"Steady, Charlie, old boy! Breathe!"
“The Boomers will be hunted in the streets by marauding Millennials raised on a diet of electronic screens and empathy reducing paracetamol. Buy shares in a razor wire factory would be today’s top tip.”
– Excerpt from a comment posted on The Daily Blog
THE AGED DEFENDERS HEARD THE MOB before they saw it. The rhythmic chanting of “Die Boomers, Die!” and “Fee, Fi, Foe, Fum – we smell the blood of Boomer scum!” Moments later they were shielding their eyes from the sun-bright twinkle of a thousand smart-phone flashes. The Millennials were advancing up the road, taking selfies as they came.
“Any sign of the Police?” Charlie Watson spoke into his own cell-phone, as the mob of Millennials flowed up-to-and-around the razor-wire-topped, four-metre-high walls of the retirement village.
“Not yet, Charlie. Their dispatcher says that ours isn’t the only village under attack tonight. Word is that the Restful Gardens complex is also under attack.”
“Really? I didn’t think these kids were that stupid. Don’t they realise that its full of the parents of Chinese Gen-Xers? The Consulate won’t wait for the Police. The latest revision of the Chinese-New Zealand FTA allows the People’s Republic to use deadly force against anyone threatening the lives or property of Chinese nationals.”
“Yes, people are already tweeting that the Consulate’s helicopter gunships are strafing the crowds. Scores of casualties, apparently.”
Charlie sighed. “When will they ever learn?”
Suddenly, the air was filled with the sound of a screaming car engine. The Millennial sea parted as the electronically-guided vehicle made for the village’s steel gates at top speed.
“Driverless rammer!” Charlie yelled into his cell-phone. “Take it out, Bill! Take it out!”
Bill Ramsden squeezed the trigger of his 50-calibre machine-gun and watched as the explosive rounds tore the car to a thousand pieces. A great wail went up from the Millennials as the petrol tank exploded in a searing fireball.
As if in sympathy, scores of Molotov Cocktails arced through the air. In seconds the village’s prize-winning rose-gardens were ablaze.
“Bastards!” Charlie shouted, as his precious blooms burned.
Blood-pressure rising dangerously, the old Baby Boomer jammed the butt of his sniper-rifle into his shoulder. His rheumy eye, pressed to the scope, followed the bouncing laser dot as it traversed the bodies seething beneath him.
Confronted with their magnified faces, a pang of guilt tightened his throat. They were all so young: burdened down with debts they could never hope to discharge; eking out a precarious living as gig-geeks; cooped-up in the high-rise slums of the Unitary Plan’s sixteenth iteration. These kids could barely afford to eat – let alone equip themselves with the sort of high-powered weaponry authorised by the Boomer-dominated government after the first Millennial hunting-packs had left dozens of elderly bodies strewn along suburban streets.
Remembering the fear and outrage that had swept the country after the first attacks, Charlie hardened his heart and brought the laser-dot to rest on the “Non-Voting and Proud!” T-shirt of a bearded hipster working furiously to haul away a dislodged coil of razor-wire. Gripped firmly between his teeth was the Millennial killers’ weapon-of-choice – a wicked-looking hunting knife.
“Steady, Charlie, old boy!”, he muttered to himself. “Breathe!” The laser-dot moved steadily upwards and came to rest in the middle of the hipster’s forehead. Charlie’s finger tightened on the trigger.
It was only in the split second between the explosive crack of the rifle and the young man’s skull exploding, that Charlie recognised the face of his grand-son.
This short story was originally posted on The Daily Blog of Sunday, 4 December 2016.
What else can be suggested to prevent and reverse movement towards this sort of scenario to become reality, than a systematic policy drive towards the visionary Ownership Society concept, defined by at least a minimally meaningful level of personal (retirement) capital ownership by all citizens eventually ?
As this is achievable (or not?) - and we (in NZ) are practically more than half-way there already, but without any remarkable publicity on it so far - does it not deserve serious discussion on its desirability, achievability, or nonsense?
And would not Bowalley Road contributors be eminently capable of doing just that ?
Well, whatever the subject of this column John Key has just resigned. Now that must be a bit of a boost for Labour, because Bill English isn't nearly as Teflon as Key. And neither is anyone else they might put in. Most of them seem like talentless buggers at the moment I must confess. Unfortunately Labour seems much the same, but if they can get it together this should be the time to go on the offensive perhaps.
I saw the 1985 film Cocoon as a popular film with an interesting story.
Then I thought more about it. The story is that an old-age village is next to a deserted home with nice swimming pool. Some sneak over and swim but when the secret is out that the water is rejuvenating, they all rush over for a swim. This drains the life force from some alien pods that have been resting there which then cannot return to their planet.
Their position in the ship is offered to the old people on the flight to the other planet where they will never age further. Among those who decide to go are grandparents of David whose mother is a solo Mum. They are prepared to go away to this distant planet although their grandson is devoted to them. He tries to stow away on the boat taking them away but is told he must stay with his mother, though her parents don't intend to. In the end he has to jump into the sea and wait for a nearby boat to pick him up.
I thought it was a good analogy for today's situation where the older people of means enjoy life choosing a lazy time with their own pursuits, or taking up a little charity work to suit themselves and be a social outing. Not much concern for the younger generation who are hounded from pillar to post if they haven't got a job. and caring for children doesn't count.
I think, blame the boomer comes from the property investment fraternity:
"Tonight, a pumped de Roos tells his audience that he wants people to invest in property and write to him 12 months down the track and tell him they’ve “made one million or three million, or you’ve got 16 properties, or we’re taking six months off because our cash flow now exceeds our outflow!” He says, “I don’t know any other activity where the rewards are so huge. If you want to invest a million dollars in the sharemarket, you need a million dollars. If you want to invest a million in real estate, you only need $100,000.”
You can buy one property, get it revalued, use the equity to buy another property and then buy another and another. “And you do it all with OPM. Other people’s money. OPM. It’s like being high on drugs!” What’s more, the wonder of depreciation claims on the building and contents means “the government subsidises your investment! It’s delightful!”"
House of the Rising Sum -Pamela Stirling Listener.
This phenomena can't have escaped anyone 50's and above. There used to be two square meters of "How to make money in Realestate" books in book shops, with some so rich and so many so poor it is blame the boomer. Boomers with property portfolios don't give it to boomers they give it too their millennial progeny.
What socialists don't like to admit is that property prices and immigration are joined at the hip, so let's blame (white) baby boomers.
In the mid 1980s, a short story was published in New Zealand Listener. It was titled, Overstayers. Story covered parallel theme. The young turn on the old people in random murders and what we would now call home invasions. The old people then were the war generation, not the baby boomers. Both my mother and I thought the story was trying also to tell us something else. New Zealand history. Young people mostly do today identify with ghetto culture.
Just yesterday in Mount Wellington, two young men attacked two elderly women in their home and knocked a nonagenarian unconscious. They stole their shopping bag.
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