The Unburning Green

 I left the house and, despite the smell of burning rubber and black smoke on the horizon, I wanted to see what was going on and wanted to be near some trees. The shops are all shut, except the Winemark. 

In Belfast, the population have takeaways three or four time a week on average. Their cuisine is prepared entirely by immigrants. All the takeaways are shuttered today. We'll see how hungry they have to get before they stop trying to immolate foreigners. 

The Turkish hairdresser is shuttered, as is the Happy Valley takeaway next to it and the Kebab and pizza shop on the other side. The solicitor's office has shut up shop too, probably to avoid contagion. Violence spreads. Not sure why General Merchants is shut. It stands on its own island and sells burgers and hipster variations on "street food". You'd think they'd be alright. Perhaps it's solidarity. 

The joggers are out in force. Not even a burning bus would stop them from beating their P.B. They'd jump over it. Hope their heels melt. No buses today, of course. No anything. Except the indomitable Belfast Book Festival. Nothing will stop them. 

In the Winemark, a customer, a regular, wants cashback to buy diesel. The manager tells him there is none. All the pumps were shut yesterday and, as far as she knows, they haven't been reinstated. They really have shut down the city. We're under siege from teenage boys in black sportswear, the gormless puppets of right wing interventionists, pay rolled by billionaires. The politicians, I mean, not the foot soldiers. They'll get nothing but the satisfaction of ruining lives, including their own. I don't know why Elon Musk wants the world to be so absolutely horrific, but it seems to be his genuine position. He is bankrolling ugliness, brutality and ignorance on a global scale. He used to seem like a Bond villain or that shit ginger Lex Luthor, but he's both more terrifying and more ludicrous than any Bond baddie. Drax, Scaramanga, and Goldfinger were models of decency and restraint by comparison. They had a sense of humour and could spell. And they have far, far less money. Because, even in fiction, Musk's wealth is unbelievable. 

He's a trillionaire now. From nothing. From speculation on his bundle of shit businesses. Its a staggering grift. He could solve every single problem in the world, personally, and still not have spent all his money. He chooses, instead to make the world worse, in random, arbitrary, there-is-no-plan-I'm-just-fucking-with-you ways. Every dollar he spends harms the world. Every dollar he accrues starves a child. That's who he is. He could save you from drowning but, no, that's his foot on your head and the last sound you hear, through the burbling water, is his laughter. 

He's an evil man. 

I saw some brilliant trees. I smelled the furious green. I sucked up the petrichor. I wallowed in the deep damson shadows. The sun was brilliant but nothing was on fire. Not here, not yet. I was glad I'd unlocked the door and left the house. For a short time, anyway.