The Paleo-Vegan Wars

The world is poised in the balance. Which dietary fad will win?

The year was 2024.

It was hot in the command bunker.  Hot, sweaty and loud.

General Grok, supreme leader of the Paleo Army, shifted uncomfortably in his hyena-skin battle fatigues and cursed as yet another Vegan moral onslaught exploded above his dugout.

Damn! said Grok,  How the hell am I supposed to fight this shit?  How long can my men hold out against all this condescension?

Chewing distractedly on a hunk of raw buffalo-meat, Grok paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.  There has to be a way.  There has to be a way.

Suddenly, a young messenger appeared at the door, filthy, exhausted and close to collapse.  Quick, barked Grok, catch that lad.  Bring him over here to my bunk.  Lie him down!

The young man was badly wounded.  His ego was in tatters.  His self-esteem was torn to shreds and his hopes for the future were totally destroyed.

Grok had seen this sort of thing before.  As a qualified homeopathic healer, he knew there was no hope for the boy.

You! he shouted to a junior officer hiding his face in his hands.  What do you think you’re doing?

I’m sorry Sir, replied the officer.  It’s just that I’ve never seen wounds so … so, oh I don’t know.  So raw.   It’s awful.

Grok softened.   How long have you been at the Front, lad? he asked gently, placing his gnarled old hand on the young man’s shoulder.

Only a week, General.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.   The young man began to weep helplessly.

Let me tell you something, Son, said Grok.  The first time I saw a sarcasm-augmented patronising ego-wound, I was just like you.   I puked my guts up.   But then I got on with it because there was a war to be won.  I’m asking you to do the same.  Man to man.  Can you do it for me?

The young man wiped his mouth and his eyes shifted uncertainly.  Then he squared his shoulders and saluted.  I can, General, and I will.

Good, said Grok.  Now go and look after that wounded messenger.  Bring him a mug of melted lard and a fistful of crushed insects.  Grunt at him, beat your chest and remind him that he’s a Paleo hunter gatherer, not a snivelling Vegan.


Meanwhile, in a tastefully-converted former-industrial penthouse docklands apartment, the Vegan holistic council was gathered for a briefing from Julian Flinch, lead holistic designer of the Synergistic Pacifist Non-Army.

After a month in the field, his hand-woven kaftan of organically-grown traditional Sarawak fabric was grubby and torn and he walked with a slight limp.  His grey hair and drawn face belied his 42 years — this man had seen things no eye should behold.

The mood was grim as Flinch approached the podium carved from a fallen tree using only tools made from naturally-occurring materials.

My friends, said Flinch with a tight frown, we have arrived at an impasse.  We are strong but so is the enemy.  For every morally-superior barb we fling at him, he responds with a salvo of crushing sarcasm.  If we call him a barbarian for using animal-derived products, he responds with ridicule-weapons of mass contempt.  That is why I now walk with a limp.

Then what is to be done? asked an intense woman with a crystal.  If they win, what is to become of our way of life?  Our Steiner schools.  Our dreamcatchers. Our organic kaftans.  What will become of our campaign to eradicate canine teeth?

They are barbarians, agreed Flinch, and that is why I bring to you a proposal that I had hoped would never be required.

Aromatherapy? asked one council member, appalled.

Tougher, said Flinch.

Are you suggesting chiropractic?

Stronger, said Flinch.  We must be ruthless.  Or else, our way of life is finished.

What then?

Homeopathy, said Flinch.  I propose to use homeopathic weapons against the Paleo.

Dear merciful Gaia, whispered an elder of the council.  Has it really come to that?  The Final Dilution?


This lad is still alive, barked Grok.  Feed him a recently-killed chicken.

The young messenger choked back a lump of roasted flesh and sat up on the bunk.  He reached for Grok’s collar.

Talk, he gasped.  Must talk.

What is it, lad? said Grok gently.

Weapons, the boy gasped.  Extreme.  Weapons.

What sort of weapons?

Home …


Home …

Oh no, say it isn’t so.

Path … path … path …

Damn them, said Grok.  I hoped it would never come to this but now we have no choice.  Prepare the conventional weapons.


The year was 2124.

It was hot in the command bunker.  Hot, sweaty and loud.

3 thoughts on “The Paleo-Vegan Wars

  1. just woke up, am I envisoning a bombardment of (small but very tasty vol- o – vons) shells (filled with bite size pieces of various animals) ?

  2. with a very sharp retort of snotty off the cuff asides that are hardly audible… will the opposing sides meet in a cafe that serves ham sandwiches and veggie quiches ?

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