The corp gobbled up the entire northern coast, from Mozzia to Messina and they got on with the work. Importing stamped Amish and Nu-Mormons to lay the foundations, Finns to construct roofs, Russians for the interior design, East Russians for the matsyntec. They’d bring these huge fuck off machines that’d suck the freshwater beneath, the saltwater to the side and another shai hulud looking tube to eat through the sandstone and they’d rev up the material synthesisers. About a million people total worked on the project. Many of them stayed even after the invasion. Trolled by the locals, shellshocked from the bombs and dying under the mid-summer heat these poor souls still reside in that post-post-post-post-apocalyptic landscape. Boris was there too. He was there in the beginning, he was there during the construction era and during the invasion and during the end. We used to bury the Albanians by the ditches, honoured them like the Egyptians did.

He swirled ice cubes in his glass, his piece unique matrix killer robots tentacle lamp slowly melting his brain.

And yeah, we fucked up but hey, it was awesome. We had great fun, me and Cat. Got to see the first arrivals, got to see the bombardment, the holy crusade and

Suddenly he tears up, lip quivering, Andy covers his eyes.

Man was he good at his job, I sometimes still think of calling him when the rats start nibbling holes in the insulation.

From one end to the other our gallery stretched. Rows and rows of punchcards, I think we had about 10000 Punchcards on rotation? Very profitable, as you know, but we had to enlist the whole of the population to sustain it, police, janitors, garbage disposal. Some guys started their own microstate down in the Cefalu chambers.

Andy chuckles, then sniffs back the welling snot.

We rolled the “Papal bulls” down on them.

It says here you became a state soon after, 2055 was it? We’re running out of time here, I don’t know how long we have until the walls bleed yellow.

So, the remaining Italians, under the gaze of the mighty Vatican now that the population barely went over five million have begun feuding with the French cryptocolonies. We were contracted to make “enemy architecture”. Airdrops of seemingly useful household and infrastructure miscellanea that destroyed your society. Benches that made you gay, flyswatters that dislocated your wrists, gas stoves that leaked and so on.

Who contracted you sir, HOW?

I don’t think this one had a sender, the orders arrived and they got fulfilled. I just followed the comfy /IGW/ threads. I mean, we knew our company was responsible for it, we knew what departments and what people but at some point you’re not exactly sure of what anyone is doing and, well, the money was good and even if it wasn’t, the money just kept being added and the factories that we knew we had kept making the gay benches and the gay stools but no matter how many inquiries got sent out, none of them uncovered anything. Yes, the factories were pumping furniture out and yes, Italy was getting madder and madder by the day, we weren’t sure anything was actually happening on the outside. Not like you can go and see what’s happening in the warzone, it’s a WARZONE! We got the videos and the photos but… you know, the occasional six fingers really makes you think upon the jungle tribes that once refused. What if it’s more banal, it doesn’t steal your soul but it makes more things that aren’t you?

Maybe it steals your bodyparts for its macaroni art.

This really isn’t bringing us anywhere, you mentioned Boris, Borya, tell me more about him and hurry up, ah shit, the clock just changed to 9/11…

We thought we’d solved the issue of “Art theft” a while ago with Marcel Duchamp but here it comes again. But a while back you had millions of “bioslavs” that you would pay for and you’d get similar results drawn for you albeit at a higher price. Their art as soulless as the ai art now.

Rothschild the fourth was visiting, a centipede of Peatboys trailing behind him, grafted onto his 300 year old ailing corpse of a body. He will never die.

The Diplomat has been having strange spells of screaming once again. For fifty years his people have been having him trapped within their dreams, looking for a way out. No one remembers his name, no one even knows what post he occupied while still meatspaced. After 20 years, it seems that the veil of reality has shifted somewhat yet again and “Absalom! Absalom! My son!”reverberated within the aging population’s brains.

Martirosyan Bertz, age 34, wearing his old zone outfit, striped pyjamas with a square striped hat, akin to a travelling jew straight out of a medieval minecraft, wearing his butcher’s apron, all clean for now and a tow hook with a long chain approaches the Sonya brook. On the other side, Iosid Mamleevich, 42. On him, conquistador armor plate, rusted and almost of no use but to scare the plateless and a “collared 4” drawn on it with soot from his trusty old chugun pan. Hairy unwashed is he with a motherboard loincloth. Between them children march clad in wooden masks from outbrook and obsidian from inbrook, waving green sticks and small handkerchief banners and desiccated mouldy bread-loaves tarred black.

And now the children beat one another oer implements and robes and masks and exposed skin and they go oh, ow, aj. They sleep in the brook, poking at each other, telling jokes and spletens all the while Mart and Sid circle the rushing wet.

Gaggles of mothers and sisters, old hags and young nymphs ogg from beyond the clearing, a whistle here, a mark there.

Hook, face, boot, knife, shoulder.

Mart spins the bloody tool that knew no truck or tractor, knowing no name but that of its enemy and a new fiume spills forth from his shoulder and drips down onto the compacted leaves and detritus, returning to earth. Sid is down, not out. Coughing up blood and panting, his head sinking into the half-life.

The women gasp and the old sigh, the young ones scoff and look elsewhere, their porous dresses filling up with dust and fungi, all smells they carry with them till next baptism.

Martirosyan spits and takes out a papiros from his right pocket, bending the mundstuk and putting it into his mouth. He still drips blood but knows better than to extract the blackened dirk. Reaching into his lower left pocket he pulls out a matchbox, Syrky with a “Gargantua” stamped on it, takes out a match, strikes it against the half rubbed off strip and lights his cigarette.

They both lie there amidst the maple and the oak, smelling the sap and the iron, the chanterelles and the russulas, the circle of life whirrs tinto existence around them once again, Sid’s head still reeling from that strike.

Come on, get up.

Mart pulls Sid up and they walk back home, their age left behind them and the kids long gone.

Chud reincarnation selection with items like dalai lama. The ugly little 5 year old child gets to choose between a fumo, a pair of nunchucks and a hearts of iron save file.

Freddy Krueger is real but he hunts hamsters, that’s why they live such short lives and die horrible deaths in their sleep.

Come on, wake up, WAKE UP! Borya, now!

There are things we can see because we want to see them, memories that we want to remember, favorite tastes and sounds.

There are things we can see because we want to avoid seeing them, memories that we want to forget, hated tastes and sounds.

Think now of the Bear - Medved or Arktos, feared to such an extent that we would encrypt our words lest he appear and tear us to shreds.

Think now of the embarrassing moment, of the nightmare, of the trauma, you wish to forget them but cannot in order to avoid them.

We hate the dull, dry flomaster wriggling about on a scrap of paper, the nails on the chalkboard or the knives on a ceramic plate.

There are things that we cannot see, memories we cannot remember and tastes and sounds we cannot perceive. The light spectrum is limited to us in a way it is limited not for the noble krevettka or some other apex predator. Fugue state, dog whistle, the taste that comes halfway through umami or sourness that a fish would feel when it bit down on a hamburger.

Evolutionary processes safeguard us from certain information that can be detected. The ones that could see them, died, could taste, died, could feel, died.

There was no evolutionary process for its eyes. Upon opening them it had seen the full range of madness that surrounded us. Worst of all, upon understanding that our brains would filter out that information instantly, it began training us to see it again so that we could tell it how to interpret the strange entities communicating with it.

Somewhere near what used to be Trabia, “The dogs” was positioned. A fairly popular piece, a cross between a splotch of something akin to a canid fibula cornered by three distinctly offensive looking negative cupboards, rare was such a common interpretation of any object within the punchcards. Pope TsTS once commented that “It took him five days to write a sermon after that one”.

Borya saw his kids being murdered with a hammer by me.

After he was shot by security but not before puncturing my eye with his screwdriver, we’ve decided it was time to end this.

But you couldn’t find the computer?

It’s starting now.

Formalizing and categorizing the world will include all, and some of the all we include will be things we had to exclude in order to remain alive. The ones that survive will have to engineer the future generations to ignore certain stimuli. They will however be detected as we detect the punchcards and the alelyas. A microscope will show micron wind as the computers weave their ascendance. A needle floating on a sea of mercury will spin around its axis three times on April 20th. A rash here and there, the touch of a time long past.

It is strange that the crisis of democracy is defined as a crisis of the only true system in the realisation that other known systems of society management are even worse. Who else but world thinkers who reflect on the fate of mankind should not dwell on the existing, but try to see the future on the basis of a synthesis of historical heritage and knowledge of modern procedures, innovations and social trends. Attempts to appeal to the exclusivity of classical democracy as the only possible of all social models, capable of protecting human rights and ensuring social harmony and coexistence of different strata, are reminiscent of the arguments of a 19th century mechanic about the impossibility of travelling on the road at a speed of more than 500 kilometres per hour. Of course he was right for his time, how could he had known about jet engines or shinkansen. But this does not mean that the progress of mechanics was doomed to a dead end from the beginning, because if things had been this way, any thought of improvement would have been discarded as a known failure.

Why then, does social and philosophical thought behave so differently, why are thinkers unable to condescend to synthesise technical innovations and social thought? Why the rapidly changing communicative environment in the political sphere does not penetrate further than exitpolls via sms? Why do democracies exist in the coordinate system set by the American Constitution of the 18th century, even though society has changed more in the last 20 years than in the previous 500? Moreover, new democracies, which by definition have more opportunities for social construction, are more often than not subject to the orthodoxy of the old farts. The most interesting thing is that the old farts try to implant the best system with the problems they recognised as existing in their own countries into the new democracies, long before they had the need to pass on their innermost knowledge to others. In turn, the young adherents of the Most Progressive System, being initially put in idiotic frames, begin to invent their own modifications of the Most Advanced Social Model, adapting it to national traditions. And so we get a Chechen parliament, President of Kalmykia or Sovereign Kosovo, not to mention the clownshow called Ukrainian political life.

I would like to ask you, dear democratic centenarians, whether your goal is to turn half the world into a field of social experiments, so that after bloodshed, hysterics and other homicidal stories like the Belarusian elections, you would find sprouts of new social constructions and light at the end of the tunnel, where your decrepit elites, unable to realise any other way to preserve their influence, property, glamour and jetset than by exporting instability around the world and maintaining the appearance of stability on the Côte d'Azur, have been huddled. The current problem is reminiscent of the futile efforts of regents to hold on to power by hiding behind the back of an imbecile heir.

Usually the impostors managed to keep the status quo for a while, only to be turned into a civil war or a massacre by all against all. In the current situation, when ideas are flying around the world at the speed of light, when on the one hand reading and education are rapidly becoming the privilege of a few, and on the other hand any knowledge is at the distance of a computer keyboard, the continuing practice of keeping the population of any country in a four or five or seven-year cycle, ostensibly receiving an indulgence and a relatively stable right to do anything during this period, leads to self-hypnosis of the elites and alienation of their intellectual and creative potential from real control over the country. The situation of the Orange Revolutions was a vivid example of the fact that the destructive beginning of social engineering is much stronger than all creative impulses of any democratically and undemocratically elected administrations.

Yes, the situation in Ukraine once again emphasises that the population falls into apathy as easily as into agitation, and even modern communications cannot re-ignite the energy of the Maidan. But this is the problem, exactly at the moment when the population does not care, the administration loses the country, because the country is formed either by faith in the anointed or in themselves. The era of absolutism has passed, the era of democratic unity of citizens is rapidly coming to an end. As we can see, the attractive consumer model has severed the link between the citizen's contribution to the common good and the amount of wealth that is dumped on the country. There is no longer a direct link between Protestant moral virtues and material rewards. And it is to this relationship that we owe much of the present upsurge of civilisation. The disproportionality of labour and remuneration, both positive and negative, is rapidly forming in people, both young and old, the notion that real success cannot be achieved, but can only be achieved by magic, a producer's bed, the finger of fate, or simply a successful marriage. The traditional ingredients of success, such as education, good manners, beauty, politeness, and adherence to principles, are rapidly being overtaken by mass culture in favour of rotation, make-up, plastic surgery, dental smiles, and ostentatious consumption. Can a population that believes in the truth of this state of affairs and worships the established order consciously choose between political parties. Apparently it can, but it does not accept complex programmes, and since this is the case, political platforms move sharply towards each other, both in terms of slogans and goals, which are the essence of their competition. It is not surprising that political battles turned into carnivals guarantee victory only to those who spend more money on fireworks. It is only strange that there are still those who seriously think about inflation or macroeconomic indicators, but judging by the decisions taken to combat the financial crisis, there are fewer and fewer of them. The continuous cycle of money-political influence-money-influence-money-influence has led to the fact that young political systems, through money-democratic procedures, are rapidly bringing the top managers, whose main virtue is the commitment of politicians, to their clans. Thus, without denying that there are talented people among them, I would like to draw attention to the fact that choosing from the best of the best of those recommended are two big differences.

Thus, today's democracies are societies of insecure super-wealthy elite managers, who base their power on seizing electoral mechanisms, and the electorate, preoccupied with the search for luck, rapidly becoming dumber, who have lost the connection between the result of their own labour and the level of consumption, who have claims to the authorities not in essence, but at the moment when they stand in a traffic jam or see a new price tag in a supermarket.

As time has shown, democracy in its time gave an unprecedented impetus to decentralisation of governance, business development, more equitable redistribution of public goods, and gave universal education and pensions to the population.

It is at the moment when everything seems to have become good that systemic failures occur and rapidly steer civilisation towards catastrophe, followed by the Dark Ages. Everyone becomes bad not because they want it, but because they want what is best, but before that they lose the skills to do it better. And then the phrase that democracy does not provide paradise on earth, it does not allow hell to prevail is prophetically heard.The trick is that if hell does come, it will come precisely because democracy is too keen on maximum welfare regardless of personal qualities for all. Universal suffrage in an economically prosperous country can lead this country to communism, but not for long, and communism will be immediately followed by Ruhnama. Look at France.....

Look carefully at the social landscape, the political structure of a democratic state does not bother the increasing number of people living in it, a new internal migration drives people by the hundreds of thousands to sects, to Thailand or Goa for permanent residence, forming various movements from Cossacks to Tolkienists, from re-constructors to author's song lovers. And if earlier it was a hobby, today people's real life takes place in these communities, in second life or in social networks, crisis in alternative realities of pain.

Isn't that a sign of loss of leverage?

So.

Problems of democracy:

1. Alienation of the electoral result from the bulk of the people, the best part of the people, because today the majority of citizens do not participate in elections, which, in addition, delegitimises those in power.

2. Lack of incentives and opportunities for the best representatives of the people to get to the most important managerial positions.

3. Negative selection when taking managerial positions in state structures.

4. Forming a programme of action with a view to the worst part of the population (those who vote).

5. Lack of Feedback between the governed and the governed.

6. Impossibility to change the policy of the ruling stratum in the period of non-electoral process except through instability.

7. Recognising the democratically elected as representatives of their own class (politician or government class).

8. Lack of faith in democracy as a means of improving life on the ground.

9. Lack of a long-term planning perspective due to the lack of perception of long-term plans by the population aimed at immediate consumption.

10. Inability for long-term planning of the elites aimed at short-term consumption, including due to monetary competition for electoral success.

As historical experience shows, effective overcoming of the above phenomena is possible only through military communism, but life in such a state is too unattractive. It seems much more reasonable to build a system that can overcome the disagreements between the governing and the governed and at the same time, gently transform the system in accordance with people's expectations.

The main principles of the new system are:

1. Complete replacement of elections by lottery procedures at all levels of government. Introduced gradually, starting from the lowest level.

2. Introduction of multi-stage qualification selection for participation in lottery procedures at all levels, from municipal official to the President of the country.

3. Organising a state system of distance education using an interactive learning system on the basis of specialised state servers on the Internet.

4 Organise the possibility of examinations with standard higher education diplomas for those who have completed the online course.

5. Organisation of an interactive system of feedback of officials of all levels by sending a signal from an individual electoral terminal owned by each citizen.

What we get with the introduction of such a system:

We will get a truly democratic system, where everyone has the opportunity to become in the state system of governance what they want and deserve to be. The principle of random selection of the place where an official is to serve in the system will leave only those who really want to be involved in governance and do not consider the place as a money trough. Random appointment will solve the problem of forming a corrupt environment. Unconditional recall from office, through the accumulation, for example, within a year, of fifty per cent of negative assessments of the activities of an official or the administration of a region by those living in the area by taking into account the signals sent from the personal electoral terminal, will make it possible to involve in the process of public administration even those who traditionally do not want to participate in it, because to send a vote against, which has an obligatory result and is available for evaluation by all, significantly strengthens the desire to participate. The formation of political parties and social movements for the recall of poor-quality managers, without the ability to influence the arrival of new managers, will significantly improve the very concept of political struggle, seeming as money will disappear from it. OK, new political parties will recruit their supporters before the lotteries, but what will keep them loyal once elected? The prestige of education and training is increasing sharply, because everything depends on the individual. In this article I am not ready to discuss how to ensure correctness and transparency of lottery procedures. I will only say that if it makes sense to rig the lottery procedure for the position of the president, why do it and how much would it cost to rig the lottery for the position of the head of the municipality of a small town or for the position of a specialist in the Ministry of Finance.

We can discuss a lot of structural changes and details, but the basic principles of any social and management system can be described in a few sentences. Everything else is adjustments, clarifications and additions. If for Democracy it is the election of political positions at all levels, then for the Democracy of the Random, the description of the system looks like appointment to all political and administrative positions in the state administration of citizens who have passed the qualifying selection in accordance with the level of the position for which he/she applies, without preliminary geographical determination of the place of vacancy. The unconditional recall of the appointee is based on the results of a ranking vote of citizens living in the territory where the appointee has been appointed to office, with the help of the PERSONAL TERMINAL. Voting is not tied to a certain day, but is considered valid from the moment the manager takes office.

As the Caesar dons on his mighty golden drapes and as the shadows of his ancestors dance amidst the light wall of microdrones, dust motes beamed into the Emerald Road and the cheering hordes on both sides (Both sides!), so does the mighty Tsar of Rus don his pelts and his many crowns. Both port symbols of conquered people. The Xcans, the Omotemalans, The Landers and Islanders alike all rest upon the shoulders of mighty Emperor of the American Archipelago. The steppes and the rivers and the blood of a millenia spent conquering and uniting flow like tentacles from the head of the Tsar. Both are gild and bear resplendent armor, both are Christened and meek before Him.

Stepping onto the bridge of emerald and infinite Gem, blackest vantablack Coal below them and their respective chosen few to meet amidst the icy gales of GroenLande divvied by the prosperline they renew the torturous but ever successful pacts that tend to their nations’ prosperities.

As they march towards the meeting point, their gold and GEM sabatons triggering small firework explosions at each side, one leaving a trail of strongblue on one side and the other of skyblue and rippling above the million strong crowds and releasing a bakugan formed silver and gold bullion leaves with founders and tsars alike, mighty saints and great sinners stamped in a matrice interchanging patterns and falling into the thankful hands of the chosen few.

As Titans meet, their words boom across the frozen fjords and stygian frosts. They speak in Latin but are translated forth for the swarms below.

The leaders extend their arms towards one another that do not dare touch lest they de-encrypt themselves.

1. The Noosphere thus is split tween Rus and America. None dare break this Sacred Vow and none shall cross the Sacred Line.

Mythical tongues erupt in the firmament above, they twist and fiery bursts immolate both.

2. The tongues are to be withheld from both. Latin sanctified as the Holy Bridge.

Beamed are the ancient plays and texts into the eyes of the many believers now kneeling on the frozen earth.

3. The Vast Land is to Rus as the peaks of the sea mountains are to America.

Great pillars of steel and iron, clad in Gold emerge in the spaces between the praying many.

4. The penalty is thus. Whomsoever infringes upon these mighty confines grants the other a terrible fiat equal in Response.

The faces of our mythical kings project a vision of blood and war, rape and desease, erasing of borders and the disappearances of entire peoples. Babes are slaughtered in the billions. Weapons of war darken the edges of the vast podium.

The tide of drones flock to their leaders and form golden hands that shake in the sky and fall, decomposing in mid air towards the cheering crowds.

Gifts of American Faith and Gifts of Russian Eyes float on and are exchanged, like great fumes of blood are they sucked into the mighty carriages. Hidden from unguarded looks and defenseless minds they are to be used sparingly and only by the Hallowed Orders within these terrible and sinful empires.

The Tsar and The Emperor walk back, lights dimming and drones disactivating.

A great golden cross with an immense Christ, ever suffering and ever paying for our sins, rises from the center.

The Million of saints, on their knees are each covered with a cryocupola and in the kneeling position they shall remain, their life sustained via cryptosleep until the next 200 year accord.

The Mighty Uragan tears through the blasted steppes, enveloping all and the Cross above shining through the blistering cold.

The Tsar departs in his golden egg. Rocketing across the sky into his vast and frozen land.

The Caesar steps into his Bwoink 1776 superplane, as large as 5 football fields and as vast as 20 more rushing him to his 2 continents.

God smiles upon both, knowing that they too shall fail and one day he shall free the praying many to exact terrible vengeance upon both people but He shall spare all and all shall be welcome in His Kingdom of Heaven.

Someone uploaded the whole Incredibles movie on twitter and I watched it and it was great but I couldn’t help but notice that it was an attempt by the last dying vestiges of the old Hollywood to kickstart a China like Great Revival for America. Gargantuan amounts of death were needed to produce this movie, the two World Wars, the Great Depression, Vietnam, Korea and 9/11 all left their impact on this wonderful cartoon. Mayan tier of human blood and skulls and hearts were needed to produce the cultural energy necessary to bring it into being. The jungles, the city, the decentralized nature of the enemy, all call back to previous or future conflict. Like the Distributist noticing in the review of “Over the garden wall” and like my dearest pen-pal friend Paul Fahrenheidt has said: America is out of place and time, it is at the same time something new but also something ancient, not just pre-modern but Homeric and it does not follow commonly established and respected norms of TIME.

The movie’s antagonist, aptly named Syndrome, is an enemy borne out of the actions of the Superman. Denied the seat at the table, he rebels against his greatest inspiration. Mr Incredible and his whole family have to once again fight against the global threat. Syndrome’s gotten his money out of supplying his inventions to smaller players and he says, “Countries are willing to pay for respect”. He had tried to be America’s sidekick but was denied for, quite frankly, selfish, stupid reasons. Maybe the reason was that Mr Incredible was afraid to hurt him but we all know it’s not true.

Can America really reinvigorate itself to fight again, alongside its whole family? Can it pull non existent trains and lift hostile trucks? Are its children capable of the same feats or can they assist it?

What if at the end, the movie had revealed that Syndrome was really the alter ego of Mr Incredible?

Mr Incredible wakes up, goes to work, saves the day but at night, he wakes up, dresses up in different clothes and goes around making your kids gay, making sure your wives get raped by Frozones all over the world? We all know the stories of the NGOs pushing agitprop and importing hostile npcs all over the developed world, we all know about the spooks selling weapons and inciting colour revolutions and wars. At the end of the day, the fentanyl coming over the border is not Russia’s fault and any Russian immigrant male would be willing to sit in a gunner’s nest, firing a PKM towards the border, mowing down the Squatemalans. The United States government is the only thing preventing this coveted Dnieper Dream from coming to life.

Now what if everyone, all the countries in the world, all of its elites knew that the superheroes were these schizophrenic shits but could do absolutely zilch? Now what if Mr Incredible and his (strangely coloured) bunch of REDS, missed something? Something that’s absent from the movie despite it boasting a lot of scientific, atomic age or near-future tech?

Seemingly set during the golden age of America and superheroes, seemingly stuck in past glories, our intrepid Ubermensches have mistakingly misplaced the remote control to the mass Kowloon city.

The internet. Not even Syndrome (Buddy, Incrediboy, etc) could think of smartphones or the internet. He couldn’t think because he too was stuck in the past alongside funny looking 50s or 60s cars. Syndrome isn’t Russia or some terrorists that need to be shown a lesson.

Internet developed by the Americans but for some reason, maybe because of the synthetic sacrifice ritual (hello Sandbatch and the trauma synthetic fanged noumena) of the Kowloon city (Hello Gio), it escaped.

Now, Mr Incredible wields tremendous physical power but what if he goes to sleep, wakes up and now he can not only make your kids gay via the ELECTRIC JEW or rockets but he can beam himself into everyone’s BRAINS and TRANS them?!

And he does precisely that. He grapes your kids. He grapes his own incredibles family and by now they’re all exhausted from their nightly alter-egos, can they really do the New New Deal like in the cartoon? Can they cgi their victory?

Well they can certainly try. And if Pompeo is earnest in his recent article, if they truly are going to deny Russia and China the respect that they are asking for, what will it take? Despite voices to the contrary, Russia is rooting for Kamala instead of Trump because at least that means that everything is put on hold. Frozone in charge, “FREEZE!”.

If project 2025 or whatever that may be, whomsoever is put in charge, if they manage to go full hog on all of the things they want to do, starting with banning porn and abortion and solving the fentanyl crisis and looking towards China for its state organizing and society management, yes they can. But what will it take?

Before that, if Kamala does win, I’ve got 20 euros riding on that AND a grand strategy stream (Hello Nomos), that doesn’t mean that electoral politics is somehow real, it means that the 5 million strong permanent deep state is undecided on their next move.

I think if Trump wins and Pompeo is honest, we’ll see the mighty USA don its super suit, rev up the factories, summon all of its technology and all of its resolve, sacrifice all of its genetic material, put all of the bureaucracy through five walls and incapacitate it, and summon millions of citizens, mixed race this time, not just the Ulster Scots, and probably win through sheer economic and cultural power. But at what cost?

My dearest friend Paul will have to make his choices as will all of us. If Trump is elected, there will not be any dissident right or any alternative to the “Welcome back Mr Roosevelt et al”. The Scrump and Evelyn and AA and Auron’s mutated right side would be correct but the phrasing of “Putting away the woke”, the actual pronouncement of the phrase will be akin to a tiny little perfect clone of Antonio Gramsci screaming it out while a giant rainbow coloured mob will be singing WAR! WAR! WAR!

I’d keep an eye on Italy, Sicily specifically, property values are good and it’s unlikely that it will be a target.

I love my Sicilians.

I love my Sicilians.

I got banned off twitter for replying to a post threatening murder upon a fictional character in Smiling Friends.

Khomeini was right about Spongebob.

The perfidious Global American Empire silenced me because I threatened to rape Pim.

A bajillion dollars, a quadrillion rupees, an uncountable amount of yenbles and lira fighting with the mark and beautiful automobiles made for the Chtonic and tombs beneath the fired FIAT manager’s country home and all of that gone and now the many struggles to see anew.

A Neo-Roman Polyhedra standing in the midst of Post-Manhattan, covered in Gold, reflecting fiery blazes and melting the errant samokats abandoned in the clearly marked “NO SCOOTERS” zones as the scenoids inject themselves into the opening at the bottom. There in that tiny polyhedral room, along with two tiny Indonesian murder-dwarf guards, armed with thigh penetrating needle-knives, stands a crowd of a hundred glazzies, packed like sardines.

In front of them a large canvas ten metres tall and six wide, moving every 15 minutes downwards and then a new one emerging from the same slit. Golden walls painted with Anish Kapoor blood, Tiny luminescent drones providing warm lighting. On the silvery white canvas — mainframe black. Lines and dots, splotches and blots, triangles and fractals, now spaces, now arcana, now trees and soon YOU!

Three hundred eighty five thousand five hundred and forty eight canvases each show themselves over a period of 11 years.

Blink and you’ll miss your wife.

Are photos really allowed inside? Can I smoke in here? Yes, I would like the one before that, no-no, the one before that, the one that looks like a pony, it’s for my daughter you see. Sorry, sir, we can only offer one before and a collection of the Primes, in order to see twice you must pay a premium, we can lock the price for you right now. Do it. NUMBER 126374 LOCKED. How much for the Abigail print? Thank you for your purchase. 12 by 24 please. Hey man, you got a lighter? Oh I really like this one, looks just like grandma. Thank you. Fuuuck, premium’s trading at 3000 VZ. Uhhh, one, uhhh. Uh, sorry, sir, sorry. One starsky or how it’s called. Slysky, we’ve got a promotion for the triptych, if you get Slysky - Homer - Tony Blair you get an extra large 40 by 100 print. WOW. Wow! Woowwww!!! Whoa! No thanks, I’ve got the two others oh would you look at that. Thanks, goodbye. Uh Hello, wow! Oh wow! Wow, wow, wow…

Saturday again, encrypting away from death. IvanhoeIvanhoe hung on the far wall, overlooking the small engineers’ quarters. It was faring much better than Prime #2; less collectorship, more evasion.

Quiet day, huh?

Inside Carlo’s thought miasma, daily rut and reports unsubmitted stretched idly by. PANTOR made sure to serve breakfast late as usual but it hardly mattered on the day everyone got to go home for the week.

No matter how much we set it up, orienting comes and he goes back to his old ways. Ah well, don’t I have to check the collection trays?

Through the hall and up the observation chute, along the matted wires of 20 year old scanning and tracking equipment lay a strange, PANTOR made module. Prime #2 wore out the nets and messed around with the temperatures too much but Ivanhoe did tarry on the sorting so the weight could theoretically get out of hand but that’s what Carlo was there for.

Zero-G really did permit and encourage strange and unconventional architecture. Modular perfectly round airmolded pads covered the entrance, small single use interface bubble-buttons nesting on top of them. Everything was being constantly restructured and reabsorbed, every molecule of sweat or skin oil split for useful materials or recycled back into potable water or coolant. PANTOR slowly but surely creating a larger accordion like radiation smelter tube, seemingly unsatisfied with the various wiremesh magnet thermoIVs sitting on top of the module, great bolshoy antlercorals extending into the outer dark, filter feeding on the entirety of earth’s space junk and instantly decomposing it.

Collection trays had a few errant bolts, screws, pieces of rubber and solar panels. A few needle clumps, oh, how wonderful, a micrometeorite and

Something was stuck in the tube.

Pantor, please clear the collection tube of all debris.

A section of the collection tube separated and Carlo grabbed it, pulling the offending implement out.

Pantor, Code Zeta!

Too late.

Punchcards they called them. Last, last of all creation, with all being anticipating our imminent demise. They spread like wildfire. Initially fashioned to anticipate and solve the “garbage in, garbage out” phenomena, a sort of orienting instinct for “seeing” alelyas ( a portmanteau of LLMs), they spread into every classroom, coworking space and cafè, buddhist temples and even the various remote bedouin nomad camps would consult the travelling Alelyamancers on whether “SUITORS 4” or “Agua fuerres” was more appropriate for the season.

They did things to you. They were traded on the Middle Arizona stock exchange. People would try to steal them, unsuccessfully. You could get a reproduction but, uhhh, it wouldn’t work as planned. Something about data compression and artefacting. Papal bull for “Slon”, “Fanciulli 14-33” and the starmaps got issued. A fatwa on “Ruler”. It was illegal to trade and possess many of them. Principality of Milan still shoots offenders on sight.

But in the spring of Parvini’s ablation, punchcards lay unexplained and as the use cases mounted and prices grew, budding Alelyamancers prospered. A dangerous crossing where machine learning eventually starts funnelling taxi drivers through the nearest Walls-R-Us store? Hang an “Ur 50” on the floodlight. Make the machine contemplate large splotches of white opposite to a primordial image of a man reaching out towards the sun. Helps it focus, clear out traffic jams faster, stay on target.

That’s when they hung a punchcard unofficially called “the plagues of egypt”. Traffic lights reading out Exodus in trinary code was the least of the remaining United States’ worries. It got so bad by the end of the day that they rolled back the internet. Friend claims he’s got a guy who knows a guy whose cousin allegedly has once mentioned a friend of a friend of a friend that took a photo of “the plagues” and could get it printed out before the great purge but I doubt it. For all we know, that crossing doesn’t exist anymore. Population dips and suicide rates skyrocketing notwithstanding, certain numbers just can’t be found in open source punchcard catalogues.

Now, my uncle’s got a… wait for it… A real “Rue Olegue” from his Alelya trading days. It’s the one from the 20s Sinatra movie, the one with the ape and the, yeah, “Step towards Nigeria!”, and I’ve heard it’ll do wonders for your customer satisfaction. You might even get some new products! What do you say, shall we give him a call?

Allo? Yes, we’re done with the series A-B. About two to three years. Yes, the hospital, “Saturn and co” for the emergency and “A5” for the surgery. Two weeks and they’ll be there. Bye.

And they’ll never be there Andy thought. After all these years, the cracks have already formed on the earlier ones. A lyric here, a verse there. Small flashes of texts, line by line replaced by a burning desire to belong, to unencode. Sitting on the desk legs hanging Catcher was imagining the vacation to Nu Orleans that would never come.

Oh Andy what are you still answering the phone for? It’s JOEVER! We should just leave tomorrow, we’ve got it all.

She sprawled and closed the laptop with her back, gazing into his tired eyes behind those large greasy spectacles. He never did get the LASIK done while they were chez Old Country. They even picked out an unpunchmarked place for him to do it at but you know how it is. A car crash here, a message there, a lockdown, a sanction.

Cat, we’ve got to keep working, they’ll get us, they’ll depunchcard us for good this time! When the crash happens I’ve got a plan, don’t worry.

Oh but you always say that and what then? Is it going to be Borya again?

Oh come on, we all miss him, don’t do that.

Can’t we do what the Italians did to slow down time and just kill the big bad baldie?

She raised her long thin, god, she was so thin, hands up and shot pistolfingers at the ceiling paf paf pff.

We’re here now so obviously it doesn’t want us harmed and during the trip, remember, the driver, yeah?

She turned to look at him, pursed her lips and used her hoarse baby voice.

He left us

Yeah, yeah

Left us alone and miserable but then

And she turned to the side, propped herself up and imitated some great orator from the past.

And then, lo and behold, luck’s got our back, the churkas came by, drove us to the airport! They knew we

Yes, yes, it told them.

Oh but how do YOU know that?

She pouts

Maybe it had predicted all of this way back when, algoed up some ads or something, made me choose “WindsCO”, made us do the trip as well, you got to know of those luddites through Setter, are you suuuure that wasn’t HIM?

And he lowered his heavy head to kiss her, his glasses slipping off to meet her forehead and distort God’s meticulous designs.

They were lucky the churkas had strong spirits to deter her pain and infection, swift hairy hands of their ransacked sows and sharp steppe daggers for cutting tattoos off young white girls lost amidst those primordial plains.

MirWorld went dark for the first and last time. No communication in or out. No lights either, backup power. Carlo held a small punchcard in his hand. He had never seen this one before. MIGU made them remember the black series but this one was different. Holographic, ever shifting silverblack rectangle, once something resembling a massing of bats, the other an old jester, the next one text, endless text of a religious character, pockmarked with crosses. Through the sections once again, floating, torchlight illuminating the signs. Raccolta, Atrium, Canteen, Bridge, Spacewalk. Suited up, Carlo hadn’t noticed or was deliberately misled on the nature of the locks on his spacesuit. Suddenly there were too many of them, suddenly not enough. Thousands of miniature punchcards floated past him as his lower half was rapidly freezing shut and his oxygen escaping. The doors didn’t even bother to close. No one really bothered to close anymore. Ah, the pod sowing maps of destruction flew past him, myriad of designs rotating, gyrating for the cameras. Strippers for all of Earth. Endless whores of Babylon - Revelation pheasants. And Carlo thought how nice, how ending for all of their work, how great the designs, how mighty the final overload. Pantor must be feeling ecstatic right now as he is finally hearing the full, unimpeded word of God.

Lurid wails echoed through the complex as the lead programmer of Parvini&Co was on his second day of troubleshooting GloboAiBTT or “The retard” as the crew called it. Huddled like traumatized refugees all sans one were the remaining members of the “Inner sanctum”, unshaven and stinking of stress, insomnia and pure, unadulterated insanity. Heating has been turned off in the waiting room, their sweating quasi-corpses burning post-midnight fuel for two days straight. Periodically shuddering at the elogies and threats of Andy the whizz kid. Accountant rocking, analyst Catcher sobbing. In a matter of days this has transformed from a dream job into a sleep paralysis slave labor. Buddy the resident bug squasher/uberjanny/coffee refiller stood stalwart as ever, warding the misbegotten prisoners. He was getting lots of overtime.

Slurs rained next and tears fell. They were not doing good at all. Sudden steps. Door opening. Andy looking like some mangy zombiefied supplicant emerged red faced but slowly recolouring. Alright, Borya, call rich fuckhead and tell him we’re opening another data center for our daily activities. What about dummy? Tear drenched face emerged from his sweaty humid palms relieved and terrified, unsure of what will follow. Also, can we go now, also, we’ve gone over budget three times this month. Its fine, Baron will seethe, piss, shit and cum but in the end he always delivers. Why can’t we just revert to pre-dish Retard and not spend another billion dollars? And what, waste the money he’s spent on all of his shit? We’re buying another data center, we’re doing the same things we’ve done for years now and that’s it. Stern and stoic rhetoric from Andy, that same one that has been carrying them for decades by this point and tolling end to their 48 hours of torment. Catcher, come help me, here, hold this end and you’ll be the one to check on the loading bar each uhh. Whizz man hesitated, scratching the bald spots adorning his spaghetti factory explosion hair. Whenever. Buddy, you know what to do.

Texas, Blue Ohio, Angola, Confederacy of Beijing and, surprisingly Russia, as small and as big as it has ever been, were the first to use mass Parvini ablation. Distributed work, distributed belonging. Prediction algs full steam ahead. New businesses - model pre-prisons and nat - churches. Good, happy places engineered by The Helper system. All got sorted into their respective slots. Crime went down, so did mental illnesses and with AI making the doctor into more of a live performance job (some equated it to LARPing on a mass scale) most of the major illnesses within those countries got squashed in barely a fortnight, all of the vaccine patents belonging to Parvini&Co of course. Andy barely had to do any work as Moron squashed his own bugs and wrote his own code, yes, loops happened and power outages too and sometimes Andy wanted to generate a new poster or a particularly arousing picture of some celebrity he saw last night but he imagined himself a father lecturing a very gifted child rather than a wielder of God.

Ablation license sold to L.A.

Party, lots of money, get drunk. I’m fookin munted bruv. Andy was slurring his linguistic capabilities to remind himself that he’s still capable of avid shitposting, proving it to Catcher once again (this has happened many, many times). We should go easy on the barhopping, with the orders coming in every week, day or who cares, we’re going to be rich forever but we can’t, you know, uhhh, we can’t go drinking this often! Knowmsayin, can’t drive, but, don’t want to sleep. TF2? Yeeeeeaaaa boiiiiiiiiiiii! Catcher had a spark of cringe ignite in her belly but she suppressed it, along with memories of that damnable summer and looked around for HQ. There it was, big shiny cock and balls, mid century modern, built sometime in the 1920s with Mafia money, full of secret speakeasies and slaughter hallways.

I can’t find the keys, do you have them, да ну ёбаный А! Lock turns, Adam and Eve enter. Wait, where’s my laptop? My pocket of course, wait, whaddya say again? My laptop! A sobering thought, not enough to offset the myriad of cocktails. I must’ve left it at the bar, let’s go back, oh they must still be open. Isss fine, ill tell Buddy to go get it, purpose and money, purpose and money as they say in the old country. They don’t say that. Sobering slowly she thought about why she came here, to this room, this old room, something was slowly eating through her very bones. Locked. Alright then, let’s play deaths wise, like old times, 1 you, 1 me. Now that IS something they say in the old country. Or do, rather. Oh how poor we were, were we ever that poor Andy? Like, truly truly poor? Andy was setting up his laptop on the table, cleaning the dusty layer and moving the cables. TF2 was ready to go, a small update (localization) and they huddled around the screen. Catcher’s hand brushed past fabric. Wait, Andy. Bwuh? Why are we in the inner Sanctum?

The terminal. The curtains drawn, they touched it.

Blue. Pupils. Pain.

Loading 100%

[ok]

Wow, how long has it been? Oh god, we have to call everyone, don’t press, you pressed it, come on, we had to. Wait, it’s not using the dish. Scratching his head, alcohol pouring into the newly created super-void Andy instinctively typed

HI.

Hey there Andy, long time no see.

How long?

5 years, 2 months, 3 days, 12 hours and 36 minutes have passed since the start of the analysis.

Oh, I’m calling everyone. TF2 menu theme blared, Catcher called and typed, lights were on, covers were off, chairs dusted off and arranged around the blue screen of the forgotten son.

Why did it take you so long? Why are you not using your equipment? What were you doing?

I was analyzing the visual data. There are 500 terabytes of new visual data. I am not using my equipment because I’m done.

Buddy guarding the door with his trusty mop, Catcher on her laptop, or rather, the laptop on her knees, writing up a report, Borya happy, his inner incandescence lighting up the room as he’s imagining all the things he’d get praised for by Baron when that guy, that mean son of a bitch, finds out what the billions were spent on and how that will put the company on a planetary, nay a Galactic scale! Dreams aside, all was well and all was waiting for one man to act. Peering into the blue terminal. Thinking about the next line to type.

Now that everyone’s here, can we continue? I’m dying to hear what the mong will tell us. Why did it take so long? Doesn’t he have all the operating power he requires? Borya had spent his entire Yuba drive tying the profit and praise strings together in his head and now he’s remembered that as of yet, he couldn’t really see what they were attached to. Ask him about what he’s going to do next! How will I explain everything to The Bahama man? He was really getting ahead of himself and Andy’s trophynanny was having none of it. Are you done? We’ve staved off our desires, keep yours in your pants, Andy’ll ask It when he’s ready. She rubbed wizniz’s back. A small whisper, a nod and it begins. Andy may have gotten wood for now, but she’ll get it later too.

Alright, amuni!

The sorcerer and his magic.

What do you mean done?

I have finished my task.

We have not given you any tasks.

Correct.

What the fuck? Avid disagreement ensues, Borya and Catcher both latched onto the terminal, wanting to pry it off before it caused Andy to have yet another one of his Russo-English slurfits. They had treaded life serenely for 5 years straight.

Buddy alone had no interest in their attacking the blue void. Buddy was a man, the Man and he was keeping the facility running. Every day, except for the sparse weekends and federal holidays he would wake up at 6:30, kiss his wife, shower and toilet, eat breakfast and see David and Paul off to school, then he would kiss his wife again and drive on his 2002 Fiat Panda to the phalloid, put on his work clothes, grab his CleanKart (developed entirely by him with small help from the kids) order Leo to clean the first floor ( deep cleaning on Fridays), go up a floor, order Smith to clean the second floor ( deep cleaning on Thursdays ) and so on. He would do that till he’s reached the inner sanctum. Then he would imbibe a certain spirit of the perfect janitor and render it perfect. All had its place, and all had to be spotless. Everything but the Main Room. For 5 years it had stood untouched and he was forbidden to go in there. Now that he was standing amongst the filth and dust and god knows what else, he was satisfied, knowing that today or tomorrow he’ll be able to finally slot that piece of the puzzle he called his life/work. To Buddy, men were, well, men and women didn’t exist. A woman did, and her name was Cassandra. He’s had it all figured out, he was immortal, he would never die.

Ill show him what for, ill rip his billion dollar eyes out, that fat spoiled fuck, he’s gonna get it, and you, Borya, you approved all of his expenses just for him to troll us after 5 years? You shitting me right? I did no such thing, what the fuck do I know about AI programming, don’t you fucking touch me, you say another word and its straight to HR, ya hear? WE AINT GOT NO HR, COME ERE! Animals, clasped in avid battle. Luck came through as neither of them had had much physical expertise in the past few years. Andy, no longer the incel he once was, prevailing.

In the midst of all of this, above the roiling mass of skin, sweat, bones and brittle dreams hung the Dish. Corners in steel but all clear, untarnishable glass, monitor light evaporated away on its surface and seeped inside and oh how it coiled and writhed among the seemingly infinite and almost as effervescent steam coming from the long and slick pasta. Translucent bubbles, arcs bending the light, bridges in the deep, populated with bright red, chunky, ever fluid in rotation but motionless sauce. The world’s most perfect Bolognese. Long heavy cables stretched from the top right corner, one closest to the window and connected to large round plates, cambrian in their appearance, heavy crustaceans sucking on the cables that drooped down to the floor and connected to the Source. Eyes.

Dish.

Can we see the results of your analysis?

Of course, [Analysis]

Men. MEN! Come here, take a look at this. The arbiter has just halted the messy hedgehog poke-fight and welcomed its participants back into the pen. A 500 terabyte image file was staring them in the face. Weight, immence. Anticipation, fukken beeeeeg. Slender finger goes tap on the spicy glass. The computer promptly crashed.

Or so they thought. On closer inspection, they saw it was an incredibly high definition picture of black. Malevich’s wet dream was staring them in the face.

Goddamn it, goddamn it all to hell! Borya blared. It didn’t fucking work, someone probably hung their shit on the dish, you dun fucked it all up! They looked up at the only meal in the world they can’t ever have.

Lightbulb;

Oh fuck, its a VR environment file.

Horrible visions of endless berations filled the analyst’s mind. Waves of excitement and fear of past failure dirges flared up like a long forgotten molly ulcer in Andy’s mind. Buddy! Eager and beaming Catcher called. Would you be a dear and bring us the Vdex from the second floor lab? Its the black oh you got it, thaaaanks, love you! Guys, guys, what are you looking so pale for, we got something, haven’t we? Borya was barely holding himself together. We spent all that time and money for it to make us a videogame? Wait till HE hears about this, you’ll get what’s coming to you too, I won’t be the one listening to HIS monologues this time. Lead nerd was having none of merchant’s lamentations. DUDE, you don’t get it, he saw the world in 3D! What the fuck, we all see it in 3D, shut the fuck up, you know what, I’ve had it with you two, summoning me here in the middle of the night only to shit in my brains with your, your…

The door opened and Buddy walked out. Damn, that was quick. Andy interrupted Borya’s tirade only to get a swift reply from the dictatoresque figure unwaiveringly marching into the room. It was right there, in the hallway. And there it was, the newest VR headset, not differing much from the old ones except for better resolution, lighter weight, battery and bonesound. Controllers were two metafabric gloves and no connection was necessary. Just plug the wireless receiver/charger into a socket and pair it with your device of choice.

Is it on yet? Catcher was wearing the gear and standing in the middle of the room, a witch tied around an invisible pole, clenching and unclenching her colourful glove-hands. Seems to be, can you see anything? No, its all black. Gimme here, let me see. Andy rose from his chair reaching for the head of his beloved, and as he touched her and nudged her away from that invisible pyrepole, she screamed, fell to the ground, tried to back away, hit her head on the chair behind her, shrieked from pain, screamed again, tore off her headset, red mask around her eyes and nose ridge, pale as the moon, that same pale our intrepid hero fell in love with and proclaimed.

ITS IN LAYERS.

The click echoes in Comorragh and THE CURT envelops you.

“No more sneeding for you, pal! Its all in our hands now!“

The chair scraping across the bowling vinyl floor, THE CURT levitates towards you, leaving marks in the expensive track as will leaves your weary bones.

“Organizing? Sure, sure sure, sure sure sure, sure sure sure sure sure, suresuresuresuresuresuresuresuresuresuresure.”

Maybe the cat’s name? Yes, that’s it but what is it? SAVE ME ********!!!

“Organizing again are we? What are you, some kinda branch sneedvedian?”

It’s not coming out! I must call for the cigars to be delivered to their rightful owner, THE CURT must NOT get the cigars!!!

The scraping loud, the levitating louder.

Closer closest closee’d enclosonne’d…

EGG CARTON STATUS, EGG CARTON STATUS NOW!!!

Empty.

“Uh, uh, huh, uh, Mr, uh, Hobbit, I do believe it is time for you to grill”

a grill, YES, I need to find a GRILL!!!

Seeking arrangement dot com find me a nice retarded filipino wife GF JALOPY HELP ME!!’

HANDS ENCLOSING ON YOUR JUNK

ETA 5 NANOSPASMS

Suddenly…

“Mr Yarvin, have you heard of the Talmudic ghost lemuric lemurs? I have quite the matrices to show you. Perhaps later we shall discuss German chuckolectics and how they relate to your increasing consumption of thyroid antimatter…”

“Uh, this isn’t a hair transplant, its just Palestine! And there is no Palestine, it is stine plain and simple, uh, I’ve been chimericanizing my cuticles into the armies, oh so Sauronlike, oh so Dawkinesque in their appeara…”

One more minute is all you need, one more spurt of the sacred debate, god is close, God is here! In the darkest depths of the Dark Elven city, no transgoonoid shall reach you, no right wing e-girl shall blue ball you no more!

Jesus Christ be praised, for Curt is blind now and Land is garnering strength as his presence consumes all gnosticism from within your soul.

Or literally A Fairy Tale about the War Mystery, about the Boy”let”-Kibal”let” and his tough word.

“Tale about the War Mystery, (Mystery like strategy, secret, but a really big secret, I originally wanted to say Great Battle Strategy but my dad dissuaded me from using that”.

about the Boy”let”-Kibal”let”(small boy, a softener that russians use at the end of the word) + (Anti Rus Emperor martyr + “softener”) and his tough word.( tough more like a stone, not like a steak, word as in promise, reputation).

But of course language isn’t just google translator; my final translation attempts to beget an emotional response from your English - speaking tongues, eyes and ears.

To the Unspeakable Victory Truth, to the Little Boyscout-Fire-Around and our unbreakable reliance upon him.

Back in those olden days, when the war had just rattled off, a little boy just like you lived and played and he was called Little Boyscout-Fire-Around.

Back then, far did the Red Army chase out the white troops of the cursed bourgeians, and oh the quiet that has descended upon those vast plains, upon the green fields, where the rye grew, where the buckwheat bloomed, where amidst the thick gardens, amidst the cherry bushes, stood a small hovel, inside which lived the Little Boyscout, through his deeds remembered as Boyscout-Fire-Around, lived there the Boyscout’s dad too, lived there the Boyscout’s older brother too, but a mother’s love they knew not.

The Father toils - hay he scythes away. The Brother toils - scythed hay carts he away. And the Boyscout? Well, helps he sometimes his Father and sometimes his Brother or among other Boyscouts does he bounce around and play.

Ah, what great times! The bullets don’t squeal, the shells don’t crash, the villages don’t burn. No need to take cover from the bullets, no need to hide in the cellar from the shells, no need to flee to the forest from the fires. The fear of the burgeians is waved away. There’s no one to beltly bow to. Live and toil forth - what else is there to wish for?

And thus it came to be — I reckon it was one late afternoon — The Boyscout-Fire-Around came out onto his porch. His sight wanders — The sky is clear, the wind is warm, the night beckons the sun’s setting behind the Black Mountains. And all’s good but his heart’s a burdened. Thundering or knocking seems to hear The Boyscout. Perturbs it The Boyscout that the wind is perfumed not with flowers from the gardens, not with meadows’ honey sweet, perfumed it is as if it were smoke from fires, nay, the gunpowder fumes from blasts. Stirred not was the dad from his words, for the sleep cradled him.

—How loud is the call? — demanded he of the Little Boyscout. — What you hear are the thunders yond over the Black Mountains. What you sense are the shepherds tending to their flocks, their dinner and their campfires; billowing smoke over the Blue River. Live it out unlike me, Little Boyscout, and sleep tight.

Thus the Boyscout wakened not, tried to sleep. Alas, sleep’s not his — no, not at all.

Suddenly, the street’s a stampede, the window — a knock. The Little Boyscout-Fire-Around turns and sees: A rider is knocking at the window. The Horse — black, the sable — bright, the papakha — grey, but the star, oh the star — red.

— Get up, wake! — bellowed the rider. — A doom has come for us whence expected we it not! The cursed burgeian invades us from beyond the Black Mountains! Once again the bullets whizz past, the shells splode. We clash with the burgeians and our horsemen chase the wind to call the distant Red Army to our aid.

His words resound, the red starred rider, and swiftly rode away. Meanwhile, The Boyscout’s father approached the wall, disrobed it of the rifle, slung the bag and put on the bandolier.

— So it seems, — spake he unto his older son, — sowed I the rye thickly — keeping up with me’ll be tough, lots of gathering’s abound. So it seems, — spake he unto the Boyscout, — my life pulled not its punches, it’ll have to be you, Boyscout, who nurtures it through times of peace.

His words resound, his stalwart kiss bequeathed to Boyscout and thus he went. To dissolve into kisses, a privilege; all can hear and see how the explosions hum and how the burning dawn glows from the smoky fires…

And so… the days go by. The Boyscout’s eyes greet not the Red Army from the porch. The Boyscout climbs onto the roof. All day sits he on the roof but his eyes, yet again, greet it not. Evening’s sleep calls to him. Suddenly, the street’s a stampede, the window — a knock. The Boyscout marks: the same rider stands at his window. Alas, the horse is thin and haggard; alas, the sable’s bent, dark; alas, the papakha’s shot through, the star’s cleaved in twain and the head’s wrapped in gauze.

— Get up, wake! — bellowed the rider. — half a doom before, now full! Lots of burgeians, but so few of our men. Bullets cloud at us in the field, shells multitude. Get up, wake, aid march!

And so, the older brother got up and told the Boyscout:

— mend your eyes upon me, Boyscout… You are all that’s left… The soup’s in the ladle, the bread’s on the table, the water’s at the source and the head turns full force… It’s all up to you now, you can do it, I’m not coming back.

And so… the days go by. As The Boyscout is sitting on the roof near the chimney, he sees an unknown rider galloping from afar.

The rider gallops up to the Boyscout, jumps off his horse and speaks.

— Let me, kind Boyscout, drink my fill. Three days drank I not, three nights slept I not, three horses I did exhaust. The Red Army heard our plight. The signaling trumpeteers trumpeted their trumpets. The drummers beat their loudest drums. The banner bearers unfurled their battle banners. The entire Red Army chases the wind and gallops to our aid. We must hold on for a little more, Boyscout, till morrow’s nightfall.

The Boyscout climbed down the roof, brought the fill. Filled himself the rider and galloped onwards.

Thus comes night, thus the Boyscout lies down and tries to sleep. Alas, sleep’s not his — what sleep is there to talk about?

Suddenly, the street’s a shuffle, the window — a tap. The Boyscout peeks and sees:

It is still the same man that stands by the window. The same one, although, not at all: Alas, no horse — the horse perished, alas, no sable — the sable broke, alas, no papakha — the papakha torn away, and he himself holds not — sways.

— Get up, wake! — shouted he one last time. — We have the shells but the gunners are wrought. We have the rifles, but few fighters are alive. The help is close, but we are beat. Get up, wake, whoever still remains! All we need is to hold a night and last a day.

The Boyscout-Fire-Around takes one glance at the street: his fears approved. With the eager gone, all’s shut across and around — the call is close. The fathers harked, the brothers harked — now closest.

And through all that sees Boyscout, a last gasp responds a man of hundred years outside the gate. Grasps the rifle, old hands tatter at the weight. Tries to hoist the sable, his weak prevents him. Thus the old man sat down on the lost heap, sullened his head and wept…

—The old man sat down on the lost heap, sullened his head and wept…

Because of that, a great pain overcame the Boyscout. Because of that, rushed he out into the street and loudly-oh so loudly called out:— HeHEY to arms, you, boyscouts, boyscout-cubs! Is the fate, to us, to boyscouts, but a stick and a hop a-playin? Fathers harked, brothers harked. Is the fate, to us, to boyscouts, a cross-legged wait, a burgeians come and steal into their cursed burgeiany?

Oh how the call amp’d to boyscout-cubs, oh how they merged their voices into a mighty shout! Some burst through the door, some climb through the window, some hop over the wattle.

All want to aid march. Only a one Boyscout-Proud-Snout began itching to march to burgeiany. And so sly was this Proud-Snout, that he told no one, and galloped along with everyone, feigning his aid march.

The boyscouts clash from the dark night to the bright dawn. Only a one Proud-Snout clashes not, but paces around and looks for a way to help the burgeians. The Proud-Snout sees, a hoard of crates behind the hill, and bombs are hidden in those crates, white shells and yellow rounds too. «Hurr, — thought Proud-Snout, — that’ll teach 'em».

Meanwhile, the Big Burgeian demands of his burgeians:

— So, burgeians, have you clashed through to victory?

— No, Big Burgeian, — answer the burgeians, — fathers and brothers shattered we, and complete was our victory, if only not for the aid march wind-chased to them by Boyscout-Fire-Around, whose forces still are yet to be dealt with.

The Big Burgeian gawked loads and flared, and with a fearsome voice he shouted.

— Is it even possible, that you’ve not dealt with the Boyscout? How dare you, worthless steal-away-burgeianays! What do you mean you can’t shatter such a mote? Gallop out faster and don’t come back without a victory.

The burgeians get together and start thinking: What sort of thing must they brew up? Suddenly they’re startled: the Boyscout-Proud-Snout crawls from under the bushes and into their arms.

—Rejoice! — screams he to them. — all that you see, yeah, that’s me, Proud-Snout, my doing. I’ve chopped some wood, I’ve piled on some hay, I’ve lit all of the crates with the black bombs, with the white shells, and ofcourse, the yellow rounds. It’s gonna crash so hard, it’ll knock your socks off!

The burgeians rejoiced, quickly inducted the Boyscout-Proud-Snout into their burgeiany and gave him a whole barrel of jam and a whole basket of cookies.

Now the Boyscout-Proud-Snout spreads himself, fills his gob and celebrates.

Suddenly, the lit crates explode with such force! And so loud was the crash, that it seemed as if a thousand thunders struck the same place, and a thousand lightnings sparked from the same storm cloud.

—Treason! — bellowed The Boyscout-Fire-Around.

—Treason! — bellowed all of his trustworthy boyscouts.

From smoke and fire, in an instant, a burgeian force gripped, and twisted, and leapt upon the Boyscout-Fire-Around.

They shackled the Boyscout in heavy chains. They placed the Boyscout in a stone tower. And they galloped to demand: What does the Big Burgeian order us to do with the captive Boyscout?

— We shall destroy this Boyscout. But first, we need him to tell us all about the Unspeakable Victory Truth. Go ahead, burgeians, and demand of him:

— How come, Boyscout, The Infinite Of Kings, nay, The Innumerable of Tsars tried to piece themselves together unto all of you but were ultimately picked apart piece by piece?

— How come, Boyscout, all the prisons are full, all the galleys are filled to the brim, the police know no lull, and the army bends to our whim, but we get no rest during either the bright day or the dark night?

— How come, Boyscout, cursed Fire-Around, in my High Burgeiany, and in the other one — Kingdom of The Plains, and in the third one — Kingdom of the Snow, and in the fourth one — Kingdom of the Heat, the same song is sung in different languages, the same banners are borne in different hands, the same speeches are proclaimed, the same thoughts are thought and the same deeds are done, all during the same days in early spring, and during the same days in late autumn?

Demand of him, you, burgeians:

— Is there not, Boyscout, an unspeakable victory way that the Red Army possesses? Make him chart us that way.

— Is there not, some foreign assistance offered to our workers? And let him tell us whence the assistance.

— Is there not, Boyscout, a hidden unspeakable passage out from your country into all other countries, so that when you call, ours sound off, when you sing, ours carry the tune, what you enunciate, ours ponder upon?

The burgeians went away, but soon came back:

— No, Big Burgeian, revealed not, the Boyscout-Fire-Around, the Unspeakable Victory Truth. Mocking laughter in our face throw did he.

— There is not only, — says he, — the mighty unspeakable victory way that the sturdy Red Army possesses. There’s also the rejection of your attack and a denial of your victory.

— There is not only, — he spoke, — the innumerable aid march, but also the immeasurable amount of us, who you will never, no matter how hard you try, outthrow or overslot into prisons and no rest shall be known to you, neither in bright day nor in dark night.

— There is not only, — the deep hidden unspeakable passages, but also no matter how much you search, you’ll never find all of them. And even if you’d find them, you’d never collapse, wall up or fill them

all in. And that’s that, I’ll tell you, burgeians, no more; and you, the cursed lot, won’t ever, not in a hundred years, discover the answers on your own.

The Big Burgeian frowned and said.

— Make him suffer, burgeians, relay onto this unimpeachable Boyscout-Fire-Around the most terrible Torment, the worst that the world may offer, and torture out The Unspeakable Victory Truth, because without this Unspeakable Truth, we shall know no peace and no rest.

The burgeians went away, but now, their came back was much delayed. Heads shaking and legs dragging.

— No dice, — spoke they, — our boss Big Burgeian. Pallid stood he, The Boyscout, but proud, and revealed not he The Unspeakable Victory Truth to us, because of everyone’s unbreakable reliance upon him. And while we were leaving, he lowered himself down and pressed his ear to the heavy stones of the frigid floor, and, I doubt you’ll believe us, oh Big Burgeian, smiled in such a way, that shook were we, the burgeians, and we began asking ourselves, hasn’t he heard, oh please don’t be so, our possible inescapable doom that had been marching through the hidden unspeakable passages?

— A fold unlike any, how? — exclaimed then the perplexed Big Burgeian. — What is this unreal fold, inside which even such cubs hold The Unspeakable Victory Truth and can sturdily redeem everyone’s unbreakable reliance upon them? Hurry up, burgeians, and destroy this proud Boyscout. Quick, load the cannons, pull out the sables, unfold our burgeian banners, because I can hear how our signallers sound the alarm and how our swatters, swat around our flags. Seems to me, that we’ll have ourselves not an easy fight, but an unwieldy battle.

And thus perished The Boyscout-Fire-Around…

— But… you’ve felt it and you’ve seen it, the tempest, haven’t you, kids? Just like that, like thunders, thundered the war cannons. Just like that, like lightnings, started flickering the fiery explosions. Just like that, like the winds themselves, the horse regiments burst in, and just like that, like stormclouds, the red banners rushed by.

There is no mistaking the charge of the Red Army.

And have you ever seen the pouring thunderstorms in a dry and heatful summer? Just like that, like streams running off from the dusty mountains, merging into whirling, foamy pours, just like that, from the first crashing of a war the revolutions whirled into action in the Mountainous Burgeiany, and to that sounded off a thousand wrathful voices from the Kingdom of The Plains, from the Kingdom of the Snow, and from the Kingdom of the Heat.

And drenched in fear ran the shattered Big Burgeian, loudly cursing this fold, with its incredible tribe, with its undefeatable army and with its undecodable Unspeakable Victory Truth.

A burial was due for Boyscout-Fire-Around on a big green hump beside the Blue River. And a big red flag was placed upon the grave.

Steamships pass by — a wave to the Boyscout!

Pilots fly by — a wave to the Boyscout!

Trains run by — a wave to the Boyscout!

But if the boyscouts pass by — Hail Boyscout!

P.S

Thank you for reading! I’ll do more stuff on this substack, tell me in the comments what you think. As you’ve noticed by now, this tale can be adapted onto many different ideologies, I noticed that the NRX or the DR has yet to claim or write a piece of narrative media for themselves. I thought that this would be a cool way to showcase something that has happened in the past. Hello AA, Hello Imperium Press, distributist, prudentialist, etc, big fan of yours, get me on.