The unstable equilibrium of democratic systems equals more inequality which equals more self-loathing and hatred. The greater the wealth created, the wider the gap betwixt those with and those without. The maths is rudimentary.
As the Grand Mufti takes Kaffee und Kuchen with the Chancellor, Mossad converts cash into public opinion and winds the clock back to 1941. Jesus Saves... in dollars! Vote for Jesus, everyone's favourite self-hating anti-Semite. TRIGGER WARNING! Jeremy Corbyn has left the paragraph.
The attempt to foist a grand Whiggish narrative on events has peeved the pair, whose tendency to resist the social pressures others find hard to turn down has landed them in the middle of nowhere with a pile of unfashionable vocabulary and no agenda to speak of. Trolley is pathologically quiet on the matter, or any other matter for that matter. What matters is reconciliation and truth. The narrative can go fuck itself. It is not the machine we fear, but our response.
Trolley's head Spanish agrees. La memoria es una ficción. La historia es una mentira. Or at least he thinks so. He reads the health warning on the packet: This storification contains almost no or precious little non-organic matter.
There is the rumour of a bus timetable somewhere deep in the pockets of Trolley's memory. A destination has even emerged, but Westphalia will have to wait. They have grown wary of the traffic, and weary of pushing and pulling. So, have discarded their street bikes for now. They can retrieve their belongings, such as they are, on the return leg of their trip fantastic through Babylon by bus pass. A rule of street: make sure nearly everything you own is crap, and then almost nothing gets stolen.
Downstream from the urban ping pong of the city's north side, nestled in a wealthy enclave between early Pink Floyd and the land of Llamas, felicific is Paradise LNR. Spiritual home to Syd "way too much acid, man" Barrett - celebrated for committing famicide, an off-beat world view and a disturbing melody - and accessible to concessionary passengers, tangible to the sensitive and reachable by pedal, it is a reserve of local nature where intrepid, anti-socially housed fig boys can mix and share the favonian head space.
Superbly equipped with a prevailing westerly wind to blow the smell of the skunk and the general pong towards the east, the river Cam forms into a symbol of social apartheid and interesting topic sentence in any sixth-form rap.
Trolley thinks it stinks. His head italics are in agreement with an anonymous public prosecutor from Granada. Por supuesto, todo esto huele a fraude.
As for Melon, he is the star of his own movie. He has learnt much from his association with the region's largest provider of apprenticeships: the drugs trade. A self-directed opportunist, down river has never posed him a serious problem. Flingees and flogees such as he are well-versed in minimal wage fakelore and the misrule of order and law that fervefies his heart of darkness. When not chasing every flibberty gibbet, fizgig and flamfloosie on the manor, that's to say Maureen and her sister, he finds release in fragging a superior officer. Flinging grenades into the nests of those who think twice in one month is a "crime epidemic" helps pass the time in the Fennish sub-urban sprawl.
Trolley has drawn a picture of a person bending over. He has torn out the backside, and in the space, has furtled his forefinger into the cheeks of an ample arse. Bumless, hapless, it is a sorry figure. Melon isn't sorry, he's hungry. He fraunches on the last digestive biscuit and frowns.
Trolley fleshquakes and starts to fibulate. The button comes loose. A freke in the fight for fairplay, Trolley objects, and in Spanish. ¡Cabrón! He mouths.
No fawn guest to fookers or financiers, Melon presses his fingertips to his O-shaped lips, and after a fermata regrets his lack of solidarity, his act of selfishness that has broken their gentleman's code. It is one of their most precious tenets.
- Oops! Last one in the packet and not shared. Sorry, Troll.
Using up the last of the steam punk vocabulary, Trolley pauses to reflect. It's not as if it's ale. The fascistoid factotum Farrage and his pound shop fallaciloquence would have made much of the matter - as sure as Rachel Booth-Clibborn and Benedict Moore-Bridger are that they would have made a lovely couple, were if not for the quadruple barrel conundrum, Trolley is.
Time to draw to a close. He traces the shape of a dragon being chased by a pterodactyl. Then, he furtles at Melon. Melon giggles. He is happy for the furtle to be read as a comment on his sexuality. The tension is broken. It is high time they were lathered. It's nearly heroin o'clock, for Christ's sake.
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