Life In The Factory Grind

"If it keeps on raining
"Levee's going to break"


Play me while reading

In the Factory Grind, the drum beat never stops. Relentless, driven with the earth's energy bent by the will of men, the Factory feeds on the souls within. Hollowed task masters whip slaves in sexual glee, earning their positions by the willing blindness of their eyes. That way all cruelty is unseen. Oily sweat reeks as perfume in the nostrils of the Factory god giving perverse pleasure to Kingly Rats. It's here the human soul is processed, made a commodity for consumption and sold to the lowest bidder. The Factory is a holocaust of dreams, a harvester of nightmares and a disposer of bodies.

In the Factory, the answer is always the same: More. More rot, more taking, more demands. The order comes down from above: "Ramming speed!"

______________________________

No one knows where it ends

In the Land of Sir Real, all life is built upon the Alley. The Alley: a daily, godless crucifixion where no scream is heard or plea harbored; the ultimate despair, a place of rampant rapists free to service the vices of their mistress' foulest desires, mutilating and marauding in open delight, neither the laws of men nor the laws of nature hold forth, life in the Alley is suspended between heaven and hell, which can stand only for a time - but for that time a fate to be feared more than any mere hell.

Fear of the Alley is the unspoken gun to every head. But it is also the Golden Threat, the Holy of Holies in the Land of Sir Real, a religion subscribed to even by its victims. High priests and brainwashed mutants skewer doubt in instantaneous suffocation. For the Alley to survive, no word can stand against it, no heretic be unprosecuted. Societal sycophants slice souls in suicidal solidarity. The zealotry of the possessed mind, sprouting terrorists in weedly fashion, belief in the Alley is deemed an Unquestionable Truth, the Only Way, a religion needing no mind, no heart and no soul.

And yet, the Factory needs more.

The only way out of the Alley

The Factory machine diseases the land, turning living flowers to concrete, leaving industrial haste in its wake. In the twisted logic of the damned, profit is gleaned from destruction - profit imagined but never realized. The living flowers consumed are replaced with plastic mockery, hopeful hypocrites sniffing their silent smell. The breathing air is burned in glorious fury, a smoke signal to the universe of unbroken will, scoffing at Sir Real Himself. The Factory extends beyond all human reason, stretching into the very twilight of existence. Those who ask where will it end are never answered.

In plastic luxury live Perverbians, each one a plastic Pharaoh. Prostrating in Factory flattery, they wrap their lives in bubbled blessings designed to bar reality's ugly truths. Dancing under the sword of Damocles, they don clothes born of blood, believing only good comes from the Factory floor. In insulated insanity, hushed whispers are spoken of life in the Factory but what does Pharaoh care of those who bear his holy chair? The party must go on and pointless plans proclaim an orgy ongoing opposed by none.

Work hard or face termination

Fresh from the Alley stood a hapless Steve, staring at a worn and despised wheel. His row one of untold millions, Steve's soul counted less than a speck of dust. His overlord was a one-eyed half-rat bitter from his demotion from the Kingly Rats. He asked Steve his age and when Steve replied "27" he was told that was how many times he should turn the wheel, stop, turn the wheel 27 times in the opposite direction and repeat ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

Other jobs were that as "human phonebook": in order to save the cost of paper, numbers were stored in the minds of humans. Or that of "ventertainer", cleaning the factory smokestacks while dangling from uncertified ropes, risking your life as amused Rats watched and applauded falling workers. Most feared of all were "pretzel posts", jobs sure to mangle your limbs for life, ensuring a return to the Alley to die in magnificent misery.

The Factory cannot be bargained with, cannot be reasoned with, it doesn't understand fear or pity or remorse and it will not stop - ever - until you are dead. Into this swirling whirlpool of desolation Steve was thrown, standing like all workers on a trapdoor over a chute leading directly back to the Alley. Trapped in the confines of boundless inhumanity, no cry for justice could rise above the din of the machinery. Steve's one hope rested in the faint recesses of his mind - a hope at this point not even he dared to consider true.

"My living means the death of every man, woman and child on the face of this earth."
___________________________________________

The job of capitalism is to destroy all humans