He asks me in a cut glass faux middle class accent of accessibility, focus grouped and demographically treated to maximise polling station returns: "So, what do you do?"
I utter a response typed in a dis-charmingly understated Apethetica Sans Surprise font to the nada.
The cunt in sheep's clothing's demeanour transforms from bland and platitudinous to malevolent and sincere loathing. "Are you actively seeking work?"
"Unless you work for the job centre, no." His cheeks redden to the colour of rage tinted with chronic alcohol and chemical peel dependence.
"Why not?" he asks with a photogenic degree of finishing school of contempt emanating from his fat-coated larynx and press-officer.
I survey the landscape and am overwhelmed by a nameless dread to be elaborated upon as I see every man, woman and youth thoughtlessly career hysterically towards a better day and their graves.
I see the finest minds working 9 to 5 in the neon contrived-light of an open-plan, close-minded office, nameless, line-by-line, staring at blank screens plotting their comfortable deaths.
And I see politicians and Prime Ministers wearing suits like the suit in my path, with money and power outnumbering the price of their sense but not with a quantity surpassing their degree in bullshit and hereditary privilege from Oxbridge.
And I see CEO's with time ten-thousand times more valuable per second than the people who clean their shit from their Ivory toilet seat and their inboxes, but with breaths as much a waste of nothing oxide.
And I see accusations printed in size sixty million, fit for the front of the Daily Mail, divide and rule- captioned with hate, baseless, labelling minnows of being leeches in a world where success is through the exploitation of another and inducing their loss; And where all currency was bought as it should be sold; And where savers are only saving themselves as they self-righteously sit on their stagnant sixty-k somewhere off the shore.
And I see those willing to do a job that would employ my mind in a chronic state of degradation, with their faces etched in desperation eclipsing mine with a fine line between them and profound deprivation.
And I elaborate, with biblical petulance and reciprocal contempt:
"You aren't the boss of me, who's the boss of you? The one with the brown-nosed extra added value per hour at the cost of his own self worth, respect and competency.
"The one who society and a cosmic dice-roll have decreed as having a life worth more than yours and mine, as is written in ink on a terminally bound, blood-signed contract: Your superior?
"The one who accused the fraudulent beneficiary of 60 pounds a week a thief; The beneficiary of a tax-free, soft-play, gratitudinous kick back from the City of London?
"The one who's stole his self satisfied legacy, that he will have to decay to see, from us- as he encourages us all, whilst dying, to craft a better future to enjoy with a corpse in grade-C1 socially-conditioned servitude?
"The one who orders us all, through the prodigious skill of white wash, to give our lives for a job we would not die for?
"The one who, with a dramatic puff of illogic whilst smoking a cigarette bought from a Phillipino duty-free, and with completely unconvincing conviction; calls himself 'right'?"
The cunt in sheep's clothing responds, after a pause to wheeze in a lung full of air, by parroting the party line, with a voice befitting his dress.
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