Land of Diskgrinder

Time to dust this off I have seen brass, clockwork tanks running over the fields hereabouts in Farnak; that initial enthusiastic lurch over trench and mound before winding down, main gun oil vomiting one shell after another until the plastic belly is spent. And then they stop, guns wilting, until the infantry comes up behind and, in practised whirls, wind up the main spring so the tank's wheels get whirring enthusiasm to overtop the next rise. So destruction in front comes in waves, at running pace, as blue-uniformed, spike-helmeted, Albonian infantry run up behind, the salient mechanicals.

Control the masses with the all consuming self Make brain-control slug beans, they are good to eat And then there's mad man dialectic here Kill, kill them all. With electricity kept in leyden jars . Or telsa coils . Hidden inside all human beings are dangerous ideals, repressed because the lizard brain spits venom in their eyes. And then there was the stabbing and shooting wars. Then there was the potential for the glowing and ashen wars, visited out of the sky with nuclear penises digging in the ground, and making mushroom orgasms above. Is it not obvious we can tunnel to the moon with $700 bn? Make an iron highway up through the stratosphere, ignoring or condescending to the high altitude balloons, red Apollo rockets and Leica dogs in spiky satellites. I have the information. Call me. I won't be in. I have to get to Albonia

Eventually