Q.: I’ve been adamantly following your narrow path from flip to flop but still couldn’t crack the secret of
your heart. What attracts you so tremendously to this woman? It goes far beyond your maniacal
empathy for the victimized. You love her like your twisted sister, don’t you? You’ve put her on your
family tree. You call her your Joan of Arc. And want to turn her into a supermodel of the final
judgement. Blatantly exploiting her reputation for your notorious end.
A.: Ghislaine is Charlotte’s nominee. Don’t forget that nuance. The girlfriend she’d like to have.
Q.: Don’t mess with your fake avatars all the time. It doesn’t matter who brings the ruling. This is an
emergency issue. A question of survival. Can’t you humble up a little bit?
A.: She’s a patron saint of the Atheist Church. A priestess of the cult of life. A heroine of the Brideship.
Q.: Holy shit! Your deranged crush is a faint reaction of panic. You’d like to save her very much. More than
her blood-brother. But this is the most you can virtually do. Throw a postcard in the air that’ll never be
delivered by the winds. A worthless milestone of your alternative saga. After the human sentence will be
brought, you’ll forget about it all the same. Let her rot in Hell like the anchors say. You’ve never been
a faithful lover. Even Bowie you miss less and less from the bleak picture. You’ve searched through
your one inch thoughts and decided it couldn’t be done. Bye bye blackbird.
A.: That’s not true. I’ve already listed her amidst the people to liberate. Alongside Ross Ulbricht and Julian
Assange. When we’ll revenge everything they’ve done.
Q.: Good luck, chum. You couldn’t even win the election. Nor stop the virus. Both asinine attempts of
inoculating the media have conspicuously failed. Your homely videos remained vastly undownloaded.
This third installment of the doomed tryptichon won’t do any better, I’m afraid. You’d like to cause
scandal but scandal doesn’t like you. Playing your deadhead off remains your sole outlet.
A.: This clip of two minutes is the summary of my work and love. The period that opens the sentence. The
most elegant masterpiece of Osh to date. The negated adjectives added to the Ten Words are radically
reduced to the core of a condemnable character. Similarly applicable to later candidates. There’s only
one ethos, isn’t there?
Q.: Simplicism is the mulish pretext of every lazy artist. It ain’t your fault that you’re lacking inspiration.
Osh has never given you a hand. Maybe because he hasn’t any. You are looking for a breakthrough at
any cost. But cannot afford a Google Ad. What do you expect with your status quo? Messaging Bill
Clinton on Twitter like a ghost of conscience. Waiting desperately for a view in the void. Illiterate of
computers like a stone age man. Without me you couldn’t send an eMail. You don’t make any sense.
A.: It looks most occasional, but the contact sheet of this brave project was the hardest selection of my
snobbish underlife. The twelve names I could finally drop are more arbitrary than the Necronomicon.
With Trump and Covid I could anticipate some improbable affinity. But with the Epstein Estate I am
without support. Have to address the arch enemy in person. I am defending the common scapegoat of
both aisles with no wings attached. She’s united the left and the right into one inquisition. Not a minor
feat without arms. I don’t know what I’ve done to come to this, but finally I am wholly alone with my
affection in the bloody planet. I’ve grown fully identical with my ideal of treason.
Q.: I wouldn’t consider it such a colossal achievement, Spiel! You don’t know what it’s like to be rich and
famous. Your mystified protégée is just another hypocrite socialite. She’d be your prime antagonist on
every other issue if confronted with. Only the spectacular fall makes her a symbol of injustice. Your
paranormal gallantry is ludicrous sublimation of an unhinged dialectic. Another shameful instance of
your strategy of errors.
A.: The verdict of Osh ignores circumstantial evidence. It’s strictly focused on the soul of the subject. The
Ten Commandos aren’t dogmas but require specific accommodation from each and every individual.
Harmony is the quintessence of salvation. Nothing but style can save your second skin. John McAfee
was another one of those.
Q.: Stop confounding the spirit with the mind. You may be the worst miscreant but nobody’s perfect. At the
same time you despise repentance. Who gets the free visa to Eden, that’s what a world-citizen is curious
to know. The arcanum of the guarantee, if you please.
A.: No problem, I’ve got that one bright alright. That’s all we are actually saying. Give sin a chance. And
disconnect it from the dark angel of love. A complete reversal of Apollo’s revolution. Sin is the free
man’s fundamental duty. The methodica of Atheist worship. The token of redemption since 1666. The
Orgon gate of Wilhelmina. I have never said anything novel. I am a reproductionist. Still learning how to
simulate knowledge.
Q.: Because you don’t have the fantasy of a rabbit. You can’t restore what’s never been. You’re possessed
by the phantom of improbability. Your sanity’s at stake.
A.: What fantasy you need in the world-wide bordel? Where everyone is a sex-worker and an equal chance
hero. Something has happened in the background in the mean time. That’s why this medieval witchhunt
is so mortifying. A warp around the Zeitgeist. The Negator’s perverse proof of domination. The mortal
majority’s aboriginal hate of the rapture. A cathartic clash of principles.
Q.: You ain’t no psychic, mein Lieber Helmut. And haven’t got a clue about the art of the deal. Unlike the
cosmic bargain you claim negotiating, the local business is dirty as Hell. Your crimenophobia would
prevent you to ever touch down to the financial plane. All you can do is the Pallas Athene. The impartial
judge of an aesthetic ascendancy. Your lousy petition won’t collect any signatory, I can guarantee you
that. You’ll just sit and watch as tears go by.
A.: What I covet more than anything is to get the message through to her. The informal pardon of a more
supreme court. Unfortunately she has no direct contact facilitated on the Internet right now. I didn’t
know that before I wrote the Epistle. I’m very disappointed.
Q.: And if you could than what would you do? Do you think that’s exactly the news she’s in need of at this
point? All you can be is an annoyance.
A.: I don’t care. I’d risk all public disgrace for sending her my love. Just to make her known that she’s not
wholly alone. Somebody sees it all and wishes her well.
Q.: Swing low, sweet chariot or you’ll lose your scrimpy equilibrium. A bankrupt groom shouldn’t sound so
neoromantic. You make it impossible to be seriously taken. You are a comic dwarf versus serene giants.
Throwback of a Walt Disney flick. Don’t be so eager of getting animated.
A.: We are invited to peep in anybody’s bedroom via satellite today. You can watch sex live around the world
without charge if you want to. Porn is a collective asset of the widest population with unrestricted
innovation and uncensored expertise. We are living in a global wonderland of Orgasmatron Candy Barr
couldn’t have dreamt about. The space is safe and the walls are removed. Adultry has become a natural
virtue for everybody. Cyberia is an overnational Sodom for the grateful dead. Integrity, Diversity and
Unity for all. All we’re left to do is killing the crime. Be this imprecation my ultimate roll-call!
Q.: You surely are a crude prophetess, Charlotte. Smart arguments of an obscene restitution won’t captivate
the benign genius of Elon Musk. He’s charged with more important projects to handle than your little
humanitarian pursuit. He’d deny knowing her at all like Peter the Christ. And so do all the rest. She just
walked into everybody’s picture. Isn’t it strange how history repeats itself? Only technology evolves. The
human race is the same carnivore as ever was. Unworthy of tranquil deliverance.
A.: The situation, you see, is extremely relative. The death of time obliterated the frontiers of madness. In the
aftermath where we find ourselves presently progress is no longer linear. We have to maneuver on a
fragile axis amidst the collapse of the zones. Everything that was and will be is here and now. Everything
that can happen is happening today. Our unholy war is fared with corrupted subhumans. But it ain’t
wholly lost yet. As long as I breathe it is out for vengeance.
Q.: Don’t be such a pedestrian idealist at least. Your pathetic optimism is an artificial horseplay. Just look
at the storybook of your venerated idol. That’s the fate of those who challenge Hell on Earth. Nobody’s
exempt of the Purgatory’s law. Happy are those who had the means to try.
A.: Jeffrey Epstein was a master sinner. Second but to Sade and much more glamorous. A candid archetype
of the ideal billionaire. He didn’t make it by brains like Bill Gates and didn’t use it to destroy capitalism
like the evil Soros. But he knew better how to invest the gift than the fake socialists. He served Venus
like no yesterday. Probably he was the last of the international playboys, fuck Morrissey. I won’t let him
rest in peace. I want his portrait over my desk. He is my favorite martyr.
Q.: He wouldn’t have given you a rotten apple if you asked. He was the one who only cared about himself.
He was no potential financier of your ominous Building if that’s what you’re thinking of. Would have
sooner bought another ranch from that much money. He didn’t anticipate death by strangulation.
A.: Already in the Nineties when it was just an inside joke of TV hosts, I was a fun of him. It was great to
hear about something good amidst the bloody gore. I often dreamt about the Lolita Express. Just didn’t
tell you.
Q.: I’m not at all impressed with your solitary apotheoses. All you like to talk about is the greatness of
others. But not a prudent idea how to join the club. All you ever wanted was their money.
A.: Osh knows I am out of the ordinary competition. I have a city to sell. I know it’s only hallucination but I
like it. I love to serve. I’d be very good at money if I had the talent.
Q.: You are not poor without a reason, leader of no pack. You envy it alright, but have no respect for wealth.
You are terrified of ownership worse than liability. Wouldn’t know what to do with an extra chair. You
are a born eremite full of vain desires. Must be an ordeal to live in your skin.
A.: All I ever wanted was everything. I cannot do with less. I’m overly grateful for the minimum.
Q.: Don’t talk to me like a humble caretaker either. I see how you’re suffering from the underachievement.
After thirty years of nongermane lies, is it any wonder I can’t believe a word you’re saying? You have no
power over neither men nor demons. All you can ride is the grey horse of contradiction. You’ve wasted
all your vigor on changing yourself and where are you at? The same derelict as you were in ’79 just
aged beyond recognition. Still looking for a gate to your rusted key.
A.: It doesn’t matter what I am. With a tad of fluke the gesture should speak up for itself. We have reached
the point of no return. The moment of total resistance. It is you and me against the world. of madness
from now on. We may die alone but shall never capitulate.
Q.: Our couplehood is quite alike theirs in the black mirror, isn’t it? The same star-crossed solidarity of a
personal apologue in the gutter version. A love without name.
A.: We are the theory and they were the practice. That’s how it’s categorized. Their affair is akin to Bonnie
and Clyde. Or the Shelleys for that matter. Couples always take the precedence. Though we have
nothing in common, before the throne of None we’re a family of equals.
Q.: Why you have to be so trivialistic? Cannot find the right tone to express your anger? 28 million and a
half was not enough to release her on bail whilst awaiting. She is more dangerous than Ulrike Meinhof
was. Treated worse than El Chapo in the jail. Only murderers are freed and paroled. She got 65 years
for no crime committed. You’d better figure out an instant campaign than comparing our mythologies.
A.: What we are looking for is the engram in the whirlpool. Reconstruction of the epigenetic memory. As
opposed to the theocratic moral, the Atheist judgement is fixated on crime. Sin on the other hand is a
token of glory. The only glory you can harness in the terrain.
Q.: So that’s it and that’s all?! Another wasted job for your portfolio. Whilst those bitches make millions by
breeching their prodigious contracts of the horrendous slavery. You may go to Jericho with your
Luciferian nosebleed. A disengaged voyeur of the cataclysm.
A.: Maybe Dershowitz will lend me an ear. Together we could turn the infernal tide. I like him very much.
Only hope the rumors are true.
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