Q.: Banzai, eh? The war on the Demonarchy is formally declared on a glossy paper. 888 with the rod of Vril is 
       primed to overthrow the Beast of Abaddon. Good riddance, comic stripper. It’s really unpleasant to watch
       you doing Pinocchio in the closet. Your nose growing longer with every new lie. You’re like an autistic 
      child of mine and me your protective mother. Our enforced wedlock is an Oedipean nightmare. I don’t know
      what we’re doing any longer.
A.: We are enduring the human experience under the three M’s systemic torment. Just like everybody, darling. 
       Not an exception but a perfect symbol. Every story is equally unique. The tragedy exempts no one. To
       complain is supererogatory. Prayer ricochets. All we can crack is a good joke. Comedy is the king of the arts.
       Only humor can kill the pain.
Q.: Your silly rebel yell doesn’t make me laugh. In fact I could cry. Why you have to waste your low energy on
       trifid alliterations in the dark? Just to enhance your counterfeit résumé for want of career opportunities?
       Sweating cold blood for nobody’s sake. What does it portend to unify the varied horrors in a single consonant
       anyway? Will it help to fight them better off?
A.: ‘The Three M’s’ is a catchphrase. A smart identifier poking fun at its scary subjects. It is a brisk degradation 
       of the threat factor. A sarcastic smile at the impending disaster. The wisdom of elegance. The victim’s 
       immanent supremacy. More efficacious than a solemn oath. The Magick of the Lingua.
Q.: You are not a linguist, Spiel! Nor a magician of any sort. Just a lazy waiter in the chomeur’s limbo. The toy
       nobody wanted to play with. An Andersen sob story. Nothing of a counterrevolutionary archetype. Zen 
       Maoism won’t affect the synchronized dread of existential mayhem.
A.: My wordplay is a cognitive gesture. An extremely potent abreaction of blue funk. ‘The Three M’s’ are 
       everybody’s business. Their categorical equity is beyond bloodline and genepool. What Osh suggests us is the 
       rise of the individual. A change of the atmosphere.
Q.: Whatever you spit out of your mouthpiece is a yawning bore. Oral poetry for the deaf. You would never
       answer my burning questions. Just quench them with hoity-toity scorn. Treating me like nuisance when
       correcting your blunders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not interested in quarreling with you. Only playing your
       playmate as prescripted. I don’t care what you have to say.
A.: You slightingly underappreciate my unmitigated resistance to temptation. I’m a worthless slave that can’t be
      bought or sold. Cannot do a thing. Non compos mentis. Ecce Homo.
Q.: Won’t you stop swearing and concentrate on the solution to get rid of the plight? Some methodological device.
       A technique or a rite. The trick of prevention.
A.: ‘The Three M’s’ are the trimurti of Perdition. The woeful triad of Mortality’s abstract Nominium (!). To 
       behold them as a singular monstrosity can prepare the cortex to bypass the Hazardorium (!) It is one Dragon
       with three heads. We’ll decapitate it with a lone thrust of the sword.

                                                                                      
Q.: Spot on, fearless knight. Make the Operator tremble in their seat. You’ve been trying it hard all the long way 
       down, but couldn’t overcome the smallest obstacle. Neither by intelligence work, nor by muscle craft. 
      You do not possess any arms to the struggle, just talking your butthead off. Who needs a diagnosis with no 
       remedy in sight? Stop pondering about geopolitics if cannot put your own household in order. Words are
       useless if cannot stand by them. The scale of your fraudulence is abominable. Who is the addressee of your
       terminal poem in a letter?
A.: The shout goes out to the UR, naturally. The Overnazi Front of the Self-conscious Elite. What else is new?
Q.: You not only cannot evade but literally subjugate to the clout of the M’s. Your wicked plea for Madness has 
       been properly fulfilled. Maybe you asked for all of them. You are the son of Job if anybody’s. A disoriented
       Masochist of the Cosmic Bargain.
A.: All I ever implored was nuclear reincarnation. You can’t always get what you want, can you? Health and 
       wealth included.
      Q.: You talk like an afterlifer. The worst shit one can be. Why don’t you wake up and smell the carcass! We are
       rotting away alive in a dungeon. Once you planned to throw an Iceland Rally. Now I cannot pull you off
      the matted ground at 3:30 PM. Only biology is real. And accidents. The Laws of Gravity.
A.: That’s what The Party was invented to challenge. To take back our righteous heritage. Complete Nimrod’s
       interrupted tower by the reunited tongue. Roll over Newton and Hitler.
Q.: Gee-whiz, baby doom. Your tiny glossary of populist references only exhibits what you do not have. You have
       irretrievably commixed actuality and fantasia. I am talking to the ghost of a spectre. A shadow puppet. 
A.: It’s all because I proved unable to sin. Only sin can prevail over the labor camp of the mortal coil. I’m given
      all the drive but dismissed of the essence. Let’s see how the motherfucker can do it without libido. Typically 
      Elohim, I guess. That I killed my ego only made matters worse. That’s my Odyssey in a bathtub. Not your  
      urban legend.
Q.: I don’t want to be rude but cannot accept your inadequate apology. You are a reptilian candidate who enjoys
      idleness better than anything. Cleaning your lair is your sole enthrallment. All you wish is to be left alone.
      Letting the three M’s devour our mysterious organism.
A.: I am not selling snake oil for the soul. I am a most serious merchant of the common market. The Ten 
      Commandos are a wondrous weapon. Love can strike the chaos at its roots. The only thing I’m sure of is that 
      I’m not alone. I belong to an Army of the Few. 


Q.: Mimicking humility won’t conceal your formidable incompetence. The total lack of Napoleonic cogency
       duly expected from a self-proclaimed Antichrist. What is the actual Victory we should be dashing forward to
       by your imperial decree? Can you paraphrase it to me, darling?
A.: That’s a very ugly question to pose to a terminologist. I’ll be damned if breaking the Vow of grey silence.
Q.: Fuck you and your pinchbeck dignity in the ass. Can’t you name your brainchild I’m supposed to carry?
       In stead of escaping into obscurities where no one can follow you but a hypnotized dog.
A.: Well, what about the Socialist Kingdom? If it doesn’t tell all, what could I add to it? The Three M’s have no
       Mastery in the Socialist Kingdom. In the Socialist Kingdom work and love are the only engine of survival.
Q.: Familiar hubris, lamentably irksome. It’ll never generate a reasonable talk around your round table of
      fake values. And that’s before you’d start rambling about ethic cleansing. There is no potential behind your 
      aspiration. No wonder you are hiding from office on every pretext. You are a born loser frightened to win.
      No power to will. Just walking the dead.
A.: The Socialist Kingdom is not a new republic. It is an absolute democracy. The most ancient schemata of 
      nation-building. The difference we make is its globalitarian application in the last judgement’s treacherous 
       service. I’ve never seen anything less unambiguous. 
Q.: You are a pathological liar and that’s your reprobation. You cannot communicate any other way. You’ve
       learned nothing from Machiavelli. You aren’t as naïve as you pretend to seem. You know your limits better 
       than Socrates. But you refuse to repent for the crimes of omission. You are the very cause of your demise, 
       not the unfortunate martyr of a movement. You ain’t man enough to seduce Gay science. Just a lousy
       hermit of his own ruined church. Must be the end of the line.
A.: Although misunderstood by all and sundry, to myself I never lie. I don’t believe a single impulse whatever
      attractive. I’m just a soul whose intentions are good. That’s enough for rehabilitation. 
Q.: No, it isn’t and you’re lying to think so. What you haven’t done won’t be forgiven. Stop pretending the virgin
      bitch in order to escape adulthood. You are completely unfit for the battle of Jericho. The Party you’re prone
      to lead has less than seven members you and I included. Your unkept promises cannot be forgotten.
A.: For willful want of a social platform, I have kept them all to myself. I’m also a semantic cheat. The most secret 
      agent ever recruited. Excluded from the book of world records. A champion of espionage.
Q.: I’m not so enchanted with your detrimental modesty. We are growing old and sick by ten thousand empty 
       days in a row. Your subreality’s transparent camouflage won’t defend us from the vultures of the clock. My 
     sex appeal is fading to nought with the speed of daylight. I can’t support you much longer. You’d need a 
       younger chick by your side if ever forced to step out in the flashlight as a man of integrity. Which ain’t indeed 
      on the cards. Because you don’t look pretty either without teeth and hair. The Three M’s have really taken us 
      hostage. You should rage and scream as you used to when you were young and punk. Not reconciling with
      the invincible defeat like a sage monky (!).
A.: I was so much older then. Today I’m a retarded beginner in the red. The torture never stops. Another public
      humiliation is the last thing I need. Rather stay in the blissful unknown until I’m reborn again.


Q.: I don’t think it a good idea to end with. Your vapid tale of counter-transformation is a crying shame. Not the 
      storyboard you engaged me to witness. I was hired to assist and foster your dazzling rebirth, not to prolong the 
      agony of a nutcase. You must be the worst marriage swindler the world has ever borne, my groomboy.
      You’ll never fuck the Bride.
A.: Our face has no value in the higher context. Since cannot alter it, we must accept the formula. Give it as much
      meaning as grammatically possible. Resist, refuse and reject the demons of reality. 
Q.: Meaning, what meaning? I’ve married an impotent sociopath. That’s the foul romance of your unholy
      Anathema. You turn my spirit gifts into mental crap. You’ve changed my open mind into that of a paranoid
      refugee on permanent lookout. You transformed my character in your awful likeness. A genuine vampire
       shouldn’t be so patriarchal.
A.: I’ve taught you the truth. I’ve set you free. The fairness of our exchange is indubitable.
Q.: Your education was domestic abuse, my liberator. All you’ve given me were chains and burden. You never 
       really loved me, only exploited my extreme docility. I picked you up to play with you. Not to listen to your 
       obsolete Weltschmerz all night long. And the bad news from the outside…
 A.: By our constitution rationality is unacceptable. Fiction is the only way out and we shall return to it under the 
       benign aegis of the Octagram. So help me Osh!
Q.: Vainly are you pledging, it probably can’t. And that’s because it doesn’t exist in the first place. Osh is nothing 
      but your asinine replacement of the expired god module. That’s where the great confusion starts. You dug
      your own trap, Hieros Logos. Nothing can save you but yourself, got it? 
A.: I don’t feel at bay at all. I feel fine. It is quite harmonious here. Doesn’t matter what you think. I don’t 
      cogitate, ergo I’m Not. Everything’s falling in place. I don’t miss, I don’t desire and I don’t regret. Not a shred 
      of conscience. May I join the choir?
Q.: Your church is founded on an airy lie and it’s not agnostic. To believe in None is an oxymoron for dialectical
      materialists. They’ll ridicule you dead if flaunting such fascistoid nonsense.
A.: Disbelief is the new faith. Disbelief in the Word. It relieves the solitary traveler from his transcendent 
      responsibility. Whoever needs creed when we have intelligence? Reconstruction is the only way to progress. 
      The Party’s Methodica is to monopolize mythology in the name of the people. It is a Putsch of Time against
      the Climate. What could be more enticing? 
Q.: At least you should revolt against the situation. Reprimand the Author for the impediment. Go on formal 
      strike against the gruesome libretto. Don’t be shy, our survival depends on it.
A.: It’d be inappropriate. Duty is my sole source of inspiration. ‘The Three M’s’ are the summary of my reportage.
      A laconic conclusion of the state of the world at present. An unbiased visitor’s final testament. It’s got nothing 
      to do with my personal ordeal.
Q.: It also reads as a justification of the Apocalypse for the uninitiated. Attempted annihilation of the Underworld
      by the UR of the Vril-ya. Epilogue to a subhuman comedy. Another dart in the monster’s single eye.
A.: It only shows how central the issue is. The war we ought to wage is against the invisible. We ought to wage it 
      on the social plane but it requires a higher sentience then slaughtering infidels. The Atheist crusade has three 
      major goals on its metapolitical agenda. Departure of the Elect, Gentrification of the Purgatory and the 
      Conflagration of Hell. Nothing’s gonna change the Luciferian Agenda. I am positive about the smasheroo.
      The slowest train is delayed but coming on strong. Rudi can’t fail.