Please be aware that the story is reflective of the author's own personal thoughts and feelings about how things are and is not necessarily the whole truth. It is the author's own creative expression. If it breaks any rules, it can be taken down.

UPDATE: This is a satire and parts of it shouldn't be taken too seriously. ive removed part of it as it came across as rude.

Chapter 1

"MERRRRRRM YER CAN'T PUT YER TATAS BLOCKIN' THE DOOR!"

Amanda Stringer hollered across the peasantry hall of Westbourne Club, to no avail.

"MEEEEEEEERM!"

"Put 'em away than, blad, 'ere's a good lass," said the bar lady, through a deadpan face of complete resignation.

Amanda strode down the hall and threw the sack of "tatas", to one side.

"Ye' can't put yer tatas there, we done yonks dressing the club for the event without you blocking the damned entrance!" shouted Amanda.

Amanda's mum's lips moved, and she uttered something like an apology, but Amanda had already stridden away. Yeah, walk on you fat bitch, she thought.

It was a busy time for the club, and Amanda was on the go, moreso than usual. They still had so much to do in preparation for the big event in remembrance of World War II. The big event that claimed to honour the soldiers who laid down their lives to ensure the next generation for their country, but in fact was a public relations gambit for the club, a financial venture that would elevate it to Limited Company status, whilst boosting Amanda's standing in the local community so she could rub shoulders with alluring veteran men.

Remembrance literally meant "to remember"; a noun synonymous with reminiscence, flashback, thought. Did the dead soldiers have any care for whether in eighty years they would indeed be celebrated or not? By inbreds such as Westbourne villagers they would arguably not have considered worth their very lives? Why were the dead remembered when dead people were not evidenced to benefit from such an activity by the living?

The entire occasion, where critical thinking was applied, could be unveiled to be a national effort to obfuscate the rational thinking of youngsters in which Westbourne Club gratefully took part, through celebrations of patriotic and "educational" merit. "Remembrance" was in fact a wider scheme effected by an intricate mechanism of long-established systematic corruption that gaslighted future generations away from independent thought and committed them, through careful manipulation and aforementioned "education", to eventual wageslavery, by rewarding good schoolwork and slave-like behaviour whilst shunning bad grades and that which impeded the young person's ability to be anything but the best version of an eventual cog of society they could possibly be. Every human being existed in biological terms to persevere their race, or in more sinister Capitalist terms, to sustain the elaborate hierarchy that predates the Great Pyramids (built by slaves/peasants/cattle; a not-too distant variation of the typical British working-class citizen of the modern day).

Remembrance Day was not to remember the dead, but to gaslight the living to want to live like the dead did; to aspire that an aspect of themselves (in the context of soldiers, their lives; of normal wageslaves, their time) would one day be expensed to the gain of society's ultimate hierarchy. Westbourne Club was merely one profiteer of the mechanism fed by cogs; an institution that commercialised the day allocated to the memory of soldiers by immorally flogging overpriced merch at unsuspecting passer-bys, and then outrageously proclaim it in the name of "remembrance" whilst entitled folk such as Amanda Stringer pocketed the proceeds from their moral highground.

Amanda had always been pro-system, but never pro-independent thought or critical thinking. She believed only that the next generation should aspire to be like the one before that, and the one before that, and so on, and disliked anything less. It was difficult for her to comprehend there were human beings with a different moral compass to hers, as moralities in life essentially were just a form of control, and she did not want to admit she did not have control over others. Her vision that a proper human being's desire to ultimately sacrifice their lives to work for society was the premise of her own self-worth, as she had slaved many a year and to comprehend that anyone else could not desire to be a cog of such industry as she, was as if to admit her entire life's efforts had been for nothing.

She had worked late hours just to get by – it was that labour was crucial to survival that produced a deep bitterness in her which spawned jealousy of those both younger than she and who worked for less hours (such as singer Sam Smith, who she had reposted derogatory messages about on Facebook). Amanda, sub-consciously and calculatedly, as a coping mechanism, fabricated for herself a perception of the world where a human being's worth was defined by how much of themselves they sacrificed to the system (with dead soldiers being in the highest tier).

Amanda's personal fabrication aligned adequately with the government's capitalist criteria that all mortals should work, and this confided her her vision was the proper, and anything but was a blasphemy. Anyone who did not aspire to pay remembrance was a repudiation of Amanda's narrow little purview in which she'd established herself as a moral authority to dictate others that they should pay respects, on the surface appearing honourable and patriotic, but in actuality a form of reclaiming control over others, and giving meaning to her own life's wageslavery.

Westbourne itself was a poor settlement that bordered Chichester, a rich retirement town but with low value hamlets clinging to it like drunkards to gutters. The residents, including most club attendees, were chavs with bad teeth who looked like they cleansed by candlelight in estate homes with dodgy plumbing. Amanda herself may as well have had her lipstick styled by Stevie Wonder for the clumsiness of it. She kept the home fires burning round the corner in the appropriately named Commonside Road.

The following day's plans were set in stone. The peasants of the Westbourne community would congregate at the club to pay "remembrance" to the soldiers by stuffing their gobs, and an obese young man in vest who looked like the offspring of Alice Cooper and Meat Loaf would flank the entrance selling paper flowers for customers to leave messages for relatives who may have died in the war. Because the residents of Westbourne had the collective IQ of a shoebrush, they were financially receptive to this perverse fund-raising gimmick, and all the while, youngsters who questioned the integrity of Amanda's message would be put right by the combined wrath of pro-slave government criteria, and her own personal resentment.

Amanda cackled her laugh befitting of a magician.

"'Choo smirking at?" said her mum(?), who was at her side like a puff of smoke.

"Those spoiled Cicestrian younglings," hissed Amanda, rubbing her hands together and letting her tongue inspect her uneven perimeter of lipstick. "Entitled to live in fancy Chichester while we knuckledraggers settle for Tangmere, Bognor, Emsworth and Westbourne. I'll show 'em… I'll gaslight anyone with money into feeling bad they haven't donated it all to our organisation."

(Not to be continued.)

(Hope you enjoyed though. It's not supposed to be serious.)