Crack Fix Propaganda: A work of fan fiction

It was late afternoon. The homosapien animal who called himself Crack sat in his room and reflected upon his life. Where had it all gone wrong? Even the wise words of Conflict ("Well bollocks to them all, keep smashing at the wall. Pile the pressure on and Government will fall") couldn't inspire him like they once had. If only his parents hadn't decided to betray him by becoming middle class. He had been so happy on that council estate, shooting smack for breakfast and sewing leftover crack patches onto his tracksuit bottoms. But now he was forced to live in a world of respectibility and comfort, where the punk was a stranger. If only he had been born a badger, he thought, and not for the first time.

Crack felt that over the years he had been a good punk. He had kept himself true to the punk ideals of chaos, nihilism and above all rescuing animals from the clutches of their human masters. He had practiced pogoing in front of the mirror for hours. He knew the history of punk like the back of his hand (up on his wall was the timeline that began with "1977 - The Sex Pistols invent Anarchy"). But somehow, no matter how many times he listened to his Exploited live album, he couldn't help but feel that the kids just didn't get it any more.

Well, what else could he expect? They were human. Oh, how he longed for a nuclear war that would destroy them and their animal-rapist mentality forever.

As all these thoughts of doom and gloom spread through his mind, a broad grin spread across his face. He was on the right track! Maybe he could even persaude himself to commit suicide, the greatest victory he could ever hope to achieve. Satisfied, he decided to venture out of his bedroom in a mission to spread his filth and chaos through the habitat that humans, through their arrogance, called a house.

When he got downstairs he was disgusted to find a cancerous black lump of humanity in the kitchen. Right now the cancerous black lump was cooking his dinner.

"Ah, hello darling," she said "I've done you some lentils and boiled cabbage as usual. Are you sure you don't want to just try a little of the stewed beef I'm making for the rest of us?"

"Don't let the steam from the two pans mingle you murdering bitch!" he shouted "I won't have my pure grazing material contaminated by that piece of dead animal!" More calmly he added "I'm hungry mum, can I get myself a snack?"

"Of course darling. Not too much though or you'll lose your appetite" she replied. Crack cringed at her simpering kindness. But of course, she couldn't help it. She was a woman, and that was her nature. He opened the fridge and scanned the various items on offer. A good selection of fruit and veg, his own delicious and wholesome vegan products, his and Fix's soya bean mousse experiment (that was just an inch from perfection, all they needed was some non-carcass gelatine), but what was this..? Two whole pints of semi-skimmed milk. Crack seethed. How could these pathetic human scum get so indignant over the deflowering of their females when cow rape was a daily institutionalised practice?

"This isn't a fridge" he complained, "It's an abatoir"

"Yes dear," said Mum "So how is this new magazine you're doing with Edwin coming along?"

"Fix" snapped cracked

"Sorry darling?"

"His name's Fix. And it's not a magazine it's a zine. In fact it's not a zine. It's the future. Only a worthless tumour on the face of our defiled mother earth wouldn't know that. This time its the end for all you flesh exploiting genocidal hypocrites"

"Ah well, at least it's nice to see you doing something creative for once"

Crack sneered. It was quite a good sneer, he had spent several years perfecting it. Johnny Rotten would have been proud of him. Deciding that enough punk chaos had been spread through this part of the habitat, he decided to move on to the front room. Maybe his suit and tie wearing scumbag dad had got home. Crack never resisted a chance to boggle the old has-been's mind with his studded jacket and torn jeans. I bet I'll give the old codger a heart attack with my new "McMurder" badge, he thought. He sauntered out into the hallway, proud of the hatred he would doubtless inspire, and then stopped.

On the doormat there lay a newspaper. His first thought as always with any human product was to wonder how many animals had died to make it, before moving on to contemplate such weighty matters as whether vegans were allowed to swallow their own cum. But this time something made him take a second glance. Normally he ignored any printed material that wasn't made up of cut-and-paste photocopies and typewritten text, but for some reason the headline caught his eye:

"UNIONS CALL FOR GENERAL STRIKE"

The subheading was even more unusual - "Workplaces occupied in London, Belfast and Colchester". He vaguely remembered from his time in prison (or "school" as the despicable flesh eaters called it) that things like this had happened before in history. In his occasional vague attempts to smash the internet he had even come across so-called anarchists who supported this kind of thing, and thought it was part of some kind of liberationist movement. Hah! As if! Surely this was just a bunch of factory workers following the unions like sheep. No, he cursed himself for even daring to think that, for are not sheep noble and dignified creatures? No, these idiots were no better than... He tried to come up with a word that summed up everything he despised.

"Humans!" he screeched, a trace of spittle dribbling down his chin. Well, one day he would show them. One day, when the "chains" and "parcel bombs" of crack fix propaganda all came together, when the nukes rained down not just on every major city but every tiny village, when the voles rose up to gnaw their oppressors to death, then would the true spirit of punk be realised.

But as he glanced over the frontpage story, it did seem like some new revolutionary movement was taking place. All over the place workers were walking out on strike, making more and more extreme demands. "Pah!" he spat "They'll never make a social movement as important as punk! All this is is just another meat-eating, system-worshipping, uniform-wearing fad!"

This settled in his mind, he fled up to his room to work on the article he had been writing for the zine about getting McDonald's customers to Make The Link by forcibly caressing their erogenous zones with raw bacon. But seconds after he flicked the switch on his computer, it as well as everything else electrical in the building switched itself off.

After several minutes of stunned silence, Crack suddenly declared out loud "Bollocks to humans and their self imposed superiority. If I was a cat I'd be able to see in the dark"

Just then he heard a voice from the street outside "Workers of Chittenham! The power plant has been siezed! The revolutionary council of electrical workers will restore power soon! Victory to the proletariat!"

In the darkness, Crack shut his eyes, crossed his fingers and repeated the same mantra that had kept him sane all these years: "Hyper intelligent elephants... hyper intelligent elephants... hyper intelligent elephants..."