Our civilisation sits upon a powder keg. Not only are depraved lunatics holding the matches, but they are fucking around dangerously close to the barrel. The seeds of hatred are germinating. Time’s precious hands slip ever closer to… Something.

There are no barricades — only the pernicious squawking of soft-bellied liberals. Disneyfied sludge seeps over the entire arena like a heavy fog of raw Ether. It has taken only a few generations to forget…

Four friends stand next to the edge of a high cliff. One of the friends holds and points a gun at the three others. The gun-holder politely tells the other three that they must decide together which they prefer: to die by being shot or by throwing themselves off the cliff?

Two of the friends begin to deliberate, gratefully. One praises the merits of being shot and dying instantly with no pain. The other speaks thoughtfully about the spectacular view they would enjoy as they fell to the jagged rocks far below.

They turn to the third friend, who has been silent up until this point and whom the final decision on the fate of the three friends now rests with.

This friend remains silent, their whole body shaking as the muscles of their face visibly contort with anger and frustration — eyes moving slowly from the barrel of the gun to meet the eyes of the fourth friend holding the weapon.

“Come on,” the three others tell their silent friend, “people died so that you could vote!”

END

Exhibited at the Andrew Buchan Bar, Cardiff. Oct 10th – Nov 7th