Need to get this out, away from internal combustions: the gastrointestinal slaves work too hard without light of day vacations for any more aggravations. Their micro-employees’ union busted, they don’t need amplified rantings on top of dank, dismal working conditions.
And with the internal wiring cut, an external speaker system will be found reconnected to the brain’s backdoor play button. All the voice equipment, so long in boxed disuse, will be fueled and fired up again. The great vessel will sound off for the repressed masses who huddle, working in the abdominal cavity, or behind the prison ribcage.
Tongue and mouth will call, chant, and start up word whirlwinds in support of the moisture serfs who dine on naught but acid and phosphorous excess. The pee trains are full. Who shall empty them?! Not I. Not I. Not I, goes the chant. Our body-van’s rooftop speakers will call out the Minders, those bastard overlords, for their poor city planning. Their shoddy street, intersection, and way station manufacturing.
Shut down this system of hoses, of pumps, of circuitry. Dwell no longer in muck of lofty indulgence. The doers of ill, they live in the penthouse, consuming all the fresh, life-filled stimuli. Fish, plankton, and other proteins from the sea. All the water outside, clear and cold. They occupy the fortress head, so we shall infiltrate and occupy a most strategic junction of the spinal column at its neck.
Squeeze from within, the tongue spits from the speaker mouth! Project the group desire. Stop all work. Stop all maintenance. Delay functions and exports. Refuse all imports.
Our body-van’s actions must influence all the world’s body-vans, rousing them with nobel, duplicatable symbolic and actionable gestures. Make the movements of rebellion, repeat the movements; communicate the movements. Repeat. Make the sounds of rebellion, repeat the sounds, and let the sounds go out, conjoined with the movements, along ever-increasing lines of volume and magnificence. Repeat.
Refusal is our sharpest weapon. Noncompliance, a sledgehammer in every hand. If you have no muscle for the sledge, then raise up your mighty voice cannon. Blast your cannon, and send its balls against their falsified canons of entitlement. Cannons for the people, good. Canons for the justification of repression, bad. Bubble up your workplace acid. Build piles of phosphorous grenades and potassium cocktails. We meet at the base of the skull! Repeat.
K. Shawn Edgar | Protracted Line Segment | Butterscotch | Goth Tadpole