Birth of the Leviathan

Let's look a little at the origin and development of the greatest mass murderer of the genus Homo-sapiens-sapiens, not coincidentally also the most favorite cause of death in the mentioned species. The Plague people love.

The basic mechanism is probably Organized Mysticism, which has been incarnated in its most vile and destructive forms - the state and organized religion. Unlike mysticism among individuals or small groups that use other people's gullibility or superstition for their own purposes, here we have a global phenomenon that few question. And the consequences are global.

Why is this so and where is the "essential fraud" hidden?

The State arose when a certain group of people, powerless to ensure their physical survival by work that produces concrete results (products and services), organized themselves so that they could live on someone else's back.

After the initial organization, one of the defining moments in the history of our civilization was the birth of organized mysticism, which took it a step further by discovering that they could live quite well on the backs of others, and not just to ensure their physical survival. It is difficult to speculate without having the appropriate facts, but probably with the abandonment of the wandering lifestyle of hunter-gatherer communities and the permanent settlement with the birth of agriculture and animal husbandry, a surplus of products was born on the one hand, and a certain type of Homo sapiens who realized that they did not have to depend on the mercy of the community for their survival despite their total unproductiveness.

Of course, they needed appropriate mechanisms with which to achieve their goal.

Enters the State.

Enters the organized religion.

They got married and spawn atrocities in milenia to come.

By themselves, physically and mentally inferior persons, and as such are characterized not by a lack of intelligence and ability to manipulate, but by an inability to create anything, to be creative, to add value to anything, could neither come to power nor rule for long without mysticism. Here we come to the omnipotent gods or god, depending on which variant was in force in which territory. The anonymous authority. The voice in the head. The voice of fear. The alleged giver of the ruler's right to rule, hereditary. Divine right to rule. All holders of power invoked the "right" given by some higher power to sit in power during their earthly life. To be inherited by family members. And not only that, but that system later encompassed entire classes at the top of society and the economy. The birth of the bearers of organized mysticism, the Aristocracy and the clergy.

(Roger Mortis 026)

Give them their Heroes back!

Not all of us are born out of the same stock!

An unusual life trajectory that began in a completely ordinary orbit. So unusual that in the times we live in, I have no doubt that people would nod their heads in pity. But it is not that people do not have ideals, or if they do, they are diluted like the gasoline at the local gas stations. It is because they do not have a gyroscope in their heads.

Born in Sweden, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen comes from the ranks of the high aristocracy, which makes his life path a little unusual, considering that for the vast majority, belonging to a certain social and societal class shapes the ways in which they perceive the world and the goals they strive for.

Perhaps it began with his father, prone to taking on the role of the “black sheep” in the family, an explorer and pilot who donated his plane to the Finnish insurgents during the war of independence from Soviet Russia, 1918-19. A family with good connections and status, a relative of none other than Hermann Göring who was the “culprit” for awakening the love of flying in little Karl, during the stays of the later fatty commander of the Luftwaffe in Karl’s home and the stories of his (completely real) exploits during the Great War. A living example of the duality of the whole world and the circumstances that prevail in it. If there was one, this was it, fatty Herman setting the stage for saving thousands of kids.

Whether before or after becoming a pilot is not important, but Karl had a need to fight pre-destined battles, an imaginary identification with the chivalry of past times or occasional outbursts of altruism, as it was after the attack of fascist Italy on Ethiopia in 1935. he signed up as a Red Cross pilot and flew on missions to deliver food and extract wounded civilians. The Italians, in the absence of an air opponent from the symbolic air force of Emperor Selassie, trained on some aircraft of humanitarian organizations, so von Rosen put his head in a bag many times and was once poisoned in an attack with a poison gas at the airport where he was stationed.

A few years after this adventure, he volunteered for the attack of the Bolshevik USSR on neighboring Finland in 1939. Seeing the "number" of the Finnish aviation, especially in the bomber section, he decided on improvisation that would become his trademark later. Having sufficient funds, both from family sources and from his salary as a pilot of the Dutch KLM, he purchased a second-hand passenger DC-2 which he converted into a "do-it-yourself" bomber with an improvised bomb discharge shaft and an optical sight. With it, he carried out numerous attacks on the aggressor forces, despite the unthinkable odds.

After the end of the "Winter War", Karl enlists in the RAF to fly as a volunteer against the Luftwaffe. But he is prevented from doing so by British intelligence due to his family ties to Göring, underestimating the Count's sincerity (his wife dies as a member of the Dutch resistance movement fighting the Germans) and losing an incredibly powerful propaganda opportunity (Herman's nephew scored a kill against the Luftwaffe!). After the war, he heads back to Ethiopia where his exploits are not forgotten and he lives there for a decade, organizing the newly organized air force in that country. Perhaps the most controversial period of his life follows when his actions have a global impact. During the civil war in the Belgian Congo, he flies as the personal pilot of the UN Secretary-General, Dag Hammarskjöld.

Except for one day, when he reports that he is sick and lets another pilot transport Hammarskjöld. And coincidentally or not, that is the flight when the Secretary-General's plane is shot down and Hammarskjöld dies in an assassination attempt, most likely by Belgian mercenaries.

Leaving the Congo during those controversial events, he remains off the radar for a while, and appears on the scene a few years later when he makes a legend of himself, the civil war in Nigeria 1967-70 due to the secession of the Ibo people from it and the creation of Biafra as an independent state.

Apart from Israel, France and several neighboring countries, Biafra is blockaded from all sides and the USA and the USSR and Britain side with the Nigerian central government and help them bring the "runaway" province back. Carl flies as a volunteer to deliver humanitarian aid to the victims of the blockade who are dying en masse from hunger. It is precisely in Biafra that the world sees scenes of mass child slaughter for the first time with the help of cameras. But the daily contact with those children and their gaze that is extinguished by the interests of the "big players" is something other than an afternoon sigh about the injustices in the world and the comfort with the secular gospel that appeals (without suffering from too much originality) to the sinful nature of man.

All this leads him to take on something more.

With a group of mercenary friends, a colorful group of ex-Luftwaffe aces, former South African pilots, Swedish adventurers and members of local tribes interested in learning to fly - decide to go on the offensive. After failing to procure "serious" combat aircraft on the international scrap and military surplus market, apart from a few "AT-6 Texans" and "A-26 Invaders" as well as one "B-25 Mitchell", a relic of World War II, he again develops the sense of improvisation. He returns to Sweden where he buys 5 (or 6 according to other sources) two-seater MFI-9 basic training aircraft on which French technicians later mount rocket launchers and optical sights. With these "frivolous" machines with a 100 hp engine, he does what shocks everyone, friends and foes. After training several local pilots and test flights, they embark on the most unequal battle in the history of aviation, against the Nigerian Air Force equipped with modern aircraft, a radar network, air defense and assisted by "instructors" from the Warsaw Pact, Egypt and Britain.

During the entire war, there was no recorded case of a strike by the Nigerian Air Force against the guerrillas. The main goal - to kill as many civilians as possible and to stop humanitarian flights.

Von Rosen and company dismantle the Nigerian Air Force.

Literally. Kickin' the shit out of.

There is no definitive information on the number of aircraft that were surprised by Von Rosen's small planes, about twenty aircraft and helicopters (Il-28, MiG-17, C-47, DC-6), several airfields, several anti-aircraft batteries, a large number of vehicles and over 300 soldiers, both killed and wounded. And without losing a single plane despite the constant fire they were exposed to.

But the most important part was in distracting the Nigerian Air Force from its targets (Genocide Airlines) to fight an enemy that together cost as much as a spare engine for a MiG-17. Talking about cost-benefit, they were out of this world. The number of lives saved is difficult to estimate, but unfortunately Biafra fails to defend itself and is annexed back to the "motherland" and the reprisals continued. Even von Rosen and his merry men couldn`t make the final difference. But they dealt a blow. After the evacuation from Biafra, he again flies around Africa on various flights to deliver food and medicine, for years and defying fate, bullets and anti-aircraft artillery. Which will never bring him down.

The luck in the sky has not left him at all. Unfortunately, he turns his back on the earth. Karl, already 68 years old, with a life behind him that could be written in volumes, dies in an attack by Somali soldiers on some auxiliary airfield, during the war between Ethiopia and Somalia in 1977, the final chapter of the drama in which an aristocrat and eternal fighter for forgotten ideals found himself quite voluntarily, outside all the causal connections of this world.

(Roger Mortis 025)

Maturity

Imagine if you will, a duel between Stanislav Petrov and Wayne Rooney. Hold on. Who the fuck is Stanislav Petrov!? Wasn't he a player for CSKA Moscow...hmmm, or did he defend for Spartak? He wish he was. He's not a footballer, nor a Soviet gymnast with 229 medals from various competitions hanging around his neck. Fortunately, he's not a politician, singer or actor. He's not a famous lawyer or an Orthodox saint. There's nothing about him that would be "televised" enough to dig him out of deep anonymity.

He's just the man who saved the world.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The first reaction after reading something like this would be quite natural and would move towards imagining a Russian counterpart to American and Hong Kong B-movie productions where various characters save the world, fast, precise and strong, driven by a derivative of universal virtue and their default affiliation with the forces of good and, of course, their muscles.

But as mentioned, Stanislav is not an actor, not even a bad one. He was never even close to acting as a profession, although he existed in an environment where the path to the top depended on bad acting. Comrade Petrov was a lieutenant colonel of the strategic air defense of the former Red Army, on duty in the operational alarm center of the satellite system "Oko" ("the Eye") which was the first instance in detecting a possible nuclear attack on the USSR by the USA/NATO. He received the alarm signals from the satellites.

Among the monotony and paranoia that were constant roommates in such a place, something unusual nevertheless crept in. And that was what that system was built for. Alarm. An intercontinental ballistic missile was fired from the USA towards the USSR. Could it be a system error? But before that thought could reach rational processing in the brains of those present, a second signal was received. Error? A third. The fourth and fifth already seemed to confirm what was at stake.

From the alarm to the news reaching the ears of the Secretary General and the codes being forwarded to the strategic action units, not much time should have passed in an event such as that which took place on September 26, 1983. Any hesitation would have reduced the possibility of a counterattack. It was a matter of minutes. However, Stanislav somehow remained calm despite the roar of the alarm, the pulse that hit his head like a 20-megaton hammer, and the panic of his colleagues who demanded that he stick to the procedure. Which he violated and made a completely rational decision that five missiles were too few for a general attack. He decided that it was a system error and not a real attack. Although theoretically there was a safety mechanism for launching missiles that provided for confirmation of the attack from another source, no one knows what would have happened if he had acted as the rules required.

And no one would have known even if paranoia had prevailed, reinforced by the upcoming NATO military exercises in West Germany that would begin within a few days of the false alarm at the satellite center, and which would also include a simulated...first nuclear attack on the Warsaw Pact forces. Of course, they knew about that exercise in the East. And their basic assumption was that the attack would come under the guise of maneuvers. This event was classified as a military secret that only became public after the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Eastern Bloc. Both during Bolshevism and during "democracy" Stanislav was promised awards and recognition, hills and valleys. Of course, more cynical readers already sense what he received as a reward. There were neither palaces nor yachts, not even orders, nor was a school named after Petrov.

Those amenities in life are reserved for other people. Not for those who save the world in real life, but for those who do it on film. Not for those who contribute to a better quality of the experience called life but for those who deny it.

Which brings us back to the opening sentence and the announced Petrov-Rooney duel. The man who is why we are all here and doing what we do with our lives has no chance against the semi-retarded Wayne who earns more money per week than Stanislav will ever see in his entire life. A dingy apartment in a Moscow suburb and a pension that cannot keep Petrov alive.  

I have nothing against Wayne and his ilk, I'm just using him as a symbol. He could be a random basketball player, handball player, rugby player, volleyball player, tennis player...whose highest career achievement, which will be paid as if it were worth its weight in gold and over which there will be orgasmic contractions of generations of people...millions of people...is that he passed some kind of leather ball between three beams or through a metal hoop. Nothing more, nothing less.

And one would say that at the very least they saved the world or something similar, given all that noise around.

Does the comparison seem unreal? Maybe.

Or maybe it's just a testament to the maturity of a generation. A biological species. A global culture. A civilization saved only to continue blindly moving towards self-destruction.

(Roger Mortis 024) 

Requiem for the silent

And the sign said  "The words of the prophets

are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls"

And whispered... 

In the sound of silence

(Paul Simon)

We will never know. 

It remains a mystery that will never be clarified. But like all things that have no proper answer, they will forever remain smoldering somewhere, at least in a few places, at least in a few heads that have found it convenient to burden themselves with such questions. At least on the walls that Paul Simon sang about.

We live in a time of constant repetition of the burning of the Library of Alexandria, a sad daily rerun of the destruction of the collection of Al-Hakam II or the blackening of the Tigris River due to the spilled ink of millennial knowledge thrown out of the House of Wisdom in Baghdad.

As if in some cursed vicious circle whose contours are constantly traced by the caterpillars of the armored vehicles of O'Brien's Skull-Trampling Boot, the System, are locked the talents, the creative energy, the unspoken beauty, the unexpressed elegance, the unsung songs of billions of people.

Destruction is seen everywhere, in the eyes of all those who occasionally remember something they would like to do, to give their best, it is expressed as a scar in all those who do not know what they want outside the received programs with which the system generously supplies them.

Most of the energy and time that life consists of is spent in fear of the impossibility of eventual physical survival in various forms and types and of satisfying imposed needs.

Motivation is fear of death.

Motivation is fear.

Fear.

Pour qui?

Pour quoi?

(Roger Mortis 023)

Bewildered Sweethearts

There is one situation among a significant portion of people that is something special and to which due attention has not been paid.

And that is that the state of misery and unhappiness in itself gives them additional content, despite declarative commitments au contraire, at least in their heads. This condition is most often expressed through the tendency to start or if they are already in a relationship or marriage that can be characterized as a generator of unhappiness and fear. Add to this a job, an educational institution or any kind of position and the complete picture appears on the surface.

Why, oh, why all that bewilderment...

Because a possible happy and harmonious relationship/marriage would eliminate the "value" of most of the social content they deal with. Of most of the perception of themselves. Of Fiat currency backup. Probably everyday communication with friends, comrades, friends and acquaintances, real and virtual, real and virtual parents and relatives is such that happiness never comes to the agenda. And besides, happiness irritates the aforementioned people. Much more than a bleeding hemorrhoid.

No, happiness in any combination does not bring adequate feedback. The need for comfort? It's a winner. Although it is never called comfort, do not deceive yourself by naming things as they are. That is a one-way path to isolation. Pulling the chain on those oh so powerful emotions? Chasing the rainbow round the corner?

There are certainly small differences between the male and female versions of this strange situation, but the differences are not that great. We talk at length and extensively about how the partner does not seem like him, this or that, garbage and goods, but lo and behold. There is light at the end of the tunnel, a collective council of unhappy paradise is gathered, friends feel "needed" and "useful". Comforting, giving instructions... and after the sixth beer or the seventh vodka, one comes to the legendary words "Well, he's not such a jerk. He's actually not bad. He has a heart of gold, you know. He loves me".

The number of relationships that have ended up executed by the "good intentions" of friends, girlfriends, parents, relatives and other characters is incredible. The benefit is mutual of course, a reverse engineered mutualistic concept without a parachute, the service is returned with a service when the misery changes the face, but not the content. But those "advised" are in no way victims. The good old compliance.

But it's not just that. There is also the whole picture of themselves, beyond the perception of the closest environment with which they interact on a daily basis, the alter-ego, the Ponzi scheme. Being different you know. Original. Something else. Dancing counter-clockwise on a clockwise path. The question is how different someone is if the results are always the same as those of 999 out of 1000 people. Vast, overwhelming majority of people don`t want to be happy. It takes all their projected values ​​down the drain. So the only way to make a lasting relationship is to act in a way that makes them miserable.

If you are up to it and enjoy that.

If you are not...

Ask your self how fast can you run.

(Roger Mortis 022)

A Subjective look at the beautiful side of reality

I can't find words convincing enough to capture the extent to which I am against today's policy of putting street dogs to sleep or locking them up in cheap euphemisms for concentration camps - infirmaries.

The same goes for giving those creatures into the hands of various spoiled people to adopt them and thereby kill their essence and cut off at the root the aesthetics that are born in every swollen belly of a newly mated bitch! The feeling of having a pack of a dozen mangy, toothless and rotten dogs hanging around me makes me happy. Maybe I share this feeling with someone else, and maybe not. I haven't asked about it, and I don't give a damn. The fact remains that they make me happy. Just as the wizard Merlin was happy in the presence of unicorns.

Okay, I'm not exactly Merlin.

Zombified dogs in all their shapes, forms and smells are far from Unicorns. And our fucking cities are not mirrors of Avalon, a place in this world, but not of it. Except maybe Resen, which occasionally smells of apples.

But that doesn't mean there's no beauty in the whole situation. Of course, the word perception will appear in this text because of the subjective experience of beauty. Which doesn't always have to be smooth, fine and organized. Unlike here, on an island where piles of perceptions exported across the Channel originate (no, it's not Japan, for fucks sake), folk proverbs have meaning. Like the one - The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Why, oh damned subjects of television lobotomy, are you trying to kill the dystopian idyll of our cities with the help of blinders in the form of hypocrisy and a crippled essence of morality!? If an animal rights activist tells you that he respects diversity, do him a favor and don't take him seriously. Because he wants this city to be different like... Zurich!?

Can this city be like Zurich?

And that by building a roof before the foundations, as always.

Neither Skopje would be Skopje, nor Bitola - Bitola, nor Veles - Veles without their beautiful four-legged symbols of dystopia and harbingers of a non-existent future that has the sheen of an ulcer on the skin of a half-decayed dog. And I'm not just talking about dogs, I'm not forgetting the other animals, the cats that drag a rib found in a container that was gnawed by a man for lunch and dinner and, by God, for breakfast, the rats, the eternal Condottieri of the transition processes, from here to Kinshasa, the jackdaws like morning trolls, the sparrows that hang around in parks, the cockroaches as a sign that the end is knocking at the door...

They are all just travelers from the future in our time, reminders of the errors in the foundations of the system. Maybe that's why there is so much hatred towards them. Who knows . They hate almost everyone, from those who would shoot them in the streets to those who keep cats on the seventh floor and love them so much that they break their eggs to turn them into moving toys. Ah...love...in a time of general decay and decay, you can be loved and adored even without your testicles.

Second best option?

Inter-dystopian cooperation and mutual assistance!

Charter flights with North Korean students who would come to us with the aim of getting to know the strange local culture and frivolous lifestyles. They could also watch a video by Slaven Žižek, since the authorities there are hostile to the Web. And since exchange is exchange - perhaps the most useful thing would be for mom and dad's sons and daughters to head in the opposite direction, to broaden their horizons and get acquainted with a bizarre culture, different in all aspects of existence and to try to progressively influence their colleagues on the other side of reality.

Why the hell not?

(Roger Mortis 021)

High Frequency Tango

The energy a.k.a. frequency that is the basis of the material and immaterial world..may never be explained so that we can perceive it in a quantitative-materialistic measurable way. Naturally, the Western-centric way of decoding information requires exact values ​​in order to function, but it is a model like all others, with its own great limitations, starting from the inability to accept the subjective image that depends on the observer as much as on the observed.

Now we have reached the Higgs boson as the basis of the fluctuation in the nucleus, but even that is not even remotely final, there are already models that divide that particle into constituent elements, which in turn opens up space for a model where the constituent elements are divided, and those that are divided are divided... we have a situation that resembles a dog that wants to bite its tail and spins in a circle without catching it, there is no end...

Because the one is contained in all and is projected into all, as all are contained in the one.

Some incomprehensible paradigm is needed, something completely new in order to be able to "grasp" the nature of that force in its very essence, and which will probably never happen.

There is no measurable and quantitative way to capture that.

Not at least with the decoder of reality that we have at our disposal. Known as the brain. Also known for the fact that many people use it as a decoration.

So at the end of the story, no matter how one turns, we gotta take a leap of faith.

Which is not so bad, at least not according to my perception of reality.

Especially if you know what form of materialization that energy/frequency sometimes takes.

Of course, far from any religions and ready-made models of beliefs and rituals...you know what they say. God save us from religion. Religion is the main force with which the elite throughout known history has distanced man from the possibility of conscious co-creation of reality by forcibly imposing a dogma that requires belief in an external force, an external terrible authority that punishes, all by sowing fear and lack of trust, faith, self-belief and doubt in the possibilities that are truly enormous.

Intellectually, many are aware of this. But in the heart it is difficult to find the path that allows co-creation of one's own reality in accordance with the dualistic nature of the universe. They made is believe in imposed limitations, so we experience those limitations.

A lucky few have overcome that and reached a reality of existence unimaginable to us.

(Roger Mortis 020)

Independence

Dependence and independence. From the system. As it is, not as the authorities declare it to be. Everything you have to do and do so that the system grants you the privilege (not the right) of life.

Biological life. The other qualities that it consists of, well...you have to pay for that privilege to be happy. Or at least for the illusion.

A quote from "Trainspotting" and the point is self-evident :

Choose life.

Choose a job.

Choose a career.

Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television.

Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin can openers.

Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.

Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.

Choose a starter home.

Choose your friends.

Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.

Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.

Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.

Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose “life”...

But why would I want to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose “life” : I chose something else. And the reasons? The reasons? Come on...

Life consists primarily of time. It can be defined through time both qualitatively and quantitatively. Without any deep philosophies, at least for a start. Time is a fundamental category in both the quality and fulfillment of an individual’s life. A person gets too little or nothing for the huge stake he places in the hands of the gambler called the System, and through his brokers and local gamblers - politicians, bureaucrats, parasites, employers...if he does not belong to the above categories, and even if he does belong to the lower echelons of that pyramid - he will receive an anal application of a Kwa-Zulu sized Penis.

One invests his life and what one`s get in return? He gets - feces!

No one asked me if I wanted to be part of this whole hypocritical, criminal, bloody system in which I am condemned in advance to pay derivatives for everything. Literally everything.

Well, no more.

Ya Basta, agueros de culo!

Freedom may be just the ability to dispose of the time that life consists of, in the largest and most comprehensive measure possible. If you want, you can also measure it, establish some kind of unit-measurement for freedom that would read "How much of a given period of time an individual spends on things that he does of his own choice, of his own will and for his own pleasure".

Probably with the intensity of the use of expressions like "I have to", one would sense to what extent a person is free and how much. I have to do this, I have to do that, I have to get up at such and such an hour, I have to go to bed at such and such an hour, I have to go to work, I have to fill out documents, hang around counters, stroke someone's ego, I have to put up with this, that, that...because this and that and that and everything and nothing depend on me, I have to, I have to, I have to...and so on every single day, from cradle to grave.

We are not talking about voluntary, chosen interaction and cooperation with people. But about imposed and forced, the kind that takes up time and nerves and resources...and permission is obtained so that the individual can be - abused...or if you don't mind the outdated expression...A slave! If this were applied to today's living, the results would be devastating. How much of our life do we have for ourselves and how much for the system?

Having sufficient resources that put the individual out of the eternal race for "survival", from all the conditioning and blackmail with which the system is used... is certainly a condition that must be met. Of course, 100% independence is hardly possible, but a gradual reduction in dependence is not only possible but within reach. For everyone. If there is anything good in this 2024 Anno Domini, it is some technical possibilities that have never been so accessible. You would be surprised to know how little is needed for an independent life from social and psychological pressure.

For energetic, social, political, emotional, spiritual and intellectual independence. It only takes a ridiculous fraction of the time it takes to serve the system. And the stake at bet isn`t your soul or life or sanity.

It`s fun actually. Imagine that. If you dare!

(Roger Mortis 019)

Love is a Derivative

Often, the biological paradigm derived from "The Origin of Species" and further research that supplemented the basic assumptions is used to explain intersex relations, but not lobotomy. That`s a very different topic.

Although this is true for the animal world, it is not exactly true for the human world. Not because of the unfoundedness of the assumption but because of its complete projection of the animal-human relationship.

The problem is in the results. It is said that everyone hides a savage, an animal, a Neanderthal. Unfortunately, there is no Neanderthal hidden inside, but a citizen, savages have been dead for 30,000 years and only here and there are signs that they survived. And a citizen is needed who is submissive and obedient. And that is how he is. Whether that citizen has a dick or a pussy, the elite that controls our perception of ourselves and reality does not care... the difference is in the nuances.

The matrix has been hacked, so that a program has been imposed on men and women. It would be disastrous for the system if men and women discovered that the most beautiful, most useful and most valuable things in this world are free and available to everyone.

And what can they achieve together, complementing each other in the nature and spirit of complementarity on a dualistic basis. That is why we are moving towards downloading a program (the Holy Trinity - media, education, environment) that will ensure that men and women do not achieve what they are capable of together. Emotional mutilation, conditioning from diapers, imposing behavioral models, artificially induced needs and ideas... you name it they are doin` it.

And as we see in reality, 95% of relationships are a struggle for supremacy. Men, being physically stronger, use their trump card. Women fuck in the brain, which is their trump card, and all in the name of various strategies in the eternal war called - the struggle for supremacy. Physical, intellectual or psychological, they are all like some elevations on a hill of great tactical value that the Ego attacks. But unlike military operations, here both sides lose, and the system that parasitizes on human misfortune, misery and dissatisfaction wins.

Why else would you think of selling 108 cm TV`s, a car without a roof or a random little thing with the purchase of which finally, but finally - the endorphin will start flowing through the blood vessels. From the porn industry to all the useless objects that make up the bulk of the economy, although work is running away all the way to Babylon. And in the end, someone sees a man, a strong fucker in Herr Josef Fritzl, Uncle Adolf Hitler or Richard Ramirez, and in the immediate vicinity, for example, there is someone with whom she could have a nice life or relationship. Of course, that is the ultimate limit, the average person sees Twilight.

And he? He sits at home and gets turned on by Angelina Jolie, Jenna Jamison or Megan Fox and is bothered that he is not rich, handsome or powerful enough to fuck someone with such technical-tactical characteristics. It is not so much about the fucking as it is about the applause. And about the fact that everyone imagines that something far better than they are belongs to them. That fate has destined someone like that for them. The universe has made a plan just for them.

Derivatives...gotta appreciate them.

The circle is closed, both "he" and "she" are miserable, the caravan is moving, the system is profiting, teeth are gnashing.

(Roger Mortis 018)

Un homme et une femme

Jean looked impatiently at the river every day. He hoped that at that very moment she would arrive. His one and only. He knew every detail of the shore, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in his brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship was his friend.  And everyone knew him, crazy Jean, the one whose mind had been consumed by hope, the target of ridicule for sailors who emptied themselves into local prostitutes and irritation for eternal cynics.

Every day he hung on the harbor like an inventory to anchor hope, he had no information about her or his children, uncertainty every day tore off a piece of the illusion that happiness had not abandoned him after all and that maybe after all, there was some chance of meeting again, meeting with his Isabel. He was often a target of competent and incompetent advisors, invited and uninvited guests of his conscience who parroted him to forget her, to have pity on the children and to marry again. All those years they convinced everyone that they were right. Except him.

On the other side of the Amazon was Isabel. Four thousand and eight hundred kilometers away from Jean, the former beauty through whose veins flowed the blood of the conquistadors but also that of the Quechua Indians, a mixture that does not tolerate failure, educated and aware of the world around her. And she was waiting for Jean, whom she married too young, seemingly inexperienced. By her own will and to the immense joy of Jean, the twenty-something old cartographer who had come from France to measure the circumference of the equator and give it a final dimension to our planet, in the Le Condamine expedition.

And she expected news every day, and her sadness gave her a heavy expression in her eyes, she knew every detail of the coast, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in her brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship, and she was a friend. She spent eight years with him before he decided to leave for France. After the death of their daughter from the usual tropical diseases, they still decided to go. But now he refused to take her with him. He knew the risks of the expedition, he convinced her to stay and watch the children, they wouldn't be gone for more than a few months anyway.

If only he had known how much those few months would cost.

And he was right, almost half of the expedition was left to rot in the Amazon swamps, a tribute to discovering and charting new routes. The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war.

Still, he reached his destination on the Atlantic coast, with rough maps that he had compiled himself. Now he just had to send a message to her to come. And he did. The letter never arrived, lost in the curse of human madness and the sadistic games of chance. Spain and Portugal closed the area to the French, on the way to another war to gnaw at South America.

The road was closed. There was no forward, no back. As if the whole of Amazonia was not enough, now it was also divided by local maniacs thirsty for blood and gold. The future did not keep up with the present. At least not for Jean and Isabel.

A detour was needed. Jean set out through a bureaucratic labyrinth that was as nasty as the Amazonian one. He wrote, begged, sought passage through the Spanish-Portuguese territories. He tried to overcome obstacles, cynicism, misunderstanding, open hostility. Months turned into years. Jean decided that enough was enough and that it was time to take his fate into his own hands. He was helped by La Condamine, his mentor who managed to use some of his personal connections with local Portuguese powerful people. One thing did not leave Jean in peace...he knew that the Portuguese were aware of his attitude towards them, of the correspondence in which he accused them of their massacres of the natives. His suspicion slowly grew into paranoia. Had they forgotten?

Although both La Condamine and the local governor assured him that everything was in order...they even provided him with a ship to reach Riobamba, to Isabel. After so many years of troubles and apathy, he saw a trap even where fate had not intended to set it for him. He boarded the ship and set off. Every whisper of the sailors seemed to him like a conspiracy and an intention to throw him to the piranhas. One evening he got off the ship in Oyapoc, a small town forgotten by everyone, even by the crazy gods of the Quechua Indians. The ship continued and without him reached some destination that was not Riobamba, by the captain's will. And Isabelle heard rumors of a ship carrying him, several hundred kilometers away. Those rumors were enough to convince her to set off through the jungle, even though she had no knowledge of the dangers and despite warnings that she was going to certain death. Those who persuaded her were persistent and convinced everyone.

Except for her.

The small amateur expedition she had hastily assembled and financed was doomed to failure. No one survived the journey; they all ended up as the local cynics had predicted, playing the role of ominous birds in the eternal fear of being killed. Malaria and the swamp took their toll. The end of a love's journey.

Except for Isabelle.

Alone, half-crazy with fear, eaten by insects and despair, she continued. Like her ancestors who went to find El Dorado and left their bones in some remote pit, dreaming of the city of gold, she too went. With the vague instinct inherited from her other side, the Indian, she sought her El Dorado. And he was a certain Jean Gaudin, a man of flesh and blood whom she was not even sure was alive.

On 22nd of July 1770, she saw a settlement. With a last effort of will, she dragged herself to the first houses of...Oyapoc! The same place where Jean had reached.

They were finally together!

There are many things that cannot be explained rationally. This is one of those cases. Two spirits impenetrable under the fierce blows of fate. An insignificant episode in the history of South America, a mere footnote compared to the supposed great games and events.

Or something else entirely.

(Roger Mortis 017)

The Circle

The expression on her face was unusual. A kind of satisfying smile under her eyes that avoided other people's gazes. She was about forty-five years old. She left a vague impression that she had once been an attractive girl who had probably been the target of lustful glances, someone's loving eyes, or at least an erect penis.

What now attracted attention to her, besides her drunk and too slim of a body, grotesque makeup, and uncertainty in appearance, was her baby, from whom no one had ever seen her part from. Everywhere she went, she went with her little one. Well swaddled and in a safe maternal embrace. Protected from everything she considered a threat to the little one...like many mothers, she had that expression that is incomprehensible to men. No one knew who the baby's father was, whether it was a soldier on leave, the love of her life, or the local bored Council house fucker. It was strange that she was not the target of gossip, except for the newcomers to the city who were seeing her for the first time...

The mystery was revealed one ordinary rainy day on the steps in front of the local hospital. For reasons forever buried in her mind, she often hung around the city hospital.

No, there were no dramas or confrontations with the baby's possible father. No fateful encounters, at least not the kind that novels are written about, are retold as the latest gossip or end up on the pages of the black chronicle.

Just a small slip on the slippery stairs. And a shock. Shock when she slipped and fell down the stairs. For the first time in who knows how long, the baby, under the influence of inexorable gravity, left her arms and rolled down the stairs. It remained lying down on them, between the expression in the mother's eyes, some essence of horror, stopped time in her eyes and the shock of those who witnessed the incident. The baby remained lying. At first she didn't move. Despite the fall that engulfed all the stairs one by one. The baby didn't make a sound. And how could it have made a sound when it was made of - plastic!

It wasn't any baby, but an ordinary doll, a little old-fashioned and worn out. Plastic is not prone to injuries.

Collateral damage to the invisible whims of fate, drug addict`s stories from another time, an insidious game of chance, a karmic incident with no return ticket, like all of us, although all in our own way, carrying our cross as long as we have some illusion in front of us. Even if we have some kind of plastic doll in our hands, we also have something that makes us not stop. Not to break the circle.

An insignificant scene from an insignificant street in a small, gray town on the border with the promised land. A sad inspiration in the brain of an hydraulic press worker during a cigarette break.

(Roger Mortis 016)

Something about Generation Y

The informal philosophers of Generation Y, various weirdos such as Bill Hicks, George Carlin, David Icke, Greg Braden, Stuart Swerdlow, Michael Talbot and many others, perhaps for the first time in history led to a breakthrough in the rigid paradigms about the nature of reality and about the human place in the universe. Finally beyond both religious dogmas and mainstream scientific explanations. And perhaps most importantly, they did it in such a way that literally everyone, from a shoeshine boy in an alley in Calcutta to an average teenager in Darmstadt could understand it.

Here is a part of the authentic philosophy of Generation Y where science and spirituality finally join hands and emotions and reason are in a happy marriage, distilled in the lobotomized mind of a member of the aforementioned generation.

We perceive reality as part of the human race. In other words, our senses send electrical impulses & frequencies to the neural network in our brain that "decodes" reality. So reality exists only in our brain. We share it with about 8 billion other Homo sapiens-sapiens because we share an Operatin g system with them and only with them. Also we share the same "processor" and the same senses for perception and input of information to the said "processor".

The output of information is very different for each of us and we have a large range in quality and quantity, i.e. from the local moron with a mullet, a gold chain and a T-shirt to some brilliant scientist or writer. Same input, different output. We also share part of reality with some animals. The higher they are on the evolutionary scale, the more their reality (perception of reality, to be precise) is similar to ours. Example - dogs (incomparably better system for smell than humans) or cats (sight) or bats (hearing) have a different reality than us. Dogs smell what we can't, cats see what we can't, bats hear what we can't. that gives them a different perception of reality. They have a much greater input of information with electric impulses through the mentioned senses than we do. So a dog can probably recognize the smell of a stone (rough example), a cat sees something that we can't, although we`ll never know for sure. We cannot see the world though canine or feline eyes. Neither through bat`s radars,can we?

But our perception is not determined only by biological characteristics. When using any psychoactive substance, perception is shifted, expanded or narrowed depending on the chemical composition of the substance and the person using or abusing it. Although it does not necessarily mean that it is false.It is just different from the usual perception of reality, and whether it is a new reality that is only different from the one that is generally and jointly perceived as such, i.e. "Consensus-reality" is a question.

The decoding of the input of information & frequencies is also correlated with other things known as mind programming, brainwashing, propaganda, mind control, educational systems, psychological matrixes, religious patterns, electro-chemical balance in the organism and many others. Which significantly differentiates us from other forms of life on the planet in terms of the range of possibilities for decoding the input of information and with it of course the output which on the other hand is most important for what is called Ego, the Self, Personality, Individuality or any word that describes it.

Of course, the interdependence of the quality and quantity of incoming information is significant, but the decisive factor is the way it is decoded through the “software” and the “operating system” of our mind. This raises the question of what kind of power a group of people would have who would be able to influence not only the input of information (almost everyone can do that) but most importantly - the ability to download appropriate software with which the individual would later decode reality.

Perhaps history is just an endless series of software products placement, composed by a group with common interests throughout various time periods, which are constantly downloaded into the minds of the vast majority of people in a certain territory, and of course globally in recent times. If anyone knows the programming language of the software that conditions our perception of reality and the quality of its decoding, they have a key to unlock the conundrum of our time.

(Roger Mortis 015)

Two brothers in the back of my mind

Needless to say, I didn't remember their names. Despite the fact that they studied in the other class and were good people. Two brothers, Two Romani. Two Gypsies. Yes, they had nothing and that bothered us. Rags, stench, constant colds, severe poverty in a word. I won't describe them further because I can't describe the state of their misery. They were different from us. They would stay after school and go collect what was left from the cafeteria. To us, the well fed cattle, such a procedure seemed so lame. And the fact that it was repeated every day.

I know, I know, they collected it for home, so that a few more of their brothers and sisters could have a bite. Now I know. And then, we would meet them outside and do to them what we did. The bread would end up on the ground where they would pick it up again, the slaps, kicks and insults were standard drill, they served us as a punching bag on which we would pour out our fucking frustrations from home, from school, from the toilets, from our brains that were empty even though soaked in testosterone that was not wasted in some women's vagina but in the toilet bowl. Hence the back benches and the sadistic outbursts on those weaker than us.

We were a standard product of the educational and social system. And it was easy on our minds and sweet to our souls.

None of that can compare to the shock. The shock of why didn't they resist, why didn't they fight, why didn't they break one of our heads behind a wall with a steel bar at night. Why didn't they call their numerous brothers, cousins, friends,  you know, the Gypsy brothers. I still can't understand it even though I know they were barely standing on their feet. And they probably had some kind of life philosophy of their own or something along those lines. That was incomprehensible to us.

And I know something else...nevermind Mahatma Gandhi and everything I've read since then...through you, what we were hiding came to light...the terrible shit...ours and not yours...you just wanted us to leave you alone. And the tears in your eyes, and the words, mixed gypsy and Macedonian with which you begged us not to leave you... that was engraved in our hard drive... remained... although it will always be avoided when evoking memories of the `happy school days`...

No... the brothers were not the only ones to whom this was arranged. Although there were many others in a different way.  Ones who received a regular supply of misery and despair. For other "reasons" of course, the appropriate file downloaded by the system into our skulls was activated for different things, but with a similar results.

Were we children? Didn't we know any different? Well, thank you parents, relatives, neighbors and teachers for making us like that. Thank you for raising us like that, it was our greatest pleasure and it is still our pleasure to see someone in the mud, to console ourselves that we are not the most fucked up and shitty people in the world, that there is someone somewhere beneath us who we can step on.

Thanks for nothing!

This is dedicated to them brothers. I know they probably don't live in the virtual world, that they probably don't even have internet presence, and that they will never read these words. I apologize to you with all my heart and I hope that one day, someday, you will have everything that I don't, and that one day you will look at me with the same contempt that I looked at you with back then.

(Roger Mortis 014)

That Moment

The moment everyone had been waiting for had come. The gala dinner was almost over. The newlyweds, although tired from all the stupid fuss, petty-bourgeois congratulations, people in suits that didn't fit them, women who were perpetually threatened with breaking their heels and who were staggering around, finally saw the bed in front of them. Two relics of their puritanical upbringing. The moment he and she had been waiting for had come. Hush hush.

The sun had risen for Yuri Vladimirovich Streltsov, first term, former Komsomol member, raped four times in order to pay off his debt to the "death apron" and the tax to the Dedovshtina. The military academy, the absence on his alcoholic father's funeral and the crazy version of the Oedipus complex towards his mother. The denunciation. His moment had come. Authority. Money. Power. The red button.

The five minutes had come for him, the little guy from the docks, the thrifty bastard who ran a stall, giving up the small pleasures of everyday life, patiently tracing his path to the middle class, that den of gluttony and moralizing where he dreamed of belonging, so many times he had imagined it that there was no room left for any other dream. And finally, he arrived at his destination, he had his own business. The future seemed as pink to him as the bottom of a Madagascar Lemur.

Derek Chamberlain, born into opulence and decadence, Ivy League education, Trust funds, superficial superficiality, the child of the owners of four fear-producing concerns, a procession through many female and male crotches, the stairs of the bourgeois dream, the governor's office, new elections and victory. He got his dream of dreams, the mandate in the Oval Office. Power, fame and a code book for the descendant of the old lineage of degenerates.

The mosaic also matched the child from the other entrance of the building, he could not separate himself from the soccer ball and the redness in his cheeks every time a little blond girl of his age passed by him. Their eyes met more and more often. Their moment came, the first awkward kiss and his confused babbling that one day he would play for Everton football club and that she would be proud of him. Probably the same day that she would start acting together with Edward Norton. Still, it was their day, beautiful and wonderful with the taste of her tongue in his mouth.

Ahmed Ibn al-Samani, the middle-aged Sheikh, the monster of the Gulf, the master of manipulation and intrigue, the strict Muslim, the eternal juggler between East and West, the gambler who gambled with millions every weekday, and in his free time with the lives and fates of his subjects, had long been fulfilling his life's mission. The only thing she had no control over was right in his skull. Galloping schizophrenia and megalomania.

She was nothing special on any grounds. No amount of imagination would be enough to find any specialness and give her any meaning. Apart from her husband and two sons, she dedicated her life to the three of them, prepared tons of food, sent tons of dirty laundry and gave many maternal kisses goodnight to her sons and occasional routine sex to her husband. The time had come for her dream to come true. Her sons were getting an education, getting jobs and one of them was getting married. The woman was shining like never before in her life.

A predictable future, dancing in the shadow of the Real-Politik dance and everyday joys and sorrows, the small and big hopes of the small and big players on stage.

Some would like it to stay that way, apparent tranquility and false peace, violence on the screens and pensioner comments in the park. Almost everyone expected it, a kind of predictable path of the living and the main actors as well as the supporting cast and extras - likewise. The only crack in that picture were the demons in a Sheik's head.

The second horseman of the apocalypse did not come as predicted in the scriptures, there was no red horse and sword. He came unnoticed for the sailors of the USS "Gettysburg" in the form of an Exocet missile, and minutes later for those of the "Udaloi". The confusing international conference, interrupted coitus at the height of passion on the first wedding night, opening the ICBM silos, the Sheik's last game of poker, the big bets and the simultaneous strike on both superpowers. The rosy future of the newly minted businessman received darkish red tones from the Megatons detonated over his port.

The red button, the code book, the breakdown in communications, Yuri's bluff, Derek's bluff - both unsuccessful and cheaply executed. The petrified embrace on the bench where the wannabe footballer and actress experienced their first love, unaware that their first kiss would also be their last. A belated coup, The Fulda gap blues, the Sheikh's head mounted on a spear by the guard of honor. Intercontinental ballistic missiles saluting one another as they passed each other on the road to eternity. A mother's unfulfilled dream for a piece of happiness stolen from the monotonous everyday life sacrificed in the name of a happy tomorrows.

Yes, everybody was looking forward to the day after...

Well...

There was no day after.

(Roger Mortis 013)

Masquerade

Masks. I was given a few when I was born, on some rainy day, many years ago, although they came without instructions for use. The use was learned behavior later, although the word learning is just a euphemism tantamount of anal penetration without proper lubricant.

One of the many masks that take the form of indifference and arrogance was intended to hide emotions. To hide something that is felt towards something or (horror of horrors!) towards someone. That's when the united forces of the petty bourgeoisie, posturing, wisecracks and other impotent phenomena set out, which in the name of the Matrix take care to detect if someone somewhere and somehow in the world is happy and then procede to destroy him!

In order not to be boring, that destruction of what is best in us and which we all desperately need takes different forms. And those forms come in the variety of masks that we have to wear depending on the occasion and depending on what kind of feces we have to swallow. Purely to fit in the middle, the Matrix will cut us to the ground and throw us into the waste of life, where all the roads that started in some happier times when we have been extatic with an innocent smile on an ordinary sunny day, the passing of sympathy rubbing shoulders next to us or an ordinary dish of chocolate that we now eat after reading how many calories it has and whether it has expired.

And no one has asked why they do it, why they try to destroy something beautiful, something that he or she wishes to experience from the bottom of his or her soul. It doesn't wonder because it wears several of those masks that he got for free and that he will pay for the rest of his life until the final triumph of the ultimate winners assume their role - the worms underground.

The worms? End of the road? Maybe and maybe not. I feel as if I have dug something out of mothballs, from the times when I first thought about the finitude of life in the holographic projection known as self experience. Finally, in the best and most sincere Balkan tradition, one greeting. Fuck you all, fuck off, break your head and stay away from me. I have one life and I will live it my way. If you don't like it - well, that`s that we'll see us above one day and compare notices.

(Roger Mortis 012)

Greatest World Cup upsets

Lets take a look at the Top 10 stunning upsets in World Cup history :

Ten. West Germany 0, East Germany 1, 1974

In a perfect football epitome of the Cold War, West Germany, hosting the Cup in 1974, were drawn to play their neighbors from across the Berlin Wall - East Germans in what was to be East`s one and only appearance ever on the world football stage. Both teams having secured qualification for the next round, everything that was at stake was pride, and lots of it. West Germans, European champions of the day, having arguably one of the best line-ups in the history of the game was up against a team of eleven unknowns from the communist East. What the capacity crowd at Volks park stadium in Hamburg witnessed, happened to be a sole goal scored by one Jurgen Sparwasser for the East Germans in the 77th minute of the game. West Germany threw everything on offence in a vain attempt to equalize but the East Germans weren`t impressed. The result stood at 0-1 and Sparwasser rose from obscurity only to became something of a household name in Germany. However, West Germans recovered quickly from the embarrassment and went on to win the Cup later on.

Two. Germany 2, Switzerland 4, 1938

Nazi Germany having won a bronze medal in 1934 edition was set to conquer the soccer world in 1938. Boosted by as much as nine Austrian players that were included into the German team after the ”Anschluss” of Austria in March of that same year, they were to play Switzerland in the first round of the tournament hosted by France. Brandishing a nazi salute before the start of the match in front of a very hostile crowd at Park des Princes stadium in Paris, Germans took on the non-remarkable Swiss team but managed only a draw after taking the lead earlier in the match. According to the rules in those days a play-off was to be played within 48 hours. Two days later at the same venue, Germans were cruising comfortably 2-0 at half-time and nobody expected anything out of the ordinary. Except for the Swiss players that were determined to make life difficult for the Germans and pulled off one of the most shocking comebacks ever, scoring incredible four goals in the second half and sending the Nazi Dream Team out of the Cup.

Three. Italy 1, New Zealand 1, 2010

One could hardly imagine more unbalanced fixture than defending World Champions of 2006, Italy playing New Zealand in 2010 World Cup in South Africa. ”All Whites”, representatives of Oceania, a team occasionally being beaten up by the likes of Fiji and other exotic sides wasn`t perceived as a threat by any stretch of imagination. Though Kiwis pulled one remarkable last minute escape to a draw with Slovakia earlier in the Cup and Italy did likewise against Paraguay it was hard to expect anything but defeat at the hands of the ``Azzuri``. Saving a point with Slovakia is one thing, stopping the World Champions is quite another – yet that is exactly what happened at Mbombela stadium in Nelspruit to the amazement of anyone that even remotely knows ``who`s who`` in football world. Shane Smeltz shocked the world after seven minutes and Italians only got to equalize through a penalty kick later. As the subsequent results showed, this draw sent Italians back home alongside All Whites that still finished in front of Italy in the group!

Four. Argentina 0 Cameroon 1, 1990

Playing an opening World Cup game against reigning World champions is difficult enough, playing against Argentina as it was the case at the 1990 World Cup opener is worse, having to stop Diego Maradona, widely acknowledged as one of the best players ever to have played football is next to impossible, but beating them with one and later two men down is a stuff that legends are made. That is what the team of Cameroon pulled off at San Siro, Milan sending shockwaves around the world and becoming most successful African World Cup side to date. More resembling a pitched battle than a game with numerous wild tackles from both sides it took one mistake to decide the result and it was Argentinian goalkeeper Pumpido that dropped the ball into his own net after clumsily trying to save Omam Biyik`s header in the seconf half. Cameroonians didn`t stop there and famously went on to progress to the quarterfinals only to be stopped on the brink of a medal glance by losing in extra time against England.

Five. France 0, Senegal 1, 2002

Having to open a World Cup defending the title puts a team in precarious position, best illustrated perhaps when the French set out against Senegal, being shocking African qualifiers but not much more in footballing terms. Nothing seemed to go right for the French that day in Seoul, missing many chances to score and as it often happens when one team misses so many opportunities, punishment is swift and cruel. This match wasn`t an exception and Senegalese caught the French defence asleep on the counter attack with Papa Buba Diop scoring the only goal after thirty minutes. Efforts on behalf of the French team that included superstars such as Thierry Henry and Patrick Vieira proved futile and the result of the first match at the first World Cup to be co-hosted in Asia by Japan and Korea stood at Senegal 1, France 0. France never recovered from this defeat and had a nightmare of a campaign being eliminated in the group stage without even scoring a single goal! Senegal on the other hand went strongly to make most of their single World Cup appearance ever and matched the best World Cup results by African teams narrowly missing on the semifinals.

Six. Holland 1, Egypt 1, 1990

Hopes of winning the World Cup are commonplace, and chances of winning the Cup backed by the likes of Marco Van Basten, Ruud Gullit, Frank Rijkaard and Ronald Koeman having the European throne already in their back pocket must have seemed very realistic. The Dutch team was set to achieve in Italy in the summer of 1990 what had eluded them twice in the final matches in 1974 & 1978, even more so because their first obstacle wasn`t too scary by any way conceivable. It was Egypt, another African ``loose mine`` waiting to strike at unsuspecting favorites. Maybe not as easy as expected but the flamboyant Dutch still took the lead in the second half and had control over the game. That was so until 83rd minute when Koeman`s foul on Hossam Hassan just inside the 18-yard box led to a penalty from which Abdelghani equalized and stopped the Dutch dead in their tracks. A one-off shocker, Egypt failed to make further impact finishing bottom of the group and the Dutch fared only marginally better being eliminated in the second round.

Seven. West Germany 1, Algeria 2, 1982

German players were so sure they`ll beat Algeria in 1982 that they never even bothered to watch a tape of how Algeria, their opponent in an upcoming fixture – plays the game. Along with jokes and funny remarks for the upcoming fixture against the North African debutants, to say that Germans underestimated Algeria is an understatement. And it backfired badly. Algerians played their heart out and deservedly won the game in Gijon, to the amazement of the crowd and TV spectators around the globe.

As sensational as it was, this result was overshadowed by an apparent match fixing scandal when Germany and Austria went on to finish their match in the only way possible that would see them both through and eliminate Algeria. No evidence was presented and the Cup went along without Algeria except it prompted FIFA to change the rules for the last matches in the group to be played at the same time in the future, minimizing the chances for `friendly` outcomes, just in case.

Eight. Italy 0, North Korea 1, 1966

It was a shock in it`s own right that North Korea qualified for the 1966 World Cup in England and having been drawn in a group with the Soviet Union, Italy and Chile it was clear that it would take a miracle to beat all miracles if North Korea was to advance further into the knockout phase. Having lost comfortably against USSR and drawing with Chile, North Koreans were left with only one option in the final match and that was to beat the European football powerhouse, Italy. Renown for their defensive tactics, even a draw was enough for the Italians that day at Ayresome Park, Middlesbrough. Pak Do Ik`s stunner just before the half time sent North Korea in front and all subsequent efforts by the Italians to score were hampered by Korean defense and especially their goalkeeper, 19 year old Lee Chang Myung who rose from obscurity and saved the day, launching the North Korean players for a brief moment to world fame. Once in the quarter finals, North Koreans were on a brink of another sensation leading 3-0 against Portugal only to receive five goals later that put an end to the dream.  46 years later, a BBC documentary gathered all seven surviving team members for a reminiscence of what many consider to be one of the major upsets in international football.

Nine. Hungary 2, West Germany 3, 1954

It was the big final of the 1954 World Cup at Wankdorf stadium in Bern, Switzerland. Hungarians, one of the finest teams ever to be assembled surprised no one by progressing to the final match. Unbeaten in four years and 31 matches, having already destroyed Germany 8-3 in the group stage it must have seem natural that the Cup was already in their hands, especially after Puskas & Csibor scored two goals in the opening nine minutes of the final itself. Dubbed ``The miracle of Bern`` it was the quintessential German die hard attitude that made the difference and shortly afterwards the score line stood at 2-2, Morlock and Rahn with the goals. Helmut Rahn was to became a hero of post war resurging Germany by scoring his second goal of the match with only six minutes to go. Puskas scored a last minute goal for Hungary that was disallowed for an apparent offside and Germany ended winners, with millions of TV spectators watching the first televised World Cup. In later years, suspicions grew over alleged methamphetamine use by the German players which could explain the edge they had over their rivals. Sadly, Hungarian ``Golden team`` was to decline rapidly after the 1956 Hungarian revolution with most players emigrating and being adopted by other national football teams.

Ten. England 0, United States 1, 1950

At last, England ended the World Cup boycott and qualified for the 1950 World Cup in Brazil. As a country where football originated and having the best professional league in the world expectations run high. After an initial easy victory over Chile, English stars were to play United States, rank outsiders of the tournament in Belo Horizonte. Featuring legends such as Finney, Mortensen, Ramsey and Stanley Matthews they were up against a United States team, a strange mixture of semi-pro`s, expats and amateurs hoping to gain experience on the world stage. As the game opened, England pressed on to score and created several chances but executed none. And then in the 37th minute, it happened. Joe Gaetjens, Haitian emigrant and a part-time dishwasher while at Columbia University scored the goal that would decide the match and immortalize the greatest upset ever to occur at any World Cup. English threw everything they had at the Americans but it wasn`t to be. Indeed, in the closing moments of the game, U.S.A almost doubled their lead and moments later it was all over. England 0, United States 1. Such an outcome was so unthinkable that news reports around the globe assumed a mistake on the part of telegraph operators and printed 10-1 result in favor of England! United States finished the competition with a defeat by Chile, while the English, evidently still in shock, lost their final match against Spain and crashed ingloriously out of the Cup.

(Roger Mortis 011)

Turn off the TV

Waking up this morning, I have no idea how to start writing something...three dots?! Inspiration? I don`t need no freakin` inspiration! Well, maybe listening to Das Boot by the obscure German act U-96. Not sure if that counts as an inspiration.

We're all in the same shit, for starters. Although I adore the lobotomy as a great achievement of the human race I have to be a little serious. Yes, we are in the same sauce, suffering from the same pains, we are all on the sinking ship that the rats left a long time ago. We can deceive ourselves to the point of infantility, but in the end we know that we are just cogs in the ritual of the big Capital, which, by its necrophilic nature, tramples on the humanity that evolution endowed upon us, with which nature gifts us daily and we, like lobotomized monkeys, ignore it because it is - for free!

So we work like idiots all day to buy the same thing?

Stuck in bot-level relationships with a consciousness that would put termites to shame, we celebrate the death of humanity with the rapture of the righteous. Righteous of the kind that makes me sick, all those who have convinced us that what is free must be bought, what we already have we must acquire, and what we are aware of, we must find out on television or to to be regurgitated in schools. All of those nine-to-five Joe`s & Jane`s.

We are all an army of prejudged losers, deprived of any alternative that would lead us to the unequivocal conclusion of how screwed up our minds are and what monumental idiots we are. Never wonder why things don't pick up from a standstill.

The blind spot is all of us.

A great legion of morons who work their whole lives for the interests of worthless pigs that we will never meet and see what kind of shit they are.

And those people who are downloaded upon us as examples and role models are the same ones who are not worth even half a verse of  some strange band such as Azra or God forbid, Don McLean! Not that it's not scary. To see that there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, that we have been running in the wrong direction and that life has been spent searching for the elixir of shopping at the next megamarket. And we exchanged everything that was free and the most valuable, for useless trifles, toys for grown-up children and similar rubbish.

At least the macro economic parameters are fine. Aren`t they?

For the last time please turn the TV off until it's not too late.

Put down the smartphone for a while.

And if it is too late, i don`t give a damn really. Just enjoy yourselves.

Being a coward I`ll just switch the channel and watch something else.

(Roger Mortis 010)

The Inspirational Butterfly

Here lies the will that never dies. Who knows the secrets of the will and its strength? What we call God is nothing but the great Will which orders all things according to the nature of its purpose. Man does not surrender to the angels, nor to death completely, except through the weakness of his fragile will.

Joseph Glenville

What breaks us in everyday life? All those ordinary things that eat away at us with their banality and monotony and that make us cry from the inside one in a while. In some place, in some time and for some people, that was Malaria, mosquitoes, Sodomy, Cholera, solitary confinement, sharks, guillotine and death. And hope. For escape. For Freedom.

For one man, prisoner no. 54345, the alleged murderer of a certain Marseille pimp, ex-soldier and forger. All those terms you read above were everyday life for 15 years. His name is Charriere. Henri Charriere. Yes, that's "The Butterfly". The one for whom no one on the planet would change. And who I respect as the epitome for a Man. Example number one. All he had was hope that, as they often remind us, never dies.

And that verse that Glenville tells us about, the will that doesn't die even when you see your best years go down the sewer pipes in Cayenne's solitary confinement. No, not that he's missing all of his teeth. Almost no hair. That Malaria takes it's toll. That he's been caught six times trying to escape. That he's been talking to himself for five years in an isolation cell, alone with his mind, his friends cockroaches and rats. Not even that is enough to break Henri the "Butterfly" who has reached the age of fifteen inmate years in Guyana and as an old convict has a rare privilege because he is left to die on Devil's Island, the last station for people turned into numbers. Well, old in a way. He was 38 years old although when he looked in the mirror he recognized an old man who in Marseilles could pass as 75.

One thing the authorities didn't count on, was that he was Henri Charriere. There is obviously a spark in his brain that makes him forget the dead friends for whom he dug holes for quick burial in the Kayenne swamp. Those who disappeared without a trace during escape attempts and those who went crazy in solitary confinement after a year or two, the same place he was for five years. However, Henri does not go alone. There are a few who are willing to take the risk alongside him. Rene, Louis, Pascal, guys that  still dream of freedom.

That day is coming. Everything is going according to plan. The escape succeeds. Seventh in a row. Will this be the last? The end of the agony. Maybe. They end up in the village where the French colonial authorities settle down the leprous inhabitants of the colony. Who knows, lepers might somehow help the escapees. But here comes the test. The test that freezes the blood and kills in amid sentence. A fine gentleman who appears to be an authority in the village, although he has only two fingers left on his cigar hand, cynically offers Henri the cigar he is smoking among the leprous remains that were probably once tongue and lips. Failure to accept the unwritten codes in the hell of Guyana means death. Quick death. Whether because of that or otherwise, Henri casually takes the cigar and takes a deep, uicy smoke. Never mind. Without fear. The triumph of humanity fills the lepers eyes that hardly even see with tears. There are those people. Who do not abhor lepers. And who shares a cigar of cheap tobacco. With a man who is falling apart. They are given a boat and the friends run away. Not for long though. Fate shits at their doorstep once again. They catch them. That's the seventh time. Back in isolation.

That's the end. Henri Charrier and company count the last days on that island. And for the most stubborn, the curtain falls once again. That's that then.

Well, no. Henri is already looking at the sea. Again. Yes, there is no end, no beginning, the horizon blows away all the pains and blackness that have plagued him for 15 years. Wanted to know what freedom is? That is his domain. If someone knows, he knows. The "Butterfly". Number 54345. Who packs a bag of coconut shells. One jump. Oblivion or liberty.

Unspecified day in 1946. Every morning, someone wakes Señora Rita Charriere on the coast of Venezuela. He has such a habit. Gets up at dawn. She is that emotional harbor to him.

It's Henri. The real story of the "Butterfly". A happy ending? Yes. Rita, three children, life in freedom, and the book that contributed to the hell of the Penal Colony being outlived by Henri himself.

Written by him.

Despite everything.

Until the last breath, Mon Ami.

(Roger Mortis 009)

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Perhaps at first glance, one would think that dictators are an extremely perverse breed that, apart from harems, pedophilia, Swiss banks, high military ranks, bizarre uniforms and random infatuation, are also connoisseurs of any of the 459 registered paraphilias in the field of sexual psychology. If you associate that thought with their ultimate fetish, the holy grail of a dictatorial erection, you don't know them as a species.

At all.

From Mobutu Sese Seko, through Ferdinand Marcos to Fidel Castro.

From Leonid Brezhnev, Jean-Bedel Bokassa, Nicolae Ceausescu to Alfredo Stroessner.

Trujillo or Mubarak.

Everyone has the same wet dream. And that is - subjects who not only have no spine, but are constantly in love with the one who spreads their misery. Sterile cowards with high threshold of tolerance, where any kind of experience is received without objection. Passivity to the extent that it has been sung in centuries of tradition among such subjects, as a kind of virtue, skill or wisdom. The holy grail of dictatorship lies where power is truly treated by the subjects as a gift from heaven. These are subjects that are hard to find. Like a perfect woman for example.

But there is one place, hidden behind seven garbage containers and nine dump trucks, a mythical territory behind three counters and 99 bureaucrats, often talked about and enviously looked at by dictatorial eyes, the reason why that piece of land despite the fact that it has no oil, resources or sea or anything to which would be worth fighting for at first sight. And yet it has been the subject of fights and battles of various dictators, kings, emperors and princes for hundreds of years. A motive? In that place live the mythical subjects who will never, ever and under no circumstances rebel against the government. And if someone by chance, to the general horror and contrary to centuries old tradition, rebels, he will be quickly and efficiently eliminated even before the quietest rumor of the rebellion reaches the ears of the dictators.

Do you know which place it is?

It will not be Mauritania.

Maybe Haiti?

The Confederate States of America?

Republic of Rhodesia?

They lied to you that they were enslaving that territory because of some biblically ancient connotations.

Strategic locations and center of the world?

The Alshar Mine or the Lakes?

For the batshit insane & the renowned lunatic asylums?

That they enslaved it for material wealth and resources?

No.

For the sake of the subjects themselves. Now you know why the population of that territory was the target of various conquerors. Heaven, not earth. Because such subjects are not found anywhere else, at least not in this part of the solar system.

Exceptions?

There were. Few and far between and they did not find support among those for whose interest and freedom they fought. Their historical frequency is purely existent enough to irritate statisticians and historians. A few small stones in a bag of rice. And not only that, but they received regular bonuses in the form of betrayals and infighting, due to the fact that opportunism was a religion and myopic animalistic selfishness was a dogma.

That is why history must be changed as they did in the Ministry of Truth, where the hole of oblivion worked at full steam, as well as the printing presses. Every government brings a new history and writes it anew. To cover up the collective fail and give a new fix to the addicts of cheap illusions. If you still can't think of which place it is, you are the one living in such a place. The perfect subject for whom the date is some day and some month. But the year remains the same forever.

1984.

Welcome.

(Roger Mortis 008)

Dialectic much?

The Balkans gender reality is in many ways determined by several concepts.

We will stick to two basic ones, the feminine one (Whore) and the male one (Poofter).

The male member of the homo-sapiens species should be a fucker, a dude, a seducer, in a word, have a high two-digit, and preferably three-digit number of vaginal, oral or anal applications of the dick. And not in USB ports but in different ownership of the specified holes. In some environments, oral application is valued as two or even three vaginal, in others it is counted as half vaginal. Anal also has different values. Shades.

Dialectic!

There are no nuances here. Either he's a faggot or she`s a harlot.

In more recent times, the terms Cobbler, Impotent and Stray are gradually competing with the ultimate expression. of Queer. But nothing can replace the horror, panic and paranoia that is sown by the synonym for reverse sexuality, an anomaly,, double or multiple barrel gun, exhaust pipe...

The female member of the homo-sapiens species should be a saint, honest, collected, honorable, in a word to have an extremely low number of vaginal, oral or Lord forbid, Anal applications to the corresponding holes with the help of one or different penises. The figure starts from zero and with every 50-60,000 inhabitants of the settlement where the owner of the holes lives, it increases by a certain percentage. So yes, in a relatively large city with delusions of a metropolis and the mentality of Kasaba from Kurdistan, the word `Whore` can be delegated even after 3 to 4 headjobs..

Once the limit (the credit) is exceeded, she is officially a Whore, a Cunt, a Tart, Woman of ill repute.

And everything would be fine, the sun would be shining even in the shade, Warblers and other animals would be singing through the blooming forests and meadows, and the May bumblebee would happily fly from flower to flower, buzzing through the end of spring and heralding summer. The fruits of the womb of an honest woman and the seeds of a guy would run around this heavenly setting, married to mom and gifted to dad...

But! The creators of this consensus reality known as our ancestors missed something. Not that they wanted any mistake to sneak up on them, that's what they had in mind. Who rarely served them for opinion more as a depreciated inventory, a ballast in the head, a burden or a curse.

Let us stop beating round the bush. Them ancestors were and not much more. Such was their wisdom that they compromised the future of several generation that came after them.

So, what is the problem?

That always (except during long term wars) the numerical ratio of men and women is more or less half to half. Which means for men to be Fuckers the majority of women have to be Whores. And for the majority of women to be honest, then, the majority of men should be fags. So much for the logic of the ancestors and their descendants today.

Temporary salvation was found in lying.

So everyone can be a bitch and everyone can be innocent.

But that too is only a temporary (verbal) patching of the hymen or the male ego.

What`s the Cure?

Liberalism as Messianic doctrine.

Is that a bird?

Is that a plane?

Is that a rocket?

No!

It is liberalism that flew in like a savior angel to moist dry pussies and runny eggs!

It's on TV!

Pick the remote in your hands and receive in your skull the latest Messianic message, the light of enlightenment, the beautiful liberalism! If you are not satisfied with the TV, if you are urban intellectual, there is an updated product for you, packed with philosophy, spirituality and progressiveness.

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law, as certain person by the name of Aleister Crowley stated many moons ago.

Only this concept has one fatal factory setting error. It was produced in the sterile womb of necrophilic capitalism.

And so is its quality. Necro.

Ordinary animalistic selfishness and evasion of responsibility, reducing man to a product from a shelf on a shelf, and eternal dissatisfaction which in turn is a generator of capital turnover.

Divorce, children without childhood, parents with children as a burden, a baby instead of a Barbie, eternal hell between spouses or partners, a struggle for supremacy between them, children as collateral, a career instead of a child, old dudes, with a facade of extraordinary personalities, and moldy fuckers lonely as scabies infected dog before execution.

In the Balkans, this is not the result of Liberalism. That lobotomy is still new and needs time to start producing victims. Not that there aren't any, they are rare. Conservatism has been working for that purpose for now, stamping misery on the population albeit with different modality.

There was a dry, old, hardened Troll from a Scottish village.

His name was Alexander Neal.

And he tried to troll the system.

To make boys and girls who will literally make love with each other until they realize that quality does not come from quantity.

Quantity also implies responsibility around it. Who is not an end unto himself?

But in practice several sexual partners are more than fine in getting love experience. And not with tricks or strings attached. Through polygamy and polyandry to monogamy?

Trollish concept.

Through.

For rare lucky ones, a reality.

For the Balkans, utopia.

For the rest, there are Liberalism and Conservatism.

Not delivering results? No way!

(Roger Mortis 007)