Wheelchair Boy Witnesses the Tyranny of the 21st Century

A young man can be seen in this footage paying to be thrown out of his wheelchair and beaten. If these men were not paid to do this, they would be in prison by now. Who pays them, we do! They get paid from our taxes. What do we get...? The archetypal bully who threatens you for your pocket money, claiming they will save you from blows and bruises and then once the money is handed over they will beat you to a pulp. Then if you talk back about your rights, they in fact threaten you further for even daring to accuse the bullies and their tyrannical authority.

So the message is kids, once you put on the blue uniform can you do what the fuck you want? You don’t have to have any cognitive skills or ethical training to be a Cop, no no, none of that, just the art of thuggery. Being a policeman has the same appeal to child molesters and malevolent men as it was to be a priest back in the heyday of Catholic oppressed Ireland; raping young boys, good wage, authority beyond question...? Ring any bells?

What was this young man in a wheel chair doing? Fighting for his rights in education and equality.  So this raises the question, are our supposedly progressive European regimes and democracies any different that Nazi Germany or Stalin’s Russia? A scientist from the depths of a laboratory in the alps bordering Switzerland has done experiments using computer date extracted from biographies, interviews and profiles of such political leaders as  David Cameron, Nicolas Sarkozy and Pope Benedict XVI. In his research he found these leaders to be worse than either Hitler or Stalin, ‘if they have any more power, god help us all’, concluded the report. The only leader who came out with any credibility was Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi, who was compared with that of the personality of a well fed bear from Hamleys toy store with plenty of young girls to cuddle him.

I proclaim we reanimate Che Guevara from the passive sewn seams of t-shirt merchandise and symbolically behead these leaders in a tribute to the French Revolution. We use this anachronistic act to show history can be used to empower and not just oppress people. It can be done, if everyone fights the tyranny, if everyone uses history not to make the same mistakes as NAZI Germany and go along with the oppressive government (whom nobody wanted there in the first place) and not to hide their support for students (i.e. your children, sisters, brothers and friends) like those who turned a blind eye to the massacre and genocide of Jews, you are just as bad as them, massacring their education, changing their lives by depriving them of the education that would give them agency, instead you pay the police to systematically beat up a young man in wheelchair, nice, go you! NO not go you! Now stop the tyranny before Auschwitz 2: Return of Ignorance arrives!

The Man

The old man trundled his legs up and down the gravel outside the castle, unsure of himself and his ability to distort his audience. The truth was, he didn't really have an audience yet. The weather was grey and faded green like his long overcoat, billowing all around him like a torn canopy. His coat belt struggled to keep order. Every now and again a howl of wind travelled down the pathway, grabbing at his coat tails and dragging them upwards: a shadow of something almost intestinal or phallic or limbic swung between the old man's legs at times like these. What was that? A minority audience gathered around the tall grid windows/faces aghast/rain dribbling down the panes. The old man stopped. His face angled 37 degrees toward the sky. His face was hard and glossy. His face had narrow eye slits, and a muscle structure that appeared to have been sprayed rigid with varnish. Maybe the old man just finished his old shed, and decided to give his own face a lick of the smell he enjoyed so well? The audience of three at the windows grew disinterested, probably a forced disinterest: I know it is happening, but it is better if I don't know anymore! They returned to the photographic portraits, humming about which ones were pretty or cool or both. One of them readjusted his show lace. No disarray would be welcome in the castle's regal interior.

The anxiety returned shortly to the three early-adopters of the old man though. A large cube made of mirrors (this is true) reflected a gathering of light onto their retinas and subsequently their optic nerve and into their brains, which interpreted the gathering of light to be similar, if not the same, as their old friend, the old man. I am not a scientist, so do not hold the simplification of optic biology against me. But please! Do realise that the old man was now indoors, away from the billowy wind. They caught a glimpse of his boots: socks and strange skintight trousers Tucked Right In. One of the boys was taken with the muscular calves, and considered the scent of the seat of the old man's overcoat. He shambled toward the door of the room that they were in. Now leaning on the door as his plastic face gazed the room at his favourite angle: 37 degrees. A few viewers gasped, and threw their mink scarves around their eyes to block the eerie vision. Just get out, one cried, unsure of herself. The organisers relished the moment: PLEASE! QUIET! The old man walked up to the Famous Photographer gracious enough to present himself to the banal characters the narrator hasn't even bothered to mention yet. They are inadequate, and ancillary to the story - just remember there were near-25 of them. Some of them left, tiptoeing around the gaze of the old man, and fetched themselves something to hold: a mobile phone or a glass of wine, or even a pamphlet, despite knowing well this was no bloody time to be reading will you look up and keep an eye on that old man he could be dangerous he could come over here and snatch that bag off you and get away and then how would you get home you have no bus fare and it's a long walk especially in this weather! Ok I'll put it away, I'm just uneasy! I think he has something under that coat, there's a strange erect bulge there, or many!

The old man walked into the midst of the ancillaries, and then past then. The old man sat down on a window ledge where the trio watched him earlier and sighed. A pathos entered the room as those there felt a sadness for him and his weary legs and plastic face. He stood up. He's going to do something now I know it, I'm worried. Whispers echoed around the room. When we whisper we pronounce our S and T and H and certain other letters as high frequency or white noise sounds, which actually makes it easier for people in the mid-range to hear what you're saying rendering your whisper pointless. Hissing/whispering. Nevertheless, the old man didn't seem to notice: he continued his business of undoing his coat belt. Gasps, faints and feints, glasses clinking, pamphlets rustling, and a crack of an old chestnut off the pane of glass startled and unnerved the ancillaries. The old man continued. Maybe there are no ears? His hips began to gyrate from left to right, then with motions in no uncertain terms dissimilar to the encircling of an aureole in a passionate moment. This gyration quickened in an orgasmic pace, the plastic smile seemed to grow slightly maybe it isn't plastic maybe some renegade doctor injected his face with a gallon of botox in protest at his vanity? Left foot on heel. Then right foot on toe, he undid the last clasp of decency and revealed his appendage. The last of the women and six of the men gave in as they say perhaps four, five or more children's dolly legs dangling off his midrift like a demented insect sex act. Feet at broken angles, ankles plastic like the old man's visage. They bounced of his fat body suit like gelatin or a fly just caught in a cobweb - ever see that happen before? 

After the last mouth shut, the old man buttoned up and left.