By Kate Maxwell

It’s almost impossible not to look at their red-cheeked, exposed bulbous arses as they knuckle-walk past you on the street. Sauntering along with their ridiculous rock star manes, long faces, and that beady-eyed expression that’s more threat than glance, it’s like they’re daring you to call them out.

‘Excuse me, I think you forgot your pants.’

I heard an old lady say exactly that, leaning on her walker at the bus stop, last week. She got splattered from one end of the bus shelter to the other. Cowering behind a Range Rover, I snuck a peek and spotted her leg, orthopaedic shoe still attached, pooling blood beneath the long metal bench. But I’m sure the Disposal Crew would have cleaned it all up within the hour.

When the Bald-Arses started appearing, it didn’t seem like such a big deal, and was even quite comical; just a few baboons loose from the zoo, throwing fruit about, dressing up in clothes, stealing phones, dropping turds, and howling what sounded like obscenities at security, the authorities or anyone who got in their way. Mom always told me that I needed to get my head out of a screen and notice what was going on in the world around me. Well, maybe we all did. I remember looking up from my phone, one afternoon at the mall, and wondering, had they always been that big? Had they always worn jackets and ties? Or earrings? Why were they texting?

It was eventually accepted that they were not containable. Especially after they found guns and worked out how to use them. There were initial attempts to round them up, but after so many fatal attacks, and lobbying from animal rights groups who thought they were protecting primates, the authorities generally segued into a more ‘conciliatory’ path. But the thing that still grates on me is having to look at their ugly arses and exposed genitalia every day. They just refuse to wear pants. It violates their personal liberty, apparently. Nobody dares to comment since we realised it’s an extremely sensitive issue. So sensitive, that the awareness program: ‘Care, don’t stare!’ had to be implemented into all schools and community centres.

Extra Disposal Crews are often stationed close to pubs and bars too, just in case. Fred Harris, who I knew from school, enjoyed a few too many beers before he and his mates walked to the subway last month. He’d always been a loudmouth. Apparently, his friends desperately tried to shut him up when an oncoming troop approached, but it was too late. You really should avoid eye contact, and if you can’t, just — whatever you do — don’t focus on their arse. Bloody Fred was so wasted he started singing, ‘Apes got a bum like a face, face like a bum!’

His funeral was pretty depressing with half of his mates now amputees.

***

The orange ones are the worst. They’re the biggest, or at least they say they are. You can understand most of their words, but I swear they make a lot up. One, named ‘Bigly’ works in my office now. Well, he turns up most days, claims his own cubicle, tears up policies, and eats everyone’s lunch from the fridge. We call him ‘Puckerarse’. Not to his face, of course. He says his uncle works in head office and is making big changes.

‘Other breeds need fuck off from our territory,’ he growled as he scratched his posterior and grabbed the sandwich from my plate.

‘In troops, top ranking male always in charge. Punish bad females, lazy workers, and rivals. See? More benefishers for us. This pivittible time.’

He adjusted his tie and smoothed down his orange pompadour.

‘Give more good sandwich and may even find place for you in new troops.’He let off a foul tuna-and-unbrushed-fangs belch into my face and climbed over cubicles to get to his own.

It only seems like months ago that we laughed at them on the internet and made memes about their exposed butts. Now they’re everywhere; armed, vicious, and unable to handle satire. More of them are taking up leadership positions. That’s the only time I’ve actually seen one laugh. At a press conference during the Mayor’s ‘so called’ resignation and handover, this huge brown one interrupted, bared his teeth and snorted,

‘Yes, handover go well if you don’t want give hands over.’

I had no idea they could understand irony but maybe somebody had written his line for him.

***

Fortunately, we’d decided to move to Mexico even before the Bald-Arses, or ‘Chieftains’ as they like to be called, had started taking over. Mom had convinced my sister, Rosa, and me to join our relatives there. My cousin has contacts in an insurance firm for me. Sure, Mexico has their problems, but at least they don’t have Bald-Arses. Rosa’s still in school, so this year has been rough on her, especially since her principal was ‘removed’ and replaced with an orange Bald-Arse. Education cuts have been extreme, and the Bald-Arses just keep eating all the school lunches. 

We leave in two weeks just before the new rules come in. A new law is being rushed through to ban the wearing of pants or clothing beneath the waist. They claim pants are a symbol of stupidity. At this stage, the remaining original government members have insisted underwear be exempt from the ban, citing the weakness of our anatomy and impact upon work productivity. So, we escape, but only by the seat of our pants.

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