Eternal War

Death is most often completely anonymous, especially in the silent class war that has been going on for a long time and continues with unabated intensity. `Today a construction worker died after falling from scaffolding.` is a typical headline in the media, if there is a headline at all. And much more often there is none than there is.

Another one of the army of dead who lose their lives at work due to poor working conditions, lack of protection, exhaustion or a loss of concentration...

It is difficult to say how many dead there are because the statistics are kept by the state and the state and its preferred economic model are the cause of death and it would be very naive to expect the murderer to accurately document his crimes. When it comes to the number of disabled workers, then that number can be multiplied by some speculative multiplier and suddenly the unpleasant reality of the thousands of dead and wounded in the silent war of the state against the people becomes difficult to perceive.

These people are not in the service of regimes, they do not beat and kill children on the streets, they build buildings and houses that will be someone's homes, sewers and water pipes, installations and everything that makes life more comfortable. But despite this, they are terribly anonymous, their death does not exist, it is registered with two lines on page 23 of a newspaper at best, there is no individualization of the victims, no daily wisdom, no one remembers them.

There is no honor shooting, no TV cameras, no statements from family and friends.

There is nothing.

And so the silent war continues to eat human flesh and grind human destinies. From the mobile phone that is in our hands because of the death of millions in Congo to the guy who was buried in your city digging to install a water pipe, an endless stream of sad destinies and an endless stream of paradise that transfers its anonymity from this world to the next.

(Roger Mortis, 050)

STENDEC

Even after a decade, nothing is known about the fate of the missing Malaysian passenger Boeing B-777. Despite countless speculations and theories, it is very likely that the real situation will never be known, and if it is ever known, it could only be by chance. As in the case of a long-lost plane about which many stories have been told...

In 1947, a British passenger Avro Lancastrian (for those who are fans of flying machines - an adaptation of the numerous Lancaster bombers, famous for their nightly visits over German cities) of the British South American company on its way from Buenos Aires to Santiago in Chile - disappeared without a trace.

This case became famous among mystery lovers because of the pilot's last message, which was ``STANDEC,'' a word without any particular meaning that was repeated at the request of air traffic control several times. Later, this word was interpreted in various ways, from the pilot's escape to the good old little green aliens who abducted Paradise. The ambiguity of the last communication only added to the mystique of this case. Adding fuel to the mysterious fire were statements by radio amateurs that after the last registered contact with control, they received `SOS/Mayday` signals.

The search yielded no results and the case remained unexplained. For decades, there was speculation about the fate of the plane, until 1998 when the first trace of the plane (part of one of the engines) was found by mountaineers in the Andes. Later, soldiers of the Argentine army found some remains of corpses, so that in 2002, a full 55 years after the event, DNA identification confirmed the identity of the passengers and the fate of the plane that hooked its tip with the lower part of the fuselage and crashed into a glacier.

The heavy snow covered the plane and left the rest of the work to the glacier. The glacier, acting in accordance with its unstable nature, completely covered the plane with ice, simply swallowed it and launched it into the legends...With the subsequent melting of the ice, after half a century - from the frozen mountain bowels the sad reality emerged into the light of day. For descendants and some still living contemporaries of the passengers - the case finally got an epilogue.

It is possible that in the case of the Malaysian plane some kind of freak scenario like the one mentioned above occurred, which would leave the truth in the realm of speculation until a counter-freak event would provide some answers.

(Roger Mortis, 049)

Underground

It is strange, the need of the authorities in almost all the offsprings of evil known as states - to build underground shelters where they would hide in a case of loss of power or in a case of natural or anthropogenic disaster. Most of the countries in the world had underground shelters ranging from a simple bunkers to entire underground cities. A nuclear holocaust or Zombie apocalypse must not catch politicians unprepared...

In the USA, the NORAD center Cheyenne Mountain and the Ravenrock base are known, where there are huge underground complexes, in the first case carved into a granite mountain, where the American government and the main headquarters were supposed to hide in case of incoming nuclear missiles. In addition to the underground cities, they also have several aircraft, seriously modified Boeing B-707 and 747, not only the popular Air Force One but also many others, the E-4 Nightwatch for example, the most expensive aircraft in the world after the B-2, there are also appropriate ships that allowed for the continuation of operations after the `first strike`.

The Soviet authorities also had such wonders, as the continuity of underground tunnels and buildings since the time of Ivan the Terrible, it is said that under the Kremlin there was supposedly a special metro line that led to other underground centers or airports and it required high clearance to access. Most of these buildings were started during Stalin's time, and how many and what they exist is a subject of speculation. Another center was under Mount Yamantau in the Urals.

At one time, Hitler, as an uber-evil but impressive person, had his own underground city under Berlin and there was also the Wolf's Lair in East Prussia. Perhaps the only example of putting into operational use a typical Doomsday dwelling in order to protect the government, although we know how it all ended (or do we?). In Bavaria there were abandoned salt mines that the Nazis modified into underground bases from where the Nazi guerrilla forces, the organization Die Werewolf, were supposed to operate after the signing of the capitulation, committing atrocities in the Allied occupation zones. Nothing came of it, the world was tired of wars...but the legend of the Nazi secret bases in Antarctica (!?) remained where Adolf, Mengele, Bormann and other fine gentlemen and ladies found refuge from the ruins of the Third Reich and, of course, worked hard on the creation of the Fourth Reich (and what else would they do after spending whole days in Antarctica).

This theory is based on real expeditions before the war in Antarctica where New Schwabia was declared on a certain territory of the white continent. And that`s not so strange, which continent would be more suitable for Aryans than - a white one?

In the ex-Yugoslavia, the most famous are Tito's underground city, "D-0" near Konjic in Bosnia and the underground airport (no brainer, but still...) Željava in Croatia. In Romania, Ceausescu built an underground network under Bucharest, especially around his palace which was the second largest building in the world by square footage after the Pentagon. Unfinished at the time of the beautiful shooting of Nicolae, the building had not yet been sufficiently explored and supposedly there was even a raja who got lost exploring the tunnels.....and was never seen again. In Macedonia, there is talk about Mount Jasen where there was an ex-JNA underground base which today was intended as a refuge for politicians in case of trouble and some talk about a similar building on Krivolak.

The basic idea behind such bizarre structures is the so-called state of continuity of government, the continuation of the rule of state authorities even after a cataclysmic event. In other words - authorities around the world are announcing that they plan to take action in a post-apocalyptic world of nuclear winter that can become a reality only through their fault...

(Roger Mortis, 048)

El Psicopata

The phenomenon of serial killers has long been embedded in popular culture. To the extent that members of the `elite` of perpetrators of the ultimate crime - murder - are perceived with fascination by the broad masses of the people, such creatures are given disproportionate attention, the media are full of the `exploits` of individuals who, by definition, have killed at least three people with an intervening period of `cooling off`.

Let`s jump into the bandwagon then...with a hip twist of course, let`s go to Latin America.

The case of the `Zodiac` serial killer who operated in the USA in the 60s and 70s (and perhaps longer) is well-known; films and documentaries have been made and books have been written.

Outside of everyday life, a maniac with a similar modus operandi and the same ability to "disappear" and leave no trace killed in Costa Rica, specifically killing 31 victims from 1986 to 1997. Called El Psicopata, the killer mostly killed couples who went to secluded places to have sex. But over time, that became insufficient for his appetites and on one occasion he massacred six schoolgirls along with their teacher who were on a nature trip, in the area that became known as the "Triangle of Death" between the cities of Alajuela and Cartago.

He most often used an M-3 Grease Gun for the murders themselves, and in most of his victims he continued by cutting off body parts, usually the girls' breasts which he probably collected as souvenirs. Costa Rican authorities turned to the FBI for help, but despite the joint work, the maniac remains at large to this day. Whether he continued to kill is unknown, as the killings in that area stopped after 1997. It is not impossible that he could one day appear in public and live carefree, because in Costa Rica, unlike many other countries, murder as a crime was subject to a statute of limitations.

There are many theories about who the killer is, from an ex-guerrilla who got the ball rolling on a downhill course, a rich and spoiled son of influential parents who satisfies his maniacal appetites with the help of corrupting the police, and perhaps even the Zodiac himself, who emigrated to Costa Rica after the investigation in the United States got close enough to escape to the tropical paradise and continue his bloody habits.

It is a mystery why so many maniacs kill couples in love, what drives them to rage at the sight of a couple kissing or having sex?! Does their inability to form any real connection with a human being drive them to murderous madness?

In any case, a sticker album titled "The Greatest Serial Killers of the 20th Century" is expected to be released in a few years. Children will be able to swap duplicates with their friends and cheer on their favorite serial killer in a live broadcast of the latest reality show "The Murder Corner".

(Roger Mortis, 047)

Just like that

Apathy is one of the greatest evils in these parts.

How many dead people there are, they have no idea. And one would think that deadness comes with death. Not really, the dead are everywhere, you meet them every day, some you see and some are completely invisible despite their certain physical form.

The only thing is that no one has informed them that they are dead, so they have not yet left this reality.

Every joy, initiative, enthusiasm has been killed.

Joys and sorrows are also dying.

Weddings, graduations, engagements, birthdays, baptisms...for the sake of decency, somehow, for the sake of faith, so to speak, to get through the queue.

And funerals are of the same kind...anyway.

I used to think that people hide their emotions and control themselves. But these days I have realized that they have no emotions to hide them at all. Nothing separates emotion from its simulation anymore. Simulation out of habit. Or because of the expectations of others.

Just like that. Loosely. Life for the sake of convenience. "I consume, therefore I am"

Regards from Sector Northeast, Earth 4, Quadrant 75 of the Multiverse

(Roger Mortis, 046)

Seven two seven to the end

Is it possible for a person to go undetected when wanted by the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, and the General Staff of the US Armed Forces, after several years of detailed search, with the engagement of all available means at the disposal of the most massive and technically most equipped military-intelligence machinery?!

Maybe it is, and maybe not.

And is it possible for a person to hide - not alone, but in the company of a Boeing B-727 passenger plane in all its size & glory, in case the above-mentioned organizations are looking for him?

Quite possible!

That was done by a certain Ben Padilla, an American pilot, together with mechanic John Mutantu from Congo-Kinshasa. Mutantu has to one of most amusing surnames ever. Anyway...

In May 2003, from the runway of the international airport in Luanda, Angola, the two characters boarded a veteran B-727 that was without any markings on it, turned off all the signals (lights, transponders) and despite the shocked air traffic controllers who did not give them permission to take off - they took off. And of course - from the moment of takeoff to this day - their fate and that of the plane remain unknown.

In the midst of the panic over the events of 9/11, the American authorities spared no resources to find the plane and the thieves. In vain, after two and a half years of extensive search and several possible scenarios that turned out to be incorrect - they gave up the search. Considering today's technology, it is strange how such a plane could disappear without a trace. No one anywhere saw or reported a crash or landing, nor did the plane fly over any territory.

All that remained were speculations, rumors, theories, and assumptions - from insurance fraud, to secret sale of the plane, to a crash into a parallel dimension, to alien abduction. But even if it was about insurance or sale, at some point, somewhere, some trace, anything, would have come to light. To this day, there has been absolutely nothing...

(Roger Mortis, 045)

For a fistful of rice

There is an ingenious solution to the problems that plague the suffering working class, the working peasantry and the intellectuals in the Republic of Macedonia: the formation of a Maoist guerrilla organization in the Prespa jungles, which will be called `Red Hunzas` - after the shining example of comrade Salot Sar in Indochina.

The Red Hunzas, with self-sacrificing work and educational activities aimed at forming class consciousness among the rural population (with an emphasis on pretty young men and women) should form an armed force that will create the conditions for starting a revolution. After they have gained a sufficiently large number of revolutionaries - a showdown with the forces of the regime, the clergy and petty-bourgeois psychology follows. In a few months, revolutionary fervor will sweep the entire country and at the end of spring, the Red Hunzas will triumphantly enter Skopje.

Next comes the erasure of 2025 from the calendar and the announcement of `Year Zero`, which will begin the countdown from the moment of the triumph of the revolution. Next step - AGRARIAN REFORM!

In order for the revolution to succeed, funds will be needed. And they lie in exports.

That means zero imports and a lot of exports. It is said that rice was in great demand on world markets.

The Red Hunzas will evacuate the entire urban population and distribute it to rural areas where it will engage in agriculture, with the main emphasis on growing rice crops. This decision will also have a purifying effect, since cities are already a potential hotbed of counter-revolutionary activity.

Members of the old regime, the bureaucracy and religion will be given special tasks, for example, digging and emptying septic tanks, canals and ditches. For starters...Everyone will have to earn their bread, in this case their fistful of rice. Parallel to that, there will be real, popular education, young men and women will learn to handle AK-47's, SKS's and RPG's, because the enemy never sleeps!

Maybe not everyone will survive, but those who survive will enter directly into the bright future of a classless society.

And if they don't, they didn't deserve to anyway.

(Roger Mortis, 044)

The Flying Dutchman

Of the many mysteries of the deep sea, the mystery of the ship that appears and disappears around the Cape of Good Hope (on the tip of South Africa) is one of the most enduring.

The Dutch frigate "De Fliegende Hollander" set sail for the East Indies in the mid-17th century under the command of Captain Hendrik Van Der Decker. Reaching the cape, which is not known for being very easy to navigate, especially at a time when it had become a grave for many sailors, Hendrik decided to sail around it at all costs, and as quickly as possible in spite of the stormy weather and currents that were against the "Flying Dutchman". Having failed on his first attempt, the persistent man that he was tried again...and again...and again...all in vain.

Persistence did not always pay off and the sailors were exhausted and angry, and that combination at that time often resulted in a mutiny and the captain being hanged from the windlass swinging the rope on the mast. The captain, aware of this, decided to reach out for help in a slightly... unorthodox way - calling on the Devil to personally assist him, after God had not done much to answer his prayers.

The Devil, being the devil, helped but demanded a signature, naturally - in blood.

Some sailors, disappointed by the captain's pro-satanic agreement, in keeping with their time - cursed the captain to never arrive in any port until the end of the world and the end of time. It did not occur to them that by doing so they themselves would not set foot on land until Judgment Day, and they were probably not the brightest...

Anyway, after passing the cape, the ship, the captain and the crew - disappeared. Their fate has remained unknown, though through the centuries and to this day - the sight of the Flying Dutchman is a common occurrence, for the more superstitious sailors a sign of impending trouble or facing sinking and death. Many famous people have seen the phantom ship wandering trapped in the region around the cape (and sometimes a little further), including the British King George V who, during a voyage on a cruiser of the British Navy, clearly saw the Dutchman together with the crew sailing in front of their ship at a short distance, a creepy appearance with torn sails and red lights on the deck.

Many writers and poets were obsessed with this mystery, the most famous being the composer Richard Wagner who immortalized the ship with his opera - "The Flying Dutchman". There is also a story about the most unfortunate sailor ever who, sailing for centuries on the Dutchman - after many vicissitudes, somehow managed to escape from the cursed ship, jump into the water and hope for salvation. And salvation came after a few hours when another sailing ship noticed the sailor and rescued him from the water. Finding himself safely on deck and thanking the sailors who noticed and saved him, the sailor asked for the name of the ship that had found him.

The answer was - Marie Celeste...

(Roger Mortis, 043)

Cult goes Atomic

What do a runaway cult and an atomic bomb have in common? Perhaps more than one might think at first glance.

One of the most creative cults in recent decades, the Japanese Aum Shinrikyo, famous for numerous murders and suicides and of course their "five minutes of fame", the Sarin nerve agent attack in the Tokyo subway in 1995 that claimed at least 12 lives and injured over 6,000.

Their theology consisted of a toxic mix consisting of Christian Revelation, dubious early Buddhist interpretations, the inevitable Shiva and a few passages from Nostradamus, all combined with the charisma of the leader and the expectation of the end of the world around the end of the Millennium.

However, the most shocking thing is the realization that they also experimented with a nuclear option.

The mysterious seismic event when seismometers registered a tremor as a result of an explosion in the Australian outback at the Banjawarn location on May 28, 1993, which would be the equivalent of a 2 kT detonation, together with the testimonies of Aborigines and farmers about a large explosion - suggests the possibility that the sect's scientific team created some kind of device that would place them in the nuclear club as the only non-governmental organization with nuclear potential in the world. Or that they brought a ready-made bomb from somewhere. Witnesses confirmed that the sect acquired protective suits, machinery, laboratory equipment, mechanical diggers, chemicals and mysterious boxes with unknown contents declared as `hydrochloric acid`...

t has been confirmed that the sect, which had a huge fan base in Russia at the time, was trying to acquire tactical nuclear weapons from the arsenal of the zombified Russian state. Whether they actually acquired and test-detonated such a weapon is difficult to say, but there are serious indications that point to such a conclusion.

The authorities did not react to the event because the sect did not yet have the reputation that it would gain with the attack in Tokyo, and the sect sold the 200,000-hectare ranch before it was ``celebrated`` with nerve gas. It was later discovered that, among other escapist activities, the sect members mined uranium ore on the ranch...One would think that such a creative cult would quickly disappear from the scene after the Japanese authorities' showdown with it and the death sentence of its leader Shoko Asahara - and they would be exposed.

The sect members are still as hardworking as ants and have rebranded themselves under the new name "Aleph", so they probably continue to dream of a new end of the world triggered by their atomic bomb, which would be the third to be detonated on Japanese soil.

(By Roger Mortis, 042)

First Love of a Freak

Trajko was a simple, let's say village kid.

He studied at a high school with city kids and didn't do well in all that urban hustle and bustle of boiling hormones, rapidly growing breasts and unannounced erections. In the village, everything was simpler and more appropriate for a village kid, tall and strong as only a cattle herder can be.

He had a sympathy for a girl. She wasn't overly beautiful, even less bright. But there was a certain cuteness, an attraction in her, which acted like a magnet for the village kid. Trajko didn't know how to approach her, no one had taught him how to behave with women, what he saw in the village seemed too rude to apply to her. And the cattle he was guarding weren't exactly a model of seductive abilities.

One fine day, Trajko decided to approach her anyway. He forgot what he was planning to say and just asked her if she would like to come to the schoolyard an hour and a half after classes ended. He had a vague plan to sit on the bench, and that was it.

After that, he couldn't think of what he would do. The girl agreed, further confusing Trajko who expected to be rejected. And so that class came, the opportunity for their first intimacy was very close. That fact only made Trajko even more nervous. They sat on the bench. They were silent, she expecting him to start a conversation first, he not knowing what to say. After a while, even Trajko's slow brain felt uncomfortable because of the silence, and that, combined with the strong erection, provoked him into action. He grabbed her breast.

A little harder than usual.

Although she expected something to happen, her mind was still more focused on trying to kiss her. She pushed his hand away and turned her head nervously. Trajko was in a daze, it seemed to him that it would be better to return to the village or collapse into the ground. But when will he have such an opportunity again, he thought to himself. Of course, the term `thought` is an overly optimistic assessment of his mental processes at that moment, but one should not judge too harshly.

Without much ceremony, he grabbed her vagina. She made a strange sound, previously unheard by Trajko, who could not decode what it all meant. Is it nice? Or does it cause her pain?

The girl again became defensive and roughly pushed his hand away. Trajko was already in a trance, namely, he grabbed her pussy!...literally, if not figuratively. And still not knowing what to do next, how to act, Trajko reflexively punched her hard in the face!

Not because he was a bully, but because he didn't know how to act differently. Trajko's hopes for sex and her hopes for getting a boyfriend ended in a pool of blood and a broken nasal bone. Tears were flowing uncontrollably, which is completely expected when you have a nose injury. The horrible mix of blood and mucus was flowing down her face like a faucet. Even Trajko knew this time that he had screwed up. He got angry with himself, and as we know, that anger is the most terrible of all. And he punched her a few more times, broke her from the swing and ran off somewhere in the distance...

Trajko never married and had no children. He was last seen on an Interpol wanted list.

The girl is now a government minister without portfolio.

(By Roger Mortis, 041)

The Greatest Wanderer

He was a nice guy named Roald Amundsen.

And so he wandered around the world, what we would call him today, he was an adrenaline junkie. He didn't really like talking to people, he was more understood by albatrosses and penguins. And just as his mother had given birth to him, unscathed, he set out across the seven seas to find work, and not like all male housewives, to get to work, to have nine children, to pay his bills on time, to plant something in the garden - as is proper, because tomorrow's house is not built, no man is made by wandering, he should have come to his senses, to work, to organize a family celebration and invite relatives and friends to prove his house holdership, and even to wait for a wedding from his sons, as the head of the family.

Otherwise a seriously elusive phenomenon, Roald managed to be the first to sail the Northwest Passage in 1906, a route that for 400 years sent all those who dared to try to conquer it - to their death.

After that, he headed south, where he was the first to set foot on the South Pole in 1911, and later returned north again, where he became the first to reach the North Pole in 1925, although this was later confirmed. What has never been determined is - where did the last great hero of planetary exploration disappear to?

In order to help and save a fellow wanderer and explorer from Italy who was trying to fly over the North Pole with a Zeppelin and experienced a disaster on the way - he organized a rescue expedition with another Norwegian and three Frenchmen. The group was supposed to search for survivors through the vast Arctic expanse with the help of a Latham L-47 seaplane, equipped to withstand flying through the harsh conditions of the far north.

Amundsen and company took off in June 1928...and no one ever heard or saw anything from them again. To this day, the cause and manner of Roald's death are unknown. Rescue and research expeditions later tried to find some trace, but in vain. Amundsen went into the dimension of the missing pioneers who were breaking the path for the rest of humanity.

The Italian Nobile, who was the target of the rescue expedition that led to Amundsen's disappearance, was found alive (although not very healthy) by another rescue team. Half of the members of the Italian expedition died. Amundsen was never found physically, just as he was never found psychologically - no one can say where the need for a lifetime of wandering in areas where no human foot has ever set foot comes from. And perhaps it is for the best that it is so.

In honor of Roald Amundsen, the patron saint of dreamers and wanderers.

(By Roger Mortis, 040)

The Roanoke Colony

One of the first English attempts to organize a colony in the New World (North America) and to make countless generations of native people happy, started well...only to end horribly.

In 1585, about 150 colonists settled on Roanoke Island on the Atlantic coast of present-day North Carolina. The colony was supplied by ships, but at that time there was no way to maintain regular traffic between England and the island-object of colonization.

On several occasions from 1585 to 1587 ships came and went from the island where, despite certain problems, the situation was fine, even the first English colonist born on American soil (the first `American`) was from the ranks of that colony. I don't believe they christened Hank and that he was born with a Bud Light sixpack in his hands, but whatever it was, he was the first.

Due to the Anglo-Spanish War (the one with the Great Armada and an even bigger storm) and reduced sea traffic - the colony was left without contact with the outside world for 3 years.

John White, the father of the first child born in the New World who returned to England in 1587 to procure material for the colony's needs - returned to the island, but not after a few months as he had planned but after three years due to circumstances. And he had something to see...or rather, he didn't have anything, because there was no trace of the inhabitants, all of them disappeared and to this day their fate is unknown.

Not only the people but also the houses, barns and other buildings disappeared. All the sailors found was an obscure inscription in an unknown language "Croatoan", a carved Maltese cross in wood, a few cannons and some small items...

One of the many unsolvable mysteries that our blue planet is so rich in, one of the many events that inspire millions of armchair Indiana Jones`s on an adventure through the brain synapses if not through the geographical location of the event.

And why not? Almost everything is known, all the songs have been sung and all the pictures painted. Only the incidents from the abyss of history remain unknown. And a few other small items, but that's another story.

(By Roger Mortis, 039)

Bentley

And so, a man wakes up in the morning and looks out the window...some dark shadow seems to hang over his soul, he is in agony, he screams at those closest to him, he furiously hits a spider crawling on the wall...he looks outside at his Punto - a contemporary of the Cranberries and depressive thoughts with a suicidal flavor suddenly come to his brain, that full coma.

Why? 

Because he doesn't have a Bentley, and a station wagon version at that, so that he can transport a bag of cement even a truck across the fast lane of the highway to...oh wait, if he had a Bentley he wouldn't have to transport a bag of cement anywhere...and a bag of money maybe!? Yes...great! A bag of money...and he'll count it at night before going to bed, stacks of 100 euros right before he fucks that girl who doesn't give a damn about him, the blonde one over there...

He'll just show her what a man he is, just to get rich, that's all he has... shushhh.

He doesn't know how or when the desperate need for the Bentley came to him, but the need is already here and here to stay, it has made a nest in the man's imagination and sits like a lazy cat in front of the stove.

And so, suffering and grumpy, he goes to work to argue with his boss who owes him three months of salary, three times two hundred - six hundred euros, and the bills don't ask... coming to the door of the company, he takes a breath and goes in. Seeing him, the boss smiles forcefully and says to him `Good morning boss, how are you boss, what are we going to do today, how is the wife? Is she okay, huh? Well, fine... and the little boy...?`

He doesn't even make a sound from the imagined argument and a resolute raised tone with which he would demand his money for the work done. He says to himself `"Is almost nothing at least something?" i mean so many people are unemployed, so why should I whine now?" And so, frowning, towards the end of the working day, the boss appears with the good news that it would be nice to stay for another two hours, since he got a call from Demonistan that the vehicle would arrive or something like that...in this way, the boss cruelly interrupted the vision of the Bentley that had come into action in our hero's mind, and it was a vision in High Definition, an incredible resolution, he could even recognize the pigeon droppings on the Bentley's windshield.

(By Roger Mortis, 038)

The Leather Man

In conversations, people often say that their lives revolve around a circle, sometimes a circle from which they can hardly see a way out.

But for one man, the circle of damnation became literal, a way to atone for some long-forgotten sin that remained in his soul, to forever remind him of the ruin of the possibility of a happy life. As a self-proclaimed realistic version of the being created by Dr. Victor Frankenstein - this man believed that he did not deserve to exist among people anymore, although unlike the ``child`` of the new Prometheus - his ugliness was moral and not physical. Or at least that's what he thought, adhering to some very strict moral principles...

In the North Eastern United States near the Saw Mill Woods area around 1858 Anno Domine, people began to notice a man dressed in rough leather clothes that he had ``tailored`` himself, appearing at regular intervals in certain places. At first, they didn't pay much attention to the strange giant, but after a while they realized that the interval at which he appeared in their place was the same, i.e. 36 days. What they later learned was that the Leather Man (as they called him) moved in a circle of 587 km around the Connecticut and Hudson rivers and always passed by their (and not only their) settlement.

Over time, the silent weirdo became likable to them, so they gave him food and tried to find out who he was and why he traveled to the same places without stopping, for years. In addition to mumbling and strange sounds, the man sometimes said something in French, but they couldn't understand him. And it was obvious that he didn't understand English. He never hurt anyone, on the contrary, he was kind to people despite his gloomy appearance.

Over the decades, the Leather Man became a part of local life, fathers told their children that in so many days the great Leather Man would pass through their settlement. And always the man really passed. He slept in caves and shelters that were strategically placed along his eternal route, he fed on what he found, caught or accepted from well-intentioned people.

No one knew his identity, although many stories and speculations were woven. Until 1889, when for the last time he passed the eternal path outlined in his head for the 360th time and was found dead of the cold due to the unusually harsh winter of that year when his worn-out leather clothing failed to save him. A Bible in French and some letters and objects were found in the cave, but his identity remained a secret.

Later, after he entered local folklore, journalists and researchers tried to uncover the secret.

The most famous speculation was that he was supposedly born in Lyon, France under the name Gilles Bourglet, where he worked as a carpenter. The ordeal began after he fell in love with a certain Margaret Laron and wanted to marry her. Since she was from a wealthy family, her father, in accordance with the values ​​of his time - refused to allow the marriage but still decided to give Gilles a chance by employing him in his tannery. If Gilles managed to make a career in a few years - he would also win Margaret's hand.

The beginning was promising, Gilles progressed well and gained confidence, but impatience was the ace up the sleeve of Misfortune, which had the task of capturing another soul. Gilles wanted to make one final move that would shorten the waiting time for the wedding and that was to invest in buying a large quantity of leather, expecting prices to increase drastically in the coming period. Instead, a new tanning technique appeared on the scene that the factory where he worked did not possess and the value of the purchase instead of increasing, fell by half.

All the savings, the trust, the big money from the owner and the opportunity to marry his love - disappeared as if they had never existed. Unable to face the new reality and the collapse of all dreams - Gilles disappeared from Lyon after a while, and soon from France. The story does not say how he got to the United States, but that is not important. Another version makes him a French Canadian who fled for similar reasons across the border to the United States.

Gilles became the Leather Man, turning the eternal circle in his conscience and in the forests of New York State. Voluntarily lonely for the rest of his life, isolated from the small and large pleasures of life and without hope that a human heart would dare to love him - he went into eternity and into the memory of generations of local people who to this day retell the alleged life story of the completely real Leather Man.

(By Roger Mortis 037)

Mold

The door creaked and she entered.

Our hero didn't expect her to accept the invitation, but what is life without a few surprises? He was glad that he would have sex without much effort. Closing the door, his gaze strayed to her breasts, which hung helplessly under the influence of gravity. But that was short-lived because, closing the door through which she had entered, a piece of the wall corroded by moisture fell off.

The room was damp and simply oozed sensuality. He invited her to sit on the chair from which he had previously clumsily removed the torn socks that he had previously mended.

She sat down, shaking her buttocks, long saturated with cellulite. He began to touch her legs that resembled a geographical map with all those dilated veins and burst capillaries...They were turned on! Or at least he forced himself to believe it. They say the power of suggestion was endless.

He started to undress, releasing the bellows that almost didn't allow him to see his penis. He was uncomfortable because the water heater had broken down even before he was fired, so showering was not an option.

A somber smell filled the young lady's nostrils. A moment of crisis had come, a deathly silence that had to be broken somehow... He took out a bottle of brandy and offered it to her, to relax.

After the grimace she made, she decided to drink her ex's brandy and pour herself another glass.

It wasn't long before she spontaneously started to undress. The guy was standing aside, holding him. In a fit of flirtatious madness, he decided to rip off her panties like he had seen in a porn movie. And he did it. And the stench of rotten cheese in which sardines had been kept began to emanate from her crotch like a counterpart to the poison gas that had come out of his pants.

"I'll fuck you",' the guy said seductively through his few missing teeth.

"What's the matter, you think I'm a whore?'' she said with a flirtatious gleam in her glassy eye.

"Now I'll tear you apart from fucking cloting to your flesh, i`ll fuck you so hard you will be able to see Istanbul". 

The police found two bodies in a contented embrace and with blissful expressions on their faces, the initial finding of the medical examiner was that it was a case of suffocation.

(Roger Mortis 036)

Devil's Railroad

In the long and inglorious history of exploitation and in the annals of construction megalomania, (a phenomenon known as `White Elephants` because of their uselessness) - the Trans-Amazon Railway stands out in all its senselessness and tragedy.

Doomed to failure in advance, the cursed project also known as the Madeira-Mamore railway was supposed to bring civilization to the heart of the Amazon. The chances of success of this project existed only in the minds of politicians and nowhere else.

An extraordinarily difficult area for carrying out construction operations, at the beginning of the 20th century, without any infrastructure, hostile tribes, insects, diseases, jaguars and anacondas lurking around. Of course, when there are enough poor people who do not choose much for work, it is not a problem. `Work for nothing, do not sit for nothing`, said their Balkan counterpart. In this case, die for nothing of malaria.

366 kilometers of railway, which became known as the Devil's Railway, took 5 years to build and 13,000 lives of workers.

It is said that a person was buried next to each wooden sleeper on which the rails were laid. The construction that caused so much suffering to people who had never been lucky in their lives, had no chance of succeeding in establishing traffic. Amazonia proved stronger than progress, so finely embroidered on the Brazilian flag, and vegetation and moisture swallowed the damned railway, along with the stations, tanks, locomotives....branches that lead nowhere, stations that no one gets on, locomotives that do not emit smoke, bridges that no hope crosses, thousands of graves that have no names.

Only a small part of the railway remained that could be maintained and cleared of vegetation. The rest was forgotten, like many other projects where the stakes were someone else's fate and lives...

As someone with a dose of morbid resignation noticed, the reason the railroad was being built was that in the 'other world' there was a shortage of suffering human souls, so the demons of this world decided to fill the quota...

The train that is supposed to conquer the Amazon has not yet left the station.

(Roger Mortis 035)

HUNZA virus outbreak !

 WARNING !

No one is permitted to enter or leave this area without permission of the local health authority.

Due to HUNZA virus outbreak anyone found to violate this regulations will be arrested and put in quarantine custody !

Center for Desease Control general instructions :

People affected by the HUNZA virus tend to show one or more specific symptoms :

- will work for 400 dollars per month,

- will try to kiss ass for the abovementioned amount of wages,

- will lick clean the inside of a rectum for a sandwich,

- will suffer delusions of grandeur,

- will appear confused and generally extatic if given a free bus pass on Friday,

- will not absolutely ever confront any authority at any cost whatsoever,

- will never ask why if molested,

- will show general downfall in intelligence and literacy.

Because of many rumors as to the cause of the epidemic, some have reported widespread panic in large urban areas.

Preliminary reports show 1991 as the year of the emergence of Patient Zero.

Antiviral medicine is still not available. Prevention and isolation are still most favorable precautions.

(Roger Mortis 034)

The Old Cat

The old cat, worn out, blind and crippled, decided to lay down for a while under the eaves of the hospital. The smells of the urban jungle he was used to were different this time.

Something undefined seemed to hang in the air, something unrecognizable to the domain of the feline mind but quite specific to his instinct. Who was telling him to run, to run somewhere outside the city of fallen angels, expelled from the neon paradise by decree of the government.

He would have done that if he were young and strong, at a time when he was fear and trembling for local rivals, the father of dozens of kittens. But he was nothing anymore... and all he could do was find a dry place and lie down.

Licking his paws, deaf as he was, he did not attach particular importance to the fierce sound, the sound of the approaching shock wave of the hundred-kiloton bomb that had just exploded over the city.

And if he had known what it was about, it would have been too late. He never liked people who stepped on his tail and hit him with stones when he rummaged through garbage cans. As if garbage had any value to people... And it was better that it was limited to the cat's range of perception, at least he wouldn't be terrified by man, the pinnacle of evolution, who decided to drop a tactical nuclear bomb on members of his own species. Only a shadow remained where the old cat had stood. A shadow of a cat on the wall, with all ears and tail, a phenomenon of radioactive radiation that immortalized his presence on Earth. Too bad no one was left to see it.

And the cat continued on, as in Hugo Pratt's stories - to a cat paradise where there was an abundance of sparrows, fish, milk... and of course mice, neatly sorted and fresh, to the delight of the departed cat's soul. His expression took on a satisfied grimace that crossed his crooked lip. He recognized a few cats in the distance that he hadn't seen in a long time.

That shouldn't have surprised him. Because all cats go to heaven.

(Roger Mortis 033)

The Tin Can

The working hours had just ended and Obelisk saw his friend Asterisk in the distance. He was too far ahead to call out to him, and his boots weren't exactly in the best condition to try to catch up with him. He set off home alone. He was half-happy, considering that after a long time he had managed to arrange a meeting. A date, as the new and promising generations liked to say.

On the way to the apartment, he stopped at the local colonial and bought something to eat. If buying can be considered signing a contract. The salesman's cynical remarks that he had an outstanding debt and that he was doing him a great favor slightly dampened the half-happiness he was in, but despite this, the pinkish cloud on which he was sailing remained intact. While getting ready for the date, he noticed that the cavities were dancing a tango in his mouth, that the razor had long since been dulled, and that the lotion smelled too aggressively and smacked of cheapness. But he didn't have the strength to worry, even though all those facts were corrosive to the semi-happiness he found himself in.

Improvisation is a specialty of certain social classes, and so was Obelisk, and his resourcefulness was at a high level. He knew how to make lunch out of any leftovers from yesterday. And on cheap electricity. He knew how to eat for a sum that would drive even the inhabitants of Bangladesh to despair. It was a little more difficult with clothes, and his health never obeyed resourcefulness, unfortunately. The date, as a date, began with a bouquet of flowers. There was an old-fashioned trait in Obelisk's character that wanted to let the feminine know that he was feminine. Theories about gender equality were suspicious to him.

Semipyramid, his partner that evening, wasn't who-knows-what, but she wasn't anything either. More or less of the same class as Obelisk, she knew what to expect, but still she didn't fail to insist on a restaurant that Obelisk didn't know.

Still, she agreed and they went there.

The date was good, without any drama but also without any slips. She noticed that Obelisk was nervous. He just prayed that she would go to the bathroom so that he could study the menu carefully, do the math, see if there was any kind of trap hidden, a trap that would kill poor Obelisk's Ego. Unfortunately, Semipyramid never went to the bathroom, `Are there women like that?' Obelisk thought. Apparently there were. And there were some who drank at least 750 milliliters of wine on a date. But whatever. Obelisk is resourceful, he'll manage. He said that he was in therapy for something so he wouldn't drink alcohol that evening. The truth was that his budget didn't allow him two bottles of wine in a restaurant, but he had to give wings to improvisation.

The moment of truth came, the waiter, like a mythical monster with the bill in his hand, slowly approached the table. Poor Obelisk, now he knew what it was like for soldiers in the trenches on the Western Front before the attack. She was saying something but he was focused on the waiter like a guided missile on a target.

And the verdict was in. Seven hundred and twenty shinters. Darkness descended on Obelisk's eyes, darkness enveloped his brain, the room seemed to be shrinking and would crush him. He only had 750 shinters, almost half his salary. What now? The waiter expected a tip, and a date was a date, long-term plans were at stake with Miss Semipyramid.

All 750 went, and it was time for a taxi.

The goddess of improvisation did not abandon him, she remembered the possibility of a long walk because of the beautiful evening. She looked at him uneasily, her heels were not designed for six-kilometer marches and on the other hand she was still a kind of semi-romantic nature and still agreed. Obelisk almost smiled and was pleased to dare to send a kiss. On the cheek, as befits a gentleman from behind the gas station.

If the goddess of improvisation was inclined towards Obelisk, the god of time was not. She might have had problems with the union of gods in the Pantheon and decided to vent her anger on ordinary mortals. Yes...it began to pour as if a flood were imminent. Obelisk and Semipyramid tried to take shelter in several places but the wind carried the rain right into their faces. Finally they found a place and Obelisk noticed that his feet were flooded. The Chinese clogs were worthy of their reputation. They were even inclined to make an extra effort for our Obelisk by the fact that the sole began to peel off and hang. This time Obelisk had only one way to save his Ego from the massacre and that was to part with her immediately so that the slapping of the peeled sole would not be heard. He told her that the date had been phenomenal but that she had to take her therapy on time or it would be for nothing. He muttered a few apologetic phrases and left, leaving Semipyramid completely disappointed.

He knew that she understood what was going on. And he didn't expect to see them again.

Arriving at the apartment, he noticed the plastic bag with supplies from the colonial. A can of sardines, yesterday's bread, a bag of shampoo, a light bulb. He wasn't hungry, and he thought about going to bed after he'd had his last cigarette. It wasn't worth getting disappointed anyway. He might not see the morning in the arms of the semi-beautiful Sammy, but a breakfast feast of sardines awaited him. Not ordinary ones, but the ones with tomato sauce!

And then...back to work.

(Roger Mortis 032)

Anarchy all over Somalia

At first glance, the term Somalia evokes unpleasant feelings, conditioned by the wonderful film ``Black Hawk Down,'' the footage of jeeps dragging the corpses of American marines through the streets, the inevitable children with bloated bellies and flies on their eyelids, pirates who, like 300 years ago, still fill the headlines of the world press, escaped Islamists and general lawlessness.

But even so, Somalia ``exists'' in the collective vocabulary of paradise. ``Whatever, just like in Somalia'' is not an unheard of sentence. In that collective mind, Africa consists of Egypt (because of the pyramids), South Africa (because of the secular), Zimbabwe (because of the name that people find funny), Nigeria (football) and Somalia. Yes, and that country where there was a genocide, whatever it was called... But that's another story. As someone in an attempt to be witty noted - Somalia is the real life answer to Mad Max. Maybe it's some black Baba Zanetti on the coast of the Indian Ocean who replaced his engine with a boat.

What is certain is that most of the territory of former Somalia is stateless. The state of Somalia was established on the territory that was Italian Somalia and British Somaliland, with decolonization as the antithesis of the scramble for Africa. Later, the ex-colonies were united into a British colony that, in the wave of declaring independence at the end of the fifties, itself became an independent state. State!!!

From 1960 to 1969, some pro-Western despots ruled, until in 1969, after a bloody coup, the Marxist Mohamed Siad Barre came to power. Aid from Eastern Europe followed, several wars with neighbors and domestic `traitors`, famine, misery, corruption, Bob Geldof, white uniforms and medals – heaven and earth reigned supreme and in January 1991 an uprising broke out where various clans united in order to overthrow the regime. But here an unexpected twist occurred because it was not just a matter of overthrowing the regime but also of overthrowing the state as an entity.

The leaders of some of the larger clans tried to establish state power for themselves but all of this ended unsuccessfully and `power` usually extended to a few neighborhoods of Mogadishu. Every attempt to establish a central government was met with armed resistance. A civil war began in an attempt not only to exploit the power vacuum but also to restore the state. The restoration was forced by the UN, which immediately sent "blue helmets" to the field, heavily armed forces that ultimately ended ingloriously and were withdrawn after heavy losses, including the famous Black Hawks and Pakistani tanks.

After five years of war and the withdrawal of foreign troops and their support for favored clans - a relative peace begins that lasts from 1996 to 2006, Somalia disappears from the pages of the press and television and Anarchy All Over Somalia stabilizes. Of course, stability is not for sale, who wants to read and watch for peace in the Horn of Africa!? Doesn't everyone know that some strange biological entities thrive there, evolutionary freaks of human flesh with grafted AK-47s that have grown into their hands?

In the part that once belonged to the Crown, the state has been restored, the Republic of Somaliland retains the statist framework but remains unrecognized by the outside world. The part that belonged to Italy remains in anarchy and signs of prosperity appear.

Then again...

Then again it can't be like that and in 2006 there is a rise of Islamists, supported by Saudi petro-dollars. In this case it is difficult to talk about Islamists of the rank of the Taliban, more about Islamists who love dollars, alcohol, drugs and expensive off-road jeeps. Maybe even rock-n-roll although I would not dare to claim such a thing. But even as they are, they manage to establish control over a large part of Somalia. Ethiopia intervenes, sending troops and air force against the Islamists, supported by the USA and the UN, who try to push the idea of ​​a state again through the cannons of the Abyssinian army. Yes, Ethiopia of all the countries. There is also something patriotic about it, the war for Ogaden when the Marxist brothers Mengistu Mariam and Siad Barre sent an army to slaughter each other for a few kilometers of dust.

Bye-bye Anarchy, the state and religion return to "save" the people. Eight years of a new civil war follow with a few "oases" where certain clans of pagan origin remain outside the chaos. After the fall of Anarchy, the coast of Somalia becomes interesting for fishing companies from various countries, including Japan. Huge fishing factory ships devastate the fish stocks on which the survival of hundreds of thousands of coastal residents depends.

Faced with hunger, people turn to the revival of a forgotten craft, made famous by Stevenson's novels - piracy. Pirates are achieving spectacular results, from capturing Saudi tankers to cargo ships under Liberian or Bahamian flags transporting tanks and missiles from ex-Soviet countries to random African despot clients. The world is `horrified` and sends serious naval forces to put an end to piracy. The Bab el Mandeb Strait is also nearby, which is a feeder to the Suez Canal, and threatening such a sea route is a crime against modern corporatism. Fifteen men on a dead man`s chest yohohooo and a barrel of Oil. It is certain that the number of pirate attacks has been reduced by interventions, and hunger reigns again on the coast. Ten years is not a little for a human being. And ten years of Anarchy for a geographical entity, previously ravaged by wars, corruption, hunger, epidemics and tyranny? Who knows. Whatever would be the case, the phrase resurfaces. And today there is only a shadow of a central government that rules over two cities and nothing more. There are also Islamists who want to replace the deity of the State with the deity of Allah.

Both "options" are only seemingly opposed because they are too similar to each other in their basis. Both are dependent on the dollar deity. Both are financed by money collected from taxpayers across the seven seas, many of whom have never heard of Somalia.

It is an inexhaustible source.

And they will continue to pay, until the last fighter against the state and Allah falls dead, from a bullet, hunger or disease, it doesn't matter.

Two studies that deal with the Anarchy in the Horn of Africa, at the following links:

http://www.independent.org/pdf/working_papers/64_somalia.pdf

http://www.peterleeson.com/better_off_stateless.pdf

(Roger Mortis 031)

Alchemical bastards

No pain no gain, they said.

What about lotta pain and shit full of gain. That, they never say.

I-Phone anarchists, champagne socialists, pork islamists, caviar communists, dollar patriots - everywhere the abject need for belonging creates hideous monsters without any ideological basis, let alone consistency, the need to always be in the flabby semi-context of the herd, mixing oil and water, fulfilling the dream of the former alchemists and fantasizing that it is possible to turn shit into gold, maybe not real gold but gilding in any case. Looks like shit, smells like shit and talks like shit, but it`s gold folks! And we are proud to be a part of it! We`re golden! And if We are golden, so am I?

Liberals that Khomeini would be proud of, Russians that Jesus would gladly liquidate, traditionalists - owners of a wide range of hepatitis and gonorrhea, family people whose children are strangers in the night, idiots with bigger nominal titles than Tesla, moralists - diminutive maniacs, hardcore Nazis who fuck in the ass and die of AIDS, racists who smoke on blacks, the incredible orgy of superficiality reigns everywhere.

Instant belonging, instant declarations, hollow in the void, value for money. No one can pave the way for someone else, there is no messiah who will take on the sins of others on his back, there is no ideologue who will create a matrix of well-being, there is no Guru who will open the gates of perception, there is no one and there is nothing.

Apart from the price paid on the path that everyone must walk alone, which most likely leads nowhere, and if it does lead us somewhere - it costs much more than we imagined at the beginning of the individual Odyssey. Of course, before setting off on the individual path, no one will give a warning that the cards have long been dealt and that it will be hell. Kismet.

Hope is a powerful drug, beats coke in round one.

Rant over.

(Roger Mortis 030)

Privates on Drugs

The use of narcotics during the most massive massacres of the 20th century, a century in which drugs were outlawed for the first time, is a classic tragedy of statism, where on the one hand we have draconian legislation aimed at any possible dealer of Meth (or any drug), but only if that dealer is not authorized by the state. In the event that he is authorized, the drug is wonderful, humane and irreplaceable.

And patriotic!

A tragedy in which the main actors are Methamphetamine, cheap hypocrisy and the drugged up killing machine known as the War Hero.

Methamphetamine, first synthesized in 1893, already in the twenties attracted the attention of the Imperial Japanese Army and somewhat later the German Wehrmacht. In both cases we have a mass distribution of Meth tablets to soldiers (especially tankers and pilots) in combat conditions. The most bizarre form was the German chocolates filled with Speed ​​(known as `Pervitin`) which were distributed to the army. Speed ​​so sweet.

Billions of doses were issued first to the Wehrmacht and the Japanese army and later after seizing a certain amount in 1941. and the Soviet Red Army begins mass production and use of the so-called "Vint", cheap crystal meth, especially for the heroes of the liberation war. Second bizarre fact - when searching the corpses of German soldiers, prisoners or seized supplies by Soviet soldiers, "Pervitin" had priority. Finland, the USA and Britain are other countries known to have used this drug to enhance patriotic fervor and suicidal courage.

How many Japanese suicide "Banzai" attacks were carried out because of Meth and not because of patriotism is hard to say. How much of a role this drug played in the initial successes of the "Blitzkrieg" is not hard to guess. If an SS man could march twice as far as a French or Polish mobilized peasant (trained to work hard and well conditioned) and if he could get by on half as much sleep - the conclusion is not very complicated.

How many casualties fell because a recruit, naturally reluctant to excel in combat, was hit with Speed ​​and suddenly felt like a superhero with a mission to make the enemy cry is not known. Nor how many civilians died during the trigger happy trips of a random private or corporal. How many recruits would have returned home alive or at least returned home without missing an eye, leg, arm, liver or spleen... is just a sad rhetorical question.

Speed ​​is not the only drug used or developed for combat use, just the most massive. The super-drug D-9, which was tested on human guinea pigs after concentration camps and which was supposed to create super-soldiers, with an extremely high pain threshold, endurance and fitness... is just one of the drug secrets of World War II. The consequences of the continuous use of Meth by soldiers are not even known because drugging "their own" soldiers was an official secret that took decades to surface from the septic tank of statism.

The drugs continued their march further, to Korea, Vietnam, ex-Yugoslavia, Africa, Iraq or in almost all post-WW2 conflicts. Synthetics joined alcohol in the realm of militaristic drugs, suitable for inducing false courage and fierce patriotism that once smelled only of Rakija. New time - new aromas.

It is important to have love for the country that loves us and protects us from drugs.

(Roger Mortis 029)

Coming of age of the Leviathan

By promoting state patriotism and nationalism as its clearer version, phenomenal results are obtained for the ruling elites. The masses gain a new emotion, a new group is obtained to which the frightened individual will belong with a simple declaration of belonging, on the occasion of his birth between certain lines on the map. Or to his ancestors. Or just like that...

There is still no answer to what is positive in patriotism/nationalism. For the people. For the oligarchies, there is always one. It is just one of the mechanisms for the slaves to keep quiet and have a blockage in their minds, a kind of firewall in case they start thinking about what influence the state has on their lives, what they really lose and what they really gain.

The twentieth century was certainly the bloodiest in all of history. Perhaps an indicator that with the sophistication of the state in line with technological development, there would be a possibility of rejecting the idea of ​​the inability of the individual or group to decide for their lives without the tutelage of the competent bureaucrat? Quite the opposite, unfortunately, the twentieth century was the century of the height of nationalism and the century of half a billion people killed by states. After all, technology enabled the development of propaganda without precedent. The role of this new phenomenon was best described by none other than the master of propaganda, the hero of the apotheosis of the idea of ​​the state, the nation and the race - Joseph Goebbels. From the horse`s mouth, as they say :

"If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State."

Yes, the Lie!

That you share common interests with people you have never seen and will never see in your life, that you are being robbed for your own good, that you are a commodity that cannot do without a yoke, that there are `internal and external enemies` lurking everywhere, that your life does not belong to you but to persons delegated by the oligarchy for that purpose. That if you have no emotions for your fellow human beings, there are football players or ping pong players who you will love fiercely but seasonally, in installments, and that is the authentic You who has found yourself.

They will never tell you how much death, pain, misery and suffering the idea of ​​a state has brought to man. They will never tell you how much of your life will be taken away by the state. That you would never cast an `anchor` of your own free will at the offered emotional and identificational `harbors`. But never.

They will never tell you that what you expected to receive as feedback is just a cheap myth that is not supported by any legally valid document, a myth, an illusion of the skillfully adjusted scales in order not to outweigh the instinct for biological survival and to play weapons.

And I am embarrassed to tell you that that instinct is on the verge of defeat, if not already completely defeated.

(Roger Mortis 028)

Spawn of the Leviathan

Once a certain class of parasites in human form came to know how to seize the surplus products of a certain territory that they declared a state, a relatively simple dynamic of events followed, an eternal circle of plunderers and plundered.

But no matter how strong the organized mysticism, dollars for donuts, often there were public and unambiguous outbursts of discontent expressed in peasant and slave rebellions and uprisings, eliminations of the aristocracy, clergy and ruling families. Perhaps the most famous example from the ``old times`` are the slave wars in the Roman Empire, especially the Third Slave War in which the slaves brought the Empire to the brink of collapse. The name of Spartacus has remained to this day as a symbol of the struggle against the state and exploitation. But Spartacus himself is only a drop in the ocean in the 7 millennia-old struggle between parasites and saprophytes on two legs. From today's `forgetting` to file a tax return or to declare real income (double-entry bookkeeping) to the beheaded Archbishop of Canterbury or the emptying of a cartridge in the body of US President McKinley, the struggle is seemingly eternal and lasts with varying intensity, geographical, cultural, psychological and individual differences are also the differences in the depiction of that struggle.

The basic postulates of organized force for the purpose of enforcing the collection of tribute from a population limited by a certain border from another population remain unchanged from the ancient times of Sumer to the present day. The difference is in the technology that has changed and given new forms of plunder.

The old scheme, the divine right to rule, lasted for about five and a half millennia. And quite successfully with the help of the clergy (whether the imaginary companions were arranged in a pantheon, solitary but still tripartite, or one and absolute) the era of the state as the regulator of all relations in society was never seriously shaken, although there were several significant challenges. Until the late Middle Ages. Then slaves become kinda restless.

Thus we come to another defining moment in history, and that is the emergence of nation-states. After the weakening of the influence of religion and its role in protecting the state order, due to the Renaissance, the industrial revolution, the great scientific and geographical discoveries, astronomical heresies, interfaith wars and the corruption of the churches (especially the Catholic), new ideologies and philosophies (perhaps best represented by Diderot's statement `Men will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest`) and the era of rationalism, the hundreds if not thousands of serf revolts, uprisings and revolutions across Europe and Asia... the need for a new imaginary friend to whom the elite would refer in its continued survival and expansion at someone else's expense was obvious.

Enters the new deception. The Nation.

But that novelty had to impress the priests of secular mysticism as well. The scholars and the literate. To respond to the new challenge of belonging to a group. Larger then thyself. Always. The fear of God is updated with Love for the nation/state.

For the more rational and optimistic, there are also the alleged benefits from the state-bureaucratic apparatus on the taxpayer. Who has to work twice as hard so as not to have time to wonder how much it really costs what he will supposedly receive if he needs it.

But of course, one thing has remained unchanged. The citizen does not have any document where he agrees with the conditions under which he must exist. How much, whether and if he receives something so that he does not become furious and perceives the naked reality, is decided quite arbitrarily. As in Sumer, so in Belgium.

(Roger Mortis 027)