Abortion

We live in a time of expressing opinions. On the wave of penetration of virtuality in these regions - everyone has an opinion about everything and anything, even about things they know nothing about. Having an opinion based on rational reasoning, scientific/empirical evidence or logic is a heavy luxury today, because the masses do not have time to read and base their opinions on good information. There is also the education system that destroys young brains faster than Encephalitis. In the absence of time or desire, an opinion becomes a bitch, a slob, a sidewalk that gives in to the first emotion or the first instinct that comes from the R-complex or the Amygdala.

Although abortion is not something I would have a defined opinion about, I can still afford at least a simple rant on that topic, due to the simple fact that I am not a woman. The problem of responsibility is a problem of today. Especially in conditions when the fifth horseman of the apocalypse is riding around - capitalism. Abortion as the ultimate form of contraception is one of the more extreme manifestations, but it is all just one piece in the mosaic of consumerism and the impact it has on people.

What do I know... if there is something that can be a symbol of ambivalence, then it is abortion. Despite the fact that the development of the fetus physically depends entirely on the mother, the fetus can also be qualified as a separate entity even though it is part of her body. Continuing the pregnancy will result in a new human being. Here, the definition of how long the fetus is `humanized` or whether and how much it feels pain is irrelevant. The act of abortion prevents the birth of a new life. Extremely banal, but logically irrefutable.

Far from being `murder` as religious fanatics trumpet, because murder is the active violent extinction of an already existing human life. Although abortion is far from murder, it is still about preventing the possibility of the emergence of a human being. On the other hand, contraception is also about preventing the possibility of the emergence of a new being.

Although ejaculation itself inside in no way guarantees a conception, at least there is a chance. To conceive a new life. This does not mean that fertilization has automatically occurred, but in order to score a goal, a kick must be taken. The very dead end built of Latex in which spermatozoa end their journey to the goal - prevents the possibility of the emergence of a new life. Sperm together with the egg cell have no other purpose under the heavens, except that they provide an opportunity to create a new life.

The act of contraception prevents that possibility. Therefore, it is logically inconsistent to insist only on the prohibition of abortion. The Catholic Church, blessed be Thomas Aquinas is consistent because it is against contraception. Then again...and raising nine kids is fucked up in itself. For a two-hundred-euro woman to raise more than three kids these days without crippling them with Oliver Twist syndrome for life is impossible. Is nonexistence better than a painful and miserable existence? A disgusting and hideous dilemma that symbolizes the aforementioned ambivalence around the issue of abortion.

(Roger Mortis, 116)

Repent !

Following the example of their colleagues from officially recognized religious organizations - the leaders of religious sects around the world usually live by the motto `do as i say, don`t do as i do`. This is most often manifested in relation to material wealth, for which the sectarian doctrine preaches modesty and even complete rejection of the `diabolical` material world. What is true of `suffering` does not apply to the leaders, who, for their part, give themselves over to earthly pleasures to the fullest.

Last year, the world media reported on the sinking of the ferry `Sevol`, en route between the South Korean ports of Incheon and Jeju, in which 304 passengers and crew members drowned. The investigation into the causes of the tragedy quickly led to the parent company `Chong Hae Jin Marine`, which owned the ship, and behind that company, which sank into a maze of proxies and front companies in order to mask the real owners, was a sect, or rather an unusually talented character named Byung Un Yo, a priest of the Gu Won Pa sect (Salvation Sect), which was a faction of the Korean Evangelical Baptist Church, one of the various Protestant denominations that dominated among the numerous Christians in the south of the peninsula.

As the investigation and trial revealed - Mr. Yo and his sect in whose clutches the company was - worked to minimize the cost and maximize the profit, not exactly in accordance with biblical tradition but completely in accordance with the capitalist gospel. Cutting all possible expenses in terms of ship security and control, hiring dubious crews and officers from the very bottom of the maritime profession and regularly reloading ships with cargo - the tragedy simply had to happen one day. And it did on April 16, 2014. But it was only an ominous echo, a belated rumble of another tragedy, which was the little-known mass suicide of sectarians from the ``Salvation Sect`` in 1987.

Unlike the widely famous mass suicides of sectarians such as the incredible case in Jonestown in 1978 or that of ``Heaven's Gate`` in 1997 - the Korean sectarians inclined to leave this world would have remained on the margins of memory if the tragedy with the ``Sevol`` ship had not happened. And she reminded the superstitious of the event of August 29, 1987, when 32 members of the sect took their own lives with the help of an unidentified poison at the Odeyang factory in the suburbs of Seoul. Led by Sun Ja Park, a forty-eight-year-old high-ranking member of the sect and mother of three children (who would also poison themselves) - a group of sect members gathered in anticipation of the Day of Judgment. Classical Christian dogma speaks of a great taboo regarding suicide that leads directly to the cauldrons of hell. It also speaks of the value of repentance.

But the sect members somehow mixed these two concepts, as only fanatical sects can do - and concluded that repentance is impossible without suffering. And is there any greater suffering than suicide? The need for repentance was intensified by the increasingly frequent financial sins of Mrs. Park and her most loyal followers. Involved in a series of money laundering, misuse of investor funds, and similar scams, they were often the target of the authorities and, oh my, of enraged deceived individuals demanding their money back. Physical attacks were frequent, and the media also joined in the fray. Exposed to great pressure, the sect members projected their own fear onto the entire world, which is not an uncommon occurrence among brainwashed individuals.

There was only one way out. Repentance and redemption through death. Sun Ja Park gathered her most loyal followers, distributed poison to them, and watched them end up in convulsions and foaming at the mouth before doing the same herself. Later, rumors emerged that it was a murder, that uber-leader Byung Un Yo poisoned the sect members out of fear that they would "sing" to the authorities and that this would mean the end of their millions in income and thus the end of the sect itself. The official reports of the investigative branches concluded that it was still a case of suicide, although this did not mean that Yo was free from suspicion because in the following years he was a frequent target of investigation, and was even arrested in 1991, but this did not lead to long-term results and Yo was released after a short time...

The elusive Yoo re-entered the public spotlight in 2014, following the sinking of the Sewol. A warrant was issued for his arrest, and various buildings and offices linked to the many companies owned by the sect were searched. Yoo was never arrested for faking his alleged death. Namely, police found a body in an advanced stage of decomposition some 300 km south of Seoul in July 2014. Preliminary DNA tests yielded results that suggested that it was Yoo. The manner in which the maniac allegedly died has not been determined because the condition of the remains did not allow for this.

Immediately after the sinking, hundreds of sectarians protested in Seoul, while others declared publicly that Yoo would simply sink into the sect's web and that the authorities would never catch him. Although the authorities announced that helping Yo would mean many years in prison - this did not stop the sect members from announcing that they would help their leader escape and that they would never reveal his refuge. The arrest of several sect members on suspicion of helping Yo escape did not yield results...If we take into account that Yo and his sect had hundreds of millions of dollars, good connections in Korean society and a network of more than 100,000 sect members in several countries - fanatically ready to hide him from persecution, then it is not difficult to assume that the sect leader-swindler-money launderer managed to remain unpunished.

It would be great if such a religious psychopath with pronounced greedy tendencies really ended up as an unrecognizable corpse, killed by a real-life Dexter Morgan who decided to take revenge for the injustices. But reality is incompatible with television scenarios, and psychopaths are resilient, at least as resilient as a cockroach...

(Roger Mortis, 115)

Uniforms

Man as a social being is inclined to strive to be positively valued by his environment, closer or wider.

The problem arises when he uses force to achieve this. Is Usain Bolt respected among athletes? Yes, probably by many, if not all. Some envy him, some are jealous of him, some would even do him harm. But most would give anything to be in his place. But that respect is gained by deeds. Because he leaves his competitors behind him after 20 meters in a 200-meter race. What can you say?

Young guys dream of becoming like him, they train, they try, why not? He has not harmed anyone, he has not forced anyone to respect him. He is not an assistant professor of sprinting or a master of relay races. There is no decree. There are deeds.

But on the other hand, here is strength, it is easier that way. A cop who expects respect because of his uniform and fluorescent vest. Some character who is an advisor to the advisor to the assistant to the deputy of the mayor's coffee cook. Uniform. A Chinese suit and a bright green bow tie. In search of respect. No bullshit.

The doctor. The professor. The teacher. The priest. Everyone wants to gain validation through force. Okay, the priest maybe through a suspended sentence. And the title is just a glorified uniform.

Over time, people stop being Trajce, Stavre and even Blerim, they become moving uniforms. Because without a uniform they are one big nothing. Those who cannot command respect through some natural course of things, with their actions - rely on force, on the law, on the vertical, on coercion. From the teacher in some godforsaken hole to the SS man with a rifle pointed at some Yevgeny or Shlomo. Not because they have any qualities that would be worthy of respect, but because they have a mechanism for coercion, from an ordinary pen to a bullet.

Of course, not even remotely all uniformed people are empty shells. But exceptions are extremely rare and do not have a significant impact on the general picture. It cannot be denied that a uniform significantly facilitates life in every sense. Suddenly, a man in uniform feels accepted. Even loved by heaven. Although this ``love`` is woven into the uniform and not into the flesh-and-blood creature who wears it. He remains just as insignificant as before he put on the uniform. A fairly precise dissection of this phenomenon can be found in the wonderful Chekhov, two short stories, ``Death of a Clerk`` and ``The Fat and the Thin``. I recommend reading them, they are a few pages each anyway, so laziness should not be an obstacle.

Chekhov, unlike some of his contemporaries, was the essence of conciseness.

(Roger Mortis, 114)

Shit in Paris vs. Shit in Rwanda

The phenomenon of verbal or virtual expressions of empathy of certain population in connection with the somewhat recent `shit in France` is interesting.

There is nothing wrong with empathy, on the contrary - but it is always reserved for groups that people consider close or at least have a serious delusion that they are close to them. And there is nothing wrong with that in itself, but it should be avoided if possible. The local masses of people can identify with a random population that died at a concert in Paris, because they sometimes go to concerts themselves, or with those who died in a cafe because they often go to cafes, or with those killed in front of a stadium because it is assumed that they go to matches of the local football team.

Because Jeanne and Michel who died at a concert are somehow similar, almost ours, with a slight shift in the parameters they could also have been Stanko and Biljana in Prilep. All of this seems recognizable, alien but ours, a common (or at least aspired to) social dynamic that is disrupted by bearded maniacs who come from hell. Some people may even perceive the situation as a personal insult, an attack on `their` values.

But the reality is bleak and harsh, the local crowd goes to concerts and matches less than the French crowd, purely for the sake of living standard, sit on bare cement in a half-destroyed stand or goes to the cinema with torn seats and a projector manufactured during Tito's time. Similar to a fan of a club from...Lebanon. And all of this is fine, the standard of living should not be a measure when expressing empathy.

The problem is that people want to perceive themselves as part of Western civilization. And the poor people do not realize that they are not. The West does not consider you as an integral part of itself and will never consider you. Ever since the Krajina War, you will always be the Border between the `bright` West and the `dark` East. The Western paradise does not consider the southeastern paradise `its`. Until yesterday, there was a visa ghetto for you. And today there is Schengen. It exists because of you. And they will not empathize with you under similar conditions. Just as they did not empathize much during Vukovar, Ovčara, Knin, Sarajevo or 2001. You will never find yourself on their front pages, no matter how many people die. Or possibly if so many victims die that it would be inconvenient for them not to put you on the front page. Like Srebrenica, let's say.

The terms Ausländer, Jugo, Eastman, Vogue, Balkan - are an integral part of everyday Western vocabulary. A little more than Sand-Niger but much less than Belgian. But that doesn't mean that we shouldn't express sympathy for a tragedy in the West, on the contrary, we should. However, I will mention again, we shouldn't shy away...Empathy should be distributed to all innocent victims on the planet. Since if there is a gradation of the significance of the victims - then it is not empathy but only an expression of the stated desire to belong somewhere, to experience oneself as part of something, in this case Western culture. Or civilization, if that word is more dear to you.

With a child from Congo who dies at the age of 14, blacking out in a mine, no one intends to identify, empathize or even understand him because that child is foreign, unrecognizable, there are no patterns in the brain that would lead to empathy. Here, at the age of 14, a child goes to the eighth grade, likes a girl, plays games, throws a basketball, sleeps in a children's room a.k.a. all those things that a child from Congo doesn't have. Here, no one goes to a mine on 14 so there is nothing to empathize with.

Just like the myth about the Indians who supposedly could not see the Spanish ships when they approached some Mesoamerican coast, not because of myopia but because they did not have a pattern in their minds that such a thing as a ship could exist. Or death from a thermobaric bomb. Or from a grenade. In Syria. Everyday life. But the thermobaric bomb and its effect on people is an abstract, alien, unknowable thing - hence one cannot suffer from virtual/verbal empathy or concern about `some`...Sand-niggers there.

The fact that, in terms of civilization, the citizens of the Republic of Hunzistan are much closer to the Middle East than to the West is an unpleasant fact that needs to be covered up with some new mythology, with Nietzsche Macedon or Kirche Lazaroff.

Because you are sincerely looking forward to a bowl of fried food like you eat in Beirut, not a baguette. Because you are corrupt to the core and have semi-functional societies like theirs. Because your cities resemble landfills like theirs. Because your traffic culture is far more similar to that of Istanbul than to that of The Hague. Because...beer before cooperation. Because four recycling bins are as foreign and incomprehensible to you as a random character from Aleppo.

And because you are in the only European region that can generate war on the old continent. Naturally, you are not totally the same as the people from the Middle East, primarily because they have the destructive role of radical Islam, which is a conveyor belt for the production of idiots, a medieval atavism gone astray in our time. The Balkans are special, always on the border between East and West, not completely belonging to either of those two worlds. Although, if we are honest, much more similar to the Levant.

(Roger Mortis, 113)

Dinner of Two Halves

Imagine a nice dinner, where a wedding is announced, the hosts are all happy and cheerful - they take out thirty-year-old wine from the family stash, to celebrate as is proper, the fiancé and fiancée hold hands, relatives and friends congratulate them. And the fiancé...the guy is a mass murderer, those present know that and have no problem with that fact, including the fact that the daughter has already been impregnated by a murderer.

Although the guy is a special kind of mass murderer, a pilot of, say, an F-16. That miracle carries up to 6 tons of bombs and rockets and has a built-in six-barreled rotating cannon with hundreds of 20mm rounds. And so the guy, on orders, with the stamp of legality - took off and unloaded the cargo on a paradise, somewhere...anywhere. 96 dead, 133 wounded, destroyed houses, children's bodies scattered around, street dogs feasting on the intestines of some little girl. Some of the bombs did not explode upon impact (especially those in cluster containers have a habit of doing so) and remain to maim and kill people for months and years after the pilot's flight.

The guy volunteered for pilot school, volunteered for the military aviation, and voluntarily signed an agreement to follow orders. The dinner goes well, everyone is proud and satisfied, there is drinking and eating, and gifts are planned for the wedding. The wedding of the mass murderer.

Now imagine a nice dinner, at which a wedding is announced, the hosts are all happy and cheerful - they take out thirty-year-old wine from the family stash, to celebrate as is proper, the fiancé and fiancée hold hands, relatives and friends congratulate them. The fiancé...the guy is a serial killer, he raped and murdered three girls and threw their butchered bodies into a river. Those present know this and have no problem with that fact, and with the fact that the daughter has already been impregnated by a murderer. Needless to say, the second scenario is impossible because if they knew he was a serial killer they would immediately report him and he would be imprisoned, but despite that, they would still be left with a wound in their souls for the rest of their lives, hysteria and depression, a stain on the family's honor due to the fact that their daughter almost married a serial killer...

`You know Jessica Babe...I think you made a great choice, the guy is a pilot, a man of his word, now it's okay - sometimes he'll be away from home for a long time when he goes on a mission, it is as it is, you'll adapt somehow`. `Don't cry daughter, no one knew that your fiancé slaughtered a girl, we'll get through this somehow, oh my, what a shame. Oh woe is me!

Two completely realistic scenarios and two completely different approaches to murderers. How is that possible? That is the power of ink and paper, that is the distortion of perception produced by the simple stamping of a state seal that serves to infuse justification and even morality into one dying woman as opposed to another. This death is not death.

License to kill & maim little girls.

If tomorrow a law were to be passed that would legalize killing purely for fun, no one would cry. And the second scenario would become quite acceptable in heaven...

(Roger Mortis, 112)

Hello Mr.Winston

Somebody, somewhere, once...became acquainted with dystopia as a phenomenon through books and films. Terms like ``Big Brother`` or ``Orwellian`` have become part of the everyday vocabulary of the population. But despite the countless books, films, documentaries, TV series and comics that are available today and that deal with dystopian themes - something strange happened.

Unfortunately, we have that ``honor``, a historical moment, to be in a real time dystopia.

Like the frog from the boiling water experiment, when it escapes from the pot if it is immediately placed in boiling water and remains to be boiled if the temperature of the water is slowly increased - so too we, reading and watching dystopian themes on the screen, have failed to recognize the symptoms in time. And now we are boiling in the dystopian stew.

Because today...we are already living the dystopia. Adults are self-censoring. So that no one hears anything. So that no one somewhere tips off. And the little humanity that thrives in their brains is killed. After the royal rent is gone. The dividend of fear. The two hundred euros. Such people feed that dystopia. In its stomach our past, present and future end, the destinies of unborn children end. But that is not the worst. The worst comes for the next generations who will be promoted from wage slaves to chattel slaves. When for a written opinion on a virtual medium one will go to prison, will be beaten and will be left on the street. When the price of bare physical survival will increase significantly, as it already is. Which means for some 10 to 15 years from now.

The last bastion of independent thought, besides the inside of the skull (which citizen Winston Smith discussed at length) is the virtual world.

But the virtual is only a reflection of reality. The number and activity of membership in a virtual platform/community that would be a deliberate or accidental gathering of characters with alternative views on reality - does not always reflect the eventual possibility of generating a factor that could influence public opinion.

That is the problem with virtual communities. The penetration of activity from pages with binary code into reality seems to be somewhat unlikely. If they are not an extension of some real life activism, then the reach of such communities remains limited within the framework of virtuality.

(Roger Mortis, 111)

Kingdom of Heaven

It is no secret that the boundary between religion and sect or a cult is sometimes difficult to discern and that time is often the deciding factor in the appropriate categorization of the terms. Christianity was once a tiny sect in ancient Judea, and after a millennium and a bit of a downfall, it became the religion with the largest clientele on the market with imaginary friends. One such cult, founded by three friends in China in 1843, soon exploded (both figuratively and literally) on the scene, turning southern China into ruins as a result of the last dramatic attempt to Christianize the most populous country in the world.

What is particularly spectacular about the sect simply called ``God-loving Society'' and the uprisings that grew into a civil war is the number of victims. There is no precise consensus on this figure, but the literature contains estimates that go as high as 30 million dead, which means that the fourteen-year conflict known as the ``Taiping Rebellion`` was the deadliest in human history to date, surpassed only by World War II to this day. And of course, it remains completely unknown to the general public, at least those inclined to history, the most significant historical event about which no one has ever heard anything. The monotony among the Confucian-minded population was broken by a certain Hong Siu Chuan, a member of the Hakka minority who tried to enter the state administration dominated by Manchu Chinese who were not particularly inclined to share the state's bread outside their ``tribe``. Entry into that world of bureaucrats was conditioned by a series of tests in which candidates had to demonstrate their knowledge. Hong tried four times - and failed four times. Whether it was because of unfulfilled dreams or because of the inflaming madness - Hong began to receive `visions`, he found Jesus and began to think about how to mirror the heavenly order on earth. Several Western Protestant missionaries were more than willing to provide him with appropriate literature, which Hong studied in detail. But Mr. Siu Chuan went a step further - he declared himself the long-lost, immortal brother of Jesus who had finally revealed his hibernated identity!

Naturally, the role of such an entity is mixed - heavenly-earthly, so Hong proclaimed himself the `Heavenly King` and began to work on his theology and ideology. And it was extreme, of course, a mix of proto-communist egalitarianism, gender equality, strict Protestant puritanism, apocalyptic millenarianism, complete demonization of Confucianism and consequently - a fight against the wretched barbaric Qing dynasty that had sat on the Chinese throne for several centuries and which Hong claimed was the result of the mating of some demons...After quite unexpectedly attracting twenty thousand followers throughout South China, Hong proclaimed the coming of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace. The sectarians were clear that the Heavenly Kingdom would soon face Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil. And for that purpose they began to seriously arm themselves and form a well-trained paramilitary force, at least as good as the Green Imperial Army of the Qing dynasty. But with the difference that the state soldiers suffered from a serious lack of fanaticism which was also exported to the ranks of the Heavenly Army.

It is striking that in just a few years until the fateful 1850, the sect recruited tens of thousands of members, but it should be known that that period was not exactly the brightest in the millennium of Chinese history, the Qing dynasty was in a decadent phase whose terminal period was already underway and which would reach its apotheosis in 1911, the heavy defeat in the Opium Wars against Britain, the escalation of the old traditions of drug addiction throughout the empire, the financial crisis, epidemics, floods and famine in many regions - together with the several active uprisings at that moment created something like a perfect storm where only the Hong cultists were missing for the situation to get out of control. And it got out of control in December 1850, when the cultists went on the offensive. On January 1, 1851, the beginning of the end of Evil and the triumph of Good was proclaimed when imperial troops attempted to root out the sectarians by attacking their stronghold in the city of Jintian. The heavy defeat of the empire in a clash with an ordinary sect was a sign of the mobilization of countless members, disappointed with the existing system. The next few months and several clashes with the state authorities, in which the "Celestials" won in all clashes - played a decisive role in stabilizing the sect. In the next few years, it is believed that the fighting forces of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace numbered over a million lost souls.

In March 1853, the rebels captured the regional center of Nanjing, which they declared their capital. After taking over several other major urban centers, next on Hong's wish list was Beijing, the seat of the Chinese throne. But it seems that the sectarians overestimated their strength and failed in the siege of Beijing. It was then that divisions and factions within the sect itself began for the first time. A turbulent period followed of new conquests, defections from one side to the other and vice versa, flirting with Western missionaries in order to gain international recognition of the new kingdom by its Russian ``brothers'' in the Western world, and the eradication of Confucianism from the occupied territories. Looking into the abyss of their own power, during this time the Qing dynasty and the imperial army decided on a transformation. Foreign advisors and mercenaries were hired, vast quantities of Western infantry weapons and artillery were purchased, and intensive diplomatic activity was carried out to secure Western support. The Western colonial powers, at least officially - decided to support the regime in order to keep China as a whole. No one was willing to cooperate with an extremely fanatical Russian sect headed by a madman. A madman with episodes of genius - but a madman nonetheless.

And then there were the 'gifts' for foreign ambassadors and military attaches, and the Opium trade that brought in huge sums of money for the British. And all vices, including drug addiction, were banned in the new Celestial Kingdom. Fearing a serious decline in their profits, British companies and the government decided to help the Qing dynasty, together with the new republican empire known as the United States and the long-standing French presence in Indochina. After the spectacular victory of the sects at the Battle of Jiangnan in 1860, when the imperial army undertook the largest offensive against the Celestial Kingdom to that time, it seemed that the fate of China was decided in favor of the sect. But what was not so obvious, the great ``intra-sectarian'' divisions, epidemics and the melting of the funds needed to wage war - influenced the sects to throw everything at the card of conquering Shanghai, the main commercial center of China. By conquering Shanghai - the Western powers would be faced with a fait accompli and the empire would lose its main port and source of income.

The attack on Shanghai in August 1860 was the beginning of the end of the sect. Once again, the rebels proved powerless to break a huge fortified city with a siege. The Chinese army, together with foreign mercenaries led by the American Frederick Ward (who would not live to see the end of the war) and the legendary British adventurer General Charles Gordon (known as Gordon of Khartoum, the city where he would later end up with his head impaled on a Mahdi spear) - managed to repel the invaders.

After this turn of events, the initiative gradually shifted to the government forces and over time - after numerous battles and operations - the sect was trapped in its capital, Nanjing and its surroundings. A siege began in June 1864, during which the sect leader Hong died - probably by taking his own life, tormented by severe pain as a result of poisoning with spoiled food. Exhausted and running out of ammunition - thousands of sectarians fought fanatically to the death, to the last bullet and to the last blow with a saber. Few surrendered and the battles for every street and every house can be considered the forerunners of modern battles, Liege, Sevastopol, Berlin or Grozny where well-barricaded defenders fought to the death with the aggressors in a new type of conflict, completely urban and completely total. The government paid for the defeat of the sect with at least 120,000 victims in the last battle alone, and how many suffered on the side of the rebels - is unknown. If we take into account the reprisals that followed, the figure could rise to half a million dead, wounded and missing, which means that the siege of Nanjing was the most difficult battle in the history of mankind up to that time.

A few days after the death of the leader, Nanjing also fell and that was the end of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace. The imperial authorities, worried about a possible new gathering of sectarians - decided to cremate Hong Siu Chuan and put the ashes in a cannonball and shoot Hong's remains in an unknown direction. I do not believe that there has ever been a more original funeral ceremony, which nevertheless fulfilled its preventive task in a world dominated by superstition, religious madness, Opium and Cholera. Although the Kingdom of Heaven itself collapsed, the surviving hundreds of thousands of sectarians turned to guerrilla warfare that lasted at least until 1871, when the last major paramilitary Taiping army was defeated. In certain regions, the sectarians continued to operate until the end of the nineteenth century...

The Taiping Rebellion was the beginning of the end of three thousand years of Chinese monarchy, an event that had disproportionate consequences for both Asian and global history. And its traces can still be seen today, for example when a person buys a new Tablet or mobile phone for ridiculous money, as a result of a chain of events that began quite inconspicuously, with a madman who suffered from `visions` and who, together with a few friends, founded his own cult.

(Roger Mortis, 110)

Anniversary

November 11, 107 years ago, at 11:11 a.m., the armistice between the Entente and the Central Powers came into effect, officially ending the Great War, later hastily called ``World War I.'' Although it was not even remotely the first global conflict (that honor would go to the Seven Years' War, the French Revolutionary War, and its spin-off, the Napoleonic Wars), it was the first global industrialized slaughterhouse in history, the first world conflict in the Machine Age.

Although it officially ended in the sign of four aces, it continues to cast its shadow to this day, as arguably the greatest turning point in modern history. Without it, there would have been neither Adolf nor Lenin nor Ataturk nor Yugoslavia nor the House of Saud...I fear that not 107 but 207 years will be too short to heal the wounds that began on a sunny Sarajevo morning on June 28, 1914...Despite the passage of a century, despite the death of the last known veteran a few years ago - the tail of that conflict is still dragging around. The war of all wars. The second one was only the second half. The banal phrase that `those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it` implies that people can learn from the past.

As can be seen, it is obvious that no one understood anything...

The first war is much less present in the media, public discourse, in cooperative conversations and in the memory of paradise - than the second one. Why this is so is a mystery. Perhaps because the second war was black and white enough to be experienced as a clash between good and evil. Or perhaps it was just a more photogenic clash. The first war has no shortage of iconic characters and weapons, Lawrence of Arabia, the Red Baron, Old Charles, Fat Bertha, Mata Hari, Zeppelins over London, the Apocalypse at Skagerrak, and even the greatest military tactician of all time - the never-defeated Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, who with a handful of colonists and native Askari tied down disproportionately large Entente forces in southern and central Africa.

But despite this, it lacks the attention it deserves. And it all started so naively...The Austro-Hungarian government, irritated by the alleged participation of the Serbian government in the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, opened the war with river armored ships that shelled Belgrade. A few days later, Germany attacks Belgium for some reason (Schlieffen Plan) and later France. Russia, as an ally of France, attacks Germany from the east and Britain joins immediately, first at sea and later on land. Along with Britain, the dominion states of the Empire join in and in less than a month the war becomes global. People enjoyed the summer, in some countries people went on vacation, loosely... and oops! In two weeks the whole world is at war...

It is considered the first global conflict in which the industrial method of killing entered the scene. Until then, you often had to kill the enemy by looking him in the eye. Since then, you can also do it from afar. The machine gun (it had existed before, but this time it was used en masse, by entire villages) the mortar, poison gas, the tank, the submarine, the airplane and barbed wire enter the scene. Probably the most innovative war in human history, never before have so many revolutionary ways of killing people debuted as they did then.

The number of victims is difficult to determine, some claim 10 million and some go as high as 40 million. It depends on the methodology, whether the epidemics that spread because of the war are counted as victims of the war, whether the Armenian genocide is counted as part of the war, whether the shit in Ireland is counted, and so on, but an average figure would be 21 million dead and at least five times as many maimed, wounded, sick and displaced. Not the second, but the first war is responsible for today's map of the world. Why is it so long and wide? As for these areas, the number of people who died here is at least twice as high as in the second war. The devastation is also incomparable, an entire front passed here, Bitola was ruined by shelling. In Bitola there are both French and German cemeteries where thousands of dead are buried.

And the second war has all the hype, the first one is forgotten. That's probably because of the Nazis, they were an impressive bunch, with uniforms from Hugo Boss. The turning point of the war was the so-called `miracle of the Marne` in 1914 when the French stopped the Germans and the war from then on turned into a trench party on the Western Front, without any changes until the end. Another moment is the defeat of the German submarines who (fun fact) were the closest to winning the war for the Central Powers. Germany is falling apart from within, they have no resources and the people there are fed up with war, mass desertions, revolutions and uprisings break out, the Kaiser flees to the Netherlands and Germany surrenders.

The Russian Empire, the Ottoman Empire, Austria-Hungary and the German Empire cease to exist. In their place, new states emerge, Germany becomes a republic, Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia appear on the scene and with Versailles - the stage is set for the next carnival of Evil, after 21 years - which will be three times larger.

There is a category of citizens who glorify the past, who look for mythical 'real men' in the uniformed sheep of that time. For those who think that post-traumatic stress syndromes and Vietnam syndromes are an invention of the new spoiled generations and that the old ones were brave men who didn't even bother with a fly, think again. Except that back then, trauma was called shell-shock and all the symptoms remained a family taboo. No one was allowed to know about the daily nightmares, about the shaking of various parts of the body, about the immense pain rooted in the soul, about wetting his pants at any loud sound. Such was the time, a man was not a man if he showed any emotion in front of his family or the public. And most often he had to hide it from himself.

Because future generations would also have to be sacrificed. It would have been extremely selfish for an average believer in a supernatural or secular God of that time to break the cycle of evil. New generations should have been given the chance to witness new mass slaughters.

(Roger Mortis, 109)

Iago and the Devil

Relatively recently, dozen years ago, a not-so-important piece of news regarding the island's favorite subject, football, appeared on the pages of the British tabloids - namely, that a certain Spanish player, now a former Liverpool FC player, managed to learn only two words of English during his two seasons at the famous Anfield...I don't know why, but after such a seemingly completely irrelevant piece of information, my humble brain started to create patterns that led me to think that an old saying that goes ``mother gave birth to me with sporting talent and threw me in the trash'' could be completely true.

Case in point - Wayne Rooney. This famous player of the even more famous club Manchester United could best be described as an extremely unintelligent piglet with likeness to an Irish peasant who constantly chews potatoes. And as such, he was taking a 300,000 pound (415,000 euro) WEEKLY salary, aside from money from sponsors and advertisements. He has a nice wife (who, if he weren't a famous player, wouldn't even look at him even if he threw himself in front of her windshield), a bunch of children, fame, popularity, and everything in between. Analogous to him, a similar case is the character Djokovic N. who looks more like an Albanian than a Chetnik, emanates some kind of agrarian-backward aura, can possibly connect two sentences without getting a migraine, but still takes three million dollars at a Grand Slam. And everything that comes with that...

But the culmination of the battle between sports talent vs. common sense is the aforementioned Spanish ex-Liverpool player named Iago Aspas, for whom I have no information on how much he was paid but he must have taken at least 20 to 25,000 pounds a week (if not more) despite the fact that he is not particularly talented and can even be said to be extremely bad even in that one profession to which fate delegated him - thus saving him from a home for the mentally retarded.

His `successes` in football are equivalent to his linguistic `feats` and the general impression he leaves as a phenomenon because he seems to have been washed up on a beach by the tide along with various rotten logs, dead mackerel and seaweed. It is true that the British tabloids have long been at odds with the accurate transmission of information and that their headlines should be taken with serious reserve. But no matter how suspicious one is of the tabloids, the impression of professional athletes as people with modest mental abilities remains. And here it is time to get to the point. The bizarre fact that Rooney earns as much per week as a top neurosurgeon in England - per year. Or as much per week as an average worker in England earns in 15 years. And how would that compare with his television fans?

A worker in the Republic of Khunzistan, with a monthly salary of 400 euros (4800 euros per year or 3400 pounds)...earns less than Rooney for couple of hours in a working year, and not a working hours but hours, any of the 24 in a day. Because Wayne, whether he is spreading his fat in an armchair, going to the toilet or sleeping...makes 1780 pounds - every hour. To earn Rooney's weekly salary, a local slob would need 88 working years. Assuming he entered the job market at 18, he would be at least 97 years old at the time of equalizing the weekly salary of the `Red Devils` striker. In reality, this means that at least two and often three lifetimes would not be enough to achieve Rooney's weekly income. Of course, it must be noted that there is a method in the madness, there are many rational explanations for why this is so, it is true that the market imposes valuation, one-on-one economy and those things, the neurosurgeon does not collect 75,000 souls in the stadium every round and the slag is not interesting for the lens of any camera in the world - but despite all this, I cannot get rid of the feeling that something is morbidly screwed up in the world with such a set of things...

And that is just Wayne Rooney, a superstar. As for the fact that Iago Aspas has a weekly salary that would save thousands of children from death every year - there is no rational explanation, logic is powerless here, economics and market principles are ashamed that they are not successful in trying to explain Iago, who cannot attract anyone to the stadium or attract a camera to himself, but for some mysterious and for ordinary mortals incomprehensible reasons is a fairly rich (though not particularly famous) man.

What can one say? Skibidi toilet.

(Roger Mortis, 108)

The Pied Piper of Hameln

The fatal human self-deception that it is possible to get something for nothing, to engage in sex and remain innocent, to get gold from worthless metals - has probably existed since the existence of man, although its intensity is unevenly distributed geographically. It is especially pronounced in these regions where it has transformed into one of the long series of clumsy transitional wisdoms where it is usually about some character who had nothing and after a certain period, in an unknown and mysterious way - became rich and thus materialized the fantasies of the local people for instant acquisition of power and status...

There is an interesting story that sublimates this tragic self-deception, which originated in the late Middle Ages in the territory that six centuries later would become known as Germany. Namely in 1284, in a small town called Hameln - the citizens were faced with an infestation of rats which at that time were a terrible threat, especially as carriers of fleas that carried plague (a situation that would escalate globally seventy years later). The pests ate and polluted the already scarce food reserves, which was the cause of the famine. The city authorities tried to find a way to get rid of the rodent invasion - but without success. Until one fine day when the stranger, the hero, the X-factor appeared on the scene - a musician in colorful clothes who arrived from an unknown direction in the city and told the city fathers that he could solve the rat problem in 24 hours for the modest price of 100 gold coins.

The authorities were suspicious of the stranger, but since they had no choice - they agreed to the price, their skepticism was so great that instead of 100, they promised him 1,000 gold coins if he really managed to eliminate the rats. The piper accepted, and the next morning, strange sounds began to spread throughout the city from his pipe. The rats began to "march" to the seductive beat of the music coming from the piper and began to follow the piper who led them to the river. Within a few hours, all the city rats drowned in the river thanks to the hypnotic trance that was induced by the piper's music.

The citizens, crazy with joy, began to celebrate, and what did the city authorities do at that moment? They decided that 1,000 gold coins was too much, even though it was such a monumental service. The piper insisted on his original demand of 100 gold coins, but again in vain - the rats disappeared anyway and the money was divided between the authorities. The piper was left with the pipe...in his mouth.

But the piper was not a character to be easily dealt with, and his revenge was extreme. The next morning dawned quietly and eerily, devoid of the usual childish chatter. After searching the entire city - the citizens found only one child, lame or crippled - who told what had happened. That morning - while walking through the city streets - the piper played a different melody that this time did not send rats into a hypnotic trance but attracted children. The long column of children that he attracted in this way - disappeared into the surrounding forests with the exception of the lame child who could not follow the others and thus was the only one saved from an unknown fate.

The next day, the piper reappeared in the city and demanded his well-earned 100 gold coins in exchange for the children's lives. This time, the authorities had no choice but to pay the piper, who in turn led the citizens to a cave in the forest where the city's children were safe and sound - as collateral for the ungrateful citizens who wanted to get something without investing anything. The piper continued on his way through the labyrinth of legends with his honestly earned money, and the citizens were happy that their children were saved from a tragic end similar to that of the rats. This story had hundreds of versions throughout the centuries, the Brothers Grimm themselves later engaged in adaptation, and the most altruistic variant says that the piper was not a stranger to the city but a local resident who drowned the rats with the help of a pipe during a plague epidemic, entering the river himself to direct the rodents there and with his self-sacrifice saved the city from death.

Like many other old tales - this one is full of archetypes and stereotypes, lessons and morals. One of them is the completely noble truth that all those who want to get something without investing anything - are a source of evil and suffering that spreads along the path of their idiotic self-deception.

(An update, the rats are back after 740 years, the Piper`s nowhere to be seen nowadays, presumably grew cynical)

(Roger Mortis, 107)

D+1

Tina was not inclined to watch the news, but this time, at the insistence of her family, she had to make an exception. The event that took place in the Arctic Circle, which resulted in the sinking of a nuclear submarine by a patrol plane that fired an anti-submarine torpedo with acoustic guidance, was only the culmination of several months of crisis between the two superpowers. Even the proverbial monotonous expression of the news anchor was gone - in its place was biting his lips and obvious fear.

What further disturbed Valentina was the fact that one of the larger military bases was located only twenty kilometers from her city. She wondered what to do, how to act, even though until the last moment she didn't want to believe that the nuclear mushroom cloud would still rise above her, above her parents, relatives and friends, above her husband who worked at the base...The paranoia slowly but surely began to disturb her, to kill her in the slightest, she began to follow the news, read newspapers, surf the net about the consequences of radiation... to the point that she decided to take a few days of unpaid leave from work, if nothing else to at least calm her thoughts.

The news did not bring anything good, the mobilization of the reserve of the armed forces was announced and the nuclear strategic command was placed under 24-hour alert. Tina could not reach her husband on the phone - who, although a civilian, had to behave according to military rules that in such a situation provided for the cessation of communication with the outside world.

There was no news on the fourth day. The ominous hiss of static on her parents' favorite channel became the subject of speculation. And they too became redundant after a blinding light that turned night into day appeared from the north, probably from the place where the base was located. The shock wave followed, which, although weakened due to the distance of about twenty kilometers from ground zero - was still the result of a megaton detonation as opposed to the good old kilotons known from Hiroshima, strong enough to wreak havoc. And its deadly companion, the heat wave, arrived with a delay of only a few seconds, turning those who found themselves in the open - into charred, unrecognizable corpses. Those who were sheltered, including Tina and survived the wave - were now hit by the terrible ionizing radiation from which there was no escape. It penetrated every pore, every cell and sowed death. Tina turned out to be one of the less fortunate, who did not die immediately - but were sentenced to a painful and agonizing death.

Coming to her senses and looking around, she saw the corpses of her parents. She didn't even look back at the pieces of skin hanging from her hands, she didn't have the strength to scream, to beg, to cry - she just silently watched her dead parents and dead neighbors. The next day dawned. D+1, as they wanted to register it at the Supreme Headquarters. Tina dragged herself around in search of water, thirstier than ever in her life, her insides crying for liquid. Heading to the local supermarket, which, although damaged, was still somehow standing upright - she met several people with completely absent-minded looks, horrible remains of former human beings, walking ghosts staggering back and forth. Although some voice from the depths of her consciousness whispered to her that the mineral water bottles were irradiated, Tina simply had to drink. And she drank, although it only brought her closer to a quicker death. And maybe that's why, who could say.

The water refreshed her, cleared her mind a little. Only then did the paroxysm of pain follow that she couldn't express due to the shock of everything that had happened. Sitting like that in a corner of the market, the thought came to her mind that she hadn't heard from her husband in a long time. A thought called from nowhere began to convince her that maybe after all - he had survived? Tina had to fight fiercely with the rational part of herself that clearly told her that her husband had been reduced to ashes. She had to stifle it and believe in something, anything. Although her relationship with her husband had been far from idyllic lately, he was still her greatest love and the next day - a reason to pull herself together and seize the few hours...or days...that she had left.

Daniel, her husband, working as a civilian at the base, obeyed the rules of the job. But that evening, whether out of fear or paranoia, he decided to go home. He asked for a leave of absence that was quickly denied, he resigned that was not accepted, he argued and argued with his superiors, all in vain. He simply knew what would happen and he had to find a way out. The physical exit was normally blocked by soldiers, but Daniel knew that there were places he could get out of. But what good would it do him if he left the base without his car? After all, it was twenty kilometers. He decided to try hitchhiking. And miraculously, he succeeded, he was picked up by an elderly couple in a Ford Escort in their later years.On the way home, some three or four kilometers from the city, after a curve that went behind a large hill - came the flash. And the impact. And the heat. And the ionized particles.

Regaining consciousness after a while, awakened by the terrible screams of the elderly couple, having the quasi-fortunate circumstance of the hill that protected him from the impact to some extent - Daniel looked around and got out of the car. He knew enough about the Bomb's action to be clear that they did not hear him and did not see him. Trying to help them was pointless. And he was so thirsty...Tina's brain was filled with only one thought, to find her husband. She did not even know why and she did not even bother with it. She only knew that she did not want to die alone, on the street, like the charred dogs in front of the market entrance. Since the few vehicles that were not destroyed were disabled by the electromagnetic pulse that followed the explosion - Tina rushed to the supermarket and grabbed the first bicycle that came to hand.

Daniel had no choice but to set off on foot. One of his eyes was bleeding and his face was disfigured. A thought began to overwhelm his mind - what if Tina had survived? And Daniel had to liquidate the rational in him... and move forward. Step by painful step. Tina pedaled persistently, ignoring her bloody knees and the monstrous pain. She pedaled as if it were the last thing in her life. In fact, it was probably the last thing in her life.

At an abandoned checkpoint located a few kilometers from the city, Tina stopped to catch her breath. She once again gave herself to emptying the bottle of water that she had brought with her. In the distance, she saw a human figure moving uncertainly in the middle of the road towards the checkpoint. Tina was about to ask the would-be traveler if he knew anything about the base, if anyone had survived... when she suddenly began to recognize Daniel's physiognomy, which, although distorted, was still most intimately familiar to her. There was no longer any room in her mind for disbelief and skepticism. She tried to squeeze under the ramp that she had no strength to lift, but her strength failed her and she fell. The next thing she felt were Daniel's arms around her, and the strange, bizarre and never-before-seen expression on his face.

The black clouds that had been gathering over the region all day - finally poured down to the ground. Radioactive rain usually comes last, like a late guest in the orgy of death. It was the same now. Tina tried to say something but apart from barely distinguishable sounds, she could say nothing. Daniel's situation was similar. They didn't need words anyway, their eyes knew everything, everything was clear to them, they had an answer for everything. Their cracked and bleeding lips pressed together, ignoring the black drops that were pouring down their faces. How much time did they have left? Hours, maybe a few days? They didn't know exactly, and it didn't matter. Hugging under the eaves of the checkpoint, they decided to wait out their death together, abandoned to the last thing that still had meaning in a meaningless world soaked in black rain - their love.

(Roger Mortis, 106)

Hope

They were two good friends, one a descendant of an old Prussian (no mistake, not Russian, but Prussian) officer family and the other a not-so-happy combination of a daughter from an old line of Georgian shoemakers and an unknown Russian poet. Friedrich von Ranter and Zurab Banterovich Durakov loved to sit in front of a dodgy joint, sip Ethanol and mix cheap salami with dried vegetables and of course, address the current problems that torment the suffering world of modern art.

- `You said that postmodernism is long dead, it just still exists in the form of a Zombie that, mumbling and staggering, is trying to suck out the last financial juices it can get.` - Fritz began to purr.

- `You know that Duchamp's Urinal had a reason, and since it had a reason, it had a reason. But all those hundreds of later `protest` works no longer made sense. Defloration happens once. Mondrian and Picasso. Yes, ok. They did their bit, they raised a few eyebrows. But later thousands of painters followed in their footsteps.` - continued Fritz.

-` Don't be senile, my dear Friedrich, it is known that protest does not have to be only against artistic or critical convention, art has always been politically engaged...` - interrupted Zurab.

-` You are wrong Zurab, as if you are stuck in the sixties, leave those stories about art as a form of protest against wars, accidents and injustices, every painter can cover up his anti-talent with statements about the alleged symbolism of the alleged work of art that he put together in half a day`... insisted Friedrich. And he continued : Dada had a reason why, Dada had the knowledge and the how, today's `installations and events` where some moron who rides the wave raised by the `professional` art public that delegates a consensus on what art is...`

-`You're exaggerating again, my friend, it's the alcohol speaking through you` - Zurab was impudent...

And Mr. Von Ranter, ignoring the interruptions, continued:

-`I understand, they exhibit a dead chicken on a plastic chair and someone tells them that it's a work of art. Rape of perception where a competent authority tells the audience what they should see and what meaning they should find in the dead chicken, hence creating derivative value where real value does not exist. Then comes money, sometimes a lot of money...`

Zurab, obviously upset, shouted - `That's just your rigid Prussian perception that rationalizes both a needle and a locomotive, that demands logic in Picasso and Kandinsky...`

Fritz, all flushed and in a muffled voice, whispered - `Zurab Banterovich, I would... I would kill them all!`

Zurab decided to pretend he hadn't heard his friend's last remark and tried to steer the conversation towards a safer path.

-`We should also mention applied design, industrial design above all` which in the era of the Machine knew how to produce works that are fully functional and that radiate an expression of their time, their creator and beyond. Art is simply twinned with the Machine because even machines need someone to buy them...` Zurab reasoned.

- ``Maybe Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the English claim,'' said Fritz.

- ``I wouldn't say so, there are authorities who will say what is art and what is not,'' replied Mr. Durakov.

- ``You're wrong,'' said Fritz. ``Maybe I will seem boring to you, but outside of the consensus that the environment, or those ``authoritative'' factors of yours, have about what is art, there is no art. Now cavemen also drew, animals, hunting and fishing, some of their psychedelia and the like, besides that it is really interesting to note - after the cave paintings there are no wars and killings of people, the artistic expression that glorifies battles, conquests, kings and emperors comes later with the emergence of the state and organized religions and therefore...''

- ``That's why?'' asked Zurab.

-`Expression is the most important thing, my naive one, always and everywhere, not the art that some `authoritative` person will say whether it exists or not, but the expression of the original distillate of any content that passes through the artist's cauldron. Always was, always will be.` - Friedrich commented. And he continued - `Let me clarify, some event, some stimulus, some motive crept into the head of the unknown painter from the Stone Age and distilled through his personal perception - manifesting itself in the form of his personal expression with the painting technique that was available to him. Fast forward a few dozen of millennia and we still have the same thing, of course in a new packaging.`

`And where is the beauty in those theories of yours,` Durakov slyly recalled.

- `Beauty...it may or may not be there.` replied Von Ranter. `For example, my compatriot, Caspar David Friedrich - painted `The Shipwreck of Hope,` a painting inspired by who knows what tragic attempt to sail the Northwest Passage and the end of a British ship that, overcome by ice, went to say goodbye to Davy Jones, damned be his eyes. Is the painting beautiful? What is beautiful in a pile of ice and a sinking ship? Nothing! Or analogous to this, its contemporary `The Raft of the Medusa` by Gericault. And his paintings of lunatics who posed for him in the asylum, since he had no money to pay models. There is no beauty, but there is drama, there is a freezing of a moment that no photograph can capture, there is symbolism and there is emotion. And above all, as I said, expression. In this case, the horror of hopelessness in one of the most hopeless places in the world, despite our cooperation - and that is the Arctic. So, is that painting beautiful? Not really. I`d say it is majestic.`

- `I know, I know, you have always despised the classicists and post-modernists, you have told me about it at least nine times` - Zurab was angry.

But Fritz continued anyway - `Of course, time is also important. All those portraits of various ladies from the time of classicism that made generations of men sigh and, by God, get horny, today seem comical. Not that this takes anything away from the technical perfection in the execution of the picture itself... but some pale, amoeba-like, often fat or ugly person and still a sex symbol of the time. Beauty. At that time. Today... no one would even look at someone like that twice - if they didn't have to. Another thing I want to tell you is that our perception is also oversaturated with images. Television, the net, magazines, billboards... it aggressively and mercilessly attacks the personal perception of the individual. Imagewise, tolerance is at its highest level in history. Not a fly crawls on us. We need ever stronger stimuli. So that the shock and discomfort that someone would feel looking at Kasparov's painting in the 1820s will not cause anything today... which is kinda sad...`

- `Yes, I completely agree with the latter. But now at least there is hope, after everything that has happened in recent years...` - Zurab quietly addressed.

- `Hmmm... I would like to believe that you are right. And maybe you are right. Maybe there is hope. Maybe some of our great-grandchildren will again be delighted by some completely new form of art` - Friedrich said resignedly. `Now stop playing with that Geiger counter Zurab, the sound irritates me terribly, I know that this place is so irradiated that it must glow in a dark green at night, if a postmodernist were alive he would be very happy with such a sight, he would have made an installation of this cooperative.`

Zurab smiled at his friend's last joke. `Okay Fritz, it's time to get out of here, finish the special, I'll finish what's left of the Ethanol, my stomach digests everything, I have no problems with that, did I tell you what all the `my father didn't drink?`

In a short time, the two friends moved away from the cooperative which was left gaping empty.

(Roger Mortis, 105)

Neutron Bomb? Bitch please!

The long-gone hippie slogan ``make love, not war'' is so passe that I don't think even the biggest hipster in the world would use it. But the idea behind the slogan appeared briefly in the Pentagon of all places at a time when the old, bad Soviet Union had gone to the dustbin of history and the new Baba Yaga in the form of Islamic maniacs lurking in caves had not yet been born.

Working on projects for the so-called ``Non-lethal weapons,'' a team of scientists from the Wright Laboratory of the US Air Force came up with the idea of ``undermining'' their potential military opponents. In 1994, a draft project for a bomb appeared that would contain a chemical agent instead of explosives. And not the traditional Phosgene, Sarin or Mustard, but a specific pheromone, strong enough to cause same-sex attraction throughout the contaminated area. The idea was that the enemy doesn't have to be killed, dismembered, butchered or tortured - it's easier for the enemy soldier or guerrilla to suffer, not only getting rectal pain but also causing disgust and condemnation among the home country in relation to their soldiers who suddenly started filling their anuses with semen instead of filling their howitzers with grenades, which would also bring about a decline in fighting spirit and morale.

Especially in traditional, patriarchal or sleazy environments in which the Pentagon loves to intervene.

The imagination is powerless to capture the scenes that would take place on the streets of Fallujah, Kandahar or Basra and perhaps Tehran or Caracas - in case this project was realized and put into combat use, as a weapon for mass same-sex rape. Bearded men chasing each other around with erections, general chaos and madness, moral shock, female curses... and all of that put on YouTube and amplified by the soundtrack by Benny Hill...

The problem with this bomb that was supposed to be dropped from a B-52, FB-111, B-1 or F-15 over the enemy was that the Pentagon's timing was not exactly the best, the mid-nineties were a time of the beginning of the escalation of political correctness and a period of serious gay activism. In 1994, the film ``Philadelphia'' appeared, which was a turning point for the media portrayal of people with alternative sexual orientations. And even the Pentagon itself is sometimes powerless against Hollywood. Pederasty is legal now in most western countries.

Thus, this bizarre project was not realized (at least not officially) even though the team requested $7.5 million for its initiation, thus relegating the Gay Bomb to a long and comical category of incredible unrealized weapons projects - along with explosive rats, aircraft carriers built of ice and sawdust, secret dolphin agents, plans for biblical scenes with insect infestations over enemy territory, anti-tank dogs, and the ``Strategic Defense Initiative'' aka ``Star Wars'', the most expensive flop in the history of the US armed forces.

(Roger Mortis, 104)

Prevention

A few years ago, quietly and on the margins of media reporting - the results of several medical studies were published that are potentially some of the most important discoveries ever. Although the research is still in its early stages, the implications of the possible early detection of psychopathy - which occurs in a small percentage of the population - would be incredible. How many future politicians, turbo-capitalists, bureaucrats, religious leaders, serious criminals, serial killers and similar individuals would be prevented in time from their criminal campaign if it was known that they were psychopaths from a young age?

Of course, for the relevance of a presumed sociological analysis of the impact of psychopathy on the wider community, the brains of a representative number of samples of the above-mentioned individuals would have to be scanned. For example, the government of a certain country or the board of directors of a corporation. Which will never happen, because naturally, psychopaths would not agree to be scanned...but there's a start. And maybe the cause, a genetic trait or whatever, would be found that causes the birth of people partially or completely deprived of the ability to empathize. And eventually, that could be treated.

The possibilities of protecting humanity from the actions of psychopaths should have priority.A ban on holding public office would be a first step for people who would be identified as psychopaths. Increased monitoring and control of their activities would also be an excellent move. Ultimately, they could line up in front of a wall and shoot each other. Otherwise, millions of people will suffer, and millions more will live in hell through the ``imported'' sociopathy which, besides psychopathy, seems to be the most significant characteristic that allows climbing the social ladder.

All this is just the well-known old dilemma exploited in some movies where a character goes back to 1889 to kill baby Adolf, changing history for the better... only in light of the aforementioned discoveries, the time machine becomes obsolete (there's a pun there, somewhere) and instead a scanner with the ability to map the brain via magnetic resonance comes into play. Placing an RFID chip in the body of discovered psychopaths and tracking them throughout their lives would be of great benefit.

Of course, the possibility of error can never be completely ruled out. But with the development of technology and possible prevention - an opportunity opens up for salvation, for survival, for a greater quality of life for billions of people and a drastic reduction in the problems facing the world today.

Ethical implications? Is stigmatizing a small percentage of children as psychopaths problematic?

Maybe. But those children will grow up into monsters who will rob, kill, rape, preach, massacre and lie and gaslight from their pulpits in various parliaments...

(Roger Mortis, 103)

Life`s Dilemma

In the days and weeks that followed after Stanko proposed to Natasha, something unusual happened. Natasha seemed to be in seventh heaven, because after all those ten months together, Stanko finally had the idea to ask her to marry him.

Stanko didn't have any particularly pronounced character flaws, at times Natasha was even worried that Stanko didn't show any `dark side`. Was it a deliberate plan or was Stanko just too good to be true Physically, he was an average-nice guy who, if he didn't have those two scars on his face, would even be handsome. Natasha wasn't sure what Stanko did for a living, because even though he always had cash in him and his bills were paid on time, she wasn't happy that her chosen one had secrets from her. Well, shouldn't such a banality as a profession be kept secret from his future wife?

One of the rare situations that was strange to Natasha was the fact that when they bought a newspaper - Stanko always started reading it from the back, stopping not at the sports page but at the obituaries page. Natasha, on the contrary, never read that page, and what would she read at all, reports of `sad news` or `six-year commemoration`?! The day of the wedding came, Stanko had not invited many guests, and among the few he invited, two or three stood out with their unhealthy physiognomies. He introduced them as colleagues. One of them, somewhat older and more dried out than the others, was prone to alcohol. And as such, he quickly got drunk and began to bother the guests at the table. Natasha, who had not drunk anything during the hustle and bustle of preparing for the wedding, was left with a sober mind that immediately worked towards finding out the secret. Taking advantage of a brief absence of Stanko who went to say goodbye to the old wedding guests - Natasha went to Stanko's colleague, offering him a drink of Whiskey that was 18 years old and that her parents kept for special occasions. Stankov's colleague didn't need a special invitation, he started drinking and continued to discuss the new Citroen he had bought. It seems that everyone should have known that he had paid for it in cash! His tongue was loose to the extent that the secret of Stanko's profession - ceased to be a secret...

And so Natasha appeared before Stanko on the first wedding night with a red face from which sparks were flying.

Natasha: Well done, you sneaky bastard...

Stanko: What's wrong with you, my dear?

Natasha: What the hell is wrong with me, you and that friend are robbing graves and that's how you make money...

Stanko: Oh Mile, you drunken brute, I knew you'd say that when...

Natasha: Fuck Mile, it's not important now, what's important is that you're digging up graves, stealing jewelry and clothes from the deceased and selling corpses on the black market...

Stanko: My love, don't get excited unnecessarily, calm down...

Natasha: Should I calm down? You sick motherfucker, are you aware of what you've done?

Stanko: And what did I do, my dear? I'm the same Stanko from a few minutes ago, only now you know what I do...

Natasha: You're robbing graves, you sick one!

Stanko: So far none of them have complained about anything, they don't need the jewelry...

Natasha: Stop it!

Stanko: I have to explain to you...

Natasha: There's nothing to explain (and here Natasha started crying)

Stanko: Don't, my love, don't make a drama, try to understand...

Natasha: (the sobbing intensifies)

Stanko: Don't cry, calm down, you know how much I love you, you know that my body and soul are at your disposal, let's not let such a trifle ruin our love...

Natasha: A trifle?

Stanko: Well, a trifle

Natasha: What a trifle, how am I going to tell mom and dad, they've always tormented me with questions like `what does yours do, what does yours do`...oh my god...Persa's husband is the boss at Telecom, Marta's boyfriend became an assistant and woe is me, what can I say...

Stanko: That's nonsense and nothing more, do I mean less to you than the approval of yours and the company?

Natasha: Stanko, get out of my sight, please, go, I can't...

And so new dilemmas crept into her life and began to torment Natasha. Should she get a divorce? What will everyone say about a marriage that was litigated after 36 hours? Should she get over it all by forcing Stanko to look for a normal profession? Natasha remained in a dilemma the next day. She noticed several missed calls and text messages from her new husband on her phone.

She washed her tear-stained face, put on makeup, and headed to work. The cashiers at the supermarket were still respected members of society...

(Roger Mortis, 102)

Early Rise

 It's eight fifteen

And that's the time that it's always been

We got your message on the radio

Conditions normal and you're coming home...

(Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark)

The nuclear bomb, as the most destructive by-product of human civilization, has been used only twice, both over the Japanese islands, in August 1945. Although it has been detonated more than 2,000 times in various forms, `trial` and `experimental`, thereby enriching the atmosphere, soil and waters of the planet with particles that bring joy and happiness - apart from those two detonations in anger of the extremely cynically codenamed bombs `Fatty` and `Little Kid`, the world has not yet experienced a hat-trick of atomic explosions over an urban center.

The bomb as a bomb differs from conventional ones because it acts in multiple ways and remains in a long and unpleasant memory with its contaminating effect. First comes the mechanical shock wave caused by the force of the detonation expressed in thousands of tons of conventional explosives, followed by the thermal shock due to the extreme temperature that develops during the explosion, the third rider is the ionizing radiation that kills quickly and painfully, the fourth is the powerful electromagnetic pulse and the bonus is the radiation that falls from the sky for hours and days in the form of rain or dust and serves for long-term contamination of the area affected by such a situation.

The amount of luck needed to survive the above is truly significant. And the amount of luck needed to survive the two atomic bombs... is so astronomical that it would utterly shock all the gamblers, bookmakers and gamblers of the world. Such luck was enjoyed by a completely real person, the Japanese shipbuilder Tsutomu Yamaguchi, who survived not one but two atomic explosions!

Tsutomu was not a gambler by nature, he usually played it safe and was a respected member of the community. Working for the Mitsubishi Corporation in Nagasaki, he was assigned to a three-month assignment in Hiroshima, during the last summer of the war, 1945. His last day of work was August 5th, and he was due back in Nagasaki on the 6th. He missed the morning train because he had forgotten his pass at the office, and so he arrived at the fateful ``eight fifteen'' some three kilometers as the crow flies from ``ground zero''...

Mr. Yamaguchi saw with complete clarity the Boeing B-29 bomber and the bomb itself, which had been slowed down by parachutes. It was strange that only one plane was dropping a single device, quite unlike the tradition of hundreds of bombers dropping thousands of bombs in a single flight over Japan. The reason quickly became apparent, the blinding flash and the aforementioned ``beauty`` that followed at the foot of the atomic mushroom cloud caused serious injuries to Tsutomu, ruptured eardrums, burns, temporary blindness... regaining consciousness after some time due to severe pain, Tsutomu headed to a shelter where he spent the night. In the morning he left for...Nagasaki! Although injured, following the stereotype of fanatical Japanese hard work - Yamaguchi showed up at his workplace on August 9th. The next morning, when another Boeing B-29 with another bomb was already flying towards the city - a backup option... because over the primary target (the city of Kokura) the weather conditions were so bad that it was impossible to drop the bomb...

The conversation between Tsutomu and his colleagues, who listened in disbelief to his claim that only one single bomb had destroyed Hiroshima, from which Tsutomu had returned - was interrupted by another strong flash and another explosion. I do not believe that since homo sapiens acquired the power of speech, throughout the history of human conversation - a claim has been affirmed in such a cruelly precise and timely manner. Once again, finding himself about three kilometers from `ground zero`, Tsutomu this time was completely incredible - he escaped without any major injuries, his eardrums were already out of use anyway...Surviving both bombs in a bizarre set of fantastic circumstances, one can ask how much `unlucky` Tsutomu was in the first place to find himself in a position to be hit by both explosions?! After the war, carrying with him the consequences of the bombing - Tsutomu Yamaguchi still lived to a ripe old age and in 2009 became the first officially recognized double survivor of the atomic explosions, although it is assumed that there are others who had that dubious luck to be in both places within a span of 72 hours.

Now deceased, Tsutomu remains known in the world as the man who survived two atomic bombs, thus completely shifting some standards in the perception of luck...or misfortune.

(Roger Mortis, 101)

Anticipation

In the beginning was the Word. At least that's what it said in the book that Dimitrija had been reading for about ten years, always giving up somewhere between pages twelve and fifteen. Dimitrija had been expecting a phone call for a long time, he had been waiting for the doorbell to ring for a long time. Even when he opened his e-mail - he was all in anticipation. Then one day, listening to Everyday by Buddy Holly, he remembered what he had been waiting for for so long...

Dimitrija was waiting for the van, the one that people claim was yellow, to come and finally take him to the institution he had escaped from back when the poor Greeks became European champions in football. But the van never came, Dimitrija's mind was frantically trying to figure out how no one had noticed that he was absent from the mental health facility ``Skopje`` in the village of Bardovci. What, has it gotten to the point where lunatics are not registered in asylums?

Living in constant anticipation, Dimitrija saw potential workers of the institution everywhere looking for him. Every cop, every guard, doctor or soldier and even every street cleaner with a fluorescent vest - caused him unease, a panic fear that the day had finally come, to be caught like a rare butterfly and returned between the soft walls of the asylum.

Dimitrija's life was not glamorous at all. Even by local Balkan standards, he lived more than modestly. The monotony was broken only by his labile nerves and the tics that played on his face. It was frivolous to expect a rich social life, but Dimitrija never gave up on his pursuit of happiness. And that, according to him - was hidden in finding the right woman who would make him happy, give him several children and adore him as if he were a communist dictator. That woman existed and Dimitrija (a.k.a. Dime) had been in love with her for a long time. Her name was unusual for these parts, Jessica, and her last name instilled suspicion in Dimitrija that she was an Albanian, because the woman of his life was named Alba.

In the beginning there was the Word. And that word came from the television. There, quite suddenly - Dime heard that Jessica had gotten married. His nerves could not withstand the shock, Dime completely surrendered to violent impulses, Dime turned into a beast, ran to the basement and took the rifle.The time had come for a showdown with the cruel world!

Climbing onto the roof, Dimitrija carefully looked for a target to shoot at.

A few minutes later, the first victim fell. Pierced by the pellet of the air rifle, the first pigeon fell on the head of a passerby, a pensioner. Who immediately hid the pigeon in the bag in which he was dragging bread and `Podravka` instant soup - because he did not expect such a heavenly gift. Sunday lunch will be enriched with pigeon soup...

(Roger Mortis, 100)