Arthur traipsed in their wake, looking saintly in a long black robe with white collar, for all the world a Catholic priest, only this one clutched a huge jar labelled “The Pill”. It was full of chocolate Smarties which he generously handed out to all the Christian kiddies who mobbed him with glee, squealing for the lollies, oblivious to their parents' dismay. The crowd of “turn the other cheekers” went wild, slavering and cursing, gnashing teeth, waving fists, tearing at the mock religious costumes, trying to shred the irreverent interlopers, screaming, “Kill, kill, kill the scum!” The Police then rushed in to rescue the frenzied Christian pack from the torments of the pranksters, punching and kicking the snot out of Wanda and her coven of witches with the occasional Christian mitt flying in and having a good claw.
Arthur dithered and stared like a mesmerized chicken at the floor; he really wanted to commit a kamikaze and smash in a few noses before he went down but he wasn’t gonna get his guts caved in over one measly bitch-slap. Arthur knew what a real beating was and he wasn’t up for it again, for all the ideals in the world. He stood silent while Pam’s face turned red as she snarled in fury. Smirking in malevolent satisfaction the Pigs continued the humiliation by ordering Arthur to stand in front of Sergeant Jabba and drop his pants, for the redneck trolls to snigger over his shriveled genitalia and the crestfallen women to stare up his hairy arse. Arthur shouldered the shame and turned into the incredible shrinking man, reduced to nothing in everybody’s eyes. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the dirt.
This astounded Arthur, the enormous nerve they had, and he tried to emulate their courage, whining on about justice and the United Nations Human Rights Commission, to which the magistrate could only grunt in peeved bemusement and issue Arthur with the heftiest of fines. Good-looking, middle-class girls were rather thrilling and could get away with bad behavior that gutter fags like Arthur would be crucified for. He tried to keep this in mind as he got further mired in the Action Group’s prison-razing crusade.
At thirteen years of age Ray Penning had watched his mother burn herself alive from a pauper’s desperation and this drove him haywire. He got in incessant trouble with the authorities and spent most of his teens and early manhood in reformatories and jails. On reaching adulthood he’d become like a caged animal, one that thinks, and he wanted a real life, badly, so bad he’d do anything to escape. It was alleged that in an escape bid he murdered a screw by planting a screwdriver in his head, though Penning vociferously denied this, implicating his accomplice in the breakout as the true culprit. Convicted of the murder he got life imprisonment and eternal bastardization from every screw he came across, yet throughout all the torture he was able to articulate his objections and ruffle the feathers of all those concerned. His state of pain grew so noisome, his complaints so convincing, sympathetic reformers felt his story had to be investigated.