Translation:Anarcho villains

Ah! Goddammit, that's it.

The goddamn governance wankers and their lackeys, the skirt-wearing swine, are going after the arrested comrades.

They took their sweet time, damn it! Then they figured they could risk it all, thunder and hell!

After digging through the bitchy shitpile they call the Code, they scraped up three lousy tricks.

Articles 265, 266, 267—mumbling some half-assed nonsense about so-called villains and their associations.

Yeah, damn it, turns out the good ol' anarchist dudes are a bunch of assholes organized into gangs against people and property.

I'm nearly laughing, goddammit!

If it weren't for a dozen rich bastards the skirt-wearing swine gonna screw over hard, we'd just be rolling on the floor.

Can you believe it, pals? Anarchists, in gangs, with chiefs and commanders?

It's all there in their Code, goddammit.

Isn't everything in their bitchy, piggish little book?

Doesn't matter—back in the day, they blamed the good folks for yelling loud against all authority and organization.

Now they're throwing 'em in the slammer for being organized.

They should make up their mind, godammit.

'Course anarchists don't like landlords, and when they get their hands on their fancy digs, you bet your ass they won't hold back.

But, damn it, you don't need to be organized to have those sweet ideas in your head, goddammit!

First off, the only ones who organize are the exploiters, thunder and hell.

And it's the exploiters we wanna bring down, goddammit!

But when you're a judge, you don't think straight, and when you're a shitty one, you try to hide your turd.

That's what these scumbags are doing.

They are shitting themselves so much that they're acting tough—

Like little brats who yell in the dark to pump themselves up.

And then they whispered to themselves:

Damn it, if we let 'em all go, those hotheads'll growl—they're already on edge.

And then the bourgeois wankers will scream that we're screwing up.

They might even cut off our pay.

Can't have that, goddammit!

So from the bunch, they picked at random—just for fun.

First, they grabbed my boy Pouget, just to piss me off.

That'll shut up old Peinard, thought those vultures. "'ll keep your kid locked up, and since he's a sharp one, we'll slap him with 'villain'—a real classy title, goddammit!"

Morons!

As if the comrade gave a damn about being called a villain by these so-called guardians of justice!

Then they just grabbed whoever—Brunet, a workshop pal; Morin, a solid little guy already locked up for two months over two-fifty francs; Robichou, a comrade I didn't even know; Colliard, a good soul from the terrace; the Ferrières, who'd yelled at the brass in Saint-Denis; Louiche, a fiery speechmaker at meetings; Paoli, a macaroni comrade; and Calamy, a socialist who hung around Anarchy.

And who knows if the list ends there? With these goddamn skirt-wearing cows, you can never tell—thunder and hell!

Now that they've dug up these three idiotic association laws, I sure as hell hope, goddammit, that after testing them on anarchists, they won't forget to use 'em on the high-society crooks too!

There's no shortage of villainous associations, damn right—

Villains, the vultures of every stock exchange, strutting around with official sashes on their asses and stolen workers' cash in their pockets. Villains, every skirt-wearing bandit, paper-pushing leeches, gorging on ministerial filth, peddlers of prisons and guillotines. Villains, every rotten, sold-out hack, the scum who slander good folks or sell 'em out to the cops before cashing their blood money. Villains, the gutless socialists who organize their own scams to exploit the people and land themselves some cushy job at twenty-five francs a day.

I'd never finish, goddammit, if I had to list all the gangs of miserable bastards.

But don't hold your breath—they'll never touch those bros, goddammit.

Ain't they the ones keeping the skirt-wearing The ones swinging incense under their noses, greasing their palms every damn day? Thunder and hell!

It's enough to make you sick—but we know this filth won't last much longer.

The day's coming when we'll toss'em all in the same sack.

Might just make your head explode waiting—but don't lose heart, goddammit!

Last-minute update:

At the last goddamn second, I hear the justice vultures cut loose comrades Louiche, Ferrière the elder, and Pernin.

That must've really pissed 'em off—thunder and hell!

So to make up for it, they're slapping Béala and his partner back in cuffs, shipping 'em to Montbrison with companion Ravachol.