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)

Is Patriotism a Mental Illness?

The broad definition states the following: any disorder of brain function that affects thought processes, emotions, or the ability to interact mutually and beneficially with the environment and surroundings is a patrio...oops...mental illness.

Patriotism itself and its stupid brother, nationalism, are based on "love" for some imaginary entity called "the state" or "the people" in the most common sense of the use of these terms. It also implies some positive difference to all other entities that are named as nations and states.

Emotions directed at imaginary entities is nothing new, religion is the best indicator of how far it can escalate.              

But patriotism as a relatively new phenomenon with it`s climax in mid 20th Century. If in religion at least "love" was given to some omnipotent entity called God, from whom a reward with eternal life was expected, in the case of patriotism we have an emotionally one-sided attitude towards some features on a geographical map and some name that indicates that territory. Of course, behind that concept are hidden quite specific mechanisms for the robbery of the population of a certain territory and exploitation, joined by robing blind the resources of that place on the earth. The genius lies in the brainwashing that asks the victims to love their perpetrator, because it sells them a story of uniqueness, belonging to a greater whole, and the deep fears that every average lobotomized member of a nation tries to avoid during his earthly life.

In other words, patriotism thrives on the fertile soil of the individual's cowardice and mental inertia. Just like many other mental disorders.

This mental illness exploded on a world scene with the rebranding of states into nations in the 18th century. Mostly thanks to the by-product of the French Revolution, that pure evil dictator known as Napoleon Bonaparte.

No patriot or nationalist can explain what is good in the mentioned entities. What is it that leads to an emotional engagement from him to the imagined social construct. Is, for example, masturbation on the Macedonian edition of Playboy an expression of patriotism? Or is it still just masturbation? If it is the former, then patriotism and masturbation are equivalent.

By its action, patriotism prevents the development of a person by eternally insisting on not asking questions (there was a J.F. Kennedy statement in that direction) and conditioning the individual. In the territory known as North Macedonia and the year 2024, this disease is increasingly present. And threatens to kill any independent opinion and prevent any tipping point in the direction of individual and collective values ​​contrary to patriotism. And even worse, in many cases man is conditioned between biological survival and his own attitude. Guess what has the priority.

But patriotism is a disease of pandemic proportions.

An empty personal life and the lack of a clearly defined idea of ​​one's own worth is replaced by ready-made belief models that are derivatives, thus opening the way for a mass epidemic of patriotism, against which the plague pandemic in the 14th century known as the Black Death is only pleasant a spring breeze caressing your hair on a beautiful sunny May afternoon. Only in the 20th century, patriotism and nationalism, according to the most conservative estimates, are responsible for the death of 455 million people in several hundred wars fought on all continents.

Except for Antarctica.

Fortunately, there is almost nothing in Antarctica.

Bacteria and viruses don't grow much there, and neither does patriotism...

What should be done? How we escape the pulling power of this evil? Well, step one, kill the patriot within you!

After that, continue into the neighborhood. Be proactive. Talk to people. Write a Blog. Do anything for the love of all that`s holly.

(Roger Mortis 006)

Victory

He looked at the aperture incessantly. He remembered when he first flew many years ago and wondered how the view did not stop fascinating him after so much time. The world looked quite peaceful and calm as always.

He was wondering. Where from all those memories, unannounced arrived, beginning to turn through his head. Landed friendships, semi-made and unfulfilled love stories, plans that have received an unexpected direction. Much more important things had to be thought off. Direction of life, his life.

Questions. Why didn't he ask for a phone number of  that black-haired, tall, cutely tired girl that he saw  that night at the airport bar, just before receiving the unexpected command. The command they have been training for years hoping they won't ever hear it, memorized for a long time in a separate part of the brain.

Wasn't an exercise. Operational task, flight with use in anger.

No one got a chance except her. Others, her competitors, blue and black, and perhaps even red-haired were difficult to relocate with him, half a year on Okinawa, half a year in Arizona, a year in Korea, two off Diego Suarez. But she always sought it wherever she went.

He was always fulfilled, cheerful, although a bit rigid, obedient and not overloaded with naive questions. He was not particularly perceptive to realize that his thoughts were just phrases with whom they had fed him him through the military training school.

For the first time he was overwhelmed by a strange feeling in that tenderness at nine thousand meters above the North Pacific, alone with a few colleagues in the once magnificent Boeing B-52 Stratofortress, a large and powerful two hundred tonnes machine that he knew more intimate than several girls with whom he had serious relationships. Better than with parents, his father a military pilot in action sometime over some insignificant point on the planet, dragging the Dragon of Air America, white and green, and his mother, who held out somehow without the good will to raise their son, except for a few stories spun now and then. His father's alleged heroic feats, told in the break between watching movies and dinner.

Her son was a battle she lost without much fight. Unlike her husband who pulled out a white flag for several months after the birth of the future rider of the Apocalypse.

They learned and trained for her. Although big and heavy, she radiated some energy that required a lot of potassium and iodine for her lovers. They only used her in some obscure places like Maralinga, Montebello, Bikini Atol or Tanesruf Belt. She was the real one. She. The Bomb. Ultimate symbol of destruction. Orgasm of 1,1 megatonnes of raw power. B-28M was her real name. Molly for the ones that new her. The crew of the bomber also called her "sweety", probably to cover up the fear of flying with her, knowing her inclinations.

The enemy. There was no opportunity to retaliate, the standards for Mutual Assured Destruction did not apply this time. At least intelligence reports suggested. On several occasions, the thoughts like "It wasn't our fault, they started it", "We could do nothing but defend ourselves"

Intelligence, plans and operations had a common cut.

They were 100% secure only in politicians' accounts.

This time there was no going back.

Next was the goal.

Molly, the sweet little Molly, was unloaded as planned.

The fuel was at an end, the last drops were helplessly extracted from the tanks.

Calls to supplement fuel in the air faced dead silence, flying tankers that were supposed to appear did not appear and did not respond to calls. There was nowhere to land. Down was hell, upstairs was the fuel gauge. Scenes went unstoppable in his mind, all the way to the bottom.

They missed the possibility of forcing water landing some time ago, confident in the existence of it's base. It was clear to them what had happened, but they had no time for a storm of emotions, anger, sadness. Maybe just a shock. The pilot has been in a daze for some time, humming a perticular song.

As i was walking,

That ribbon of highway,

I saw above me

That endless skyway,

I saw Below Me

That Golden Valley.

This land was made for you and me.

Strangely, the aircraft's autopilot was not activated. Unlike the autopilot in the head of our protagonist, which in the last minutes before the stratospheric beast was attracted by gravity downwards, still tirelessly worked. He was not sorry for anything, neither for himself or the ashes that they left somewhere there, not for friend or foe.

He was pleased that they finally showed them.

(Roger Mortis 005)