It is the year 2084.
The word has successfully rid itself of all non-vegetarian, pescatarian, lacto-vegetarian, ovo-vegetarian, lacto-ovo vegetarian, and other contrarians. Only vegans remain, led by their Supreme Leader, Wonald Vegan. The only butcher shops are in the museums of horror. Fishing fleets have been converted into game parks. Poultry and dairy farms lie vacant, and grass, unleashed from the pressures of herbivory, runs amok.
Wonald Vegan was a meat-store truck driving man. He was the head of the chunky chicken (coo clucks) clan. But one day, he had a dream, or maybe it was a vision. Anyhow, it had funky colours and harps. He saw the souls of a million slaughtered animals. He heard the voices of those clamouring to be saved. He hears them still.
Now he rules with a steely eye. No one is allowed to so much as look askance at an animal. Anywhere, anyhow. Birds chirp, fish jump, and frogs frolic. They need no longer fear the hungry human. A world without butchery and pain. Or domestic animals. Since they were no longer needed, the last one died in 2069. In an Orwellian twist, pigs survived.
Wonald Vegan rules with a vengeful verb. His language police ensure that no one says things such as ‘Can you flesh that out?’ or ‘I’ve got a frog in my throat’ or ‘Get the monkey off your back’. If the ‘cat has got your tongue’, then in all fairness, it must literally be so. And of course, you cannot ‘let the cat out of the bag’, because the very thought of a cat in a bag can unleash mobs. And, needless to say, it cannot ‘rain cats and dogs’. You are not allowed to ‘chicken out’, ‘pig out’, ‘go the whole hog’ or ‘horse around’. You cannot under any circumstances ‘take the bull by horns’, and the worst offence is, undoubtedly, ‘to kill two birds with one stone’.
But all is not milk and honey. Because those, of course, are banned. There are many groups that think Wonald’s way doesn’t go far enough.
The most vocal are the fakefoodians, a cult that demands that cruelty to plants must stop. Given all the advances in transgenics and tissue culture, most food can be grown in the lab. Lab cultured food such as ‘Beyond beans’, ‘Impossible potato’, ‘Benevolent banana’, and ‘Can’t believe it’s not tomato’ have become the vogue.
Their last press release said, “As we very well know, plants have feelings too. With every slaughtered soy, with every culled cob, with every crying onion, the universe loses an ohm of its resonance. Stop breeding them, stop eating them, stop killing them. Stop it, stop it, stop it now!!!”
And then, there are the pillpopperians, a miniscule caucus who believe that all manipulation of living things must stop, including in the lab. They hypothesize that nutritional demands can be reduced to capsules and tablets. They deduce that this will make the world a better place. Their motto is ‘Food is
falsifiable’. They are a pill.
In a far-flung corner are some freshbytairians, a commune that genuinely believes that one can survive on love and fresh air alone. Fights break out constantly between the love faction (heart- throbs) and the fresh air fraction (airheads) about how much of each is required. But these don’t last long, as they run out of energy pretty quickly.
Another problem exists. In this world, animals are still allowed to kill each other. One clique thinks this is wrong. The antipredatorians have been campaigning for (a) the genetic modification of all predators, or (b) the supervised extirpation of all predators. An extreme subgroup that fights for universal plant rights argues for the extirpation of all animals.
And some are just confused. There is a contingent who flip-flop between cults, caucuses, communes, and cliques. They have been variously described as irksome, exasperating, maddening, and vexatious. The calendarians have a specified belief system for each day of the week.
But none trouble the Great Wonald as much as the meatheists. Different camps of these primitive tribes are believed to live deep in forests, where some have learned to hunt, fish, farm, and brew their own booze.
Wonald’s blood boils when he thinks of them. We managed to acquire a transcript of a conversation between Wonald Vegan and his trusty sidekick, Franny Fruitloops, as they plan a definitive campaign to shut them down.
Wonald’s World may be here to stay.
Or maybe there will be another revolution.
Or then again, perhaps this is the end, my friend.