Q.: The birth of an overnation, you daresay. Imposing on the peoples the true colors of their blood.   
      Awakening the mutant class to their individual identity. Bow wow wow. I didn’t think of all that. What   
       my serialist tableaus depict is the polychromatic radiation of the gene-cauldrons. A rearrangement of
       the hues accordingly the geopolitical characteristics of the divided states. With no imperialist innuendo
       implied. They are automatic paintings of four horizontal lines. That’s all I can draw. Stars and stripes. 
      And caricatures of you…
A.: Don’t downgrade your monumental contribution to New Jerusalem, 8:03. You are single-handedly 
      building the City on no commission. Osh is your contractor. I never asked you to torment me with 
      chromas. Colors were the last thing I ever cared about till you came along. It proves you must be right.
       I just bow my had if you dub Namibia BlueTwo. It is the gesture that will make the impact.
Q.: It’s you who picked the countries of the sample. Occasionally as you used to with no attention paid.
       You’re very supportive but completely disinterested in my travail. Only want to file it away for
       oblivion’s sake. This work should be printed and exhibited in a gallery for sale. It’s dashingly actual.  
      Under the O.S.P. logo it would be a fine demonstration. The smartest way in.
A.: No one would sponsor it, I’m afraid. We are unknown artists. Our signature’s worthless. Your dream
       won’t come true before a takeover. That’s why I ain’t so enthused. Everything you bring down is a
       pain in my ass. It hurts to be in love this way.
Q.: Maybe we should put up our own gallery on the Internet. Addressing the treacherous patriot. Could 
       also offer to design the flag of other nations left off the list. A paramilitant offensive of Color Power.
       The options are unlimited by today’s technology.
A.: The private media is a whirlpool that swallows whatever’s dropped in. It turns diamond into dust.
       Something is nothing where anything goes. The arithmetic plot of the silicon fiend has given the 
       quantity an invincible power. The elitarian virtues are gone to the dogs. To sail on in the thunderstorm
       needs superhuman power I do not possess. Not even the human one. This is the age of the equalizer. 
       No room for the Untermensch.
Q.: Your radical illiberalism would surely stand out. It could create a shockwave if you tried. There are all 
       kinds of sites to Podcast for an audience. Can even make money of it. We started The Party by sending 
       out blackmails of our homemade files. Now you have an easy forum for direct propaganda at hand. 
      Osh gave it to you but you’re reluctant to use it. You’d like it the hard way.
A.: I am terribly sorry, but I couldn’t emit anything that wouldn’t be cancelled right away. We’re living in 
       a culture worse than our Soviet adolescence was. My ideas are for tabletalk. Blogism is the death of the 
       underground. I’ll never call it home.
Q.: Because you are aboriginally unfit for competition. Couldn’t defend the worst of your theses. You are
      an autistic child that only wants to conquer the adults. But couldn’t ride a horse if it came to battle.
A.: I am not programmed to convince opponents. No one may change someone else’s mind. It’d be an 
      unpardonable insult. We are searching for the born traitors to the Earth. The epos of The Party is a 
      prewritten document. Not open for debate.

Q.: The Party is not an avantgarde theater. You’re forever spoiled by the rock’n’roll influx. You couldn’t
       argue about Osh with Christopher Hitchens. They all have degrees and diplomas. Let alone talent.
       You never went to any school. Your knowledge is desultory and stolen. Was macht der Maier am 
       Himalayer? You’re only good for a rock operetta. The Ledermaus who wanted to be Batman. A 
       Joker’s delight.
A.: I don’t know what’s the point in confronting my corporeality. I’m not going to capitulate before the 
       multitude. I cannot be another one and that’s my evil karma. I am Not, the Son of None. Not your
       average influencer. 
Q.: You’d just have to tone down your outlandish temerity. Don’t start with calling for a global civil war on  
      crime. You are addressing chauvinists and bigots. Nor is your moral supremacy compatible with the 
     Playboy ideology. The Time-Putsch you’re ballyhooing since four decades is nobody’s business. You 
     should’ve learned it by now. Your ramshackle saga is no cautionary tale. Lots of fiascos but no lesson 
     served. You are a brute punk in the philosopher’s cloak. Your dumb ass shows through every rag and drag.
A.: I would do anything for work but I can’t do that. I can’t censor myself. It’d be vainglorious. I am not a
      Hollywood spy. No self-importance whatsoever. I’m lingering way below the poverty line. All I have is 
      the flag streaming in my head.
Q.: It is quite windy in there, isn’t it? Your antimagnet is charged to repulse both guilty and innocent. And  
      your imaginary brotherhood is nowhere to be found. Will remain the loneliest wolf of god if so frightful 
      of entering the arena.
A.: You seem forgetting that I’m the hunted one. It’s not a nice allegory solely but the living fact Bowie
      missed to acknowledge. I don’t need real hunters, can’t you see? The demons are quite enough. I
       cannot bear criticism. A single affront could finish me off. I know how Stalin felt.
Q.: You are a universal misfit shamelessly reconciled with his obscene destiny. A perverted epitome of the 
       false Antichrist by the unholy copybook. The Internet gives you a fair chance you haven’t had before.
       To leave it unused is a breach of the bargain. You’d give up the kingdom for your wangled integrity. 
      You must fight for life if you’re dead. Not dreaming about 888 in your safety crypt.
A.: You’re pushing it hard and I understand your motives. You want to break the silence of the lamb. You
       want to give your labor a plausible worth. But I cannot go online with the Third Covenant, Gina. It is
       a hidden treasure by its totemic formula waiting to be discovered. My game is a puzzle. I only can 
       respond to anticipation. Cannot create my own expectancy. That’s why I must be hiding in the
       dungeon. They shoot messengers, don’t they?
Q.: What could be worse than rotting away in secrecy? We’ll be killed anyway by all means. Why not to
       give it a sense at least? We’re toiling at the service of a careless exploiter of our android energy. Why 
       not to profit from it after all? We never had a feedback or reward. I’m showing you what I’ve done and 
       that’s the end of it. Comes the next job to complete. It cannot go on like this for ever.
A.: Work is unjust punishment and the pawn of redemption in one nuclear package. It has to be big and 
       idealistic. I’m not talking about labor for money. Only about the concept of creation. That godlike
       sensation of the enlightened primate.
Q.: I know you aren’t. You don’t have the fantasy of a donkey. Nor any empathy for the working class. Just 
      worship them idly like an exiled king.
A.: In a high-standard communism work is no longer forced labor. A healthy and wealthy Atheist society
     knows no distinction between task and fun. In Eden time is all leisure and pleasure. ‘The Flagship’ will 
      transport you there if you vote for strike. Anything you do, you must do it for yourself. That has always 
      been the cardinal decree of our thoroughfare.


Q.: Not the most convincing argument from a Welfare fraudster’s mouth. Your apolar dialectic is ethically 
      challenged. We won’t perdure much longer with this outdated attitude.
A.: The living spirit of time will never be pledged. With all respect for mining coal and picking cotton, no 
      manpower worked harder throughout history than the ruling classes. Emperors take all the precedence 
      when the saints go marching in. As below, so above.
Q.: The way you’re messing around with the vested paradigms of the social morphology is a double
       whammy. It makes you both suspicious and inauthentic. Is it a deconstructivist tendency or merely 
       philistine? Let’s see the woeful harangue of a Leninist defender of the Monarchia. You are awfully
       right with your fear of a public profile, little sister. Your alternative order would only boost the  
       infinite chaosphere. Repair is impossible. Only damage can be done.
A.: With Osh on our side nothing is impossible. The third way always triumphs. Just never deviate from it.
Q.: The third way leads to all-out destruction. Without stable sides there is no superstructure. You’ll be lost 
      like a Dharma bum if cannot belong to a framework. That’s why The Party is lying in ruins. Politics is 
      not screaming from the rooftop but the art of diplomacy. Put down your plastic dagger, Spiel! I’m
      giving you the Key of the Gate.
A.: The Socialist Kingdom is a state of perfect union of two worlds. An Elysian dimension. Emporium of 
       the obvious. Elitarian heterarchy of the homo superior. An end to democracy’s reign of horror.
Q.: Fetching script for a violent video game without any rationalist perspective. You’d better draft your 
       childish epistles in a marketable form of science fiction. Letting the luminance of Osh irradiate the
       dark shadow of Cthulhu. It would sell like candid candy with all your genocidal fantasies incorporated. 
       But alas! you cannot write a script. You only can do the real thing for want of imagination. How does 
       it feel to be reduced to the life of an unwanted homunculus?
A.: The Word doesn’t write another word. It is solely driven by expressing itself. I only can speak in first 
       person. It is my damnation that it must be singular.
Q.: Total peace is an anomaly. And not a distinctly Antichristian notion. Do you think Joshua was right
       with his obscurantist sermon on the mount? 
A.: In his Arameic context absolutely. He was an extremist and that’s why he insistently dominates. Non-
       violence was the most passionate memorandum ever delivered to the slaughterous natives. An
       extraterrestrial attitude gloriously double-crossed by his Mother’s Church. What we are attempting is 
       a final synthesis. The angel of revenge as predicted. Bringing an end to six thousand years of 
       Abrahamic nightmare. The Son of God is therefore enemy number one of the Atheist Church. That’s
       why we love him as he presciently commanded.


Q.: Don’t expect the wisest guru to gladly follow your twisted logistics. Or an apostate rabi. You aren’t 
      taking your mandate any seriously. You’d sell out the greatest mystery for a catchy shibboleth. The
      Author isn’t pleased with you, beloved. You’d rebel against anything.
A.: We have nothing in common with the tree of knowledge. Gnosis is the venom of the snake. Down with
       the 24’s reign of statistics. Save sex and kill the crime. That’s all I have to say onto you.
Q.: Not the shrewdest repetativo, Captain of the flagship. Every move you make will take you back to
      the missing center of the failed expedition. Your mind is shipwrecked on an uninhabited island. You 
      refuse to communicate like there was nobody out there. It is fake vanity and a betrayal of treason.
       Death will let you down.
A.: I am mortally tired of the dichotomic disaster. Sincerely terrified of contributing to it. I don’t want to 
      talk about popmuzik any more. I’d like to be a school-shooter.
Q.: You’re pretty old for that, sonny boy, if I may remind you. Don’t even know how to use a gun. Your
       desire is my onus. You don’t believe at all the words you’re saying. The Bride is just a slogan you 
       picked from the Bible. The cheapest source of wanton information for a catholic boy from a good 
      house. Taking no pain to at least invent something like J. R. Tolkien. Reproduction is all you’re entitled 
      for. You may call yourself Dracula or Jesus, I know who you are. An unhired professor of mendacity.
A.: To speak overnational in a world systematically displaced we most fully detach from the linguistic 
      interpretation of territorial claims. There has to be a common culture that encompasses all the rest. We
      aren’t up against any folklore. Diversity is our major canon. The Scandinavian invasion of black death 
      is as strictly rooted in the pagan North as reggae music in the Solar spasm. The world is rich, vast and 
      beautiful. That is the Atheist view in a nutshell. Our Cantus Firmus is the Song of Joy. One anthem for 
      all of us. The best news ever delivered to the intelligent man.
Q.: Beware of the exterminating machine. The people don’t want what they don’t deserve. They prefer
      murder and mayhem for the entertainment of the Elohim. Divine terror has no appeal to the liberal
      mindset.
A.: Our color campaign is devised to capsize the cosmic catastrophe turning the planet of adorned 
      apes into the leper colony of the known universe. Thus spoke the word of Osh.