Z-anon-sensei Speaks #99
“99 bottles of beer on the wall…” anon
Z-anon-sensei says: The constant urge to return to what we think is “normal” but is really “the past” causes us to be unable to adapt to what we refer to as “the future”, which is really the present. There is no more normal. And no going back. We must change or perish as a nation.
Fatuo Asole was already sick of Portland, just two weeks in, already sick of fockin’ hipsters with leaf blowers and plastic shields painted up in faggot rainbow bs colors. Hell, he can’t even tell the dudes from the chicks around here. How’s he s’posed to know who to feel up when he’s holding them down on the concrete? He’s sick of the b-grade Marriott food and the repetitive b-grade porn on the tube and he’s sick of shooting little pepper balls that barely leave a mark. Fockin’ lootenant took the rubber-bullet gun away from him after he spent one night just popping the eyes out of gas masks, sending at least three protesters to the hospital with serious eye socket injuries. He’d won the shooting pool against PPD that night, but now all the brass will give him is the lousy pea-shooter to use. He still had his sidearm, but the last ^goonie that pulled one got sent all the way home with a pink slip from top ^swampwater brass. Asole didn’t have a home to get sent to, and the ^swampwater money was real money, not like being in the Army, so he was keeping his holster snapped. But the rubber billy club and pepper popgun just wasn’t really quenching his growing bloodthirst. He needed a real drink.
So Asole walked down to the medic’s room at the end of the hall Marriott was leasing to DHS, and knocked, loudly. Some faint moaning cut off abruptly and a few seconds later the medic opened the door. “After hours,” he said, looking Asole over without letting him in. “It’s my arm, doc,” Asole said, “Sprained it club-whacking that last hippie we took down. Getting worse.” “Don’t move, Asole,” the medic said, and closed the door. A minute later he re-opened it and handed Asole a small bottle of pills and a slip of paper. “Injury in the line of” Doc muttered, “Three days paid. Don’t thank me.” And that’s how Asole got added to the list of “injured” ^goonies sent out to the press the next day. And how he ended up on the streets of Portland in his civvies.
Z-anon-sensei laughs at the term “conspiracy theory”. They say the term is a ^mythmeme conjured up by ^darkpower’s ^poetwizards as a masking spell to cover up their own very real conspiracies. Discredit “conspiracy theories” in general, and it’s easy to discredit anyone investigating your schemes. There is a whole field of study of information warfare, with enough scientific formulas to please the mathematicians and enough linguistic art to please the poets. By heightening the signal to noise ratio, blurring background with foreground, adding confusion to cloud the pattern inside the chaos, ^darkpower throws a teargas smokeshield of misinformation up to hide its movements. And all of that is only on the metonymic level.
The real action happens at the metaphoric level.
The widely spreading belief that Chard Wolfe’s DHS ^goonies are largely composed of ^swampwater mercs— some fresh off tours in Iraq and ‘Ghani— is being labeled “conspiracy theory” by ^darkpower minions in the press, the worn ^mythmeme put to its familiar work of hiding the facts. But that doesn’t make the facts less true.
Blake Steele is a top advisor to DHS tempsec Chard Wolfe-at-the-door, without any official title but with daily access and full security clearance. Steele basically writes all the words Wolfe-at-the-door uses in his interviews and public appearances. You could say that Steele is actually Wolfe-at-the-door’s author, his creator, even— dare we suggest it— his God.
Steel is shaping for America the public character of this man who, without that shaping, would be little more than a cringing pile of fears and unfulfilled sexual fantasies. Without Steele, Wolfe-at-the-door is just another little piggy. And even through the veils of his ego and fear, Wolfe senses this and resents it deeply. Over the next few months, Blake Steele is poised to become the most powerful man in America that no one has ever heard of.