CHAV CAMP
by Captain M
The name's Buck. Captain F. Buck of the CC Police. That's chav control. I'm knocking on the door of a house in the nice part of town, acting on an anonymous tip off that came in this morning. And this house sure looks the type - detached, garage, leafy trees outside - just the sort of neighbourhood you don't need to look far to find some lily-livered liberal chav lovers. And I think I've found some right now.
The owner opens the door. Beard, spectacles, pencil thin in his geography teacher buttoned up shirt. Behind him I can see his prissy wife sitting in their opoulent, middle class sitting room. "CCP" I bark, in my fiercest, most commanding voice. "just a routine search, sir. Keeps morale up in the area." Reluctantly, he steps aside for me. He's hiding something - I could smell it as soon as I came up the path. He grumbles to his wife, trying to look slightly irritated, but I can see the bead of sweat on his forehead. That's terror sweat - anyone who's been through CCP training knows that sweat. "Before the cc act was passed in parliament, they needed a warrant to do this" he says to his spouse through gritted teeth. She's terrified too. I don't need to search, of course - I knew it. I knew as soon as I saw the huge rug underneath the coffee table in the middle of the room. I knew that if I lifted that rug I would find a trapdoor, and if I lifted that trapdoor I would be immediately hit by the stench of tracksuit rubber, cheap fags, and heavily applied lynx spray.
"Lift the rug, please sir" I say, bored and wanting to get it over with. I've been through this a thousand times. His face pales. "You can't do this" he says. "please". "Lift the rug sir" I repeat. "They're human beings too, dammit!" he screams. "They may have been born on the bottom rung of society, they may have never had a chance of education, they may come from impoverished backgrounds, but they're still-" unable to endure his liberal bleating any longer, I smash my gloved fist into his face. The standard issue knuckle-duster does the job, and he goes down. The wife shrieks and runs up to kneel by his bleeding body. "It's my sister and her family!" she screams. "They not as well off as us..they lived in a council house..please!"
I look at her grimly. Of course, there are no council houses anymore. Not since the cleansing started. And these - after being dragged out of their hole underneath this couple's living room, they will be herded onto a train. Of course, the journey will finish some of 'em off- they always pack too many on the carridges, and there's never enough food and water in the first place. Those who survive the trip with be greeted by large, iron gate flanked by a rotting corpse on each side - the dessicated bodies of Trisha Goddard and Jeremy Kyle. Then into the camp. There it will be determined which ones can serve a use to civillised society - and which ones will be leaving through the chimmney.
"Your sister, huh?" I ask. "Yes," she weeps, "he didn't want to hide them here, but I persuaded him..." she regained her sobbing. "I was too common too marry him, but he didn't care...he said he loved my no matter where I came from.." I pointed through the window to the wagon outside, where my men had already secured the captives. "maam, let me just get this straight, that's your family out there?" She looked up with hope. "Yes!" I looked down on her with no pity. "Then you can join them in the wagon."
