In Bruges

So today I watched it and decided to see what the movie critics say about it. And I realised that the movie critics should stick to reviewing Adam Sandler, Transformers and Star Wars cartoon spin-offs, because clearly the idiots can't even understand what a movie with more than three words put in one sentence twice is about.

Click here for stupid.

Comedy, they call it. A comedy thriller. A criminal flick with dark humour. A comedy. Yeah, right.

Thing is, it's not a comedy. At all. In terms of theatric generes, this is tragic comedy - with comedy meaning something that's fairly different from the modern meaning of the term. If the reviewers would have bothered watching more than two trailers and the first and last ten minutes of the film, they might have actually understood that.

The film is great. The presentation, the pacing, the acting, it's all done really, really well. A man's personal hell, as we find out - and his way of trying to deal with it. Of course, humour is involved, humour is in a sense the guy's only way to try to focus on something else, fairly realistically so.

As a brief verdict, I really liked it. A very good psychologic/philosophical drama with spots of dark humour here and there.

Freedom of Speech, 1984-style

I don't even think I need to comment this. If anyone thinks I should, though, leave a note.


BBC News "Losing signal" on an unpleasant question.

Fox News calls commercial break and ends the interview of Osetians.


Well, okay. One comment. Even the CNN has been more neutral than the BBC. Which, all things considered, is amazing.


P.S.: Photographs from Ossetia. Not for faint-hearted, contains images of destruction and injured.

Free Press

"There is no such thing, at this date of the world's history, in America as an independent press. You know it and I know it. There is not one of you who dares to write your honest opinions, and if you did you know beforehand that it would never appear in print. I am paid $150 a week for keeping my honest opinion out of the paper I am connected with. Others of you are paid similar salaries for things, and if any of you would be so foolish as to write honest opinions would be out on the streets looking for another job. If I allowed my honest opinions to appear in one issue of my paper, before 24 hours, my occupation would be gone. The business of the journalists is to destroy the truth; to lie outright; to pervert; to vilify; to fawn at the feet of Mammon, and to sell his country and his race for his daily bread. You know it and I know it and what folly is this toasting an independent press. We are the tools and vassals of rich men behind the scenes. We are Jumping-Jacks -- they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes!"

From the speech of a former Head Editor of New York Times.

Graveyard of Ukrainian Civilization

Today I visited a few amazing places that illustrate what victory of man over machine in the Terminator setting would likely look like. Scrapyards.

Of course, one may be surprised of the dramaticism of the title. After all, scrapyards exist all over the world and it's not really something over-strange. However, there are four or five major ones in just this town alone - a town with a population of 30-ish thousand. A town with no waste processor or the likes to explain the reason behind the large amount of such lovely places. They're actually here for a different reason, namely, for purchasing various metals according to their weight. Essentially, these are places where people sell stolen things, ranging from old frying pans to train rails to graveyard crosses and fences.

On top of these large points, there are dozens of unofficial collector points. While factories, roads, everything deteriorates, people have all these convenient ways to sell off what little remains of the horrible Soviet legacy. Makes one warm and fuzzy inside!

A Chance Meeting

White, formal walls of the asylum. He was pretty sick of them by now. Of course, someone had to guard the poor memory-wiped sick folk from themselves and their delusions. Of course, someone had to guard the research facility and the virus within the labs. It was a hard enough work for the scientists to isolate it to the few victims now housed in the clinic while the virus was still natural. If someone was to steal it and spread it around on purpose, the results could be horrifying. He saw what it did to people - some of them could easily forget how to breathe.

Of course, some actually seemed to recover quite well, and with each passing day, the researchers from the secure wing brought in new samples of potential cure. The cure for memory deterioration itself was, in fact, achieved, the goal now was to restore the destroyed memories of the patients. This was the hard bit, from what he understood.

Today, that girl passed him by again. Smiling at him. Wished him a good day. He wondered about her. Wondered a lot. Who was she? He was sure she didn't know. She didn't even have a name, none that she knew of. Sometimes, they would talk, and she would ask him to pick a name for her. It felt strange. How could she remember the words, but not her name, not who she is? She knew nothing of her past.

She looked angelic.

Yesterday, he tried to read her files. It wasn't something he was likely permitted to do, but he didn't care. He wanted to know more about that girl, and a few nags from the employer wouldn't stop him from it. All he had the time for was just blindly copying the data. At home, he had no reader for it, either, but here, he could try. A bored guard, using one of the computers, who would ever be bothered by it?

He walked up to one of the machines, looking casual - or so he hoped, but inside, he felt tense; he struggled to contain the excitement and the fear. What if she was married? What if she was a lunatic? He was comfortable with her the way she was now. Would he be afterwards? He looked at the screen, hesitant, then opened the file.

To him, most of the text inside was gibberish. What would he know about the abbreviations, prescriptions and other such trash? There was nothing for him, nothing at all for all this trouble. It didn't even have her name. Just the number. Just that. Oh, and...

He blinked. It seems he'd copied her chart. Of course it wouldn't have her history, of course not. But even then, there was something that did catch his eye. A prescription due for just another week from now. A memory implant. He stared at it.

"Harry?", a voice said behind his back. Her voice. He tensed up. It was now or never. Decision time. Yes or no, one or zero. A binary choice with no chance to replay.

He closed the file and slowly, calmly turned to face her, trying to smile. Something was choking at his throat, and he couldn't quite make it stop.

"You remember", he said, "We've talked about outside? The trees, the grass, the flowers, the wind?"

"Of course I do", she replied, chuckling at him, "Since when have you become one of the doctors?"

"That's not what I meant", he muttered, looking confused. Her laugh, pretty as it was, was making him feel stupid - and the damned claw on his throat didn't help his case either.

She tilted her head to the side at his reply. "What then?"

"I meant, would you like to come see it with me? The outside?"

She blinked with surprise, her eyebrows rising involuntarily. "Outside? But we're not allowed to do that!"

"I know", he nodded, "But we're about to change that." He paused, looking at her, hoping she'd understand. And she did.

"Oh"

"Would you like to come with me?"

She looked at him, letting silence fall and the pause to grow. Slowly, a smile touched her lips. Her eyes. He smiled back.

"Of course I would!"

The Face of Fear!

Angthoron, the Great and Horrifying, as seen today.

A Poem About Incarnation Of Good

For the formerly Soviet comrades:

Добро должно быть с кулаками,
С хвостом и острыми рогами,
С копытами и с бородой.
Колючей шерстию покрыто,
Огнем дыша, бия копытом,
Оно придет и за тобой!

Ты слышишь - вот оно шагает,
С клыков на землю яд стекает,
Хвост гневно хлещет по бокам.
Добро, зловеще завывая,
Рогами тучи задевая,
Все ближе подползает к нам!

Тебе ж, читатель мой капризный,
Hоситель духа гуманизма,
Желаю я Добра - и пусть
При встрече с ним мой стих ты вспомнишь,
И вот тогда глухую полночь
Прорежет жуткий крик: "Hа помощь!"
А дальше - чавканье и хруст...

©перто

Sowwy to the rest. Might translate it later.

Why 4chan?

Can anyone explain this to me? Why 4chan? What makes it appealing? What's the big deal? "the lulz"? I've seen funnier things in Sunday Morning comic strips. Trollgrounds? Suppose that could be something to consider. But doesn't it get old? Anonymity? Now there's a laugh, anonymity in the Internet. If anyone actually cared, nobody could be able to hide their identity. Thing is, nobody cares who the 4chan "activists" and "members" are, though, besides the child-minded adults with too much spare time and too little taste.

"War on Scientology"? Please. That's now how you fight a war. This is the display of helpless gerbils banging their head against a wall. Though I suppose to some, that's entertaining for more than five minutes. No lasting effect can be expected to come out of it, if nothing else, it's actually advertising the Scientology by placing it in the spotlight. Surely the people there should know that Christianity wasn't the object of everyone's love and admiration back in the olden Roman Empire days.

So what is it, then? A place for the helpless to vent their rage? A place for cheap laughs?

Eurovision

Bilan won by attrition! I guess Europe was afraid that he'd be sent to compete again in another two years.

Though to be serious, the song was kinda nice. Furthermore, Greece should've been taken out and Ukraine's 12-point moments should've been shown twice. More yays at the general success of Armenia and the relative success of Azerbaidzhan. Shame that Finland didn't do better, but then again, nobody forced Finland to send Teräsbetoni, for which even the neighbouring countries wouldn't want to give a point or two.

But yes, the song was nice. And the 3-time Olympic champion skating on that small pond of ice was neat. Good thing Bilan won, next time I bet he'd have brought the national hockey team, what with ballet dancers from pianos and stuff.

Even when the thunder and storm begins
I’ll be standing strong like a tree in the wind
Nothing's gonna move this mountain
Or change my direction
I’m falling off that sky and I’m all alone
The courage that’s inside is gonna break my fall
Nothing’s gonna dim my light within

But if I keep going on
It will never be impossible, not today

Cause I’ve got something to believe in
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if I just believe
And I believe in me

Even when the world tries to pull me down
Tell me that I can, try to turn me around
I wont let them put my fire out, no!

But if I keep going on
It will never be impossible, not today

Cause I’ve got something to believe in
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if I just believe
And I believe:

I can do it all
Open every door
Turn unthinkable to reality
You’ll see- I can do it all and more!

Believing
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Believing
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if just believe
And I believe in me.

I can't believe I watched Eurovision and wrote an article on it.

Yet more old stuff

Spring '03. Not my best writings, perhaps. And perhaps I posted it here somewhere already, in which case, silly me, but, who cares.


A clear, windy summer day in the wastelands, there’s nothing out of the usual here. Important-looking people in official suits and military attire gathered here at the testing grounds, inspecting the device. The technicians are giving it the last test runs, adjusting this and that, seeing to it that nothing goes wrong this time. Finally satisfied, they all get in their vehicles and drive off to the safety of the bunkers, some distance upwind. In the bunkers, the white suits were doing some final adjustments to their equipment, pushing buttons, adjusting screens, and saying things the visitors didn’t much understand. Finally, it looked like the countdown could, at last, begin.



As the sun goes down, the wind speed picks up and a few people start saying that the test should be postponed a bit, the wind is too strong and might blow the sand to a settlement downwind, perhaps even contaminating it. Others say the wind is just fine and further delay would just cause them to lose time and money. The argument quickly ceases and the countdown begins. Ten minutes to go. The time ticks the seconds away, painfully slow at first, faster and faster as the time of the final test approaches. And finally, it seems as rapid and unstoppable as an avalanche. Three minutes…Two and a half…One…


Far away, in a settlement downwind, a boy asks his mother to let him go chase the wind outside a bit. His mother is reluctant at first – the wind has picked up now, carrying sand and occasional pieces of trash with it – but looking at her son’s eager face, she lets him go. A minute, to lace the shoes – he isn’t too good at it yet, twenty seconds to run down the stairs and out the front door.


Three, two, one… A bright flash on the monitors makes the observers close their eyes for a brief moment, then the earth rumbles and shakes and a distant roar is heard, and the crazy howling of the wind. The lights flicker, the monitors go static. The show’s over, champagne is opened, congratulations everyone, blah, blah…


A minute to get to the open field, and then he runs against the wind, the sand blowing in his face; runs against it with hands open wide.

Summer Night

A small concept sketch I wrote, haven't found any use for it yet.

A warm, cloudless night in the end of summer... Standing in the middle of an open field, waist-deep in the rye, you run your hands through the golden carpet of plants, listening to the quiet song of the night, the air alive with the song of the insects, various birds that are still awake, and a distant nightingale... Gentle warm wind blows softly against your skin, making you shiver lightly, and brings with it a soft, quiet melody, played on a flute in the distance. Curious, you follow the sound, and it grows closer, and closer, then, suddenly, decides to let you approach no further, staying at the same distance from you no matter how long you walk. You keep on following the sound, the gentle melody almost bewitching in its beauty. The night goes on, the quiet melody still carried through the air, but you, you are no longer in this field, nor in this world, the song of the siren forever keeping you as you walk on.

University Assignments, I Has Them

I really wonder how I actually passed the courses, let alone get good grades, with assignments completed in this key. Oh, and I remember being extremely irritated while writing this, thus the poem didn't quite get praise. Like Marlowe would care about my praise thought.

A close-up of Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

This poem is, I dare mention this word, a typical pastoral poem. In it, the poet glorifies nature, elevating it to a nearly divine rank - yet the poem itself is not targeted as a praise to nature, but rather, as a love verse. Here we can see the convention of the poet referring to himself allegorically as a shepherd, a man attuned to nature and wishing to introduce a certain unknown lady to his place of "dwelling" as well.

Following the major interpretation branches, this poem shows a wish for spiritual regeneration - of course, the notion is flawed with the sad reality, where nature isn't as perfect, the flowers tend to wither and the lovely tree stump that one chances to sit upon happens to be ant-infested. However, such is not shown, to make the setting more attractive to the recipient, presumably (initially, at any rate), a young impressible lass in order to join the "shepherd" in spiritual regeneration of any interpretable sort. From here, one can also discern the notion of "carpe diem", which is supposedly the invention of modern youth - as anyone with some relative knowledge of the world knows, spring and summer do not last forever, and after them, one must weather the rainy, decaying autumn and harsh winter in order to, perhaps, come back to spring. Yet, the poem makes not a single mention of such detestable things, hence hinting at it being a poem aimed for what is conveniently labeled a "fling" these days, or, in other words, a short-term relationship. It's not for me to tell if it is indeed so, but such a notion is certainly discernible throughout the text, and, as it had already been noted on the class, it would seem as though many other contemporaries of Marlowe had a similar opinion.

P.S:
The poem itself:

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle:

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

P.P.S: Thanks to CC for spotting more typoes. I think I forgot to mention that I do assignments 10 minutes before leaving the house for the class.

Goldshire Survival Guide

Commentary: This is what the world would see if, back in WoW, our guild would have made a newspaper, and if Theanoril was to write anything for it.

Theanoril's Survival Guide to Goldshire
------------------------------------

So, yeh heard of Goldshire from yer friends and family and figured that all the things they said were a lie, packed your bags and went on a trip, and now you're standin' shin-deep in something that looks like someone's processed lunch? Well, my dear friend, congratulations on the well-picked holiday destination, and welcome to what is rumoured to be the representation of the Twisting Nether on Azeroth.

Mayhaps now is a good time to turn away and run, run, run, until you are out of breath, until you are safe? But 'tis too late, a beggar is now firmly attached to your sleeve, a gnome hanging down your leg, several lasses are smilin' at you in a way most seductive... And several of the local brawlers, with faces twisted from over-indulging of local alcohols are approaching you now, blades drawn and smell of brimstone clearly tickling your nose. Now, what do yeh do, dear friend, what indeed?

Now, if you consider yourself a capable fighter, you may consider taking a moment to punch one of the local drunks in the face a time or two. However, it would do you well to keep in mind these simple truths, should you decide to take the above course of action:

1) Should you indeed defeat your foe in an honourable sparring session, the most likely actions by the opposite party will be nowhere near courteous. You will be accused of numerous sins, called even more numerous names, then likely challenged again, either by the same person, or by his, or her gentle friends.

2) Should you be defeated, prepare to be subjected to boasts of the victor, and most of what'd been described in Case 1.

3) Duelling may be honourable and sportive, however, when performed in the streets of Goldshire, it instantly turns you into one of "them", not to mention that you're going to stain your clothes, one way or another, and while your prowess as a fighter may impress the nearby opposite (or/and similar) gender, the stench of sweat will not. Then again, this -is- Goldshire, and even the strongest stenches of sweat will be considered an improvement.

My advice? Steer clear of conflict in Goldshire, however, should someone be overly annoying to you, always remember that there is no better way for instant gratification and redemption of self-esteem that punching the fool in the face, driving a blade through their liver and walking away, as long as it's done in style.


Now that we've dealt with the rowdy sort, let's move on to the rest of the run-of-the-mill population of Goldshire - the drunks, the beggars, the seductively-smiling lasses and the mysterious group of people that tend to like biting people's necks (many of us like doing it, but we generally await the invitation). Out of the above, the drunks are perhaps the most harmless of the local scene, generally running (walking, crawling, lying in a ditch; pick as desired/necessary) around the tavern and town, occasionally performing ritual sacrifices to Ragnaros by torching themselves in the local tavern's fireplace. Most of the trouble out of them is incessant babbling and yells, and you needn't concern yourself with these.

Now, the beggars may be more annoying. Most of these have spent so long in Goldshire that they have forgotten how to properly speak or address a person of status and decency such as my gentle readers. In fact, at first you may not comprehend what they ask of you, and whether it is indeed you that they are talking to. My advice on the issue of beggars is - why perpetuate them? Should you feel enough pity for them, you may even consider putting them out of their misery.

(Note: Using this article as a means of explaining your motives to the Guard will not work. The author does not accept any responsibility for the readers' compliance or non-compliance to the article)

Having successfully pushed away the beggars, you may now have more time to talk to the lasses. Often they are dressed in revealing clothes, though occasionally you may find one that is either dressed fully or not at all. As with all things in Goldshire, it is best to steer clear of them. If you should want to learn more about reasons behind the advice, follow the future publications of the Goldshire Quarterly and you may learn. However, I will reveal to you one of the reasons as of right now. Y'see, gentle reader, many of the lasses (lads as well, in fact) of Goldshire belong to a secret sect of idiots. They have decided to call themselves "Vampires" and claim to be immortal, blood-feasting creatures. They tend to run up to you and bite your neck til it bleeds then try to lick the blood off, which is indeed disgusting and perpetuates all manners of disease, leprosy for instance. The best way to deal with these is to carry around a handy piece of sharpened wood that you may run through their heart and thus terminate their desire to drink, eat and procreate forever. Why use wood, you may wonder? Simple - you do not want to ruin your blade with -such-.

Now, dear friend, you have learned of the general make-up of Goldshire population. While it is still adviseable to stay the Nether away from it, now you will at least know what strategems to apply.

Stay safe, if that is even possible, and make sure the innkeeper does not dilute spring water with boilt one.


Your faithful guide,

Theanoril Eyrean.

Something old

Note: This story was written five years ago, some time in December of 2003, if memory serves. I haven't modified it since then, though I believe it would need some of that. Still, here it is, in original form. One of my experiments in stream-of-conscience type of writing.

P.S: Thanks to CC for spotting the typoes, haven't exactly edited the text, and NotePad has no spell-checking.

6.12.2003

Twilight. Cold winter twilight. It's probably the creepiest time of the day, really. Not the darkness of the night, the darkness that conceals all, no, but this brief time between day and night when the shadows seem to have a life of their own, a mind of their own, when they hide daggers in their depth to stab and pierce you with the deepest of despairs. So what would a person be doing here, far from the city, deep in the forest, in the shadows? What makes one go to the middle of nowhere and draw odd pictures on the rock, muttering some utter bullshit from a sheet of paper all the while? Well, I don't know about other people, but I am here for a simple purpose of following the instructions I found on the net. Supposed to call forth a demon. Spooky, huh? Well, it isn't supposed to harm anyone, what with all these handmade wards and spells... and mutterings. But still, I guess most people go and take out a loan or go to a shrink or find some sort of comfort with a female representation of our species, not summon demons. Normally. Thing is, I don't care for money, shrink won't cure my shattered mind, and females... Well, how should I put this? I am not interested in most of them. Can you blame me? Once you see the sun from a cave, you'll not settle for the good old fire anymore, I think. That's my case, anyhow. There, looks done. And looks like it's getting dark. And cold. Should just finish this and go home and drink something warm. And a shower. Maybe. Meh, nah, I'm not sweaty or anything. Not like I didn't wash day before yesterday or anything. Just some warm drink. But back to what we came here for, anyway... There, more incomprehensible demonic tongue... I wonder if I'm supposed to be respectful or fearful or anything? Ah well, whatever. There, now just to finish the blabbering and "utter the wish(es)". Now, what do I wish for? I doubt that global peace and justice are in demonic domain... Maybe I should just ask for success in life, and to make the one I'm metaphoring with the sun to turn her attention to me... There, done. The paper doesn't seem to have any further instructions. Hm, I wonder what I expected, anyway... Some impressive show with illumination? And why do I even believe this crap? Ah, whatever. Now, to get back to the car... Or else I'll freeze my everything off. Damn it gets cold fast now.

Bloody twilight, playing tricks on me. The shadows, seemingly alive again. The forest, cold, ready for the winter, sleeping... And yet, laughing at me all the same?... I should maybe increase my pace or something... It's cold... And kinda scary, even though I'd never confess I thought that way. Well, no-one here will see me run, anyway. No sane person is out here, only me. Kinda windy, too. They promised a calm evening and everything... Ah well. There's the car. And the heater...

7.12.2003, headlines of a morning paper

"Young man found frozen to death in his car"

"A young man, age 20, found in his car on the highway 4, frozen to death. The fact that the night was warm and the condition the body was found in raises certain questions, and the police has opened an investigation. However, it is at the moment unknown what could freeze the victim solid. Further confusion is caused by the markings found on his arms and neck that seem like carved symbols of some sort. Police is conciderng opening a case on vandalism. Any further developments will be published in our next issues"

A Day At The Marketing Department

It has been a while since he was last directly involved with the operations of the Marketing Department. The giant, towering building of steel and polished glass, ever-spotless, looming as a constant reminder of the companies' presence over the cities, he couldn't help but hate it. Of course, he couldn't help but be here today, either. He didn't have a choice, of course, but even if he would, he'd still be standing in the marble-covered lobby, staring at his reflection in the window, trying to adjust his suit to sit on him like he would wear it daily. It was an uncomfortable place.

"Your ID checks out, you may proceed to the upper floors", the guard finally announced, returning a small card, "Seems you've been here before, but, in case you feel lost, would you like to ask for directions?" The guard offered a polite smile in a half-hearted attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

"No, thank you. You've been of too much help already", he replied, hoping the smile he offered in return was at least twice as polite. The guard nodded, losing interest.

He quietly walked away, headed for the nearby elevator. Of course, even that had to be made in the flashiest way possible. Of course, the Marketing Department did not feel any need to save on anything; in fact, the more it spent, the more it gained, or so the popular belief among pretty much anyone that cared was. The elevator, a polished glass box framed in gold-plated steel (Or so the popular belief said. It dawned upon him now that it could just be paint), whirred quietly, and began a swift, yet regardlessly majestic rise towards the sky. Were it not for the clouds, the view would certainly be enchanting - just like the last time. From the enormous height the buildings became tiny, the factories shrank and looked like scale models of themselves, the dirt and the noise moved out of sight, and the city, the ugly, poisonous city, suddenly became an object of pride. A bell rang quietly, and the elevator stopped, the doors hissing lightly as they parted before him.

Nervous, he cleared his throat and rubbed at his chest, ruining the perfect balance of black and white of the shirt and the tie. With a sigh of irritation and relief, he paused, looking at himself in the polished golden panels, once more busy fixing the suit. Just then, a face peered at him, a young, attractive, well-kept secretary staring at him with a hint of irony. He felt colour touching his face, rising through the frost-ruined skin, and a helpless anger. Yes, he knew the suit fit him worse than it would fit a cactus, but was it necessary to point it out at every turn?

"He's waiting for you, I'm sure", the secretary said, "And you shouldn't do that. Keep him waiting, you know"

He nodded clumsily, stepping out of the elevator. A few steps more, a quiet whir, and another door opened before him - and shut itself close moments later.

Inside, just like the times before, a man sat at a massive desk. Expensive suit, expensive glasses, expensive smile. He seemed as though his value rose every day. Perhaps he bought his face off some poor desperate street urchin. Perhaps he bought those weekly. Skin-buyers.

The man looked up briefly, to ascertain the visitor's identity, then nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned away, losing all apparent interest. Minutes ticked by, stretching like cooling tar. Finally, the man paused, drumming on the table thoughtfully.

"Well, well", he announced in a low, slow voice, "You'll have another assignment. The previous was done well, all things considered. We were somewhat disappointed with the amount of victims, but, what lacked in the body count was well made up for by the damage you and your colleagues achieved. The sales numbers corresponded with the projected numbers, which makes us all quite satisfied."

He nodded to the man. Yes, the meat processing plant was quite a successful job. They brought down two of ten production halls, yet there only were eighty casualties. Whether it was the company's investment into the building's structure, or the controlled detonations, he wasn't quite certain, but everyone was happy. Especially the Marketing Department and their client, a rather large and successful insurance company. The purchases of life and health insurances that month alone brought in millions in one city alone, globally, he couldn't even guess the figure.

"But as you may guess, we have more need of you. I hope you're not otherwise engaged?", the man asked, attempting a slight smile. The stretching skin looked somewhat terrifying for a moment.

He shook his head.

"Always ready? Good. We require another nudge to improve the quarterly outcome. You will be payed extra on the structural damage, by-the-by, so don't hold back, the place is insured by our client's rival group. Make sure it's big. Make sure it's in the news. Make sure it's international."

He nodded.

"And remember the NDA. If someone catches you, you don't tell who you work for. If you do, we will have to take you to court."

Ooops.

I think I went way over someone's capacity of understanding just now. Oh well, that was rather amusing anyway, but I should probably not quote F451 for the people that it's essentially written about.

*grin*