Scotland Before the Bomb

by M. J. Nicholls

  “Is it a bird, is it a plane? No, it’s my thesaurus, sachet of soy sauce, and a pair of jump leads. Thank you, Sapo! Mwah-wah!” —laurenstripe

  “The antidote to those fed up with couriers. They take forever to arrive, and when I follow them on the tracking app, they always make random stops, probably to skive off and smoke. When they arrive, you have to wait for them to drag themselves up the stairs with my seven bags of shopping. After they have unloaded the bags and put the shopping in your cupboards, they hang around the door like they are expecting a tip. You have to make small talk with them as well. I have nothing to say to these people. I like this hassle-free, unintrusive way to order, although the drone accidentally flew into my front room and careered wildly around the place, severing the wires of my ceiling light and smashing my fish tank open and slicing the shinbone of my husband. This proved to be my mistake for opening the window completely, so I paid the compensation fee to Sapo for their drone, which I had to take down with a baseball bat after nine hours. I thoroughly endorse this wonderful company.”— oliviapotters

  Warehouse Worker

  I was in fourth year at school when they came around. These two really cool and smart girls said that working at the Sapo warehouse was totally awesome, and totally bursting with future benefits. You could hang around with your mates, zooming up and down the warehouse on segways and carts, having a laugh and earning some serious bucks, with unlimited opportunities for shimmying up the corporate ladder. Fearing the £100,000 a year student fees, and hearing horror stories of graduates with double firsts walking straight into Sapo warehouses, I decided the easiest option was to work with Sapo, since they had conquered the rest of the world, and had a foothold in Lothiania. To reach the warehouse, I had to take three buses and walk five miles along a farm road, and when I arrived, I was chastised for being late, had the two hours removed from my salary, was ushered into a uniform, and handed a list of duties. I was to assist in the retrieving and storing of the thousands of items that arrived from the trucks. I had little time to make myself familiar with the layout of the place, and by 9.30, I was zipping around the warehouse on segways, ascending ladders with heavy boxes, trying not to splinter my spine, and having no laughs with any mates. Instead, my supervisor was barking at me to bring the bananas, store the chandeliers, unload the glockenspiels, locate the printer ink. To improve morale, Sapo FM blasted in pop music from the latest bestselling singers. I realised at around 10.12 that I had made a terrible mistake. I soon moved into the tented village around the warehouse, a community of depressed couriers, lorry drivers, and warehouse workers. The tented village was “not endorsed” by Sapo, but they knew that their policy of not paying travel fares would lead to lateness and production delays, so looked the other way, out the other window, towards their nice houses. Over campfires, we talked about our plans to reduce Sapo to rubble, then toned down our ambitions to simply spitting on or leaving small streaks of shit in customers’ orders. The price of alcohol meant we had to ration our nightly intake, so we hadn’t the option to numb our woes by excessive drinking. The free Sapo wifi blocked access to job sites with a message “Hey! That site isn’t Sapo-friendly!”. We had to take buses after work to access the 9G internet and look for other work. But there wasn’t any other work. All roads led to Sapo.

  Sapo Speaks

  There is no stopping positive progress. Yes, we have had problems and several incidents with our drones. This is an unfortunate necessity when pioneering new, life-changing technology. We are working hard to reduce noise levels in cities. By 2045, we will have silent drones with enhanced capabilities. For instance, you will be able to set timed shopping lists and your shopping will arrive without you having to reorder. We are also working on promotional drones that will hover outside your window promoting items you might like based on your shopping trends. You simply reach outside the window, take the item, and your card will be charged accordingly. If you already have one of our Katiana devices, we can listen in to your everyday conversations, and our programs can predict what items you might like to purchase based on key words. We are also pioneering Pop-Up Drones: these are smaller craft, the size of locusts, that hover alongside you on the streets with smaller items you might like, such as a bottle of sparkling water, or a chocolate bar, and that suggest other items of interest through a small speaker. And finally, we are testpiloting a new micro-drone, known as the Shopping Bee, that hovers around your house making product suggestions and updating you on new bargains, and putting suggestions into your ear while you sleep, so you awake ready and motivated to shop! Our drones will be part of the fabric of life in Lothiania before the decade is out. There is no stopping positive progress.

  [From Voices from Sapo, Svetlana Alexievich Jr., Dalkey Archive Press, 2058.]

  “When Four Tribes Live Peacefully in Punctuation”

  [KINCARDINE]

  [!!!]

  HELLO! WE ARE the Exclamation Tribe! We speak with an excited inflection at the end of our sentences! Our favourite activities are logging, metalsmithing, and imprisoning witches! We tend to congregate on the banks of the Cowie Water! Sometimes the moon makes us sad! Our strongest feature is that we are forever positive! Our lips are not found in an unsmiling downward position for long! We live on sautéed hog meat and sprigs of lettuce! It was our idea to return Kincardine to a tribal state! Some might quip, “return?”! We are profoundly moved when Stretchy Mike plays his harmonium!

  [???]

  You want to know where we live? Are we the Interrogative Tribe? Do we, perhaps, congregate near the Bervie Water? Are you wondering what our trademark might be, or have you the common sense to have already made that inference? Can we relax when the rains pound on our hairs, the skillet is slathered in grease, and the crockery is splintered? What do you think? Is it possible that we might be somewhat sarcastic, unpleasant, and aggressive? Can you not see the frothing scowl on ringleader Peter Stevenson’s lips? How do we spend our Tuesdays? Do you think we dance barearsed around an effigy of Icelandic novelist Gudbergur Bergsson? Or are you a complete buffoon? Might we make a low melodic susurrus when we are horny? Are you willing to strip? Or shall we start to remove your skin anyway?

  [ . . . ]

  Yes . . . It is possible that . . . I think I left that bubblewrap in the cistern . . . Yes . . . That we are the Ellipsis Tribe . . . Our nature is . . . I can’t remember what a cistern is . . . That we trail off at times, this is . . . Yes, sometimes in mid-. . . Come over, we’re making shrimp linguini . . . And of course, we can ramble on to irrelevant . . . Pleased to see you, Kate, have you returned my nectarine, or is there one . . . We are sometimes accused of insanity, but . . . It’s more forgetfulness . . . Hi, Olivia . . . And distractedness . . . We live on nettles and bravado . . . Quite right, that is the longest peashoot I have ever . . . We are peaceful because organising an army is beyond the . . . I might stand on my knuckles later, worth a . . . So make yourself at home on our balmy scurf by the Luther Water . . . Wouldn’t it be nice, to be a . . . Someone should invent a satchel . . . Hi Marvin . . . Look, I have to run but we’ll . . .

  [ *]

  [From an educated guess by the editor.]

  *We are most comfortable at the bottom. We are the Footnote Tribe. We pool around Bervie Water, crouch on our haunches, and sing ‘New York Woman’. That about sums us up, Bob.

  “The Misanthropists”

  [KINROSS]

  MARCH 2041

  THE MISANTHROPISTS, a protest party running on the “all politicians are bastards” ticket, tap into the public mood, following several political scandals involving white pepper ice cream and wild alpacas, and surge in the polls. Their leader, Albert Rye, a columnist for offbeat website All Things Must Pass, had written a spoof election manifesto several months earlier, promising free krautrock LPs to OAPs, a thatched roof for those who help the homeless, contrabassoon lessons for school leavers, and a stronger media presence for those with receding hairlines. The surge in interest across the mon
th forces Albert to mobilise a team and write a proper manifesto cribbing hard-left policies, humanist ideals, and their own droll misanthropic outlook. The completed work is published on March 29.

  MAY 2041

  Rival parties mount violent smear campaigns against Albert Rye and his makeshift cabinet following the rapturous response to his manifesto. The usual vaguely salacious material is dredged up from Rye’s internet search history, including his time on XXLadies and Balaclava Babes. Several tame articles in support of Middle Eastern political factions are warped to portray him a supporter of genocide, replete with superimposed pictures of him laughing over mass child graves. The public, having tolerated these tactics for too long, switch their allegiances to The Misanthropists in droves. The news sites and broad-sheets, in desperation, print headlines of the stripe ‘VOTE FOR RYE AND YOU WILL DIE’ and ‘RYE WILL STAB YOUR BABIES’ EYES’. These misfires boost support for Albert and, apart from a predicted election tampering scam, their victory is assumed.

  JUNE 2041

  The vote tampering is unsuccessful. Five hundred thousand votes are lost. However, since there are no votes for other parties, aside from those cast by politicians, The Misanthropists win by a landslide of forty-five. Albert Rye is sworn in as Prime Minister. He triples unemployment and disability benefits, increases the rate of tax for higher earners, and draws up contracts for a thousand socially affordable homes in the first week. Immediately, Albert feels a conflict between his role as a misanthrope and a man single-handedly trying to make society more equal. As a people-hater, he loathes the homeless as much as the bankers in mansions. He loathes stinking orphans as much as perfumed superbrats. He is torn between the side of him that hates humanity, and the side of him that wants to save humanity. Hardcore supporters complain about his smiling in speeches, his upbeat demeanour, his air of openness. He projects an image contra to his party’s fuck-you philosophy.

  JULY 2041

  Albert alters his personality to be more sarcastic and nonchalant in interviews. The public question his commitment to being a serious politician, complain that he is too serious, and complain again that he is not serious enough. In private, he agonises as to whether people as a species are worth fighting for. To put this to the test, he offers the public the option of a free cool beverage at the top of a steep hill walk, with the consequence that a random homeless man is kicked hard in the gonads. 100% of people take the free beverage and two hundred tramps receive hard kicks in their gonads. Other schemes are devised, including a door-to-door cleaning service, with the consequence a random student is issued an F for no reason; the option for more leg room on flights, the consequence an OAP loses their electricity for the day; a lifetime supply of pickles for the under twenties, the consequence a train is delayed by two hours; a free £5 mobile top-up, the consequence a migrant worker is fired; and a warm and semi-arousing hug on the street, the consequence a working mother’s tax credits are refused. It becomes clear to Albert that on every occasion, people take the perks and pay not a moment’s thought to the victims. Humanity would require a degree of tweaking.

  AUGUST 2041

  The Prick Purges are announced. In a TV interview, Albert explains that the foundation of his party is a loathing of humanity, especially the people who spoil life for everyone else, and that his culling procedure would remove the most toxic contingent: the common asshole, the everyday motherfucker, the standard-issue prick. The law offices, financial districts, political HQs, and golf courses are raided to find the first batch. To weed the pricks from the non-pricks, simple polygraph tests are conducted, with victims asked basic questions: ‘If you were running late for a meeting and an old lady needed help across the road, would you stop, or sprint onward to a room where people admire and envy you, leaving the old woman to stagger into the path of an oncoming taxi?’, or ‘Would you purchase a Porsche with your hard-earned money, to show people you are a brilliant successful legend-in-your-own-time, or purchase a normal car like a normal non-prick to show you are not a massive prick?’ Most of the pricks lie, being pricks. To ensure no non-pricks are purged, social media feeds are analysed and testimonials heard. The social media feeds of pricks are commonly saturated with photos of themselves on holiday, in their cars, posing in expensive clothes with attractive people. The testimonials are a mix of biased accounts from family, friends, former employees, and former lovers, and are considered with care. The decisions are made by an independent panel of steely prick-detectors, non-pricks trained to have no sympathy with pleading pricks. Critics argue this, in turn, makes these people pricks, and not equipped to seal a man’s fate. Albert rebuts that since these people were non-pricks to begin with, whatever prickishness they might acquire to convict the pricks has no bearing on their integrity, as they understand what it means to be a non-prick. The pricks have always been pricks, and have no frame of reference for non-prickishness.

  SEPTEMBER 2041

  As the first four hundred pricks are purged (poisoned in their holding cells), the public outcry is enormous. Civil unrest erupts. Albert makes a rousing speech to a crowd of betrayed voters outside parliament. “Everyone! Return to your homes and your jobs, and tell me if your lives have not been improved tenfold by the purging of these pricks. Picture a world free from an officious prick in a suit refuses who you money to buy your children shoes. A world free from champagne lounges, business suites, and premium upgrades. A world where intelligence is harnessed for the betterment of humanity, not to secure egocentric assholes second homes and Lamborghinis. If you are truly sick of inequality, you need to stand behind me. The cause of inequality and poverty is greed. The cause of greed is being a massive fucking prick. Yes, we nice people loathe murder, but the reality is the pricks are murdering us day after day, when people die on the streets, when people turn to drugs to escape their hellish realities. Pricks are killing us by degrees. Pricks are killing the planet. It’s time for us to rise up and kill the pricks first.” The speech receives a cheer and several boos, however the substance of the message is undeniable. The purges continue with increased public support.

  OCTOBER 2041

  A further thousand pricks are purged. The effects are noticed with a spike in the economy, and the public mood is tested on the street, with ebullience levels increasing by 54%. This is evidenced by the upturn in public concern over the homeless, more inclusive attitudes to strangers, and a less bitter competitive atmosphere presiding over everything. The next debate is on who or what will replace the arguably necessary aspects of prickishness required in a merciless market economy, whether a non-prick approach will bankrupt Kinross and make the country a global laughing stock. Albert proposes that Kinross will continue to trade as normal without cutting corners, evading taxes, or shafting workers, and that productivity and growth will improve with a workforce treated with respect. Despite these improvements, Albert is still torn about his “selective” misanthropy, persecuting only the worst elements of society, when the real misanthropist loathes all people, regardless of their kindness. Towards the end of the month, he makes an announcement that to remain true to his principles, he will have to purge random people, whether pricks or non-, to remain ideologically consistent.

  NOVEMBER 2041

  Mass migration follows. People would rather brave kickball oppression in Lanark or the atomically twitchy aristocracy of Perth than live under an increasingly unhinged former columnist willing to poison the populace for “consistency”. Albert makes no move to prevent the populace from fleeing. He refuses to roll back his policy, however, and a clash erupts between the police, the remaining populace, and Albert. The people, now classifying Albert as a prick for ordering their executions, demands his arrest. He makes another speech to try and sway opinion. “Everyone left! All I have tried to do is remain true to my convinctions. I am a misanthrope, I loathe humankind. I cannot in all conscience send the pricks to their graves when I should be working to send absolutely everyone to their graves, and working towards extinguishing t
he whole human enterprise. This is what the true misanthropist—” His speech is interrupted when a shoe collides with his temple, knocking him unconscious. As Albert recovers, the military intervene, and arrange another democratic election for next month.

  DECEMBER 2041

  Public sympathy for the fallen pricks increases, as people repent at their shameful complicity. An opportunity for the pricks to seize power again presents itself, and the We Will Fuck You party is devised by Dan Groves, a prick formerly in hiding. Titled as a humorous tribute to the murdered, the party begins as a form of remembrance, however, a manifesto soon emerges, unleashing a series of tax breaks for the rich, cuts to benefits for the ill or dying, plans to bulldoze the partially completed affordable housing to build golf courses, and to charge entry fees to public parks and libraries. Caught up in the groundswell of sympathy, and alienated by the hard left, the people vote unanimously for the We Will Fuck You party, and entirely ignore the Albert Was Nuts, But Let’s Try the Not Being Pricks Thing party. On the day after the election, small businesses are charged “brick tax” based on the number of bricks in their properties, primary school kids must pay tuition fees to enter state schools, cancer patients with a poor prognosis are refused chemotherapy, those earning over £500,000 per annum are permitted to have sex with whoever they like whenever they like, and all historical child rape investigations are scrapped. The people of Kinross settle into their new reality, free from ritual executions, replete with policies that gradually make their bank balances smaller, their long-term health prospects poorer, their working hours higher, their human rights wronger, and their children more likely to suffer from chronic depression before their third birthdays. Albert Rye is sentenced to life imprisonment for mass murder, and the people, as they contemplate their horizonless futures, find themselves extremely confused as to precisely what percentage of pricks and non-pricks there has to be for the world to be less of a sad festering shitheap.