Starting off at Shitty Hall, we see the second-choice mural of a heart floating in vacant space, indicative of the morally empty CoNʼs disconnection from its own heartless soul.
Predictably, the biggest portrait of a human being in town is of the hotel clan patriarch near his colonial manor, close to the mural of a fictional fire-chief filmed by so-white unHolywood. Next to the latter fake aryan schmuck are a horde of real-life land exploiters who are uniformly pale and moustachioed; in league with all the taxpayer-funded powerboxes which celebrate more white non-saviour types for damming our rivers, clearcutting our forests & hollowing out our mountains while proclaiming themselves superior to all races. These powerful devils are celebrated artfully with our consent for their imperialistic discriminations, abuse of animals, toxic smog pollution & disdain for our Indigenous, etc.. One powerbox worships the old fire-hall with fascistic iron crosses and satanic pentacles proudly displayed on its facade, while another venerates the mafioso-like don of Nelsonia politics who set the unethical template for Mayor Ghoulieʼs authoritarian sideshow.
Any creative, artsy and/or multicultural art is shunned to the back-alleys out of their direct lines of sight for all the neo-con tourists that the Ghoulie Gang idolizes above all takers; whereas ʻgood old-boyʼ artworks full of white supremacist snowflakes who likely beat their women and any Indigenous person they met (as they blazed the trail for todayʼs old pervs who mack teenage girls as if they have a shot in hell) are showcased on the main roadways to suck in all the freedom fruckers and greedy white investors they desire. Hippie culture use to draw in the tourists, but where’s all the flower-power now?
The serially harassing Capitalist Theatre signmaker who makes sexualized undesirable comments to married women on our streets also painted a paternalistic disgrace of a mural condemned by Indigenous artists that stands to this day on the side of the drug-pusher store which exemplifies how the settlers of this stolen land whitewashed our native map.
Behind the abusively negligent theatre in its grubby back-alley lies painted evidence of the drama dictatorsʼ perverse decisions to mount the adult-rated musicals Hairy and Le Cabaret with their summer theatre students in which young teens sang about drug-use, group sex, prostitution & the sorts of fascism practiced by the theatre mob itself. This same backstage wall showcases the gaping hole where Count Ghoulie and his manservants cancelled an Indigenous muralistʼs creation due to their violent white-bred fears born from the exact type of Brit-tyrannical domination which the censored artwork duly critiqued.
Around the beat-up corner is the police stateʼs cop-shop and jail which bizarrely houses our meek public library, an architectural divorce of convenience that symbolically links the cultural literacy education of this naive community with armed oppression and persecution. The WASPy witch riding the Big Orange Bridge deck like a broomstick on its foreboding walls embodies how such entitled eco-nuts who overrun this coddled insular bubble love to worship their oily cars and greasy roadways.
Just downhill from the Nelsonia Police Stateʼs fortified prison lies the Grand Freemasonsʼ top-floor fratboy lair where their diabolical symbol hints at the demonic monstrosities at work in the underworld of this arcane hell-show, ruled by sadistic minions who sacrifice the deluded bloodlines of their fellow serfs to God as played by the Devil.
On the same Anglo-Saxon block is the contentious spot where the subversive CoN eliminated the community banners which used to fly there because they could no longer brandish their anti-abortion propaganda in defiance of a majority of their voters. Along that lines down from the main crossroads, the ghoulish bigots at Shitty Hall contorted themselves into legislative acrobatics in order to avoid flying the rainbow flag from their phallic poles come hell or high-water — or wildfires, or lethal smoke, or lockdowns, or…
Just down the forbidden tracks lurks the conspiring CoNʼs crypt for the unCanadian nonPacificʼs reign of terror over our poor homeless population, where its ironclad fences shout-out how much Major Ghoulie and Wormtongue lust to fluff the Creel Clanʼs rails. Of course, the reused civic map on their complicit new tourist centre still misguidedly points out the location of their old tourist centre which is now a video-store blocks away.
In this no-manʼs land, enquiring minds will find virtually no evidence of the former Chinatownʼs existence down by Atomic Blacklockʼs corroded and corrupted waterfront, other than a lone stone monument dumped on a poorly executed busy intersection typical of the petro-Conʼs cocaine fuelled pedestrian-planning designed to appease its pork-bellied Road Hogs.
Scattered around cultish Nelsoniaʼs pigheaded tributes to its ballsy Masters of the Universe are the painted-brick remains of gratuitous ads for the parasitic he-men of this paradise lost who slaughtered domestic beasts for ill while ripping off their consumers.
Even the athletic-inspired powerboxes outside the community-funded hockey temple illuminate a grab bag of whites-only teams and macho-men jocks, with no signs of any ʻextinctʼ Indigenous competitors despite their prevalence in Brutish Colonia his-story.
You have the mining museum which reveres non-Indigenous land ʻclaimsʼ, and the permanent industrial revolution exhibit at the Touchstoner Museum which belatedly plans to rebalance its obvious Eurocentric biases after far too many decades of anti-cultural slights, plus the Pollyanna Victorianism that infects every aspect of the swindling CoNʼs faux-Anglo preservation of anything thatʼs bad about the militant motherland Herself.
Finally, we return to the tainted rear of Shitty Hall where rust, water-stains & destructive landscaping unmask how painfully barren the visual aesthetic is for an invasive species of self-rewarding Manmorons who care about enriching their own corporeal pockets way more than giving a damn about all the Indigenous peoples theyʼve forked over with their dams, mine-shafts, cut-blocks, clearcuts, logging roads, over-policed railways & the sullied dislike. Instead of hiding their duplicitous demonizations of any humane entity who doesnʼt fit their mechanistic mold, the corrupt landholding real-estate profiteers of the narco-state CoN prefer to broadcast their anachronistic racism to the white-bread clique of likeminded visitors they hope to attract with their insipidly insidious lure of tech, booze, drugs & sugar babes for all the debauched deadbeat daddies on the down-low.
A fortunate footnote to this morbidly true-life story in a lakeside mountain thirst-trap is the refreshingly unCanamerican ‘Lady and her Big Cat’ mural beside the highway hotel and royal kangaroo-court, which serves as the exception that proves the rule with its whimsical self-reflectiveness amidst the depressing drudgery of a nihilistic CoN that picks gargoyles over angels wherever it can, while indulging the whims of their baser demons who are making a killing in our uncivil capstone.
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