A Way Out of this Nonsense

The Nuremberg Garden Club

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Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,  Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl. ---RZ Dylan

This is only a story, and it is not meant to suggest anything in the real world.  This is an imaginary story about how imaginary characters dealt with the wicked few who ruled their world... or so they thought.  Neither this story nor this writer is advocating anything at all, and any references to what may seem to be real historical events are only to aid the reader’s imagination.  In this imaginary parallel world, the few rich got richer and the many poor were prey.  For every one who joined the ranks of the rich, one thousand fell into the ranks of the poor.  Of the thousand new poor, perhaps one hundred still had some income, property and a few small voices.

It only took a few neighbors and the lawn-and-garden tools most of them already had:  shovels, garden forks, and the ubiquitous “tiki torches.” The remaining prop was simple to make:  a large banner with a message on each side.  On one side, great bold letters spelled, “NUREMBERG!”  The other side of the banner had a network address:  housewarmingparty-dot-org.  Mirror sites sprung up as fast as the originals were hacked and sabotaged, although all the sites carried nothing but home-gardening information and a system to contact selected readers of each address.  The Gatto Gorda, known as Gorgats- the rich- were convinced the House-Warming Party actually existed.

In a way, it did.  At first, when disposed families were thrown out of their homes because it was in “foreclosure,” the last thing they left was a Molotov cocktail.  Soon, petrol was guarded and all evicted families were escorted away from the property, but it made no difference.  Nuremberg Garden Clubs were planting memorial flower-patches in front of local TV stations, and every night vacated houses burned.  Soon, the suburbs were on fire.  The low-level hirelings who tried to maintain “order” were drawn away form the fire and either persuaded or dispatched… whichever was appropriate.  No kind of “organization” was necessary.

The Gorgats simply couldn’t pay enough… because if a left-over libertarian nylon-bedded Remington 700 BDL did not serve to discourage the sausage-necked sycophants, a sharpened screwdriver would.  The Gorgats realized they created many people who were dangerous because they had nothing to lose.  They thought their hirelings could suppress them easily with their stable pay and war-toys… just like the plate-armored vassals in the Middle Ages.  They were wrong.  People who feel they were doomed anyway will resort to longbows, sleeping screwdrivers and suicide bombs to exit this world with dignity if they have no other choice.

There were not enough cops, firefighters or prisons.  There were too many desperate, homeless and hungry.  NUREMBERG! Banners appeared everywhere, and beneath them people were peacefully planting gardens… vegetables and flowers.  In places where the peaceful planters were attacked, there were more fires and murders.  Where the gardens were allowed to grow there were more flowers and food.  The Gordats had seen the torches and forks… and they knew the meaning of the banner well enough.  The Gordat war criminals must be put on trial… sacrificed to preserve order.  It was not enough, and the fires spread from vacant houses to businesses and government buildings.

Rapidly-closing big-box stores refused to sell garden forks.  They usually burned a short time later.  The fingers at the end of the Gordat’s long arm… the Gorditos, “little fatties,” the bullying cops, the autocratic “managers,” the corrupt officials, the snitches and finks were sometimes found with the tell-tale four holes in them.  Graffiti appeared on buildings: “your tine is coming.”  Bumper-stickers were slapped on the fat vehicles of the rich and ostentatious: “Fork Me.”  Each individual community adjusted differently, as did each individual.  Folks just naturally went to where there were more flowers and food.  There are millions of stories, and it’s impossible to tell them all right now.

You look like you have a few stories yourself.  Where have you been?  This is all ancient history by now.  Guess you didn’t get much news out there.  It was probably hard enough just keeping body and soul together.  And, no offense, but you look like something the dog dragged in.  Never mind.  You are welcome here.  There’s a wash-tub out back right next to the pump if you want to clean up a bit.  We got everything you need right here.  Not much, mind you, everybody around here is poor.  Nobody needs more than two sets of clothes anyway.  We have plenty to eat and we stay warm in winter.  You can pitch in if you want… right after you get to know everybody in the neighborhood.

Oh, it was an inside job alright. The Gords even juiced a few of their own… but it didn’t do them much good.  By then, nobody cared much about that kind of stuff.  Say, you won’t need that rifle around here.  You can stash it here for the time being.  Oh, you can carry it if you want… but some folks might think you’re showing off.  That’s not a good thing for strangers to do, you know.  Best let ‘em get to know you first.  You’ll like most of ‘em.  Everybody that needed killing around here is long gone by now—and good riddance to their nasty asses.  Shot some of them, forked most of them.  It’s still going on some places, I hear.  We’re too busy to keep track of that stuff.

Whew.  No offense, partner, but you smell kind of ripe.  You might want to think about that wash-tub.  Rinse off your duds and let ‘em dry by the stove.  I’m going down the road about half-a-click that way.  Meet up with me there, and I’ll stand you some of the best grub you’ve tasted in a long time… and some good home-brewed beer if you like.  That’s right, real beer.  I knew that would put a grin on ye.  Good to see that smile again.  Smiles were in short supply for a while, weren’t they?  Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.  You’ll find the girls around here right friendly as long as you leave that smoke-pole of yours stashed away.  And take off that pig-sticker too.

Come on down the road when you’re ready.  It’s a long shack with a great big garden out back.  It’s our regular gathering place long about sundown.  There’s a bicycle shop and a bake-oven… and, yep, a brewery right next door.  Just follow that fresh-bread smell until you hear the music.  Didn’t you pick a few strings back in the old days?  I thought so.  Welcome home, sister.  There’s plenty of work to be done, and there’s a laundry too.  Like I said, you could use it.  The fight’s gone out of this place, I hope for good.  I heard you were quite a scrapper for a girl… oh all right, I hear you. For anybody!  I hope those days are over.  Oh yeah-- there’s a sign out in front… you can’t miss it:

It says, “Nuremberg Garden Club.”