"Hunger"

"The Emergence Effect - In complicated systems built from seemingly identical individual
elements, one can observe behaviours that are not observed in each element individually but are
normal for the whole system."

All my life, I chased banalities, like many others. It all started back in 1915 in the trenches of
World War 1. I was a young man, barely having reached my 16th summer when the British army
drafted me to join the forces on the frontline. After a few months of training in the fields near
London, I ended up on the frontline. Mortar shells exploded somewhere in the distance, while dirt,
rain, and gas attacks were exchanged with the Germans. But first, there was the feeling of
hopelessness.

Don't get me wrong, I believed in the ideals of my motherland, and I was ready to protect it, even
though life before joining the front was not easy. I had barely completed eight years of education,
and before I was drafted, I had already been working in the factory for two years. My family and
I lived in a small room in a working district near the factory. Nonetheless, I knew life could be
different. After all, the entire factory belonged to one family of wealthy nouveau-riches. In theory,
they were just like me, with no aristocratic background, self-made people, and I wanted to be just
like them someday.

Being young, it was all just dreams. Most of the time, I spent drinking in pubs after my shift with
friends from work, flirting with girls, getting into fights, playing poker, and generally enjoying my
time. I barely spent any time with my father, mother, and seven siblings. After all, I was young
and making the most of my life. Then... the war thrust me into all this chaos.
It was then that I realized how easily life could be lost. Every day, I saw people falling dead. Some
were shot, some were poisoned by gas, and some did not receive medical help in time. However,
most of the time, we suffered from hunger, bad weather, and typhus. The majority of deaths on the
frontline were not caused by the enemy but by the conditions.

Back then, I realized there was a real hunger within me. A hunger that was both physical and
mental. I desired an increase in rations, more food, more tobacco, better boots, and a better coat.
However, I was also hungry for power, not to oppress others, but to control my fate. How could I
obtain it all? The answer was simple: I needed to rise in rank. How could I do that? I needed to
perform something heroic. What was considered heroic? It was simple: killing as many bastards
on the other side as I could.

Now, after a few months in this trench forgotten by God, I was full of hate for those Huns, and I
wanted to inflict as much pain and suffering upon them as possible. The opportunity presented
itself at the end of autumn in 1915 when we were charging forward. Our task was to occupy the
trenches that had concealed those cockroaches for so long.

Mortar shells were exploding all around, and I was running forward, roaring something like,
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Holding my rifle with both hands, mines were exploding under my comrades, and the gas mask
blurred my vision. I felt larger than ever, but I was also full of fear. Finally, I reached the trench,
and the shooting commenced. I hid in one of the foxholes, using it as cover and shooting at the
Huns1. I don't know how many I killed that day. However, what I remember vividly was a fight I
had with a guy who was hiding in one of the foxholes when we finished clearing the enemy's
trench.

Space was limited, so instead of a rifle, I used a knife in this battle. The guy was about my age,
and for a second, I hesitated, but we were on different sides of the barricades, and I was full of
hate for those bastards. Little did I realize at the time.

Anyway, he had something like a mace in his hand, and we started exchanging blows and stabs. It
was over quickly. He tried to hit me with the mace, and I tried to stab him. We circled the foxhole,
exchanging blows and swings. Eventually, I kicked the mace out of his hand, knocked him to the
ground, and after a brief struggle, my knife cut his throat. Warm blood spilt all over my hands. My
ribs were hurting like hell; I guess he managed to land a hit once or twice. However, I was alive,
and he was dead.

Soon after that, I was rotated back to England. I had shown bravery, and the lieutenant of our
platoon wrote a recommendation letter to send me back for training and make me a corporal. Well,
what can I say? I achieved what I wanted. I received a higher wage, better food rations, more
tobacco, a better coat, a sore rib, and eleven other men under my command.

Nevertheless, that was just the beginning. In the midst of it all, it seemed like the war would never
end, and the only thing that mattered was finding a way to survive hell and inflict as much pain
and suffering as possible upon the bastards on the other side.

Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't lose anyone. I couldn't protect every soul. Hunger, harsh weather,
typhus, tuberculosis, and all the other "pleasant" elements of trench life were still there.
Additionally, there were times when we were on the offensive, storming enemy positions, and
times when we were on the defensive, trying to stop the Huns from storming ours, not always
successfully. To gain a few centimetres of the ground, dozens of lives were sacrificed. With each
passing month, it became deadlier. Innovation and bright minds were focused on one task on both
sides: how to kill more? How to kill faster? How to win this war? Aircraft, improved artillery,
tanks, machine guns, and the cursed gas, believed to be a creation of God himself... Sometimes, it

1
Derogatory term used to describe Germans by British soldiers back in WW1
felt like an apocalypse. How did it go in the Bible? Hunger, war, disease, and death. Well, here in
the trenches, they were all present.

Anyway, despite losing half of my men by the end of spring 1916, I received another promotion.
Now, I was the second-in-command in the platoon, holding the rank of sergeant. My coat was even
better, and I had stopped smoking self-rolled cigarettes; now I had "lucky strikes" pre-made for
me by BAT. Moreover, I got lucky soon. On one of the days when our positions were charged, our
lieutenant was killed. I heroically took command and defended my part of the trenches. Then
something happened with the logistics and supply chain, and in the end, I served as a deputy
platoon commander for a month, officially taking over this role in July 1916.

At some point, life became a bit easier. I reminded myself more of a small clerk than a soldier. I
spent more and more time with other officers, filling in forms and documents. I realized that even
though my physical hunger was partially satisfied, I still lived in a God-forsaken foxhole and had
no say in anything. There was also no visible promotion on the horizon. Furthermore, most of the
army officers started the war in their current roles, so those above me barely understood the
feelings of a regular soldier. The lieutenant colonel was the son of some petty lord from Kent, and
this piece of shit never knew what it was like to risk his life or lose a friend to an enemy bullet.

At some point, I simply stopped caring. I wanted the war to end, collect some money to start
civilian life, and forget it all. Everything became a monotonous routine. The Huns were not as
active, and we were not either. From a historical perspective, the spring offensive was a bloodbath
that lasted for more than half a year. I have no idea how many died because of me in the war. My
hands were elbow-deep in blood, but finally, it all suddenly ended. The ceasefire agreement was
signed on the 11th of November 1918. What now? Was it over? Was I demobilized? I returned to
London with a medal, dressed in parade uniform, and with three hundred pounds in my pocket.
The first place I went was my family's nest. My parents were thrilled to see me in person after all
those long years. My younger brothers were fortunate enough not to have witnessed the horrors of
war, as I was the eldest. And my older sisters? Well, I have to say, they all seemed completely
different. In the front, you usually don't read the newspapers, but now I learned a lot of news. They
were advocating for equal rights for men and women. What nonsense! However, soon I realized
that while we boys were in the front, they were in the factories, offices, hospitals, schools, and so
on. And not long after, I adjusted to this shift in mentality. (I have to admit, many of those young
suffragists were attractive women after all.)

London felt surreal. Being in a peaceful city full of life, where I was just another nobody, was a
bewildering feeling. Where to go? What to do? Who am I? What do I want? These questions often
remained unanswered. Unlike many other veterans, I managed to save a decent sum of money.
Thanks to the dividends from the bank, I could live a relatively comfortable life, working only
part-time in the docks as a lodger. However, I wanted something different.

When I wasn't spending the night in the red-light district, I was frequenting cafes, listening to the
conversations of young intellectuals about life, philosophy, history, modern writers and literature,
travels, financial markets, and other interesting topics. There, I would drink coffee or gin and
smoke cigarillos. Life was getting better, but at some point, the hunger resurfaced. Two things
contributed to it.

First, I began waking up at night, screaming at the top of my lungs, as in my dreams, I was back
in the foxhole, trying to kill that poor Hun. It started to annoy my family. They didn't say anything,
but I realized it was hard for them. They wanted to help; however, they didn't know how. Neither
did I, nor any of those people spreading demagogy in the night cafes. Another thing was that I
wanted something more: my place to live, not just a room, but a house or at least a proper
apartment. I wanted to drive those flashy cars, smoke those cigars, eat in restaurants, and shower
young women with luxuries. Simply put, I wanted to become rich. After all, I survived that hell to
finally take control of my life.

To achieve this, I started taking evening classes in accounting, rented out a room of my own, and
opened a tobacco store. Being a smoker, I knew a lot about brands, flavours, producers, suppliers,
and all the other aspects needed to succeed in this business. Everything I learned in night class, I
implemented the next morning in my own business. I hired my old friend from the platoon to help
me run the place, and within a year, I opened five stores in different parts of town.

After consulting with a lawyer, I realized the risks of doing business without having a legal entity.
So, "Smokers Place Ltd." was registered, with me being a 100% shareholder and managing director
of the company. Profits were good, and I started studying law at the University of London. I wanted
to understand how to expand my business and maybe even get involved in politics. At the time, I
sympathized with socialists and feminists and wanted to see where their ideologies could lead the
country. Why? Because I had suffered enough from those bastards who were born under the "right
star."

Studying was challenging, although I may be lying a little about it being fun. Analyzing all those
cases was intellectually demanding, but it kept my mind occupied and helped me forget about
everything I experienced on the front a few years ago. I also joined the society of "young
socialists," and before I knew it, I became one of the leading figures in the group. My colleagues
often joked that I smoked like a chimney and drank like a moonshiner, but what could I do? All
students drink. And cigarillos? Well, tobacco always helped me focus and momentarily forget
about my problems, so what if I smoked 20 of them a day? I could afford it! Moreover, I could
afford my own Ford Model T. I also bought a nice house in the suburbs of London. It was at this
moment that I realized I was an interesting potential husband, was not I?

Emily was the deputy general secretary of our student society. We didn't initially like each other,
maybe it's a common thing when both people have big ambitions and aspirations. I don't know
why her womanly magic didn't work on me at first, but oh Lord, she was perfect. Her voice was
like the sweetest melody, her eyes were like two oceans, and her hair smelled like berries. Her
young and seductive body made it impossible for anyone to stay indifferent. Of course, I acted
tough, but during those long nights of working together on projects, developing class programs,
assisting each other with difficult cases, and engaging in philosophical discussions, our hearts
melted.
It wasn't a love story of burning passion; it was more like two similar souls finding each other. By
the time we received our degrees, we had already been married for a year, living a happy life, and
eagerly awaiting the arrival of our first child.

In 1925, I managed to win the elections to the lower chamber from the "Party of Socialists." The
business was also thriving; my franchise had opened stores in every city in England, and we were
planning to expand to Scotland. I even started my tobacco brand, "Express 555," in a mutually
beneficial partnership with BAT. Inspired by Chancellor Churchill, I turned my attention to cigars.
My new wealth and status demanded it.

Now, I had a luxurious limousine, suits, watches, a mansion, and a few servants. It was an absolute
success, and I felt untouchable. I couldn't have been more wrong. No matter how wealthy and
powerful a drone you become, you must always remember that the hive has a queen (or in this
case, a king).

In 1929, everything started heating up. The Great Depression hit the USA, and I saw it as the
perfect moment to strike. I was delivering a speech to the workers at a factory where my family
had worked for generations. It was just one of many such speeches. I openly called upon the people
to rise against the crown. At that time, everyone in the working class knew my name. I became a
symbol of hope for the people and a pain in the ass of His Majesty.

My bodyguard failed to react. I felt a sudden pain in my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I was
seized by a metallic taste and had visions of trenches, the tobacco shop, family, fallen soldiers,
artillery, gas attacks, Emily, our son, and a distant light. After all, we are products of the emergence
effect. I fucked up.