Molly was on her weekly visit to The Willows, visiting her nan. She’d brought fish and chips, as usual, and a nice Cadbury Creme Egg as a special treat. After all, Boris Johnson had just fucked off, hopefully for good this time, and that was something to celebrate, if nothing else.

Molly’s nan had always been a scrapper. Trying to make ends meet, living from payday to payday whilst trying to raise and feed a bunch of good-for-nothing tykes. Not that she’d remember it now, she didn’t remember much of anything, but she’d always been telling tales of how her own dad was a hard working labourer, slaving away in Mosley Colliery until he died of black lung disease, coughing up coal on his deathbed.  As a result, she’d always been a staunch supporter of worker’s rights and a vocal supporter of the local Labour Party. Values she’d tried to instill in her own children, although Molly’s dad had always been more interested in blacking out at the local pub and queueing up at the unemployment line than fighting the good fight. Bloody good all of Patty Barnes’ work did her now though, as she was staring out of the window, probably not even knowing her own name. But the smell of some good fish and chips? That was a hard memory to get rid of. She looked up as Molly entered the room.

Molly: "Alrite, nan?"

Patty: “Who the fuck are you?”

Molly: "Of course, this again. Fuck me, it’s bloody hot in here. Thought they had a/c?"

Molly put the bag with food on the table and went back outside, looking for one of the nurses. This was, after all, a nursing home. You’d expect to find load of them about, but you’d be surprised at the lack of actual nurses in a nursing home these days. Molly didn’t blame the staff though. They did the best they could. Gutting the NHS and the rights of care workers was not their fault, after all. She eventually found someone, black rings under his eyes from a clear lack of sleep.

Molly: "Alrite, excuse me mate? I’m Patty Barnes’ granddaughter, I just got back from her room and it’s like a bloody coal oven in there, I could crack an egg on the windowsill and serve it for breakfast a few seconds later. I paid the bloody bills, didn’t I?"

The nurse looked back at Molly, sympathetically, empathetically, but ultimately with an overpowering sense of defeat and resentment.

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re not allowed to put the a/c on, I’m afraid. Budget cuts. You can crack open the window if you want.”

Molly: "Not allowed? By who? Let me guess. The fucking shareholders?"

The nurse merely nodded. Molly could burst out in anger, but realized there was nothing this poor fella could do, other than lose his job to try and give in to her wishes.

Molly: "Fuck me. This is why you don’t privatize the health of old folks, innit? Bunch of wankers. Bet they all have a/c in their fucking villa’s and fancy cars… I’m fighting twats in vats of poutine just to keep the bloody lights on, in the meantime, innit! These old folks deserve a bit of fucking respect."

Molly stomped off back to her nan’s room. She immediately cracked open a window, took a damp bit of cloth and wiped the sweat off her nan’s forehead.

Molly: "Sorry you have to go through this. You probably don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore, but I haven’t forgotten who you are. And I haven’t forgotten what you told me when I was a kid. About always taking care of those around you as best you could, even if your own means didn’t mean much. About never kicking down, but always kicking up. When I was a kid I thought that meant you just wanted me to be able to kick me own height, and I was so proud when I finally could. Now I understand what you really meant. And I’m going to take the fight to the bastards."

---

Molly: "Haymon Greyson Hays. Not even gonna joke about your name, mate. The real joke is that you’re the latest unscrupulous sliver of bollock skin to be torn off the sack of the rich and privileged self-righteous. Sitting in your fancy house, servants doing your bidding, while looking on us common folk with contempt as you sip your champagne and poo-poo our troubles.

Here’s some advice, mate. Enjoy it while it lasts, because your luck’s not gonna hold out. Everything you have in life, you lucked into. Wealth, privilege, even your looks. Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, you’re an alright lookin’ bloke. Almost gonna be a shame to mess up that mug o’yours.

But you even lucked into the Anarchy title when Sidney Grey, the twat who should be sharing a room with me nan at the nursing home, was so busy winning March Madness and the Uni title that an outside distraction allowed you to steal that bit of gold.

SO I’m going to offer you a deal, mate. And it’s better than the Brexit one. Low bar, I get that, but here’s what it is: Don’t even fookin’ show up on Anarchy, lad. Your clock’s ticking. Your time is ending. That, and all of the rest of youse who think they can flaunt their wealth and cash and think they’re better than us. I’m coming for you, and all of you rich pricks and twats, whether your name is HGH, Lacklan, or even Duke or Cortinovis. Never met a rich person in me life who wasn’t a bully. And I’m going to take you all down, one by one. There’s a new movement. And with a movement comes a t-shirt. Buy it please. I get a share, and me boiler needs fixin’.”

Molly takes a step backwards, revealing her new, simple t-shirt, that has a very clear statement for her new mission.