Camille A. Marino
December 21, 2018
The red paint on their faces mixed with sweat, dripping and congealing on their cheeks under the hot Florida sun. The angry screams and blood-like streaks marring their faces added an element of fury and urgency. Their chants were warlike. Their passion was real. And their stunned targets were frightened. But these activists were not confronting animal abusers, holding them accountable, or seeking to disrupt the a multi-billion dollar animal-slavery infrastructure. That would be divisive and dangerous. No, this was street theater, disrupting mothers and children eating Big Macs at McDonalds. It was a formula that had been perfected over the decades. Pure capitalism at its finest. The activists are passionate and sincere in wanting to end the horror. But these theatrics were not designed to end the consumption of animal products; only to garner media attention, create some hysteria, and lay the foundation for a perpetually-expanding donation base. Profits in the name of animal exploitation — some profit by promoting it, some profit by positioning themselves as adversaries.
Many debated, arguing that these tactics encouraged veganism; others argued that we were sorely in need of more aggressive, committed activists. No matter. The drama may not save any animals, but it certainly energizes the bases and that always translates into dollar signs. These are the same politics we see in government. And the isolated few watched in silence, biding their time.
The few, almost-extinct species of vegans focused on specific industries — animal experimentation, factory farming, fur farms, circuses and seaworld; there’s never a shortage of slave trade industries, only of those willing to confront them head on. They concentrate on the numbers, the money, the actors, working to identify a weak spot, some place to subvert just a little piece of the machine. The only things they lack are the self-serving tactics that serve to enrich themselves and cultivate followers. It gets lonely. Those prizes go to more non-profits alleging to be the guardians of animal-slavery welfare. Find a welfare violation, file a complaint, write a petition, circulate propaganda to the masses, have them sign your petition, and convince the world that now that the wrong-doing has been identified, the rest of the captive animals are safe. Industrial abusers could not ask for better allies than alleged adversaries who are more effective at promoting industry goodwill than the abusers themselves. At the end of the day, these guardians of animal liberation dive into their dollar-filled donation coffers to bathe in the filth of their profits stained with as much blood as any butcher shop cutting board.
Some debatevthe efficacy of petitions; arguing whether they accomplished anything for the suffering animals at all, never understanding their real purpose: to create a donation base for the welfare organizations and simultaneously control and neutralize an uprising against the industrial state. Some argued that we need baby steps and every actions counts. There’s no magic bullet, so we need to stop rocking the boat and encouraging deviations. The truth is that we all perform any number of useless tasks that only make us feel good while the animals die. A perfectly-neutered community, under control, and happy with themselves, wearing a bright-red state-sponsored bow of compliance. And the isolated few watched in silence, biding their time.
The movement was back on track. Animals being cut up alive in labs, blinded, mutilated, poisoned, burned, and thrown back into their cages alone, to bleed, suffer, and, if they’re lucky, find some relief in death. On the farms, now that those pesky picture-taking activists were all neutralized, the slaves’ caretakers were free to resume raping cows with shovels, tearing calves from their mothers and torturing them to death to a symphony of maternal wailing. And those stupid little pigs making so much noise. It’s always fun to take out the scissors, cut off their testicles, and then maybe make them eat their own mutilated body parts. There is nothing remotely incidental or innocent about industrial animal abuse. The sadists who torture their restrained and captive victims do it because they enjoy it. And they have the freedom to pursue their rape/death/torture fantasies with the full protection of the law and the absolute compliance of the animal rights businesses. The tragic part is that passionate, committed, and selfless activists are co-opted by these cancers in our own community that recruit, divert, and castrate their power. It’s all been galvanized in the perfect pursuit of profit born of suffering.
And the isolated few watched in silence, biding their time… collecting the identities of the war criminals, collecting and disseminating their addresses, proof of their crimes, their bank statements, the names of their wives, husbands, children, and parents. The war had been allowed to rage without challenge thus far; profits, accolades, speaking engagements, book deals, and TV parts having overshadowed the mission to end animal slavery long ago. Exploiters on both sides of the fence were equally guilty and equally responsible. The day had arrived where the fabric of mainstream complacency would be forever shredded; we would shed their blood or our own would be shed. But on this day, the animals were not going to die alone.
Outside McDonalds, TV crews interviewed the protest organizer. He spoke sincerely about the horrors of factory farming and explained that his group was raising awareness. And with the precision of justice born only on the streets, as he smiled to direct the audience to make donations, the camera showed the world a sniper’s discharge shattering his bright, white veneers as it proceeded through his skull. Across town, a vivisector held his daughter’s hand as they left the comfort of their mansion. The little girl screamed as she heard a pop and her father fell, his blood pooling on the beautifully-manicured lawn. And in the a rural patch of farmland, a rancher made his way to the dairy shed with a crowbar in his hand — a sex toy for the demented. His devious grin gave way to groans of agony as the pitchfork stuck in his back exited his stomach.
And the isolated few understood that there were more of them than they ever imagined. It had begun. They were no longer silent; their rage alone would speak the language of justice. And today, the animals were not going to die alone.