A Crash Course in Class Struggle
The class theory that ink-blood intellectuals love so much? Social class. That shit doesn't even exist in reality. Sure, in this dogshit fantasy world, classes are visible to the naked eye, but the further society advances, the more invisible they become. Even in a world where everyone mouths off about equality and freedom up front.
Classes feel like they're right there around you. "You're Max, right?" "Who the hell are you to talk to me like we're buddies?" "Hah, to think even Iskra lets in an uneducated bum like you." "What the fuck's your problem? Coming at me out of nowhere, you prick." "What did you say?" "A factory virgin like you, flapping your gums with nothing but theory. Pisses me off."
Why pick a fight with someone you've never met? Leo—that was the dumbass name Starlina had introduced him with earlier. Sounded like a prick from the jump.
"You think an illiterate like you knows what class is? That you get our cause?" "Look at those soft hands. I've felt it in my bones more than you ever have." "Hah! What the hell would you know." "Huh? Says the guy whining from his cushy chair—can't even grasp what I'm saying?"
I sneered at Leo as I spoke. He just trembled in rage. But I meant every word. I couldn't stand watching someone who knew jack shit act like they had it all figured out. Especially when their "support for the workers" came off like they were just using them.
"Forget the bullshit. Prove it." "Hah, why the hell should I prove anything to a guy like you?" "Weren't you yapping about workers' freedom and all that crap? Then show it to a worker." "I don't have to prove it to the likes of—" "Coward bitch. Get over here."
Of course, I couldn't bust out my full MMA skills in this cramped space. But I could show some raw power. I swept over to the table and shoved the scattered pile of papers onto the floor. Empty tabletop. I slapped one hand down on it.
A perfectly fair test of strength. The moment every real man has to win. Arm-wrestling. Simple.
"Come on." "What the hell are you doing?" "A game workers play all the time. I'll show you the strength of the very laborers you look down on." "Hah! What a joke."
Leo plopped down across from me right away. The lighting was dim, but it didn't matter. No way this theory-spouting never-laborer was beating the real deal. But I'd give his nose a good tweak first.
"Starlina! You ref!" "Sure thing!" "Wanna make it a bet?" I smirked at Leo. He rolled up his sleeve and gripped my hand tight. The difference was already clear. His pale forearm showed no sign of hardship—ligaments sticking out more than any muscle bulk.
"Time to show you!" "Ooh, you've got fans. But what're the stakes?" "Just don't cry when I snap your wrist. Got it?" "Please, please try."
Starlina clapped her hands together, our grips locked, waiting for the signal. She eyed us both, checking if we were ready. Didn't matter if he wasn't. Leo looked plenty tense already.
"Ready... GO!"
The second Starlina called it, Leo went all out, face turning beet red. Not a twitch from me. Sure, his weakness helped, but I was dragging this out for a lecture first. On the class theory they all jerked off to.
"Lemme school you ink-bloods on what you call 'class.'" "Urgh! Go down!" Leo was too focused to listen, but the others weren't. Fredrik, our boss, had even stepped out to watch. Who'd have thought I'd be giving a class theory seminar like this? But the timing was perfect—everyone was hooked.
Listen up. Just once.
"You think classes just naturally popped up?" "Some places teach it that way. As something natural." "Wrong. Who the hell's feeding you that bullshit? Sigh."
Leo was straining like mad, but my arm wasn't budging. Back to it: Are classes natural? Answer: Hell no. Not innate at all.
"Sure, now they're divided by birth, but let's go back to the beginning. The real origin of the world." "The beginning?" "Yeah. Way before the crown prince or grand dukes."
Classes supposedly started with the dawn of agriculture. Private property emerges—some land thrives, some flops. Once private property draws the lines, wars between tribes erupt. Can't tolerate others, that greedy streak.
"In the end, classes start with private property and war, then solidify. That's the ancient slave society!" "You're talking about the era when they owned slaves." "Right. Then, as society advances, classes fully harden. Enter the medieval feudal system."
Feudalism. Kings can't rule vast lands alone, so they delegate to underlings, enforcing class control. But that just turns fiefs into new slave pens. Nothing really changes. Serfs are just farmer-slaves.
"So where does our era fit?!" "Guh! Hold—hold on!" I teetered like I might flip him, but held steady. The balance was already shot, though. Starlina wasn't even reffing anymore—just staring. My lecture wasn't over. Like our arm-wrestle now, equilibrium shattered.
"We're in capitalism! Nascent capitalism! And look how it's wrecked us." "Capitalism! Fine word, teacher Max!" "Slaves and serfs were forced into it. Now? We choose our chains!"
Voluntarily slaving away. Classes solidify again. Smash it here, or back to slavery we go. Beardy says: Is labor's value pure? Are you treated right in this society?
"Back to the start. Primordial times—nothing existed. Nothing." "Grrrh! Why's your strength so—"
"We ate what we gathered, cooperated to survive. That was life." Otherwise, starve or die. But today's world is richer than primitive times—yet feels poorer. Irony. Historical irony!
"Put some muscle into it! Lecture's dragging! Wanna end quick? Push!" "Gyyyaaah!"
His estrogen-fueled screech nearly flipped my hand. Now I was on the ropes—barely off-center, but his best shot yet.
"Capital isn't equal. It stems from means of production. Like the lords of old hoarding land!" Capital's unequal. Society's wealth is finite; first grabbers keep it. But grabbing and holding? Different beasts. Hence, revolution knocks. Cough it up. Let us eat too. From primitive to capitalist.
"So all history? Class struggle!" All history is class struggle's history. Beardy said it. Midway inflection: revolution. Without it, classes lock forever. The lower classes always lead. Like guillotining kings in my world.
"So now..." "Yeah—classes solidifying, the norm. Revolution's doorstep!" "Then what is class?"
I slammed Leo's arm into the table with a bang. He tumbled back. The big question.
What is class? "Today's class? Like landlords and nobles with land. Who owns production? Nobles, maybe fat-cat bourgeois. Clear, right? The upper class—who make us toil."
"Workers labor, they steal intangible value! Humanity, surplus capital—they monopolize it. That's the upper class." "Teacher Max... where'd you get these ideas?!" "Trading your worth for cash? Just cements classes more!"
Leo groaned, clutching his wrist. I offered a hand to the sprawled prick. He grabbed it, hauling himself up.
Beardy, teacher. Been a while since I owed you. But I had to say it.
"Make the ruling class tremble before revolution! That's our mission."
Lecture over. Go home. Now.