“There is no such thing as democracy, only good leaders and good systems.”—Arthur of the North

Arthur of the North held daily meetings by the waterfall.
He sorted his male crew into the jacks-of-all-trades, the obedient or easily led, and those best kept occupied, and put the women into the “procreation” project.
 He, well versed in Gran’s readings, talked of statics, future projections, and “who does what best,” which he followed up with his infamous “what women are really good at” speech, winning over the men and pissing off the women.


“Projections my arse,” shouted Fanny, a girl who always stood at the front, her mother clipped her over the ear.


“We’re more than a uterus,” shouted another.

“We are good at lots of things.”


“Yeah,” shouted a chorus of women.


The men jeered them.


“Just as good as you,” shouted her from the back.


“Can you turn shit into drinking water?” shouted a jack-of-all-trades.


“Merely a sewage system,” muttered Fanny’s mother.


“Merely?” said the jack-of-all-trades. “What have you invented?”


“We helped with the roads,” said her from the back.


“Anyone can dig,” said one of the men.


The woman at the front turned on him.

“Haven’t seen you with a shovel.”


“Why don’t you shove your shovel up your butt,” he hissed.


“Your butt is bigger,” shouted the woman from the back.


“Up yours,” shouted the best-to-keep-occupied man.


“Up yours,” shouted the woman from the back.


“Up yours!” screeched a voice, sex unknown.


“We are at the beginnings of a civilization,” shouted Arthur of the North over the crowd. 
He fixed his gaze from one to another.

“All of us . . .”
The crowd hushed. A few shuffled uncomfortably.


“And these are but temporary measures. Once our quota of babies has been reached”—he looked down at the women in a fatherly manner—“you can go back to sex when you want it.” He smiled. “If you want it, that is.”


The women looked unconvinced.


”You’ll have all the choices men have. We just need a few babies first.”


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The women muttered and moaned, then agreed to go away to think.


Wife-ie suggested a treaty.
 “They always work,” she said. “Folk love them and no one reads the small print.”


Arthur of the North wrote several treaties: the “Sex for Procreation” treaty, which went down like a stink bomb, the “Your Uterus Our Survival” treaty, which infuriated the women and had the men endlessly cracking jokes, and the “One Shag One Night” treaty, which was laughed at by all.
Then he told the women they would go down in history as “those who gave their all to save the species.”


The men, silenced by Wife-ie after a few “flat on your back” jokes, threw in a round of applause and cheering on a par with a football stadium as suddenly it occurred to them what the treaty meant.


“So fatherhood is out the window?” muttered one woman, the unofficial spokeswoman.


“Well, not necessarily, just put on hold,” said Arthur of the North.


“Shall we say optional,” muttered Wife-ie.


“Optional? And how does that work if you have no idea who the father is?” said the spokeswoman.


“Work in progress,” interrupted Wife-ie.


“We’ll build you some stables,” said a jack-of-all-trades.


“We’re not horses,” said a woman who actually looked like a horse.


“Luxurious-like, with beds and things,” said a jack-of-all-trades. “Perhaps a few whips . . . ?”


“Or prostitutes,” said the horselike woman.


“Well, you are, essentially,” muttered another jack-of-all-trades near Wife-ie.


Wife-ie slapped his head.


“Well, they are,” said the jack-of-all-trades, rubbing his head.


“It’s only temporary,” said Wife-ie with a steely look at the man.


“You will be Earth mothers . . . for the planet,” said one of the obedient, getting into the spirit of things. “With the finest hens and first pick of the eggs.”


The women looked at each other.
“

And we’ll build your stables with the best views . . . .”


“We’re not horses,” said the horselike woman.


“The nurturing stables,” muttered Arthur of the North.


“We’re not pickling horses,” shouted the woman from the back.


“How about the nurturing shed,” said a jack-of-all-trades. “And we can put it by the waterfall, here.”


The woman looked about at the lush grass, the clear pool below the waterfall. There wasn’t a rat in sight.


“And there’ll be no sex unless you say so,” said Arthur of the North.


“What?” muttered a few of the men.


“And, of course, only if the day’s work has been completed,” said Arthur of the North.


“You mean you’re using us,” muttered one of the women, “as a sort of payment for work?”


“Oh, no,” said Arthur of the North. “You are in complete control.” He smiled. “You have the last say."

"
 And it’s only temporary,” said Wife-ie.


The women looked at each other, unconvinced.


“Oh, and did I say you will be on hemp duty? Complete . . . control,” said Arthur of the North.


“What?” shouted the men and Wife-ie.


“Yes, the women are in the best place to take care of the hemp,” said Arthur of the North.


The women looked from one to the other.


“It would be nice to save the planet,” muttered one.


“And have a break from all-day sex,” said another.




Within days, Arthur of the North’s leadership was established, not only for him, but for his soon-to-be-born offspring.
With the help of his sphere of energy, sewage plant designs, and a payment system in hemp, Arthur of the North instructed the males to build, while the women—now firmly under procreation duty—were to nurture.


Hubby and Wife-ie watched as their dwarf of a son took control like a cowboy with a wild horse, Hubby mildly confused and Wife-ie with an “I taught him everything he knows” look.


“It all started with a sewage plant,” muttered Wife-ie. She turned to her Hubby. “You must be proud.”


They were lying on the grass at the time staring at the clouds above.


“All those years of control and fake air,” muttered Hubby.


She slid her hand into his.
“I never thought I’d see a cloud again.”


She kissed his cheek.


Hubby rolled onto his Wife-ie and made himself comfortable. 
“

Or the sun on my back.” He chuckled.


It was his last chuckle, his last words.
 With several ecstatic grunts, accompanied by the sort of pelvic thrusting that would earn a porn star an Oscar, Hubby gasped his last breath and Wife-ie her last orgasm.
 As he lay on top of her with a death mask of ecstasy, she patted his back.


“You’ve done yourself proud, my hubby,” she muttered and lay there until the sun went down.