Gold blocks line the bunkers, gold bar bathrooms under the sand. Kuwaiti millions in slush funds, off shore accessed via back doors, ventriloquist dummy manager who acquiesces to the accountant’s magic tune, pipers piping the smoke down funnels into the foxholes. The tiling exquisite down beneath the clinical sand in the myopic desert, the atoms align beautifully, crystal diamond rings encased in the network beneath the sand. The bunkers are legion, get me into the bunker so I can see the abundance, what didn’t make it to Dubai, ready for transit I demand my share.
Pinpoint precision laser guided targeting can hit the duct system that lies above, the strata just beneath the glazed suffocating sand. Air-conditioning, radioactive filters, power supplies, brought in from Japan. They have been prepared since big boy, but big boy bounces back. Lockheed have assessed the capabilities, F117A, just a footnote now, the shaping of the fuselage bouncing radar signals. Sortie’s over the sand flying so low you could see the sand flying beneath. A travelator of diamonds at speed, with the light of the moon from the heavens bouncing off the crystal diamonds, infinite with the bunkers beneath. The pilots know that the shell could tear, depressurize and instant eject, the risk they take for the mission, to fly at the pinnacle.
Fly boy in a fly by so bye bye as they die, the fire and the fury, impotent victims staring up into the sky as the potency of a god is manifested to them. Slicing through the solar radiation, the radio signals are muted.
The network beneath is like a slowly mapped dungeon, grid paper and a twenty sided die. Propped up cards representing heroic avatars, twisted to form the faces of post conflict contractors and PMC hard cases some of them Falklands, some of them Belfast, some of them Bosnia. Their statistics are mapped and correlated and projections are made, targets are set and budgets are allocated and the network breathes a life of its own. Beneath the sand, the diamonds of the ocean laid bare for the network to flagellate within.
Why this preposterous endurance test? I have lain bare my propositions and thrash around before you yet I know what you think, barren child of crushing myopia. Irrepressible focus of a fractured mind, yet self pitying. Without consequence there is no causality. Anonymity affords me a power that makes my arguments void, my claims to veracity vacuous, is that is what you make of my tumbling down tattered text?
Track me. Ping me. See my IP rebound, bass vibrations from a Bowie record, track the numbers do an overlay see if the synchronicity surprises you. What can I say but that you must follow my pledges, in amongst the data the truth will out. Look at the picture, the integration of pathways and see my face staring back at you.
