Diary From The Carrot Union

Chapter 2: #CarrotGuardBureau

Well, I say, work is work, and work isn't work if you're not suffering all the way through the tip of your ears to the back of your crack. Some say that work here feels equivalent to your but they getting waxed, but I say, if you can't control it, then force yourself to like it, as it is our collective zeal as workers to unite to work for the glory of the revolution!

Nah, I'm lying, just drink vodka, and accept that you'll forever be a slave underneath new management! I mean hey, what's more, romantic than living in this so-called worker's paradise other than being malnourished and drunk! I'm sure Mr Hungry Santa with his gorilla asshair of a beard would be rolling in his grave seeing the fruits of communis— Ooh, I mean Animalism turns out.

We work at this damp, grey, and hot concrete chamber with haphazardly drilled ventilation holes, filled to the brim with various monitor sizes of all shapes and resolution which watch over the city of Moshare as well as the departments of the Mininfo (Ministry of Information). The five-decade-old air conditioner works for like two hours a day and shakes like it's having an epileptic seizure, and the stagnant air reeks of sour instant noodle and dried glue (Kolya buys it in bulk to get high).

So my luckier colleagues and I are stationed at the command centre of the Carrot Guard Bureau, listening to the daily wiretap to scan for subversives and watch the lads in the censorship department do their thing! Today I'm assigned to numbers 6070 to 6085, and it is my job to ensure these people aren't slacking off or even worse, start to realize something's terribly wrong in this utopia! I thought one of them is called Winston, but that's unimportant.

That's right, I'm a manager — worked nearly twelve years since I was eighteen, starting from the lowly position of "memory hole office boy," Where I used to collect the ashes of documents, moving up to the pornographic department, where I achieved an outstanding five-minute standing ovation from my co-workers and boss for making the legendary interspecies BDSM novel about Comrade Yosif with his bloated noose cock and the twelve-year-old Tsarina, then smooching up the officials upwards until I myself finally reached nerve centre and discovered this huge dossier about myself collected since I was five containing all my search history, sexual fetishes, insecurities, and deep darkest secret! Boy, you should've looked at my face when I discovered Comrade Zero himself gave me a recording he got from the bugged microwave and the television set on my very own bedroom when I deepthroated my neighbour with a pickle at 3 AM while screaming volare when I was just a wee, seventeen-year-old lad.

So what are subversives, you may ask? Well, it's everyone except the cats, as they rule us! Nor the sheep, who fools us! Or the wolves, who shoot us, or those Pigs! Who will eat food for us! So who are subversives? It's none other than the rabbits! Who is very dangerous and weak simultaneously that we must protect ourselves from ourselves! Is it contradictory? W-well, do you want to be shot? If the answer is no, just pretend you understand! That way the recording device inside your flower vase won't report you and make you vanish!

So listen up, boomers, this isn't the cold war era anymore! While my Grandpappy used to have a network of informers back in Santiago de Nempolitan, a.k.a that Animalist island nation just about five kilometres from the FSA's shore that stands as a huge fuck you to those evil capitalists, the modern Carrot Guard Bureau simply uses the wiretap automatically installed on your phones, laptops, smart TVs as well as that selfie-webcam (Which is totally not recording you all the time) and whatnot, so we always know when you're complaining, chatting, or having intimate times!

But hold on Leon, why would you want to see our internet history or some random guy masturbating?

Well, there's blackmailing you for political compliance if you're important enough, that's one, or maybe to make it easy for the western-spy advertisers to put ads on your phone if you're a regular citizen — isn't it just creepy that you got ads for a land mower the moment you talked about it for ten minutes?