Insubordinate - Sunday Satire

Insubordinate

It was absolutely disgusting just how Aloysius was being treated by society, expected to do this and do that, having to say, yes sir, no sir, three fucking bags full sir every single time he went out. Every last one of them ordering him around, all, without exception everywhere he bloody well looked. It wasn't enough that he had to contend with being ordered around in the army, and yes... that was to be expected, but oh no-o, the civvies were becoming just as bad. But they weren’t the bosses of him. No sireebob; didn’t see no bastard stripes on their arms, studs on their poncy epaulettes.

The garrison town had gotten bigger in recent years, and as such there were more offenders arriving all the time, he couldn’t help but notice. It was driving him bonkers. Oh ye-s, they all thought they knew better than him, didn’t they? But who were they really, to lay down the law... huh? He couldn’t help but pass them by all the time, absolute hatred evident in his eyes as he took them all in, resenting every last condescending fucking one of them. And hard to ignore what they were saying too, even though they did it silently, snootily, invading his private thoughts without even a moment’s notice and impossible to block out. Sometimes he’d kick a few of them, punch them, but they really didn’t seem to care, standing there pontificating still, ordering him around. He just couldn’t win; knew he needed a master plan, something that couldn’t fail.

“Tell me what to do ya bastards will ya?” He screamed, “Well we’ll see about that.”

Aloysius had tried everything; reasoning with them, pleading for them to take up another post somewhere else, but they remained stoic; completely unmoved by his pleas, there to stay forever, continuing to insist that he obey their orders, set in concrete, unrelenting to the point of driving him absolutely crazy. He’d thrown paint on them even, kidnapped a few of the worst offenders from time to time, hammering into those with a heavy mallet when things got really bad, sometimes taking great pleasure in beheading them, and then, by the dark of night, burying the evidence in the surrounding fields where no-one would ever find them. But more always came. Yes, an inevitably. They were everywhere, righteous, fucking bastards that were never wrong, all of them sticking up for each other, quick to point out the law of the land. Yes, it seemed hopeless indeed.

“Enough!” he’d started to stand and shout in the middle of the high street, any given street, actually, but only succeeding in becoming a complete disgrace to his uniform; an embarrassment to his unit as complaints flooded in to his superior officers. And as usual, the guilty parties had just completely ignored him; hadn’t responded at all. “What the hell gives you the right to tell me how to live my life?” he could be found shouting to them on many an occasion. But still they didn’t answer as people scurried by, all too scared to confront the issue themselves, obviously, all cow tailing to the dictatorship. “Fucking cowards, SHEEP, that’s what ye are!” he shouted. And still, every last one of them, the enemy, just stood there emotionless and continuing to make demands of him; warning him; disrespecting his free will to the point where he wanted to rip them apart with his bare hands. But he knew it to be futile, a sign of things to come; this was reality; his tormentors were here, everywhere, and they weren't going anywhere, firmly rooted where they stood. Yes, he'd need to deal with the invasion once and for all even if he had to do it alone. Obviously, for often the military or civilian police were called and he was hauled up in front of his Commanding Officer or dragged kicking and screaming downtown for causing absolute mayhem and completely disrupting the order of things. No, they didn’t care; they weren’t on his side, just as bad as each other. That much was evident; allowing the offenders in their own military and public places, police stations, libraries even, and the courthouses he’d been in on a number of occasions, they were even in the fucking pubs, the NAAFI, everywhere, absolutely no escape from the torture of the upright pillars of community that they all thought themselves to be.

But laying in his bunk one night, Aloysius smiled. His bedroom the only place where they couldn’t come to; he'd made sure of that, had threatened his roommate not to bring in any of them in either, and now he’d come up with the perfect solution.

“Tell me what to fucking do will ya, ya bastards… huh?” He said narrowing his eyes speaking maniacally into the dark. “Well… let’s just see who gives the orders around here tomorrow then, shall we?”

His roommate, Gordon, was very scared of Aloysius sometimes, but lay silently, knowing better than to say anything, wishing that his request for another room allocation would hurry up and be approved, but he’d be fine as long as he didn’t fraternise with the enemy.

***

“Excuse me Sarge, but I think Private Ida Hoe is having her time of the month again; she's refusing everyone admission through the main gate and has her submachine gun pointed at anyone who comes near. Right now she's threatening to shoot the CO and his wife." Aloysius said running into the admin offices first thing next morning.

“Wha-at … Jesus Christ, okay, you stay here… answer the phone if it rings… take a message, don’t touch anything."

The Staff Sergeant left his office and Aloysius smiled; he knew he’d joined the Royal Transport Corp for a reason, and now, now the reason was very clear indeed. Time to do away with the enemy once and for fucking all, he thought. And sure enough, just as he thought it would be, the cupboard door was right there, who could miss it with its instructions printed for everybody to see: Authorised personnel only. Yes, the cupboard thatcontained the keys to the hardware. Ripping the piece of paper from the door, he sneered at it and wiped the horseshit from his boot on it before examining the labels on the keys and selecting one of them.

“What are you talking about Private… there’s nothing amiss…” the Sergeant started to say, but saw the small office empty as he came back, spotting a large note hanging from the door instead:

Sorry Sarge, but Lieutenant Tennant needed my help with the tenants of barracks 13.

Shaking his head, the Sergeant thought for the hundredth time that the boy should never have been allowed into the army; something not right about him, he could tell by his lazy eye if nothing else; there was no Lieutenant Tenant and nor were there any barracks 13.

“Fucking fruit loop,” he said, just as he heard a familiar rumbling, "Shoulda joined the Navy."

People were shouting outside now and the rumbling, getting nearer, made him look out the window only to see a tank being recklessly driven at full speed; crashing through the barrier at the entrance; knocking over the sign that said: Authorised entry only, all personnel must show ID. And following it with his eyes as it disappeared down the road through the streets, one by one crashing into every street sign it encountered, he pulled out his gun and shot himself; he’d be court-martialled for leaving the boy unattended with the armoury’s keys (plus he had a court case coming up that involved indecent exposure to two teenage boys at the back of the fish and chip shop two months before; it'd be all over the papers soon enough).

Yes, there was no shortage of them, women screamed left right and centre as he knocked the offenders over, shutting them up for ever. Children ran after him, cheering, and it wasn’t long before both police forces were on his tail too, together with Private Ida Hoe and her machine gun (who'd been rudely awoken from her nap by a slap to the ass when the Sergeant had caught her sleeping at her post). But not a one of them could stop the tank's path and Aloysius’ malicious intent, laughing maniacally through the small window as he flattened them all one by one. He'd dreamt of this day his entire life if truth were known, and now he was living it, living the dream.

"Tell me what to fucking do will ya?" He screamed as he slammed into the library wall that had told him repeatedly to be Silent over the years. Well isn't this a right turn up for the books ya bossy know it all bastard," he shouted at the top of his voice. "Turn left you say… eh?" He screamed venomously at the street sign that forbade him to go right when he’d really wanted to; having to wait for further instructions three blocks away before he actually could. “Oh sorry... what did you say... STO-OP?” He asked the hexagonal red and white sign as he rolled back and forth over it, flattening its pole into the paving before aiming down the avenue on a mission and knocking over the Slow Children Crossing sign. “Well maybe they should speed the fuck up then… not my problem matey!” He shouted back, having dragged a sign with him right out of its concrete foundations that said Right Lane Only, and depositing it in the left lane. “Oh… what’s wrong… didn’t I give you enough notice?” He said unsympathetically as it got tangled in a Coca-cola truck that’d crashed into an ice cream van in an attempt to avoid him and causing both to upturn and explode in an eruption of milk floats which the children positively dived into forgetting the excitement of the wayward tank. “And yo-u,” he said quietly, eying a whole army of them in front of him, their red, green and amber lights flashing him, mocking, getting ready to try and control him for as far as his eyes could see, “changing your bastsard minds constantly... stop and then fucking go every two minutes. What... are you red with rage now? No… wait a sec... green with jealousy that I’m in control now… well who the fuck cares… I’ve got the power now. What do you have to say about them apples... gurr-een or red baby?” He said slamming into every one of the lights until he reached the level crossing where they ended, all of them exploding, their wires sparking wildly in the rain. Aloysius particularly hated the orders from the clanging bell with the red and white arms that flailed up and down like Kermit the fucking Frog because it didn’t want him to cross when he’d really wanted to, making him late for his psychiatrist every day. This time though, he crashed right through them, ignoring their high-pitched pontificates. "From the wrong side of the tracks you say? Well let's just see about that!"

But the tank was no match for the train; turned it on its side easily before it burst into flames, black plumes rising from both vehicles as they collided violently in a massive pile up; the worm of carriages flattening all the cars waiting on the other side of the barrier (and an old lady waiting there dutifully, who’d been coming back from dumpster diving, having found a tatty lampshade which miraculously survived).

The last thing Aloysius saw, as it landed face down on the small window under which he was trapped, and just before the tank engulfed him in flames, was a sign from a compartment in the train. And letting out a horrible laugh, he knew he'd won, yes, satisfied at least that he would go out blatantly defying the jumped up little shit's order:

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