So what was Arthur’s problem, why was he such a rabble-rousing, punch-drunk renegade? Being beaten from infancy on by his father had him eternally railing against patriarchal authority, giving him “oppositional defiance disorder”, yes. Growing up an aberrant homosexual made him a freak in the milk-toast normality of heterosexual society, of course. But he’d like to add that, for all his contemplative peaceful soul-seeking, he was an acolyte of Carlos Castenada and attempted to walk “the way of the warrior”. While he was possibly just trying to bolster a masculine front to hide his sissy gay nature, he felt in his heart that wimps bit the dust, got trampled in the rush, and he’d have to fight bravely for what he believed in, for what he wanted from life.
They handed out pamphlets to all the workers coming and going, and to any of the locals who bothered to stop and visit. Arthur and company talked, cajoled and wheedled till their bums turned blue, about the dangers of an accident, the radioactive waste leaking into the environment, nuclear war and mutated babies, but nobody paid any heed. The workers grew more pissed off by the day as the alien campers clung to their front gates or climbed the cyclone fence and wandered the grounds. The atomic-furnace stokers and their security thugs took to charging through the camp late at night in jeeps, trampling the tents and demolishing the dome, trashing all the efforts at making the place barely comfortable.