Margot Fontaigne looked down her Prada prescription glasses at her iPad. She adjusted her designer skirt by resting the pad on her knees and pulling at her thighs side to side- like a boa constricter making room. She was slightly overweight to her dreadful husband but to herself she knew she was a cow, and would always be a cow. She looked up at the parade of young girls striding down the runway- fresh meat to the game.

It was a charity event in all appearances. The girls were ‘rescued’ from Tibet, Thailand, Haiti, Ghana, Timur-Leste, Venezuela, and Slovenia and a few home-grown gems that were off the books from foster homes in the States. Willowy and big eyed they wobbled on their heels and strutted across the stage- feeling freer and more frightened than they ever had- blondes, frizzy haired Nubian princesses, boyish, light and fair Asian girls, a few darker skinned- the look being very fresh of recent months. The digital device cameras snapped and the exotic girls were recorded into space. Numbers were tagged on their wrist bands. Margot swiped the selectees 18, 37, 39, 55, and 103 through 109 for modeling scholarships into her text file and 5Gd them to her employer. The cluster were the Thailand group- more in demand now with the recent natural disasters that had tweeted sympathy across the globe for the third world nation in South-East Asia. She went back stage to give a congratulatory speech of a wise business savvy woman to the herd. No person within the galleria would dare over-bid Margot. She was a supreme bitch on wheels. There were thirty short minutes with them before she had to do a magazine interview on the “Salvaging of young women? Providing a chance for any girl to rise?” The name of the article was yet to be decided, the editing of it’s content would need to be done first to give the best angle.

Diego received a text confirmation on his next design. He was a .GIF builder outsourced by a massive telecommunications company. He was trying to complete three more today- they would be uploaded onto any madDash device as a ‘top trending’ micro-images. Their popularity would not seem ‘enforced’ to most who automatically downloaded them into their different software versions. The one he was currently trying to rush through before his lunch break was a stock footage clip of Beyondse Homes – biggest African American celebrity- a key figurehead needed to be depicted in a certain percentage of the free-reign designs he built. He chose a hip font out of the digital panel. It was white 19080’s spray paint with drop shading in lime green. It said “Oh Hell No You Didn’t!!” He considered putting a third exclamation point- but that was too obvious to be a mass production icon, so he left it at two. He wondered if anyone actually sent his icons to their families and friends or if they were just subliminal marketing at it’s best. He pixelated the image so that it was more authentic and saved it to the server.

“Oh Thank You Lauren! Please tell Mr. Bernstein- that this is quite generous of him, indeed! I do hope you can wrangled him to attend this end of the months charity awards ceremony! It will be celebrating our fifteenth month fighting the good fight! If he is unable to show his face I’ll have to find another Philanthropist of the Year to stand at the podium.”Tattie nodded and cooed into her razor thin phone before blowing a kiss on the vis-à-vis mode and slipping it into her frock pocket. She tightened her hair in her bun and quickly checked her makeup in the reflection of the 137th floor walkway partition- there was over $3,000 of skin-product on her face and she could feel her pores singing with radiance. She moved down the hall with fortitude and independence, she had a raise coming and she could smell it.She looked forward to going to the island and meeting the most in the business. She would use the Bernstein donation to give further grants to the fostered grass-roots franchised non-profits out in the field. Sam had sent her a photo of a blood-bank he was operating out of in new Palestine. He had a girl in his arms who needed a home, her left arm was missing at the elbow. Sam was so handsome and rugged out there with his sunglasses and five o’clock shadow. She got to her desk and sent him the requisite paper work in order to expedite the girls travel state-side. Another life added to her quota. She leaned across the desk outside her office and told Claire to confirm her appointment at the Hologens Spa on East 43rd. She then made a quick request on her phone for an Uber car to take her by the Planned Parenthood the next city over on the way. She would check and see how the flow was going in person before her ‘elite-friend status bamboo-package’ this evening.She would need a good massage from Tree.

A Haitian woman searched frantically through the rubble after this mornings earthquake, she could not find her son. Neither could her neighbor, or the family on the fifth floor. There was panic in her eyes. The rescue workers were thin and unable to help every soul. She had to fend for herself. She called out the name of her child, cursing that she should have given him a less common name. The boy was only 4 years old. She stumbled down the street and ignored her appearance in a shattered pane of glass- she ducked into a non-profit agency which specialized in providing relief and assistance. A gringo with perfect Haitian dialect came to the counter- his face sweating in the heat. He asked her to fill out a form, description of the boy- provide a photo. He had a bankers box behind him full of forms. Little did she knew that a few feet beyond the locked door her son, Miguel, was being examined by a doctors assistant fresh out of community college for any blood-diseases or viruses. The boy was clean, sent to bath with the other children and then given a snack and a sedative- while the nurse before him said they were finding his mommy while he took a nap. The woman was ushered outside back into the dust to search- told to come back the following morning. In four hours, a van arrived and the sleeping children were loaded inside for their bumpy ride in a Red Jeep to the airport 2 hours away.

Goddess of the daytime television Sheena Harmony looked out at the concerned faces in the crowd. “And this happens to four hundred thousand children, women, families- each year!- It is a global-wide travesty!” She wipes the saline from the corner of her eyes with a $4,000 silk pocket square. She inhales and exhales dramatically. Her beige pants suit is snug and accentuates her recent surgical upgrade. She turns to the camera and solemnly directs the viewers at home that it is time to throw the laundry in the drier and the quick break will end in a few minutes. She is pained at the idea of continuing the next segment with an introduction. The grief would feel too commercialized. When the signal is given by the thin younger woman with glasses holding a clipboard, ear-mic mounted on her head- Sheena takes a leave off set. The audience clapping at the hard efforts of their heroine- the one who broke free from the horrors of the world and rose up through the ranks to now being the richest woman on any televised talk-show world-wide. She was a fighter, and the free gift today would be choice. They chatted with each other and commented on Sheena’s poise and difference in the world, or on the mozzarella-basil-tomato finger sandwiches being distributed by a hefty woman wearing a black baseball cap and a small apron. Shrunken bottles of water were passed along.

Ben Schumacher clicked his crazy-pen while sitting in his ranch-house in New Mexico. He was a foster parent and the funds looked terrifying. He would have to move Kimberly out. He loved her, but she was big enough and would do better than Susan or Tucker. In fact, he was going to be paid to move her. It was all he could do with the tightened economics of the year. His wife’s jewelry business was regulated up the ass by the State this year. The tax alone would make it pointless for her to even try. She couldn’t get off the couch these days and the disability checks were being lost in the mail too frequently. He went into the den to tell Connie that he had made his decision about Kimberly- when she came home from school, they would have to have that talk with another kid once again. It was never easy. But it was the other edge of the sword for being a good Christian.

The politician screamed into her prepaid track phone. It was secure. She was at her wits end. She did not care how many law-suits were filed against her today- she downed her third bloody mary and rubbed the bridge of her nose with unpainted fingertips. She paced back and forth in her third penthouse apartment in the Big Apple. Her Federal anklet was clunky and not a newer design. she had her one of 300 lawyers currently requesting it be upgraded to. She took a quick-pic of the red welting around her left ankle and sent that image off with trembling frenetic fingers. She would have a shot of the good stuff in about an hour. Her private jet would be in use this evening by her despite the various court orders- she ‘didn’t give a flying-fuck.’

She dialed her personal assistant in Switzerland and waited for the second ring. She punched the passcode when the phone clicked over. She was going to fry Nancy if she fucked this one up, today. She had a plain clothed assassin ready to shoot the flaccid woman’s cat. Damn the federal judges kid and husband getting in the way. Damn it all to fucking Moloch. The drugs swirled in her belly.

“Doctor Waits, you have a phone call on line 3.” The man stopped and turned on his heel to the desk. He leaned in and looked at his assistant, utterly peeved. “Brenda, dang it. I told you to tell me who calls before you put them on my phone.” Brenda looked at him blankly and the blessed doctrine of her hospital administrators union sung in her ears. Her plastic beads looped under her chin, and connected to the arms of her tortoise shell glasses. Brenda then cocked her head and smiled at the young man. “I think it’s somebody calling to tell you they found a kidney for Jessic” He reached across the desk and punched the 3 line blinking- making it solid. He pulled the out-dated corded phone up onto the higher elevation of the desk and it strained at it’s wall plug. Brenda’s hands went splayed to frantically support his efforts. “Yes, this is Doctor Waits. Yes, the patient is willing to pay that. Send it. She needs it immediately. Thank You. This is wonderful news.” He then clacked the phone back into it’s canoe like cradle. He whistled loudly at the vent overhead Brenda’s desk- burning BTUs as if it was a heat wave. Brenda’s eyes went wide. “How much did Mrs. Eckherdt just spend on her new kidney, Bradley?” Bradley pumped his fist in the air. “100 g’s. Doesn’t matter Brenda, she is going to live and that is what this game is all about!” He then sprang down the hall and entered another room.

A group of kids sat spilling their food across a lunch table in the District 12 public school cafeteria in Detroit. The school meals were now vacuum sealed and looked like rainbow colored brains. The carrots bounced. It was a new hobby. Mitchell tonged one off the rim of the trash bin and watched it spin under the girls table. Hammy was already working on his second bag of Cheetahs and his braces looked like a horror-film. “Dude! I heard you can sell one of your balls on the dark-web for 5 THOUSAND BUCKS!” “Sure Mitch. Your so weird with all your conspiracy theories!” “Fuck you Pauly, it’s not a Conspiracy Theory if it’s real! The middle guy- he makes like 95 THOUSAND when he sells it to somebody else!”

Across at the girls table Betsy sat with Trisha- she leaned in close and looked at her tweens fashion magazine she unrolled from her back-pack. They had been looking at it on the bus together this morning. “Oh, can I please see that picture of Madley Hooper again, he’s so hot!” She flipped the curled pages rapidly and showed the cologne ad, where Madley was draping himself over a diving board while a svelt thirteen year old red-headed freckle model above him prepared to dive in. Her suit was bunched and her eyes were painted like a fish. “You know what I saw on Wiki last night after my Dad passed out in the livingroom?” The other girl shook her head overtop of her PB&J. “Madley is suchaaagooood and sweet guy! He- like- donated all this money to helping girls in Thailand become famous and learn to model and stuff. Like a few million dollars! And he put all this money into some hotels and stuff for undocumented workers to work at and stuff. He also like met the queen of England and so he’s like a real Knight in shining armor and everything!” The girls mouth was open and clearly impressed. “Is that all!?” She asked. “No, he’s also like wicked smart and like- donates to biological engineering and stuff.” “Wow!” There was a pause. “What’s that anyway?” The other girl flipped through the magazine and ignored her lunch, modeling would be something she could start on by ignoring her food and eating just the fruit-snacks. “I dunno, but I think it’s really good and stuff.”

Ned Forrester received the envelope in the mail. It was usual- once a week. It had little inside of it beyond a code and a confirmation key. He shuffled back inside in his white sheepskin slippers. He looked at the postage stamp. It was prepaid and franked and still an awkward piece of mail- neutral and void. He supposed there would never be traceable finger prints on the envelope- not that he dared to get curious. The money was good and it helped support his ex and child in the alimony- just enough to keep him comfortable and glued to his television. He would order Chinese food again tonight- regardless of the corona virus- he couldn't resist it. Cashew Chicken #3 with a side of egg rolls would be the regular. He hadn't even finished his third cup of coffee and he was already thinking about dinner. He took a right at the end of his hall and into his office. It was a mess but he practically lived in it. He slid into his deluxe rolling chair atop a neo-glass carpet mat and drew himself into the half-moon shaped desk. He re-entered the password to his desktop and then went into his recent programs folder. He hesitated whether or not look at porn and decided he would just get the work done first- no one liked the wait. He opened up his software for insurance adjusting SafeLife7. He was an a live-in risk assessor for the past 13 years. He logged into his companies archives and then secured a separate connection to a blank page webpage with a login screen. Using the sparse information he gained access once again to a list of names and profiles. He saw a picture of a 34 year old African American painter who owned his own business. He had a bright smile in the photo and was operating out of Atlanta, GA. He had no existing health issues beyond an epidermal cyst and smokers lungs since he was 16 years old. He was an athlete in school but broke his leg playing football in high-school. He then went to the other screen and located on the list of names a field to enter the mans possible cause of death. Ned put his click pen in his mouth and gummed it. He leaned back. He knew it would be easy to say he would fall off of a ladder. But more likely the chemicals involved in sanding and painting a house could do it over time. The man was young. He entered in the first field that a probable way for the man to die was falling from a ladder. He then had the next field where he chose how the man would commit suicide. He then looked at the profile for any potential signs of mental stress. He had a business that made enough to keep him working, and only few employees. Ned figured a suicide was best done if the man hung or shot himself. He had recreational ingestions of marijuana which were recorded on his high school physical drug tests. Ned looked at a die he had on his desk and flipped it. Where it landed he ignored. He wrote overdose of accidental fentanyl laced marijuana. Then he pulled up the next profile. He continued through the 40 names of random identities and ogled one attractive woman. He then logged out of the encrypted site and shredded the passcodes in his deskside shredder. He then got up and stretched and went to the bathroom.

A secret service agent is buried, the flag is crisp. Taps is still played on the trumpet upon the White-House lawn in the dew of the lawn, burning off in the sun. The news vans are not present beyond a few local stations. Another unsuccessful attempt at killing Donald J. Trump went down the tubes. An American dies but is not forgotten by the people who must live and work there. The camera drone followed the armed protester who melted into the 100,000 strong ‘Back to Work!’ peaceful crowd. This agent provocateur had snuck in from a white cargo van on a side-alley. He passed far away as possible into the crowd from a fake news film crew blocks away. He located his sniper rifle- but had a misfire at the podium seconds too late as a man dove before the President of the United States of America.

A ring of cell phones were incinerated minutes later located at different epicenters of society.

Those few blocks away from a rewrite in history was CNN van number 84- in their few base-ball caps, forgotten on their heads. A gaggle of young and paid-off African Americans are sent in front of the larger blurred crowd, the lens skewed smartly. They hold up signs saying BLM and Antifa! The photos are taken and sent back to HQ to get the background further fuzzed. They are nervous but have time to snag a few selfies with their new-found friends. A new call is chiming in on the phone, they each make $50 more for another shot at a better angle. New t-shirts with similar logos and color schemes are passed around. A girl changes into her shirt- unashamed of her bra being exposed behind the door of the van.

Tattie walked through the poster plastered glass doorway and saw the low-income bracket girls sitting in the chairs, terrified or bored and flipping through their devices. One girl cut in front of Tattie and grabbed a handful of free condoms (if you were under 13.) Her boyfriend was probably the pimple faced punk waiting out front looking around like he was robbing a convenient store. Tattie flashed her wallet card to Myria and strode through the back hallway door. She knocked three times and Julian let her in. He then smiled slightly and ushered her down the hallway, the light bulb was still not changed out. They went to the back of the building to the freezer storage- stepping over a few crates and trash bags, by the rear exit. Most likely they were donated medical supplies that would just be resold. He turned to her and in boredom told her they had only two late term abortions he snuck through today. He thumped his hand down on the cooler lid he had sitting aside for the escort truck which would come in about 50 minutes. Tattie wouldn’t stay that long but was sort of annoyed that there weren’t more fetuses or umbilical cords she could unload. “Any of them get tortured first?” “Yeah, this one was a fighter.” He thumbed the hasp of the lighter blue cooler.“Did you draw out with the syringe and get the stuff?” He feigned stupidity and said with his mouth hung open, “What stuff?” She smacked him with her copper fingernail polished hand and he smirked. “The adrenachrome, you idiot. The stuff that DNC guy pays you to not talk about to anyone.” “Yes, I got it.” He then took his employee key from his wallet and opened the locked freezer in the dark corner, and pulled out several small vials in freezer bags. Tattie smiled and felt the wealth pass before her. This was some strong-ass shit. It was un-google-able!
She then turned and walked back through, Julian tagging behind her. He called over her shoulder “Hey, don’t forget to send your mail-in ballot this week!” She nodded and said back “Biden all the way baby! He’s gonna sit in the playpen next to HRC’s desk- he’s a shoe-in!”

She was in a much better feigned mood on the way to the spa, a bamboo package had just what she needed as the last step. She would have Tree go down on her, then shower and sauna. Then she would have the facial treatment. It was kind of gross thinking about it containing baby foreskin- but it was super healthy and made your skin glow. Literally. Sheena Harmony and a few other elites were ageless with that shit. When she had a good enough nest egg, she was going to hook herself some stem-cell blessed doctor and they could harvest their own children themselves.

“God damn it Simms! I want you on a plane tomorrow. We need to run damage control on this shit right now!” The man in a dark suit says through his cell-phone in the underground parking garage in Langley. “Get to the Hollywood office and put out these fucking fires- I want the whole network activated. I’ll call the heads of the MSM from here, tonight. We are going code Shit-Storm. There are too many people to silence on this, we have to put a head on a pike from the round-table.”

A homeless woman woke to find her child missing. She yapped and babbled until her methadone came, then she collapsed back in a blessed fever upon her cot. The hotel she was allowed to stay in had fresh sheets last week, but now they were soiled and the laundering was not being compensated. She had already smashed the liquid digital display when she threw a porcelain coaster at the image of her ex-husband who had had her committed. He was talking on the screen before a panel of health specialists. The Spandard Hotel insignia burned bright into the night. The child was already tested and checked for diseases before being shipped off to another hotel in a taxi-cab with a chaperone. The swankier Spandard Hotel was forty minutes away but the ‘pizza’ would be there for the buyer who had donated to the hotel originally. Three donors had helped supply a BioTech CEO with donations for his new chain. The donors were all the rage on the big screen this year. Madley Hooper and Saint Gelina Holy and LinardoFrappachio had all donated in an under the counter deal that they had free rain on the merchandise when it was brought in.

Tonight Madley Hooper was going to stuff himself in room 116- soundproofed and temperature ready. His syringe of adrenachrome dripped idly it’s $200,000 payload onto a sterile counter-top, bucket of ice and a rack of knives all shapes and sizes he liked were prepared. In the corner hung a proffered brand by the CIA state-of-the-art closed circuit digital camera. Langley would have their black-mail material that they would never need to use. Madley was a trooper and in it for the long-haul. His estimated worth was not capped like the majority of Hollywood. He had sold his soul to the devil in full and been on the ride of a lifetime.

An assassin receives the photo of a 30-ish year old black man who is out of his district in Atlanta- potentially athletic and resistive. He memorizes the address and deletes the message from his phone bar the photo. He sends the photo to his prepaid trackphone. He opens up his laptop and navigates his way through. He places an order on the dark web for fentanyl. He hates handling the stuff so he curses whomever chooses the method of death he has to make look realistic by the end of the month. He goes to his hidden cache located in the hub of the ceiling fan by standing on the bed and pulls out a bank-roll from inside for some petty cash. He then leaves his seedy apartment to the nearby 7-11 to pickup a dime-bag of pot. He then picks up a pizza on his way back home for the night. He will have to buy thicker rubber gloves from the Loews hardware in the afternoon the following day. Can't be too careful.

Mitchells dum-dum shattered on his keyboard that evening when he stared agape at the ‘fake news’ site he had managed to find, it was totally un-googleable, un-tweet-able, un-facebook-able. He tried YouTube but even they blocked it. The search optimization had already been refreshed this hour to only show CNN, ABC, NBC, MSNBC, and a whole bunch of ‘authorities’ all owned by Disney- sister organizations to the massive networks of porn-studios also owned by Disney in Van Nuys. Mitchell picked up the jagged lolly-pop which had stuck to his sweatshirt and scrolled through the description Cram Suckerbug- fourth richest American had secretly blogged, which got hacked. There is always a tougher bully out there, Sucker.

“This Adrenochrome stuff is amazing. It’s hard to watch how they extract it from the smallest participants, but the high is so pure and so worth it. I must have been on it the entire time I was at Burning Man.”

There was a link from the festival which redirected him to a bunch of naked drugged out cave-people finger-painting eachothers bum-holes. Gross.

Mitchell would wipe this search history hundo-p. (one hundred percent.) It was almost as bad as that video of HRC rape-butchering that young-girl with her cabinet member in some perved-out pizza parlor in DC. It made him want to put his computer in the washing machine. Bleach the whole damn thing.

This adrenachrome apparently they get the youngest victims the better, stronger, cleaner high? So they torment them into terror, and the pineal gland secretes a whore-moan? Pure Epinepherine? He yawned and figured he would call it a night, and unplugged the power switch.

A Tokyo hotel room has a man lying dead hanging from a door-knob. He was in a rock band called X-Japan and was investigating a child-porn ring in his city. He had just returned from Los Angeles that day. His television was subtitled – an interview was on and playing for no one.

On the TV Gyorg Sore-ass spoke to an interviewer within one of his posh hide-away libraries. His body hooked up to discreet medical equipment, feeding proteins and multi-million dollars in hormones into his ragged frame. The interviewer was asking him about his moral obligations toward his monopoly maneuvers within international markets. His reply was simple and absolutely unquestionable.
“Well, you have to understand, if I didn’t buy them up first, they would have done it to me. All of them.”

Darren was dragged from the frat party into a back room- drunker than a skunk and higher than a kite. He could not speak, only drool. The older boys were confident he was a solid choice last semester. He long had secured an internship at Oldman Sacks in the city in his sixth year- this was destined even before he was 18 years of age. He had a solid blood line. They had donned their black cloaks and Halloween masks and the nights ceremony tokened another added to their numbers. A senator’s son from Long Island followed in his fathers footsteps. Their dominus Adrian was tall and hard and the graduating class vice-president. He was young looking for a CIA graduate, planted in the school and a successful white-collar drug dealer. He closed the padded room and made the boy kneel with the help of his brothers guiding arms. His hands and feet were tied. A severed goats head was present to him from a bag- weeks old now. The now empty bag was placed over his tequila smeared head. Adrian removed from his back pocket the crimped and dog-eared cult chant manual. He nodded to his aid and had the boy pumped with another narco-synthesis compound- hottest on the market in it’s effectiveness. He began reading the hypnotic suggestions line by line, ensuring his voice was heard through the material cowl. His mind was lolling in the darkness. Strobe lights flashed on the walloverplugged into some outlet. Grinning satirical inspirational posters urged them forward. When the bag was pulled off, he was passed out between the legs of a sixteen year old sluton an unwashed fraternity bed. The black mail began even before he knew the meaning of the word. He looked for his clothes and found none. He saw the cam-corder behind him wall wired and felt the contents of his stomach plea for the daylight.

A super computer storage server blipped in the desert of Nevada. No one cared to check through the billions of stored citizen spy data which filled in every nano-second. Phones, computers, camera devices, television sets with their own cameras to view the viewer. All the data blackmail-able and very annoying to sort. ‘We need a bigger government’ echoed through the metallic air-conditioned halls. Seventeen Intelligence branches was way underestimating the necessity for global control.

In Decatur, Illinois a 17 year old kid accessed through back channels that very server and noticed that an 11 year old was now upgraded to a watch-list for the CIA. He made his copies and then backed out, and watched his favorite blonde on blonde nymph porn on the dark-web before falling asleep in his grans basement.

A print shop manager within a national syndicate receives the work order to reproduce 400 million more mail-in ballots for the upcoming election. He is glad to be paid. He will take their money. The copies will be dunned out at a rate of five per week until the registered voters within the blue states comply multiple times. They were upgraded to include illegal imm- undocumented guests.There is no ‘off the mailing list’ option- as they will all be post marked before the month is over and sent out before the opt-outs can be culled. The census was printed by him last year- sent to many of the same recipients en mass.

A college legal class is interrupted when a curious hand clears the headspace. The professor interestedly selects the girl to pose a most likely poignant question. “So, does this mean,Dr. Howard, that it is totally illegal across the boards within the United States to transport human stem-cells as well as organ donations of all kinds privately?” The professor was not impressed. “Yes, that is what I said in essence.” She then paused. “Then how come the paper-work is so simple even a mortician could falsify it? Do doctors even care where the organs come from, there aren’t government overwatch committees on this stuff either- does anyone even regulate it?” He sucked in his pen cap like a whistle. “Well, I think it’s a relatively new enterprise…” She then pressed onward. “Is it new like Human-Trafficking?” He laughed and bit down on the cap.

Bobby’s heart jumped for joy as he kept a stone-walled face before the pink-puff eyed woman at his reception. He was a second generation mortician. He learned the ropes from his dad and uncle, and got the hang of it pretty early. “Yes ma’am, we can cremate your husbands remains. In fact, I have a catalog here I can overnight any of these urns in time for this weekends service if none on the shelves here suit you.” He then cleared his throat just a tad. He waved his hand appropriately at the somber rack to the side, he had hand stained it when he was a kid. His foot tapped silently below the table. “I think David would have liked this one.” She pointed to a blue faux-china ceramic. It had windmills in light blue and diagonal delicate glazing. He nodded and rung up the price on his phone. Windows away from the dark-web organ trafficking site he had used to buy a state-of-the-art home entertainment system with, as well as a Tesla. He was going to give her some stock ashes and anyone could figure out the rest. If the customer was happy, he was happy. His father had told the boy to forge his own organ donor paper-work when he passed away- and to hell with a fancy expensive funeral. Go blow the wad in Vegas, his Dad had said. He had.

Mitchell was on the way to school and in a heated debate with his tired mother, just off the second shift. She was willing to humor him a little more, he was so into this stuff- she swore it started when he saw his first check-out stand tabloids.

“But Mitchell, can you explain why all the Tech Companies, all the Tele-Communications Monopolies with their deadly 5G, All of Hollywood, and the Deep-State, CIA, whoever- are all in on this stuff- the human trafficking, the Bio-tech giants, Big Pharma, Stock Market criminals - and all of these bad-guys never show up in the news?!”

“But Mom! Are you kidding me!? If you were going to take over the world… and you were Will Fences or Gyorge Sore-ass or the Rockefathers and Rosiechilds- you wouldn’t buy the Mainstream Media too? And the politicians?! You would leave it all up to chance?! You wouldn’t seriously let people Vote for their leaders, would you?! Give me a break! You’d have to be a total moron!!!”

“Then how do you explain why they all want to kill the President?”

Mitchell was stumped on that one.

“Maybe he wasn’t part of the plan… Mom. Maybe we just got lucky. Maybe God decided to help us out or something.”

The towering space gods, without allegiance to anything as pathetic as a nation, scrolled through a few images of scrawny runaway models and transferred their funds from behind a sleek marble desk or within a subdued black luxury car or private jet- depending on the time zones they were in. Business as usual. Places to go, people to eat. Celebrities to push the message and keep young and fat. Presidents to kill. Roll baby roll.

A man decides to type forbidden phrases into a search engine, hooked up to who knows where out in the darkness. He is writing a story and needs research material. He has to submit it to his friends who egg him on to complete it- part of a quarantine guild. Across the still globe this innocent act could get him killed if too few decide to take a look at the underground movement along with him- the trail easily contained when so many are hypnotized and duped in the daylight. He needed the support of the masses. He prays that he is not alone and clicks the mouse on the ‘Feeling Lucky?’ go button- a homeless space god in his own right. The RGB pixels swell and the LCD illuminates his doom-curious face.