratched his ear for a moment before he realised that he was absolutely slack jawed in astonishment.

“The microchip rewards users for legal reproductive uses,” mumbled the Prime Minister, the expression on his face one of absolute horror.

“How exactly?” shouted the short man. The pause spoke volumes. The Prime Minister looked to the floor, not perplexed but winded.

“By not firing eighty thousand volts of electricity through the subject’s reproductive organ,” replied the Prime Minister as he knocked the glass of water on the floor and thought a single, honest, earnest, poignant thought. That thought was ‘fuck’.


Misdirection. A notion long associated with magic, is where a distraction is used to hide the real intention of an act. It has long be connected with politics, whilst oddly, is rarely regarded as the most common behavioural trait of the humanas stupidas.

When a man tells a woman that he loves her, how does she know for sure? Could it be misdirection? What a man might really mean is that I want to have sex with you. When a woman says that she has a headache, how can a man know for sure? Could there be any number of reasons as to why a woman does not want to please her amorous partner after he has consumed his bodyweight in alcohol?

The greatest act of misdirection ever created was the idea of a creator. ‘God told me to kill them’. ‘God told me to have four wives’. This act of wilful misdirection, of intentional obfuscation, is designed to steer people away from truth. There is little you cannot do, if you are able to convince another human being that you are on first name terms with the most powerful being in the universe. It is a device that has divided entire societies for thousands of years and continues to do so today.

“You know what amazes me, the fact that it has taken so long,” said a mousy woman with unkempt brown hair and thick glasses. She continued, “it’s what God wants. Sex for the sake of pleasure is a sin; it is all part of the grand plan.” The silence in the smoking room spoke volumes. Her co-workers sat mute in amazement, half of them wishing inside their minds that someone would confront her.

“I don’t see what the harm is,” came a voice of reason, before being cut off.

“The harm is that the reason God gave us reproductive organs is to reproduce,” spat the mousy woman bitterly. The lone man in a smoking room full of women spoke up.

“You really think it is acceptable that in two thousand sixteen, for the government to decide on what happens to a man’s body. It’s disgusting, it’s barbaric,” said the man. A blonde woman sitting beside him nudged him in the ribs.

“Don’t worry Davy, it is not gonna happen. There is no way they are gonna make masturbation illegal,” said the blonde woman gasping with laughter.

“Bitch!” replied Davy.

“Wanker!” giggled the blond. The fog of tobacco was momentarily wafted as the door opened, and Our Hero passed through it. Davy lit another cigarette.

“What do you think?” Davy asked Our Hero.

“About what?” replied Our Hero. The room went a deathly silent, it was palpable, the kind of silence felt by a lift full of people when somebody farts, and everybody is eyeing each other warily, trying to figure out precisely who is to blame.

“About the microchip,” replied the blonde.

“The microwhat?” asked Our Hero as he sat down. He took out a cigarette and pressed it between his lips.

“You haven’t heard?” asked Davey.

“Fornication has been outlawed,” said the mousy woman.

“No more masturbation. Or blow jobs,” said Davey miserably.

“The government are going to put a microchip in your wotsit. It is gonna zap you if your thingy is anywhere that can’t make a baby,” added the blonde merrily failing to hold back her mirth. A smile slowly spread across Our Hero’s face like a new born baby seeing its reflexion for the first time.

“Hahaha you guys! As if any government would do that. It’s 2016! Not the bloody middle ages,” hooted Our Hero, tears rolling down his face.


It is often said that the Lord moves in mysterious ways. This probably explains why nobody has ever seen him. Although there is one way which has remained consistent throughout eternity: Religion’s refusal to accept the reality of sex. Throughout history numerous Pontiffs, Priests and Princes have proven irrefutably that it is impossible to separate humans from the most basic of genetic drives. From bastard children, to celebrated debauchery, humans will always fornicate.

Essentially religion misses the crux of the issue. The question should not be how should we prevent people from fornicating without reproducing, but how should we prevent people from fornicating with things that seem somewhat inappropriate for people to fornicate with, such as children. It is part of the inquisitive nature of the human race. If it exists, someone somewhere, will likely have tried to have sex with it. From vacuum cleaners, to lampposts, to gerbils, to ketchup bottles, to corpses, to donkeys, to apple pies, it is evident that sexual frustration is deeply unpleasant for household objects, pets and condiments.

In religious communities there is a greater problem than mere objectification. In such societies it is common for ordinary people to seek out celibate spiritual leaders for marriage, love and sometimes sexual guidance. This strikes me as a particularly stupid kind of folly. Nobody ever asks a vegetarian for a recommendation for a steak house, thus it is somewhat odd that entire societies voluntarily take terrible advice from a man that is meant not to have known the joy of the touch of another human being. There is very little evidence to suggest that a spiritual advisor that has been celibate their entire adult lives could offer any insight or understanding on matters of the heart, or those found further south anatomically.

“To the woman also he said; I will multiply thy sorrows, and thy conceptions: in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children, and thou shall bring forth children, and thou shalt be under thy husband’s power, and he shall have dominion over thee. Genesis 3:16,” barked the Bishop of PiSlamistan. She adjusted her dress and straightened her back. The church was full to the brim. It filled her heart with glee to see so many married couples. “We live in the age of Onan. When the Lord sent Onan to impregnate his brother’s wife, Onan chose to spill his seed on the floor. Since that day, men have fallen away from the path to a chaste, decent existence,” the Bishop paused, and slowly scanned the eyes in front of her, “we are up to our knees in seed, from these wicked men. The media talk of global warming, but it is not. It is seed, gallons and gallons of seed, from filthy, dirty, disgusting…” the Bishop tailed off, she could feel her heart pounding as images of seed falling from the sky passed through her mind. “We, the women of PiSlamistan cannot reclaim our rightful place, until our men have returned on the path to our saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. That is why we support the government’s…” the Bishop caught the eye of the Great Leader and waited for her nod. “…plan, to protect the lives of the billions of unborn children, to bring our men back to God and to make our country great again. It will be only then, that we, the women of PiSlamistan can return to our rightful place. Under the dominion of our men.” The applause began like a pebble being thrown into an ocean, until the wave grew greater and greater until it reached its metaphorical shore, the pulpit that the Bishop was standing it. Although she knew that the cathedral echoed, for the life of her she couldn’t make why it felt like only half the people in the audience were actually applauding. Strange, she thought.


It is said that shame is the greatest cure for the libido. It afflicts generation after generation, causing irrational fears and hang-ups, and its by product guilt. Largely, shame is immaterial as it tends to impact the internal I, and is as invisible as sex appeal, or innocence. Thus, it is confounding as to why is there is such a common communal obsession with shaming others.

If humans at heart are egocentric gene-replicating machines, their indifference to each other should only be contradicted when an opportunity to improve one’s life directly or even indirectly appears on the horizon. In such circumstance, shame becomes a tool of opportunity, whilst remaining a non-existence abstract idea, such as love, God, and UHT milk that does not taste like baby vomit.

For many men shame is omnipresent, in bathrooms, swimming pools, urinals, bedrooms and doctor’s offices. When one feels aggrieved by the external I, the physical manifestation of oneself, mirrors, glass and practically any other reflexive surface is enough to project the individual into a whirlpool of misery, only escapable via death.

“Drop your trousers and place your penis on the table,” said the Doctor. Our Hero turned bright red, a fact only highlighted by the dark, drab conference room they were standing in. Our Hero undid his belt and his trousers landed on the floor, all the while he could not help thinking that the way the Doctor had said it made it sound somewhat detachable. There was a paper towel placed over the table, presumably single use. Our Hero stepped forward, took a deep breath and placed his terrified looking penis, shrivelled with despair, creased with regret, and waited, his hand hovering close by as if it was waiting for the penis itself to change its mind. The Doctor turned back towards Our Hero, holding what, to Our Hero’s eyes at least, looked to be a drill.

“What the aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhh,” was all Our Hero managed to blurt before the Doctor grabbed his walnuts, pressed the device to his best friend and fired a tiny microchip into its head. The entire process took less than two seconds.

“Please send the next man in on your way out,” said the Doctor busily disassembling the scene of the crime whilst simultaneously preparing for his next victim.

Our Hero fastened his belt, and then redid it two notches lower. The throbbing pain that emanating from within his trousers made him want to cry. He bit his lip and stumbled out of the conference room where his voice betrayed him. He had allowed himself to be castrated; he was little more than a dog. Our Hero waved the next man in, and ran towards the bathroom with tears in his eyes.


The Great Leader sat in her chair and vigorously stroked her pussy. It had begun the reformation of PiSlamistan as a nation at one with God.

“We’ve done it Lord, we’ve actually done it,” she cried, as the cat purred merrily.

It had started as a pipedream. When the Great Leader first entered politics with her sister they had sworn that their country had lost its identity, that globalisation was destroying the moral fabric of their society. They had promised each other to return their motherland to the church, and she had done it.

“Remember my dear, the fornicators will not go down without a fight, we must stay one step ahead,” warned Lord the Cat. The Great Leader nodded. The clock in the hallway proclaimed the demise of the hour, and the Great Leader took a sip from her port. As her eyes returned to the television screen she mumbled, “Just one mother, just one.”

The lights of the television flickered in front of her eyes, as an Arabic looking Prince besmirched a woman’s innocence from behind her, the Great Leader felt a familiar yearning that burned with her, and it felt like it emanated from her very soul.


Man is only ever as good as his greatest failure. The downside of the possession of an internal I is the two-folded turd burger known as cognition and memory. With our ability to think comes great responsibility. Given time, the human mind should be able to devise a list of stratagems and techniques to enable it to conquer a goal. In reality, the arrival of the internet has robbed humans in an amazingly short evolutionary period, and created unthinking click zombies.

A mature mind should understand the science of cause and effect. That A action, leads to B reaction and creates C consequence. Thus the mind needs to do two separate things. First, it must carefully design a plan of action that gives birth to the exact reaction that it wants whilst simultaneously considering the entire spectrum of reactions that could possibly arrive, and consequently enable it to better forecast the final result. This is what education should be preparing us for; this is the only skill that is fundamental for improving the future of our society. And our young minds have little opportunity to practice it in controlled settings.

The Young Man did not know that he was sitting in a car parked behind some dumpsters in a dark street with a Judge. It would not have made any difference to him if he had. All he knew was that the man he was with had an expensive car and was significantly older than he was. The Young Man folded the crisp notes into his front pocket; he could almost feel the warmth from the ATM. He spat a chewed up piece of gum into his hand and stuck it behind his ear. The Judge reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

The Newlyweds had been making love with savage intensity for the weeks that had passed since they had married. It had been like opening a new door, a fresh start. Although he was loath to admit it, the Husband was tiring, struggling to keep up with her ravenous appetite. As he kneeled behind his wife, groping her buttocks and pounding with mechanical tiredness, it dawned on him that although they were now married, he still had not planted his seed in her other garden.

Peeping Tom stood in the rain, in his favourite location for peeping. He was a dishevelled looking man, balding, with a messy moustache and tobacco stained teeth. In some respects he looked exactly how he should look. It was an honest appearance which left very few paths open to him. As Peeping Tom began climbing the tree outside of the Nurses Dormitory, he asked the internal I which country he should look for tonight.

As long as man is able to exhale air he will be compelled to fuck something. If a man was trapped alone on a desert island with a giant Panda, he would, at some point, try to seduce the panda. What separates real men from deviants is the amount of time it would take them to break. There are dozens of examples of men that rediscover themselves in the Navy, or in prison. Yet there are men that sit atop of elements of society that seek to deny that such urges exist, that the most human state of all is an unnatural state.

The notion of purity and grace is let down by the person that created the standards. A man that forces others to kill their children, or lend them to rape, that asks a man to impregnate his sister’s wife is clearly a sexual deviant, and chauvinist of the highest order. The deviancy found in holy books cannot be ignored because the book speaks of a different era, as it is the same books that contain ethical guidelines which the ‘writer’ has chosen to ignore. It is impossible to read such texts without considering that the ‘creator’ is a hypocrite and a braggart.

The Young Man reached into the Judge’s trousers and removed the Little Judge. He scrutinised it closely, somewhat fascinated by the microchip pierced into its head. He supposed he would eventually have to get one, but the authorities would have to find him first. The Young Man leaned over the Judge and placed it in his mouth. In a single stroke there was a buzz and eighty thousand volts of electricity shot through his mouth sending him careering towards the steering wheel. By the time the blue veins of electric had dissipated the Judge’s heart had stopped, and the Young Man was upside down, on top of the Judge having his first and last seizure.

The Wife let out a scream that could have curdled milk as the Husband relocated to her other garden. He did not even reach his second stroke before the blue flame of electricity ignited the methane gas inside His Wife’s body firing them both in different directions. As His Wife rolled on the floor trying to put out the fire in her other garden, the Husband finally realised that his pubic hair was on fire.

Peeping Tom had finally settled upon Africa. It was not the easiest window to view as it required standing on a branch and leaning against the main trunk of the tree, but with binoculars he saw a nursing student return to her room wearing just a towel. Peeping Tom adjusted his hands, keeping the binoculars in one, and rummaging through his trousers with the other. The student dropped her towel, and Peeping Tom found his rhythm. In natural sync with his dilation, there was a sharp buzzing and the blue vein of electricity shot from his trousers. Peeping Tom wobbled, his body stiff in receipt, his meat and two veg significantly less so, he dropped the binoculars and fell after them, landing upside down with a heavy thud.


In the shady world of social engineering, there is an apparatus, a mental scaffold of sorts, that enables users to climb over walls, and circumnavigate traps, and best of all, you require no qualification in the form of evidence to prove, that is the term ‘truth’.

It is relatively straightforward to work out whether you are engaged in conversation with a moron. Count the number of times your verbal sparring partner says the word truth. An intelligent, inquisitive mind is able not only to bridge their arguments with commonly held opinion, but they are able to anticipate the shortcomings of their own arguments. Intellect will always overcome truth, as truth is a subjective human opinion, and not a term that ultimately validates arguments. It is possible to find truth in any argument such as the sky is blue because rain is wet, a bearded man created every single object in the universe in a week; it must be true it is in a book, and my arse is broken because it is cracked in the middle.

The hegemony of truth holds societies back. It allows social leaders to manipulate the population by bringing illusions to life. In systems of governance it can engineer social unrest, distrust of migrants and in the most extreme cases, persuade entire countries to vote to leave institutions whilst simultaneously not actually leaving them. It can convince the media that an outbreak of xenophobia is a spontaneous result of voting and not something severely broken within the fabric of a normal society. It can convince grown adults that their lives are mapped out by a bearded man that lives in the clouds. And worst of all, is the fact that it creates the illusion of righteousness.


The Great Leader sat in a production room in the offices of TVP, Television PiSlamistan, and watched thousands of people walking slowly through the streets of the capital on a screen. They were holding placards which displayed unimaginative slogans like ‘my body, my choice’. She sat next to a young producer with dirty ginger hair in front of an enormous console with buttons and switches and sliders and dials. The Great Leader felt as if she was the Captain of a spaceship. On the corner of the desk sat a young male secretary, with a laptop open, waiting for instructions.

“Can we remove the placards? If we could cut the shots out, or at least obscure them so they are unreadable,” asked the Great Leader softly. The door flew open and the Prime Minister rushed in, red faced and sweaty, followed by an attractive blonde aide.

“I need to speak to you,” said the Prime Minister hesitantly, as he glanced at the screen. Before his eyes placards were falling out of shot, or blurring. “What’s going on?” he asked, as he pointed at the television. The Great Leader stood up and turned to face him, she barely stood taller than his elbows.

“What can I do for MY Prime Minister,” the way the Great Leader emphasized MY sent a jolt of fear all the way to his knees. He looked to his aide for support, his beautiful, blonde aide that once used to be his and his alone. In his mind he remembered the things they used to do to each other, and felt himself shudder as it dawned on him that one day such acts would be so far removed from reality, they would almost sound biblical.

“What are we going to do about the protests? There are thousands of people out there!” barked the Prime Minister gruffly. The silence lasted for what felt like days. All that could be heard was the sliding and clicking and twisting of the Producer’s skeletal fingers. The Great Leader looked at the screen. The same protest played out, thousands of people walking along a wide boulevard, and there was not a single placard or banner in sight.

“What protests?” replied the Great Leader through the corner of her mouth, not even averting her eyes from the screen for a second.

“Erm jerr neur,” mumbled the flustered Prime Minister, waving his hands dramatically at the screen. The Great Leader turned to face him and examined him curiously.

“Those,” she said, as she pointed at the screen, “they aren’t protests. Where do you see the protestors?” The Great Leader coughed into her hand and the Secretary looked up, “You, take this down. This afternoon the capital was struck with a spontaneous manifestation of the ‘Christians United against Nonessential Terminations’. Hundreds and thousands of devout men and women took to the streets to show their support for the new ‘Protection of Life’ act, and so on and so forth. Send that to the News Director, that is tonight’s lead story,” as the Great Leader finished she could not help but smirk. The look on the Prime Minister’s face was a joy to behold.

“You can’t do that,” whined the Prime Minister, “Men are dying. They are risking their lives every day we let this madness continue.” A fearsome look appeared on the Great Leader’s face as swiftly as a thunderstorm in an Indian summer.

“We can and we will,” the tone in the Great Leader’s voice offered the stark hint of a threat.

“You cannot do this. This is the news. People will know the truth,” said the Prime Minister as he waved his arms violently as if he was fending off a particularly amorous ghost.

“We are the government and we are the news. There is no truth without us. We are the truth. If you go against me on this Adam, I will fucking destroy you. Have no doubts, you owe me everything that you have, now get out of my sight!” spat the Great Leader, her fists clenched by her sides. The Prime Minister skulked angrily along behind the beautiful blonde aide. Just as he reached the doorway, the Great Leader spoke, “Adam, make sure you have the microchip fitted by morning or I shall have you arrested. Have a lovely evening.”


In a consumer driven society economics are driven by the supply and demand principle. The same can be said of an ideology. Ideologies are demographically astute, tailored to the demands of any given society. A perfect example is spirituality. It is undeniable that belief in God corresponds with the level of poverty. When a government enacts a deeply unpopular law, there is always a section of society that supports it, irrespective of how barbaric or corrupt it may seem.

The lines blur when policy and propaganda intersect. It is almost standard in any country for the government to have a media channel that blindly supports their policies and ideals. What separates the wheat from the chaff so to speak, is the fact that some of such channels work towards creating a supply, and the others only look to meet a demand. The easiest way to figure out precisely which type of media channel you are consuming is by looking at the vocabulary used to describe a topic.

When a society reveals itself to be xenophobic it has not undergone a mass-transformation overnight. It is merely a symptom and not the illness itself. When a Great Leader describes migrants and refugees of carrying parasites and disease, there is no way on earth that a cross section of society does not support their views. When an immigrant is murdered or beaten on the streets where he lives it is not a drastic change in the direction of society. It merely marks a change in consumer interest, at the end of the demand principle.


Our Hero sat in front of his television with a large box of unopened ice cream on his lap. His wife sat at the other end of the sofa, engaged with her telephone, practically on another sphere of existence. The reason he had taken the ice cream from the freezer had absolutely nothing to do with hunger or cravings. The truth be told that Our Hero had taken to testing the effectiveness of his microchip and much to his dismay, despite several attempts to fool it, all he had been left with was a sausage that somewhat resembled a swollen smurf. All in all he had been shocked seven times. The pain, frustration, and hurt of the experience has left him mute. He could little more than cool himself off and stare at the television.

An advert was playing for a brand of beer that resembled cat urine in a pond. He pressed the ice cream against himself and picked up the remote control. Our Hero desperately wanted to find out if they had made the news. He had skipped work in the afternoon to join a protest march against the new ‘Protection of Life’ act. Although he was more typically apolitical he had gone alone with his colleagues in the faint hope of meeting a sympathetic young student. Despite receiving attention from a number of attractive young women the strangest thing had happened, or not happened as the case may be. Usually he was like a dog in heat, and yet throughout a hot, simmering, afternoon, spent brushing himself up against attractive young women, he did not feel himself stirring once. It was like his best friend had become an old bear that had gone to hibernate and then forgot why he was there.

Our Hero turned the television to TVP and was happy, or as happy as a man with a swollen smurf sausage in his trousers could be, to see the Seven O’clock news starting. An extremely serious looking woman in a blue suit appeared on the screen.

“This afternoon the capital was struck with a spontaneous manifestation of the ‘Christians United against Nonessential Terminations’…” the camera cut to a scene of hundreds of people walking along a thoroughfare arm in arm.

“Bloody hell look,” uttered Our Hero as he saw his face on his own television. His wife looked up from her telephone and smiled.

“… Hundreds and thousands of devout men and women took to the streets to show their support of the new ‘Protection of Life’ act,” said the voice on television. Our Hero jumped from his seat sending the tub of ice cream flying.

“Fucking liars. We… This…” Our Hero looked pathetically towards his wife, she tutted and lit a cigarette.

“I thought you said it was a protest,” she muttered, unable to hide the contempt in her voice.

“It was. There were banners, and placards, and, and, and,” whined Our Hero as he collapsed back into his chair, shaking with anger.


“It’s okay. It could happen to anyone,” said his wife calmly. Our Hero lay with his back to her, seething. “Especially at your age.”

“F…” Our Hero thought better of it and bit his lip. The thing is, he thought, it happened to me. It happened to my body. It was as if the connection between the internal I and external I had broken. It did not matter what they tried, it just would not respond. Even when his wife had valiantly attempted mouth to mouth and received a shock of such a velocity that the hairs on the top of her lip now looked as if they had a perm.

Men identify a great deal with the strongest constant of their internal selves and continually overlook the more vulnerable components of their identities. Men can train themselves to ignore fluctuating waistlines, chronic hair loss and halitosis when they are able to exert the appeal of their internal selves. Alas, of matters of the penis it is not so. The internal I, the component so essential in sexual desire and carnal motivation relies a great deal on a few hundred grams of meat for dopamine, oxytocin and reassurance that all is well with the world.

Our Hero lay in darkness, his wife snoring beside him, awash with rage. A tsunami of hormones attacked his sensory perception to the point that he could not escape a single thought. It pursued him like menopause pursues a woman, haunting each step, both behind and in front at the same time. He felt split in two, a man divided. How free was a man that had no control over his own body? Our Hero knew one thing and one thing only, someone had to stand up and make their voice heard. And on that note, he rolled over and went to sleep.


In politics the world over, there is an annual paradox which places dozens of likeminded people in the same room to applaud, laud and feign over each other, known as ‘The Party Conference’. Once upon a time, in a more innocent age, ‘The Party Conference’ was a strategic meeting, utilised for planning policy for the next calendar year. Due to the establishment of almost tyrannical structures, nowadays these events are used for little more than celebrating the great leaders across the world whilst demonstrating to other parties that you are not only more angry, but are able to waste more money in more extravagant ways than they are.

The Hotel and Conference Centre that hosted the Party Conference was the largest of its type on the coast of PiSlamistan. Every year thousands of delegates and aides descended on this tiny town and provided it with enough income to survive until the next one. In essence it was a scene of monstrous revelry. A single MP earned the average yearly wage of almost the entire town. In days passed it used to be the scene of lascivious lubrications, demonising debauchery and had all the reservedness of Emperor Caligula’s famous orgies. On this particular year the mood was distinctly subdued.

If you cut the head off a Cock it will continue to walk for some time. In the infamous case of Mike the Headless chicken, who famously defied expectations and explanations and lasted eighteen months without a head. As a metaphor for the masculine species it cannot be more apt. In the age of indifference, human beings are able to go eighteen years without realising that they haven’t once used their brains.

Objectively the story of the chicken’s head is symbolic of the human battle for identity. It is not possible to mutilate the external I without significant consequence felt internally. It is possible for the victim of such abuse to survive such a traumatic experience, but, it is certain to radically alter the course of their future. Had Mike the Headless Chicken had a head, his life expectancy, general happiness, potential for development would all be vastly different. The single decision that mutilated Mike changed the course of the rest of his life.

The conference centre was as alive as a room could be with a boring, geriatric bigot, waffling away behind a podium in a room containing over six thousand people. Behind him, on an enormous LCD screen stood an inflated giant version of himself, in essence that single image most adequately depicted the geriatric’s self-opinion. In the seemingly endless rows of mildly inebriated political allies, a low murmur of boredom sounded like the tide begging him to shut his mouth. Finally, the miserable old bigot reached the end of his speech causing an eruption of applause, not due to any single vile idea that he had happened to chance upon, but the mightiest aphrodisiac in the history of human society. Relief.

A silence grew from one corner of the room as a fine cocktail of anticipation and an overwhelming feeling of impending doom swept the audience. The stage, now empty of the conference speakers lay still and spent like a post-coital couple trying to figure out if they have sufficient energy for a sequel. Gradually, more and more people milled into the auditorium. Phones were switched onto silent, nervous glances were exchanged, and the Prime Minister arrived to take his seat in the front row. It was time.

A raucous round of applause begin, as if it were a timed detonation. The explosion emanated from a far corner, like a building being demolished in reverse. It spread like wildfire through the audience, causing people to stand in unison, a trait of a religious community conditioned like battered women to the ordinances of communal gymnastics. Every single person in the audience rose to their feet. The only people not applauding were the cameramen responsible for beaming the images all the way into ordinary people’s homes.

The Great Leader stormed onto the stage, straight-backed like a dressage horse with the confidence of being champion, and feeling safe in the knowledge that they were on the best steroids that science has ever provided. She stopped at the podium, resplendent in a red and black checkered dress suit and trousers. The Great Leader took in the scene, six thousand idiots applauding someone that hadn’t even spoken. She took a deep breath, how she loved the Party Conference. Since becoming Party Leader she had given every single closing speech for over a decade. The Great Leader waved her arms, and like a conjurer produces her rabbit, she made silence appear. The sound of six thousand people sitting took several seconds to cease.

“When I became leader of this party, I had only one mission. To return this country to the bosoms of God,” she began, confident and poised. “And I stand here today to tell you that I have delivered.” The crowd began applauding, more confidently than before. “This is a new dawn for PiSlamistan, we have taken the first steps together on the road to a chaste, noble existence,” she paused, her eyes drawn to a scuffle beside the stage. “What is this?” she cried, as she pointed at the bundle of arms.

“Back off! I’ll do it. I’ll do it!” shouted Our Hero as he emerged from the melee with a Secret Service issued gun that he nervously pointed in ever decreasing circles. Our Hero walked backwards up the staircase to the stage, the gun trained on the Great Leader.

“What do you think you are doing?” asked the Great Leader nervously, her hands raised in the air. “Will someone please fucking shoot him?” Our Hero reached into his trousers and removed his penis, and pressed the gun against it.

“Come any closer and I will blow it away!” screamed Our Hero, his voice hoarse. The audience fell into silence; the Secret Service froze, awaiting any sign of encouragement from the Great Leader. “You are going to listen to me and listen good.”

“What do you want?” asked the Great Leader, not taking her eyes away from Our Hero’s penis for the tiniest of seconds. She took a step away from him creating more distance between them.

“This,” screamed Our Hero, his voice like a wounded animal. He began tugging at his little friend and received an electric shock of such intensity that his finger twitched on the trigger and he shot the stage dead with a single bullet. “You’ve broke me. I am not a man anymore. Nothing,” Our Hero struck himself downstairs with the butt of his gun and groaned in agony. Tears flowed from Our Hero’s eyes as he started yanking with all his might, he was a monkey in a spaceship careering into the earth, he was a trapped mountaineer sawing his own arm off, he was a fireman running into a burning building. Another shock ran through his body jerking him violently. “You… Bitch!” The Great Leader looked flustered, her cheeks blood red.

“What do you want? Money? What will make you put the gun down?” asked the Great Leader, her fears betrayed her voice.

“This has to stop. You cannot decide our fate. You are destroying our bodies. You are killing people to save the unborn. We… we….” stumbled Our Hero as he began to weep uncontrollably. “You are destroying lives. For what? For what? You may have taken our PENISES, BUT YOU SHALL NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM!!” As Our Hero raised his gun, his arm brushed his penis and his microchip sent another eighty thousand volts through his body, causing his finger to twitch, and the gun to fire. There was no escaping it. Our Hero had shot himself in the foot. Literally.




This story is inspired by the recent law proposed in Poland which is a grave human rights abuse against Polish women. This law will criminalise abortion for Mothers and Doctors and could see families that experience the trauma of a miscarriage be criminally prosecuted.

As a husband of a Polish woman and potentially one day the father to a Polish daughter I can barely communicate the horror that this proposal inspires in me. I spent almost a decade of my life living in Poland and it breaks my heart to see what it is being turned into. Poland has entered a dark period in its history and I sincerely hope that people can use the momentum brought about by the public outrage over this matter to be the catalyst for change.

When I started researching this idea I was utterly horrified the moment I realised the extent of this issue. Women in approximately 25% of the countries on the earth are captive under highly restrictive abortion laws, with fates including prison sentences and worse. In 2016 this is not just unbelievable but fucking abhorrent.

As a man that has witnessed the pain of an abortion and a miscarriage in the past I cannot sympathise enough with the brevity of such decisions. I will never ever understand a society that seeks to punish women for abortion. Under any context.

For the spiritually inclined women that support a ban and the criminalisation of abortion I have a special message for you. If you are against abortions, don’t have one.

For the devout men that believe abortion is a terrible sin in the eyes of the Lord, I have a message for you. There is a single method that does not require medical procedures, that does not risk the health of women, or children, and does not consign entire generations to abject poverty. If you are a man that believes abortion is a crime, there is a method to prevent abortion that is 100% successful. If you don’t believe in abortions don’t fuck. Ever.

Scott Andrews




Countries where the right to abortion is limited:




Dominican Republic

El Salvador











Central African Rep.



Côte d’Ivoire

Dem. Rep. of Congo


Guinea- Bissau




















Sudan (r)


United Arab Emirates






Papua New Guinea


Sri Lanka





Costa Rica



Burkina Faso











Saudi Arabia


South Korea



source womenonweb.org 2016


About the Author

Scott Andrews has written two novels, a number of short stories, an absurd number of songs, one screenplay and a few articles. He is a member of the international Spandau Synthpop sensation, Yu. He currently resides in the Netherlands with his long-suffering wife and his Scottish Terrier, but, sadly, not in a windmill. To learn more about him visit scottandrews.co.uk

About the Cover Artist

Maciek Wojciechowski is an insanely talented fine art photographer based in London. Maciek contributed several wonderful images for this project before we selected the cover and for this I want to thank him greatly. To see more of his work check out maciekwojciechowski.com