Underneath the backdrop of a tired city there operates an army of machinery, tools of commerce extending for miles in either direction, all part of a network serving the modern gods and goddesses of the international lathe. So, they’d finally gotten their wish, and all their industries could return home from those third world shitholes clear across the ocean. Now they could exploit workers and cut transportation costs in their own backyard, without having to deal with all the hassles of labor laws and government infringement.
Here’s Walter Martin leaning on a fence and marveling at his masterpiece, as great gaskets of chemical towers reach for the sky under a paranoid night. This industrial zone is the nation’s leading manufacturer of goods now, spreading its disease to all corners of our great nation, feeding the masses with processed extractions and salty pharmaceuticals. He’s the CEO of Globecorp, and lead disciple of the Chicago School of Economics- where it all began. Martin Friedman is his idol, Ayn Rand is his favorite author, and Atlas Shrugged is his Bible. Objectivism is the only modern philosophy for true men of power. Men capable of buying off congressmen. Men capable of speaking the truth. The Chicago Boys are the most influential progenitors of black karma, its blowback written off as insubstantial accounting and re-evaluated with corporate handouts.
Walter was there when good ‘ole Dubya declared war on a country without Congress’ approval. The real weapons of mass destruction were all those pinup dolls on PM television airwaves, spouting off the same war cries that their fellow networks spouted. Turtle-shelled army tanks rolled into the Mesopotamia with blank flags of freedom to introduce to the frenzied populace. He was there in New Orleans when the investors were given free rein to establish hurricane debris contractors. That way Halliburton and Blackwater could take all their foreign reconstruction firms and charge enormous sums to rebuild infrastructure right here at home. Then of course he was there in 2008, after the roaring late 20th century computer boom had finally flatlined Reaganomics and the cavity of credit widened so much that the bubble finally burst. All his bankster buddies and friends in the auto biz pushed legislation for bailouts that transformed their bankruptcies into hard earned work. He was there standing on a podium preaching about enterprises that were too big to fail and merges that would save their asses from the substrata of faded investment firms and retail outlets. That’s ‘Merica for you: follow the money, and you shall be saved.
Burn baby burn, increase those profit margins. Suck the middle class dry. Save your billions. And if your profits haven’t increased- if a million-dollar quarterly return isn’t enough for you- outsource your labor to cheaper foreign countries, so you can stash away millions more and leave your money just sitting there. Actually, you better call some investors, maybe give a little bit back to the community and create some jobs for the commoners, because we don’t want it to look like Trickle Down Economics doesn’t work. How much should we give back d’you think? I don’t know, 20%? Nah, so-and-so saved over 90% of his profits last quarter, so we can’t go any higher than that or we’ll be losing the game.
Because the game is all that matters in these parts. The stakes are high, and the winnings are big, so don’t throw an excessive amount of money at uncertainties when you’ve already made a fortune off a certainty. Anybody who knows anything knows that. Pennies fallen, children dancing in the dusk, commoners foraging the promised land begging for a chance, listing in the wind like golden apples in the summer. Shrines of polyethylene copper, shards of crimson capital, students lobotomized by the promise of extravagant earnings. The golden-headed icons of American Providence parade over the Earth, from Kamchatka to the barrens of the Sahara, lacerating the medium through which monarchs and vagabonds tipped the scales of power, compromising their judgements, their idioms, their mythologies. Land of the free, home of the brave, and all that lies between- liberty and justice and the right to happiness- hypocritically referenced only for the benefit of one nation. All nations under God are not immune to the transnational diaspora of twinkle-eyed bandits, intelligence operatives, and free market disciples that pillage resources and import conditional democracy to civilizations that were already beaten, genetically modified, and charged at with the weapons of mass destruction.
All this Walter sees, and all this he knows. The Wall Street bigwigs are the Egyptian Pharaohs of yesteryear, safe and sanitary inside their cuboid pyramids, delegating mnemonics to all the slaves of consumerism below their ranks. The time has come for an adjustment to be made. New technologies are brewing out on the nano-organic frontier. Soon they’ll never be able to tell the difference anymore; the difference between an idea and the reality that pulls its strings. The educators, the libraries, and the non-profit whistleblowers won’t know what hit them, and neither will the foreign agitators that corrupt them.
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