Q.: What is that’s forever making but never done? Could you kill the Sphynx with an answer?
A.: What a bombastic question to start off! And grammatically incorrect. It is the process of creation of 
       course. The horror of evolution. Cthulhu’s ongoing nightmare without cease or let up. We’ve got to 
       wake him up before it’s too late. 
Q.: What a histrionic reference to proceed! And how shrewdly populist. Are you losing your leftover dignity?
A.: One perfect comparison is quite enough for now. It’s a lot more tangible than Osh.
Q.: But it’s only half-true. And exclusively negative. The Atheist Church should ban that book.
A.: We don’t ban our enemy, darling. We ban our false friends.
Q.: I think you are completely lapsed in the modern world. An alien visitor of Penelope’s world wide web.
       Hustling to make a sudden impact by his namby-pamby means. A vulture in the supermarket. You have 
        no brothers here, dear sister. Only you want the last judgement right away. Since 1984…
A.: Maybe our symbols will cross the borderline. What we’re fomenting hereto is sheer idealism. Ours 
       is a paramilitary webshop bartering radical uniformity. An unlimited company of refractory soldiers.
       We offer personal marks of similitude to the people of all colors. A plan of universal supremacy.
       Imposing a sovereign chromology upon the human races under the black Sun of class-mutation. We
       are marketing the insignia of a new brood of fifth column. Badges of total peace. That’s what we got. A
       functionalist paradigm of undercover contraselection.
Q.: Very well, you know what’s going down. The last thing our ambiguous commodity hankers is more 
      elitarian propagandada. Don’t you have a better stratagem for this final campaign? So that we could 
      perhaps profit from it as a good store should?
A.: We ought to go very deliberately about this business. We’re gathering an alternative trade union in 
       virtual reality. Since they are sold as unused relics, our algorhythmic logos should be very highly valued. 
      Unaffordable for the strapped. First restriction of our electoral premise.
Q.: Could you please clarify what you mean by “relics?” They’re supposed to be mass produced.
A.: ‘The Symbol Market’ is its own symbol. A Moebian epitome of self-contingence. The shape of things 
       to come. Our delivery are jewels of the people’s crown. The seeds of the Socialist Kingdom. We’re set
       up to recruit an Army of the Few. Your ethicist apparel will give the UR a superhuman face. 
Q.: But aren’t they way too simplistic? Who would pay a fortune for such a shoddy sign? 
A.: It remains a question of advertisement. Our emblems are the unique regalia of a classified typography. 
      They are made for recognition as the rewarding evidence of a privileged alliance. In cotton or in gold,
       they are absolutely priceless.


Q.: Our recent novelty leads us straight back to the original calculi. The politics of Oshist geometry 
       preoccupying your la?que reconnaissance. And the confidential number of the elect brazenly 
       misappropriated. All rivers flow towards the source in your inverted disposition. Your casual replica is
      an evil child’s foul play. A primitive assault on nuclear science.
A.: That I’m deprived of prowess is the crux of my struggle. I am an effigy of the man in need indeed. 
       Guided by forged revelations solely. Neither gnosis, nor fantasy. I believe in None and non other. The
       human soul is on a Grand Discount. The population growth couldn’t influence the ancestral amount. 
       New Style is counter-relative.
Q.: Because you have no mathematical subgenius. Cannot count above ten times twelve. All you know is 
       what you feel like an animal in the weather. Running after the clock like a belated voyager of his passing
       train. The new reckoning doesn’t change the picture. Only shifts the colors a fifteen degrees.
A.: New Jerusalem is not raised on antimatter. She’s not an etherial maquette but our key of entrance.
       A touch of eternity. A comfortable vehicle of quick rehabilitation. Be alone - be one of us.
Q.: For goodness’ sake, Charlotte, you’re making me blush. That was the first slogan of SPIONS. Not even
       your own. Talking about evolution, there is zilch of it on your checking account. Haven’t grown any
       upper in the isolation tank. The same crazy postpunk as back in the days. Wearing ragtime’s wartorn 
       drag hasn’t turned you into a wise old lady at all.
A.: You should rather be proud of my persistence. The diabolical terror of the Three M’s could not decimate 
       my catatonic verve. My fragile will has remained unbroken. I deserve a hero’s welcome.
Q.: You’ve got only one thing to say. Set on repeat mode regardless how things stack up. Can’t you see it
       ain’t no entertainment any more? Rock is dead and its ashes are scattered. We’re at the down of a new 
       extinction. The devolution got a lot worse than predicted. 1984 is here to stay. And behold the angel of 
       revenge on old age pension. Reciting his juvenile mantras like there was no tomorrow. Whom do you
      effectively believe would trust your obscene proposition out of the darkest blue? People hate to be told 
      who they are. Even in the affirmative.
A.: Our magic medals are designed to save and protect their investors. Even policemen could wear them.
      They can work miracles and that’s how we’ll hype it. Guaranteed by the only word of Osh.                
Q.: Don’t you mix up the sequences of the storyboard? The Emblematory won’t generate your phantom
      membership. It should have been the other way around. First the Party, then the ribbon. This desperate 
       sellout is only a futile substitute of the failed revolution. Without the confines of the sunwise clock. The 
      Word has no power without context. Your syntactically deranged, 888. Advancing in reverse like an 
      escaping thief. Cannot exit the Catch-24.
A.: I am doing nothing on purpose. Only accept what’s coming my way. Which isn’t too much. My orders
      hail from utmost necessity and cannot be dismissed. I’m just a survivor-machine so far. Moved by my
      bad instincts alone. I’m quite aware of what I’m going through. But it’s all my fault. So I cannot help it.
Q.: Diagnostic defense of a full-pledged psychopath. To witness you is a harrowing experience. I’m only used 
       to carry out your executive orders. Design me 300 badges and a website to sell them to the rich and
        famous. The next big boom of doom. Frankly, it would be more productive if we went on strike. We are
       enslaved by your filing cabinet. A Kafkaesque metaphor.
A.: ‘The Symbol Market’ is another onus probandi of our legendary ordeal. Reconstruction of the never-been.
       I am incarcerated in the conditional tense. But never been disloyal to the mandate of revolt. This is our 
        best merchandize yet. A pivotal moment on our hidden agenda.
Q>: I wish I would but cannot share your sophomore positivism. All you ever cared for was the proper 
        method. Would never sacrifice the means to the goal. Infantine disease of the sacred logic. Deliberately
       driving towards a certain dead end. What you call survival is but prolonged suicide. Unable to turn
       around and face the consequences.
A.: I never had a choice and I can’t complain. I definitely like it like this. I’m proud of being tasked and keep
       begging for more. One fine day it will all pay off.


Q.: I’d prefer an instant cashflow in stead. Am I supposed to be glad to have the privilege of framing tokens
       now after the Flagship gently sunk? For the subrealist panopticum of your overracial citizenry.  
       Does it surprise you that I’m a bit distressed with your geo-genetic vagaries? I’m your loyal dog but you
       feed me with bare bone. With no appreciation of my diligent workmanship. You only check whether I’ve 
       made a mistake. I give you all my love but you only give me work. And find it a fair exchange of genders.
A.: Unlike Scientology, the Oshist church won’t make you plush. It’s sheer science fiction and not a lucrative 
       cult of Luna. We are unwelcome messengers, 803. Condemned to a passive mode.
Q.: Which is mighty fitting to your atavistic comportment. You could never learn the basic laws of Color 
      Power. You’re profoundly disinclined to go beyond the allegory. There’s a system to observe and rules 
      to follow behind the veil. Not your cup of opium tea.
A.: Our alternative bazaar is installed to inseminate the transhumanist doctrines of individual mythology
       in the collective subconscious of a select consumership. It is an overtly subliminal enterprise pervading
       the hostile domain of impossibility. It is a man’s world where women take the precedence.
Q.: Slow down your impertinent jingo. The Bride will never kiss your boot of fake leather, Spiel!  She’s
       too busy with adorning herself. You’re romancing a wraith. Whoever should accept the hand of a beggar?
Q.: My wedding present needs no certificate. It resonates with an underlying demand. Everybody’s  
       attracted by the uniform. That’s the heart of fashion and not deviation. Ask the specter of Alexander 
       McQueen. What we are offering is a new identity. The missing foundation. An end to sociolinguistic
       determinism. Rebirth of the Homo Novum.
 Q.: Your quirky rhetoric won’t create a craze like hula-hop any soon. It’s too subversive for the bourgeoisie.
       Democracy doesn’t tolerate the unidentifiable. You cannot just say something else. Can’t launch a Blitz 
       without introduction. They’ll label you a mad fascist and that’ll be your sorry end. One joins what
       he can profit from and who can blame her? You won’t get ahead with your merry plans if 
       disrespecting human nature. 
A.: My disability to compromise is not a bad thing, Gina. It secures our liability on the astral plane. We do 
       everything for ourselves solely. I don’t know what will be but as long as I can serve I couldn’t worry less.
       I’m a self-conscious actor bereft of every responsibility. I play as directed. My conscience is empty like 
       deep space. I’ve got nothing to desire or regret. I’m happy to be free.  
Q.: No, you aren’t. You are a demented liar. You want to stage your vengeance more than anybody else. 
       You’d die of frustration if admitted to it. Your testimony is as fake as your IDs. Osh will never authorize it.
A.: Globalitarian economy under moral dictatorship is the ultimate goal of our combat. An elected world
      government under the flag of Infinity. I also want a global civil war of independence.


Q.: Hush, hush, sweet Charlotte, I know what’s on your dirty mind. Overnational Socialism is the 
       imbecile Utopia of a mental midget. I only appreciate it because happen to be your supporting spouse. 
       All we can ever produce on the strawberry fields of passing time are but future ruins. The Prince of 
       Gravity has no mercy on cultures. You ought to produce a lasting impression like Krishna or Lenin
        if wanna be immortal.. Your smart gadgets of reintegration won’t conceivably do.
A.: Don’t have to walk with me, I can choose my companions. That is my solemn invitation to the long march.
      I’m going my way and so you should go yours. My example has to be unfollowable.
Q.: That eliminates a lot of confusion. But does not justify the dolorous fallout. Nothing you’ve ever tried 
       wasn’t a fiasco. And you’d never draw of them any conclusion. Iterating mistakes were your rites of 
       passage ever since you denounced your passport. The simulated passion of a counterfeit Antichrist. 
       A homeboy in stockings pacing his territory from bathroom to kitchen. The designated Lebensraum   
       of Lupus Dei under house arrest. What an uncanny fabula to close by. You should really be more grateful 
       for the Internet. Can at least exhibit the debris of your life.
A.: After so many years of quiet seclusion, giving away my favorite secrets is a pragmatic violation of my 
      subhuman rights. But I had no alternative. Either this or nothing. It wouldn’t be forgiven if I hadn’t tried. 
Q.: I’m sorry for pushing the disconnected button of your toyship. I’m not interested in your orphic legacy.
      I wanna live well right now, that’s all I ever wanted. Unlike the prostituted servant of an impotent master
      I am obliged to perform in your poor theatre of cruelty. Our thrice-perverted histoire d’amour. 
A.: Mixing up incompatible dimensions is a crime against divinity. We have voted for the fiction. I cannot 
       piss without The Building on my mind.
Q.: Hate to be confronted with your true entity, aren’t you? Not parabolic enough for your fraudulent
      nobility. To live as a phony symbol did not bring you any reconciliation. The virus of treason is killing
       you slowly. Crash course for the ravers, isn’t it?
A.: Total madness doesn’t require anthropomorphic evidence. The Garage Sale of The Party is open now for
       ever. Come on everybody who needs task, aim and gun. The purchase of ranks will recreate a multiracist 
       militia. Onward Antichristian soldiers. The counterrevolution has begun.