Q.: Happy Helloween, chieftain of the living dead. Welcome to the final curtain. The death of sex, the death of love. The death of the European Dream. Pandemic, raceriot, jihad. The gates of Hades are swinging wide open. All we have revelled in predicting is hic et nunc. Kali Yuga with an unjust vengeance. All homemade, no godshit. Time is over as you wanted. Are you satisfied with the gratification?
A.: I’m not insane enough to affirm such credits. Everybody knew what was coming. Twenty-one years of alternative doom preceded it. It is the exact opposite I’ve been trying to push up like daisies. The sunny side of things. We want the last judgement right away since 1984. It could be all over by now if we prevailed then. Living in a socialist kingdom. That was the vision thing. Our war-cry was Total Peace. Total peace under divine terror.
Q.: Not the most populist wording, let me tell you. And their original meanings have fairly corroded during the fast transformation of the human sex. Still good for an underground manifesto but deceiving like empty armors. You’re not befitted to wear them.
A.: Alright, baby, if that is what you want. The uncut subreality. My first and only public appearance was a phenomenal success. Amen’s Montreal Spring has proved to be a most constructive omen. In an artless reproduction we unknowingly celebrated the last Summer on Earth. We laid the foundation stone of the Oshist cathedral in the air. We were Blattellas and we fucked the world. Now we can taste the bitter fruits of the evil tree we planted.
Q.: I’ve always thought we were protesting against the plague coming. Camouflaging it as an 
environmental issue for sake of permission.
A.: There can be no discord between premonition and invocation for a time-conscious commando. We’ll never lose our acquired integrity. Never negotiate with the 24. We are the enemy at the gate. I don’t regret nothing. Who am I to apologize?
Q.: You must be the falsest prophet ever trod the sacred path. You only wanted to demonstrate what a shrewd interventionalist thou art hiding in the shadow. Cowering behind the burka of Charlotte Bonaparte. Blessing the people like a mad guru.
A.: Those were the best days of my unlife. To talk and walk as a transgender Muslima was inviigorating. Forty years after sown I could unfurl The Flag for a transient moment. The punishment for it is quite proportionate by my dreary standards.
Q.: Don’t have to exaggerate it either. Can’t you find a cool middle stand like a modest symbol should? You have beaten by now all passivity records. Keep on doing the Golem like you’ve always been. Now that even your Rabi has gone. And don’t know what on what. And cannot learn to care.
A.: I’ve always been living in the same isolation as it’s been globally imposed right now. Quarantine is just another word for it. I haven’t socially gathered since decades. I never would enter my room in footwear. I’m a compulsive maniac of hygiene. And a frustrated misanthrope. Relentlessly tuned to the negative, I could never ignore the danger of the zone. I never fell for the illusion of safety. To see the world catching up to my abnorms doesn’t justify my hate. I never wanted to destroy. I wanted order and joy. 


Q.: What are the Overnational Socialist Party’s official stances towards the naughty blight? If you were writing a Communiqué in stead of this jumbled chat, what would you possibly say? Just between ourselves off any record. What is really happening, my dear leader?
A.: We are encountering another anniversary flashback on our silent journey through the Bardo. Three dark decades from the Summer of Return till the Summer of Death. This infection is in stark contrast with the AIDS epidemy we were challenging way back then. This is an indiscriminate disease borne by the hazard. No cause for pathetic celebration. No identity signals required. The whole human race united in ashes. Everyone’s suspicious, anyone can kill you. A terrible method but what should you expect? Our “Petition” was ruthlessly neglected by the Elohim. The Nineteenth virus is a messenger. Congenital and non-negotiable. All of my pointless existence I’ve been demurring the quantitative judgment. It is the preeminent topic of my stolen prayers. But they prefer mayhem. Rabid subhuman tribes keep on waging their homely wars like nothing could fall. Humanity is beyond redemption, I’m sorry to say. But at least we have Trump. Someone to blame us. Someone to follow.
Q.: Do you too happen to attribute the whole cataclysm single-handedly to him like the democretens (!)? Forget about Wuhan and Sodom. Someone takes it all. Beyond fault and merit.
A.: Isn’t it the cosmic function of an elect? The legacy of kings? The Donald is not a political hero like Lincoln but the seventh avatar of Akhenaton. Mythology repeats itself as well. Time is standing still in the eye of Horus. He’s the mightiest world domination enterprise Capitalism ever produced. On par with Benito and Lenin. He’s recreated the missing focus. He’s Osh’s terminal gift to America to make it great again. A globalitarian nationalist at last. He believes in God but that’s okay. He may do anything.
Q.: Your enthusiasm is vastly artificial. It is firmly motivated by abstruse self-interests. All you want is to beat Ezra Pound as the greatest traitor of men. You would betray rock’n’roll for a pleonectic puppet.
A.: Since the day he descended the arena, everything has changed. Just in time David Bowie gallantly left the ball on its own rotation, a new killer star was born. Three past generations ahead, in defiance of the youth culture defunct. A wealthy old punk for the new republicans. To identify him with Lazarus’ next blackstar was a speed of thought. He was a godsend to me – a new home in the world. It relieved me from a lot of bereavement. He gave me air to breathe.
Q.: It is very fortunate that Bowie died in the last minute, isn’t it? Didn’t have to become your main Nemesis too. He’d be amongst the haters I’m sure, if only for his family’s sake.
A.: I recognize that with a bleeding heart. It was a smooth arrangement. ‘Cause everyone I love has turned into a foe overnight. I’m left with Kid Rock if still wanting a brother. Maybe Johnny Rotten but he’s a fabulist. It was a hard shift of view but startlingly worthwhile. I’ve never cared much about government before. I’ve formed my own party out of scorn for it in my empirical despair. Nor have I ever voted voted for anyone in my perpetual emigration. So it’s a first time in my lonesome harvest. The sensatio to belong to the masses. It feels like nuclear reincarnation. Better late than never.


Q.: What would you pinpoint the crux of the Trump presidency? Apart from his home and foreign policy of course you’re not capacitated to factually judge. Just give me a catchphrase of poetic justice as you used to. What is the key of his overcoming the Tea Party? 
A.: His burst into the muddy waters of the common decline produced a new divide of the corrupted frontline. A sudden halt of the liberal friction of amaranthine values. A change of democracy and the deranged justice system. The wind of counterrevolution I’m trying to blow since 1979. Politics has once again become the greatest form of entertainment. May the dogs of space go home to bark. Let the good times roll again. The red star changed its colour. I can wear a cap and be a member. I wrote my postcard to informally contribute his reelection campaign. With my old anthem bravely re-attached. A sleazy gesture out of the grey. I thought it’ll cause an 888 effect.
Q.: Are you a toy or a girl, Spiel!? The Man holds four rallies a day all over the land between meetings, executive orders and coiffeurs. What about that for an analogy? You have churned out two brief video clips in the entire year in lockdown, parenthesizing the long summer of anarchy in your safe room without a view. Which I had to upload on YouTube because you’re computer illiterate. Yet expecting from them an instant breakout into the visibility glare. Aren’t you underestimating the irony of the situation?
A.: For want of financial assistance I put all my trust in Osh. The one who exists not. It’s a trap of the mind. A primitive escape syndrome of the lost. All I believe is miracle though have never seen any. Unlike the shabby performance of “Covid-888”, this one had every potential to go viral. I expected hundreds of instant downloads just for the title of it. That’s why I changed “Beggars 4” to “Postcard 2”. You cannot guess whether it’s pro and contra. And the film is a funny music video full of funny slogans. The lack of response is baffling me numb. This damnation is killing me. 
Q.: You don’t belong to the culture and that’s what keeps you invisible. Grown irreversibly old without ever having been young. Your antibio is an absurd opposite to his. He wouldn’t understand a morpheme of it if ever gotten ya. Let alone his sons. Yours is not a tragic saga but ridiculous sociopathological trash. The Author must be very displeased with you. You’re not doing your part as it was written.
A.: I’m doing everything a homeless spy can do. This was my first rational chance to get my voice be heard. Right time, right place, right format. Nobody censored or hid it. Its ikon is on the top of the checklists. Just like in April, I forwarded the link to twelve of my tuberades. Even to the referential Proud Boys as a token of alliance. But it turned into vapour. No likes, no comments. I have braced myself for some hatemail at least like any ordinary dude would deserve. Am I really futile?
Q.: And what would you do with a reaction? Could you suitably answer if someone called you by the name?
A.: Yes, I could. I am completely open for a dialogue. I am mortally tired of talking to myself. I would loathe to but am not afraid to live. I’m a lot like Lucifer. All I need is a forum of denial. But I’ll never open a Twitter account. I despise social media worse than cannibals.
Q.: That’s what’s the problem. Your obsolete elegance doesn’t let you compete. You are born to lose. A victim of dialectical elitarianism. You want to be found like a crazy diamond in the desert sand. You are a daft spider who couldn’t contrive his net. After a lifetime of throwback and havoc, The Party is nowhere but in your deranged blockhead. Vainly are you trying to sell it up as something, the lie is shining through the reality gap. Your repulsive force shall heave-ho all probabilities.
A.: The question never is whether the OSP exists or not. It is imagined therefore it is. As long as I am. A defective prototype of the UR.


Q.: It hadn’t been the intent of this dispute to talk about you again. The topic was the strange dichotomy of regress and progress in the American chaosphere. The fall of the Empire. I don’t think there’s a single issue you’d be agreed upon by the Commander-in-Chief. You could never make him grasp your obnoxious geo-genetic ideology. Or that life begins with entering the light. Or the axiom of treason to the Earth. You are a dabbling apprentice, he’s a business star. Only your ages are similar which is the worst of the jokes. The first lady would understand you better than his bountiful majesty. Or even Kanye West.
A.: Although a nationalist emperor, Donald Trump is the greatest traitor the world will ever see. He betrayed his race and class with a bravado I could never match. And he was a killer of crime way back in his playboy years yet. I think only the status quo separates us. That’s what the postcard was about. But they rigged its delivery.
Q.: Let me just refer to the main issue of the controversy. The abortion thing. On which your moral is radically leftish. Let alone such notions as martial law and basic income. You are a socialist, mein Schatz. Don’t ever forget that!
A.: I am an overnational socialist. It is far above the internationalist enterprises. By our constitution abortion is not only free but often mandatory. Eugenics is our middle pillar. I think it’s rather right wing on the demolished altar.
Q.: Any way you put it, the project seems hopeless. You’d better reconcile and fade back to black. Send your card to a post on Sirius. More chance to get received.
A.: Trump is the best thing that happened to the planet for a long time. He gave back the soul to the forgotten people. He gave them work and love whatever dumbass Howard Stern has to say. He is my titular grandfather. So much selfless sacrifice cannot stay unreturned. Fewer in number but shored up with will, We the Elite are standing by. Ready for a civil war. First local, then global. The Disc of Ra is at stake.