this fuckass chinese sweatshop

“What the FUCK did you just call me?” I yelled, slamming a clenched fist onto the table. The empty wine glasses and freshly polished chains jingled like wind chimes with a swing of the hand. Yet in the symphony of glass and steel that brought great trembling to the wood table beneath it and to the ears of the weary workers around it, the man remained undisturbed to the slightest upon his filthy safari bed, continuing to tap away fixated at his grossly oversized phone. “A faggot.” he said. “What’s wrong with that?”

I had to nip this disrespect at the bud. Grabbing a nearby shackle and forcing it onto a glass cup, I swing the improvised flail at his phone. It narrowly misses and hits his forehead, shards washing over his face like the hazing ritual baptism of an ice bucket challenge. The fragments burn through his flesh, as if setting bright blue fire to his skin. He laid still, only having dropped his phone, forearms still raised as though it would fly back into his hands. That’ll teach him, I thought.

The praying mantis. The posture of submission to death, the intent of domination over life. An assassin in preacher robes, to humanise it. So still and serene, yet in as little as 50-70 milliseconds, its forelegs are brandished out, swinging for the kill until they make contact and YOWCHIE! His hands are wrapped round my neck.

The man rises from the bed mechanically like a parking barrier gate, eyes fixed on mine, hands clamped tight as a Chinese finger trap. “This is bad”, I thought, squirming with my arms and legs blindly thrashing about to get him off. “He’s going to take my virginity if I let him continue like this.” The workplace is thrown into chaos; workers mill about, frightened by the outbreak of violence that had infected us two. Round a workbench 3 thin-eyed Chinese men hurriedly scoop packets of opium and aphrodisiacs into a black briefcase. 6 other similar men had seemed to have taste-tested a little too much of the supply, gleefully running laps round a chastity cage like a tail chasing a dog. Another 9 seemed to have accepted their imminent deaths and gave in fully to the YOLO lifestyle; with their slacks fully descended, pumping dick frantically into each other in groups of 2 or 3, all while aggressively suckling on opium pipes and pushing out smoke like car exhaust, the workshop had started to resemble the rambunctious life and times of King Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix. A life lived without pleasure is a life lived only with pain.

If there is hope, I thought, it lays with the proletarians; the commonfolk scampering round me, attempting to salvage what pleasure they had left of the lives they might soon lose. Yet in the thick mist of their own lust for life, there was no way any of them would notice the great burly force of nature that had gripped my neck before my senses could register it, carried me hanging, and pinned me against the wall, as if his tremendous arms were 2 nails on the cross. Without even a query of consent, he smashes his head against mine, pressing his lips onto mine, rubbing his glassy glassy face into mine. Then, before I could react fully to the scaldingly sharp sensation, he flips me round, giving my ass a slap as tight as his chokehold. In the suspenseful, actionless, pins-and-needles seconds that followed, amidst the fog of desperate shouting and crashing glass and steel and stampeding bodies on hard ground, an ominously silent unzipping noise was still perceptible right behind me. With all of my lungs’ breath within me, all of my life’s breathing years before me and all of the man’s bated breath behind me, I tensed up, bracing for impact.

Suddenly, a shriek tears through the air right behind my head. Shocked awake, I wheel round. One of the sweatshop workers, in his delusion of a shop-wide Roman orgy, had snuck up on my assailant, swiftly and decisively pressing forward into his ass. Apparently this bona fide “lance guard” was wielding a pretty long lance; his thrust had been enough to unshackle the man’s grip on my neck and elicit a visceral cry of pain.

Now was my chance. Quickly recovering my breath, I adopt prone position, lunging for his shoelaces. Bare seconds after dismantling one side had another man gotten behind my good Samaritan, thrusting in with great opiod-fueled passion as if attempting to pump more life into his attack, forming a Conga Sex Line of sorts. Glancing at it reminded me of old school raves, where men and women of young linked up shoulder to hand, dancing in long conga lines caterpillar-weaving through the crowd as bright multicoloured lights and David Guetto’s Titanium gushed through every artery and vein of the atmosphere. Those were the days, I thought. My fingers unravel the second shoe successfully. Now all I have is this literal fuckass Chinese sweatshop.

With his mobility completely disabled, it was time for the kill. An MPAT would do just fine. Reaching into his left shoe, I fish out one, hoisting it over my shoulder in high kneel position. The men behind him had started to get excited, pulling his shoulders back to force his body to straighten up. A bigger target for me to hit, I thought. Like an oversized javelin, I hurl the launcher into his chest. The probe lodges itself into his open chest, and within moments, he had collapsed limp onto the ground, hanging off the MPAT which had landed standing straight upwards. Having awoken from their reverie, the 2 men behind, witnessing the gore before them, run off in fear.

Before I could make another move, another group of half-naked plebeians prance into the scene. “John, John, John is mine!” one cries out, the whole group groping onto the corpse’s limbs. They must have numbered 6 or 7 workers. Like some ragtag gang of goblins, they drag him off, skewering him on an extended spitroast. One scampers away and back with some scrap wood and a lighter, and within moments, a campfire spitroast was set up. His corpse turned limp about the steel stick, searing each and every corner of flesh to a crisp. They cooked John like a Pork.

I breathed out a sigh of relief. The demon had been exorcised. The crisis had been averted. Life in the sweatshop could return to its peaceful, secure routine, with the hustle and bustle of my dear committed…workers? Where were they?

It really had been just any one random blink. The chatter and commotion of the crowd cut out of nowhere like a speaker running out of battery. The grey of the walls flooded into my eyes, without the thick cloud of thin-eyed Chinese men in blue collars and overalls to cover it. And in the middle laid 1 man, inanimate and loose like a marionette, colour quickly fleeting from its face, abandoning ship. A long sharpened metal rod ran through his body along his spine. Cum gushed from his ass. Niagara Falls, nigga!

All this time, I had let myself believe in my own weakness; faced with real oppression for the first time, I immediately yielded, allowing my assailant to beat me in my own domain, to have his way with me, to emasculate me. I made myself believe the only way out was the saving grace of other dogs as blind as myself. But looking now at the puppet corpse lying on the ground, I finally understood what my mind had tried to show me. Behind the illusion of a band of brothers snatching me from death’s maw by the skin of my teeth, was a tremendous feat of strength, my own strength. In a “dog eat dog” world, the earliest bird gets the worm, but in the end the biggest bird gets to eat it. And you never know if you’re the biggest bird unless you spread your wings and take to the skies. So with fear in my heart and uncertainty in my mind, I saw my wingspan for myself and tested my glide against his. And it paid off. What do I have to fear now? It is hence with this new strength and newer knowledge that I, the biggest bird, the fastest bird, the Falcon, shall continue to pressure forward.