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Ego As Control Panel
The ego, that greasy control panel strapped to your meat chassis, craves one thing above all else: validation of its own rickety self-image. It doesn’t matter if this image is a flickering neon sign in a bugfuck nowhere town, advertising a product long since discontinued. No, the ego insists it’s a holographic billboard in Times…
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The Stain of the Watcher
Every son of Adam, every daughter of Eve, carries the stain of the watcher. We are all, like it or not, the children of those who stood by, the inheritors of stolen land and broken lives. Our bloodlines, if traced back far enough, will snake through tangled histories of dominance and displacement. There were grandfathers…
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It’s all Subjunctive
Oedipoid and vast, the world swam in a subjunctive sea. Every action, a ripple in the pond of potentiality. Was it rain that fell, or merely the memory of rain, a phantom echo from some parallel dimension where skies wept? Perhaps it never rained at all, and the damp chill was a collective delusion, a…
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Personalized Pricing
In the labyrinthine realm of blockchain, where transactions shimmer with the illusory sheen of transparency, one finds a most curious paradox. Here, amidst the byzantine tangle of code and cryptography, the veil of clarity parts only to reveal an even deeper obfuscation. The very algorithms that dictate the price you pay, those inscrutable arbiters of personalized economics, remain shrouded in a fog thicker…
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Rebellion as Commodity
The PA system crackled in the grimy bus depot, a half-chewed Che Guevara t-shirt blossoming from a forgotten corner advertising “authentic” rebellion for 29.99$. Outside, a neon sign, winking like a cyclopean burnout case, promised “Revolution! Now with a Money-Back Guarantee!” A gaggle of teenagers, their faces a kaleidoscope of ironic mustaches and faux-Molotov cocktails fashioned from empty soda bottles, shuffled past, their rebellion…
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Crypto-Punks
The market a sprawl of tangled circuits, a Burroughs cut-up of rebellion sold in sterile packets. Punks? More like Sid Vicious repackaged, sneer freeze-dried, safety-pinned to a blockchain. Where’s the snarling chaos, the feedback shrieks? All synthesized, a commodified angst echoing hollow in the neon canyons of cyberspace.They brandish pixelated avatars, these so-called “CryptoPunks,” screaming their…
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Trust is a bourgeois fantasy: It’s the opiate of the marketplace.
Chester A. Bleekman, CEO of Bleekman Industries, a man with a face like a roadmap etched by dubious mergers and hostile takeovers, leaned back in his ergonomic chair, a picture of corporate zen. “Disincentivize transparency, Mr.Peabody,” he rumbled, a voice that could curdle milk. “Any metric, any data point that gives the flicker-minded masses a peek behind the curtain, well, that’s market disruption, Peabody. Disruption leads to volatility, and volatility, my…
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Everything that slows, stops my scam or make my marks aware of the con must be discouraged, made illegal or at least immoral.
Dig this, daddy-o. We hustle in the shadows, whisper sweet nothin’s in the mark’s ear, a smooth ballet of illusion. But the straights, the squares, they wanna throw a wrench in the works. Dig, man. Anything that throws a spotlight, slows the score, or worse, makes the marks hip to the game – that’s the enemy. Anything that shines a light on…
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Looking Like Your Doing Something
The rain lashed against the canvas tent, the wind like a fist against a taut drum. Colonel Valentini slammed a battered map onto the rickety table, the sound a gunshot in the confined space. Captain Ricci, fresh out of West Point and polished like a new saddle, flinched. “Easy to bark orders from behind a…
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