We’ve addressed a number of issues in this series, how to tell if your boyfriend is a cyborg from the future, how to maintain a relationship during the dragonpocalypse etc. Now I want to address how to cope with dating the fragile ego and immense stupidity of an egomaniacal dictator.
If you find yourself the trophy wife of a powerful but fragile ego’d dictator there are some important survival rules.
- Play dumb. The fragile ego does not like to be made to feel stupid and if they control, oh say nuclear codes, it’s a good idea not to make them feel stupid. So for instance, if you come from a country where people usually learn excellent English don’t let on. Speak with lots of accent and f*ck up simple phrases. It’s well established (looking at you Love Actually) that some men adore women with whom they cannot communicate effectively. While the fragile ego may enjoy boasting of your many languages, he doesn’t actually want to be faced with them when his grasp of even the one native to him is limited. So play dumb. Literally if you like, not actually speaking at all is as safe a ploy as any.
- Maintain a ferocious beauty regime. It is hugely important to the fragile ego of your dictator that you be fancied by everyone he knows. He may even encourage crude jokes at your expense. You need a thick skin and flawless makeup to survive this one. Ignore his expanding waistline and thinning hair, you are how he convinces himself he is attractive, not his mirror. It’s entirely possible the thought of engaging in sex with this person will help curb your appetite, it’s not healthy, but it’s a survival mechanism.
- If you have powers similar to those of Regina in Once Upon a Time we recommend removing your heart and locking it in a box somewhere safe. You won’t need it, it’s only going to cause you pain. Stuff your humanity in their too if you can. And some emergency cigarettes.
- Learn from history. If you catch wind of guillotines being erected, or someone mutters something about eating cake, or one of your husbands mad monk advisors is repeatedly assassinated, bundle up the children and flee in the middle of the night, it will not end well.
At this point you may be thinking you are in an abusive relationship. You have to effectively hand over your power and your autonomy, switch off your brain, spout utter nonsense in public while any sanity you have curls up and dies, and to top it all he’s not even pleasant to you in front of his new colleagues. You would be right, these are all hallmarks of an unhealthy at best and likely abusive relationship. If we thought it was safe for you to do so we would urge you to leave. However, if it’s any comfort, when you are the trophy wife of a crazed and childlike despot, the whole country suffers with you. The whole country is in an abusive relationship and it can’t leave either.
NB : The GGSA does not support the guillotining of public officials.
by The Shloo
Shoot to kill and can ‘em up.
That’s it in a nutshell. There are few philosophies smarter because when the world’s getting its apocalypse on you have few other choices. Best you get your head round that from the get-go.
I started shooting when I was eight years old. Air rifles mainly, but by ten I was shit-hot with a bow and arrow. Mum always said they’d make the best weapon anyway – when the bullets run out, who’s going to be making new ones? Arrows, on the other hand, are relatively easy to make. I can shape a bow out of a piece of willow – or pretty much any tree with enough bend in it – in less than three minutes. A clutch of arrows will take me another five, tops. Robin Hood would weep at the skill in my fingers.
And I never miss.
Our bunker’s pretty sweet. There’s a room full of bunk beds that are more comfortable than they look, a pretty well-equipped kitchen, a library, a bathroom, a canning room – my Mum’s mantra is ‘waste not want not’ – and a big communal living area. Dad and Zeke worked hard and it paid off. Speaking of Zeke, my brother and I were both trained in and for almost anything you can imagine: hand-to-hand combat, gas attacks, nuclear fallout, weapon making, foraging, first aid – you name it, we went over it. Sewing’s my weak point, truth be told, but at least I’ve stopped sewing stuff to my jeans and Mum says I sew a pretty strong stitch. That’s what matters.
Of course, I’ve not had what you might call a normal life.
Hardly a surprise, is it? Survivalists? Maybe, but we call ourselves “sensible” – what else would you call those not blind to the inevitable? I was picked on sometimes at school, but after the suspension – and the scrum half’s snapped wrist (thanks Dad, for those self-defence drills) – I was left alone. I didn’t go to dances, never been for a sleepover, never even sat with anyone else for lunch. I didn’t get to do any of that ‘normal’ stuff. Getting attached to people only makes it harder in the long run. It would have made me sad once (I’ve got hormones and hopes just like anyone else), but you’ve got to focus on what’s important.
To hell with normal anyway!
Is it normal to sit and wait for Johnny Mutant to come eat your brains? To wait while the nuclear fallout burns through your guts and your brain spills out the bottom of your spine? To pretend there’s hope, that someone out there’s coming to save you? They’re not, y’know. If you don’t want to end up a splatter-fest of ex-human, then you’d better get wise.
There’s no time for frills and fancy, there’s only one prize and that’s life – or at the very least dying on your own terms. I’m old enough to know that. The future is about survival. It’s all it’s ever about. I wised up to that the day I heard Dad telling Zeke that me and Mum were the weak link, that we were the ones who would most likely slow them down and that if he needed to get rid of us, he wouldn’t hesitate. I didn’t understand. I was a good learner, better than Zeke who was a lazy crumb. I was better with a bow and arrow and I could climb a tree in half the time he could. Just because he could dig earth for longer, I was the dead weight? Like digging a hole and carrying heavy stuff makes the difference when the chips are down? As far as I could see, the difference that marked us out in Dad’s mind was that I was a girl and Zeke was a boy – his boy. I was eleven years old and from that day on I hated my Dad, hated him for marking me out as mattering less because I’m a girl, for seeing me as an albatross and not an asset. It was also the day I decided one thing –
I wasn’t going to be left behind. You shouldn’t be either.
Ironic really that Dad was the first to get bit. I had to shoot him; Zeke froze like he’d learned nothing all those years. Typical. So I shot my Dad in the head and then when Zeke got violent a couple of months later – the isolation got to him bad – and went all frothing-at-the-mouth crazy, I shot him too. If he hadn’t tried for the door I wouldn’t have had to do it. We don’t know what’s out there. Still, at least his death won’t be in vain. Mum can pickle anything and what’s left goes in the cans.
So that was the last of our bullets. Mum and me? We won’t need them, we’re prepared.