Translation:The big Scare!

God damn, what a shit-stain of fear hanging off the asses of those upper-class wankers!

For the last eight days, those dirty bastards haven't slept a wink : they are scared of getting blown up—like the shit they are.

Here's the scoop: In Soisy-sous-Etiolles, some backwater village in Seine-et-Oise, 380 sticks of dynamite got swiped from a quarry stash—about 35 kilos' worth. A nice little pile, goddammit!

The heist went down about ten days ago, and right away the bigwigs started sweating: "Who the hell pulled this off?"

Oh, bloody hell, they didn't waste time guessing! In less than two weeks, they cooked up this genius theory: "Bet it's those attacking rabble-rousers who nabbed the dynamite. Probably got it in their thick skulls to blow up the Spanish Embassy, just to avenge those four anarchists from Jerez... And hey, May Day's coming up—those lads need ammo, so they just helped themselves to the good stuff!"

Once they'd chewed on that fine bit of logic, no time to dawdle: "What luck! thought Constans the Butcher. Couldn't have timed it better—let's raid every anarchist's pad I've got on file, pronto."

The bandit was over the moon!

Think about it—he's not even a minister anymore. They gave him the boot, but he's still clinging to the job while His High-and-Mighty Wankerness Carnot finds a replacement.

So by going full throttle, Constans proves he is Mister the clown, makes himself indispensable, and His Wankerness will have no choice but to keep him around.

Goddammit, you could almost say Constans' little scheme worked: he sent two dozen lackeys running around, and for two solid days those filthy goons, dragging a pack of lousy cops behind them, turned the whole damn city upside down with raids left and right.

Naturally, the filthy pigs paid a little visit to Le Père Peinard's digs on Rue d'Orsel, and La Révolte on Rue Mouff.

What a bunch of turds! Needless to say, in both spots, they found sweet fuck-all.

Now, let me rattle off a few of the unlucky mates who got a rude wake-up call from the pigs at six in the morning: There's Constant Martin and Duprat on Rue Jocquelet; Lucas in Belleville; over in Saint-Denis, Alkran, Bouteville, Pauwels, Bastard, Plock; in Clichy, Ferrière and the Estièvent brothers; in Levallois, Marchand. And a whole bunch more, goddammit, whose names the rags didn't even bother printing.

At every single one of these places, the cops came up empty-handed.

But hold on—goddammit—if you believe their bullshit, they struck gold in two spots: First, in Asnières, some joint where a group used to meet. Under a pile of coal, they allegedly dug up about fifteen sticks of dynamite. Bordier, the poor sod who rented the place, got nabbed.

Second, in the 5th arrondissement, at Chalbret's place, they supposedly found fifty cartridges and some fuses.

Well, holy shit, what a farce!

The toffs and the bigwigs are saved—now they can snooze soundly again, resting their fat, whiskered faces on their pillows.

As for Constans? He's back in the game. Minister for life..... or at least until His Highness Carnot hands him over his fancy chair.

And of course, the working stiffs are living it up too! Kids got shoes on their feet, bread's dirt cheap, bosses are tripping over themselves to please their workers, and deputies are not assholes anymore...

No need to say it—May Day’s gonna be a real peaceful affair...

And all this, goddammit, just because they "found" a few sticks of dynamite in two anarchists' pads!