The Legacy Of Manifesto The Great

Chapter One The Footman’s Outfit “A man’s underwear is not something you should have to face first thing in the morning.”—Bette the Cleaner 1945 Earth time The day the city women took over the city was a day many tried to forget. The city women went mad, rampaging like demented football fans—like wild dogs. They raged in the streets, spilling into the lobby of the Building of Opulence, stopping at Hubby’s statue. Realizing the pulling down of a statue was probably not a good idea, the women threw dusters instead, and when that felt good—underwear. “Here, take that,” yelled one. “Yeah!” yelled another. Until a woman, age undetectable, produced a spray can. Soon they were defacing on par with Fanny’s “procreation graffiti.” Years of crap s*x built up into the sort of crazed drawing of appendages that would have even a porn star blushing. Using every inflammatory word they could think of, they continued until the sun went down and James the Strong’s massive thighs flashed onto the wall. They stopped with breathless “where did that come from” looks; then, realizing it was merely a Hologram, they continued with their spray-painting. The cleaners who had stormed the room with a view moved through the corridors, finally making their way to the footman’s locker room. ❖ They were heard before seen. ❖ The oaf of a footman charged into the locker room. “ They’ve got him,” he shouted. The footmen, mid changing, stopped. “Who?” said one with a toss of his uniform. “Manifesto the Great,” said the oaf of a footman. “s**t,” said another. “We’re done for,” screeched a voice from the shower. ❖ “He told us to save ourselves,” said the oaf of a footman. “‘Head for the outlands1,’ he said, ‘and don’t look back.’” “A legend,” muttered one. “A hero,” sighed another. The men emptied the locker room quicker than a bomb scare. So terrified were they, they took nothing, some were still in their underpants . . . By the time the women entered, there was nothing. Just the odd shoe, the lockers ajar and the lingering aroma of something mannish: liniment, aftershave, with a hint of shoe polish. The smell sent the women crazy. They stripped the lockers, tossing silk pants and jackets into the air. “Here, kitty kitty!” they jeered, laughing like crazy as shirts and trousers fluttered about them. A middle-aged woman ripped off her apron, her shirt, and finally her bra. The others stopped, silent, as the bra plopped to the ground like a pair of elephant ears. She slid on a silk shirt with an “oooooh,” stepped into a pair of trousers, and, with a wiggle, pulled the zip. “Does my bum look big in this?” She glanced at a mirror. The women were ecstatic; silk was as new to them as a man’s groin. For years they had frumped around in aprons and itchy, floppy skirts, scrubbing things that required breath-holding. The silk smelt of aftershave, the trousers of something unfamiliar; inhaling was as pleasant as a decent cup of tea. Soon they were strutting about, an easy thing to do in tight silky trousers. “This is way better than an apron,” said one. “I feel like royalty,” said another. “A new look,” yelled another. Apart, that is, from Beryl. She appeared mid locker upturning and yelled, “What the hell is going on here!” The women stopped, saw it was some upstart twenty something minus an apron, and carried on. “Leave ’em,” said Bette, appearing beside her. “Years of picking up after the bigwigs can do that to a girl,” she said. “Bigwigs?” said Beryl. “Yes,” said Bette, eyeing up a costume herself. “That’s what we called the Readers. These girls did all their dirty work, and I mean dirty work—these men didn’t lift a finger when it came to cleaning.” She looked at Beryl. “And a man’s underwear is not something you should have to face first thing in the morning.” Beryl pulled a face. She watched as five bigwig cleaners pulled on the footmen’s outfits, slid on their wigs, and charged to the back alley, yelling, “Burn—burn!” They piled their aprons about the garbage bins and, squealing like banshees, set the pile alight. “Burn, burn!” They taunted as mechanical rats, squealing at the top of their lungs, raced from the bins. The women stamped on them, reveling in their power. “We wear the pants now,” yelled one. “Yeah, take that!” stamped another as Bette, sporting Manifesto the Great’s footman’s extra-tight trousers, cheered them on. Beryl said nothing. She had no apron and drew the line at a footman’s wig. But she had her own beehive hair, and she wasn’t giving that up for anything . . . ❖ Within weeks, the “bigwig” cleaners had taken over the room with a view like they took over the men. Most of the men had been led away, stripped of their white coats, their prestige, their status, their precious caffeine. Only a few were held back to teach . . . including Jack and John. It was all part of Bette’s “transitory theory.” “If you can teach my girls, I will make it worth your while,” she said. Like they had a choice. Bette was at the helm, and she ruled like an overzealous born-again. Bette, a woman whose apron betrayed her intelligence, had taken command, and with a swift tossing of her broom, she pranced about the room with a view, preaching like Billy Graham, not that anyone on Planet Hy Man knew who he was . . . yet. Being a leader had really gone to her head. Her first “there is more to a cleaner than disinfectant” speech went on all morning; it was longer than a Netflix serial. “I learned many things in the shed,” said Bette, “and if I can tell my egg from my spatula, so can anyone,” putting a few off their morning caffeine. “We are all pupils in life, just as we are all teachers,” she said. Some believed her, some had no idea what she was talking about, but all followed. Bette was just so damn scary. 1 a bit like the Australian outback, but with out kangaroos.