Don listens to music. Her MP3 player, she didn’t bury that, it’s still full of old music from back then, when her music was still angry, the old days, when she wasn’t yet a fucking hermaphrodite. Not yet grown, no longer a child. When Stormzy was still around and everyone hoped to become as famous as him. And then to find god, out of overwhelming gratitude. Just like always, when Don listens to grime. She immediately feels strong. And bulletproof. And now she’s arrived at the tents. This is England. Welcome to what was formerly one of the richest countries on earth. This is Europe, you know the story, creation’s crowning glory. The continent that sat down draped in beautiful fabrics at a table and consumed the rest of the planet.

Right, and now you can see the rubbish. What humans accomplish in a hundred years. Nice one.

Wastelands and tents, in front of which men sit looking like leftover food scraps. It is said that every IQ point beneath the average costs the economy 20,000 dollars. Per month. These people here don’t cost anything. They bum around with their mouths open, waiting. For grass to grow over them. Thanks to the floodwaters, they have their feet up on wooden crates. A fire won’t burn in this muck. When did it get so wet? Perhaps during the hurricane over Ireland? For the first time in all these months, the streambed is carrying water from the far reaches of the city and, nearby, past a silent, black panel van, out of which various men emerge. Don recognizes the uniforms as private police. Without a sound, they round up the human refuse and take them to the van without resistance. The so-called police look around, they spot Don. Before she realizes what is happening, she finds herself in the transporter next to the Romanians or Bulgarians and a sad old man.

What a fucked-up day.

For

PATUK