Meanwhile

 you bleached your hair for the dive?? Dude...

#TIE

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

What about ...

 

 

I do wonder

 why so many out of Christianity take God as a man.

Honestly.

#jedi 

#thevaninme 

 

PS: And I did the full catholic program just short of Confirmation. Two full years again arguing ... No. Skateboarding.  

...in a close potential future...

 Incorporated with DeepSeek

The rain in Dingle tasted of peat smoke and cold iron. It fell in diagonal sheets, hammering the slicked cobbles of the harbour wall, and I stood under it without flinching because I’d paid good nuyen for dermal plating that could laugh off small-arms fire and didn’t much care about a little Atlantic weather. The fishing boats bobbed in their berths, their steel hulls moaning against the pontoon, and beyond them, tucked away at the end of C pier like an afterthought, was *Windfall*.

Twelve-point-one-two metres of pre-Awakening mahogany laid over oak frames, built by the Burmester yard in 1937. A fractional-rigged sloop with a long keel and a spoon bow, her brightwork greened by five years of neglect but her bones still sound. I’d bought her through a shell corporation in Macau, paid for with untraceable credsticks scrubbed of blood, and stashed her here under a canvas cover that had long since shredded in a winter gale. Now I lifted the last of the rotten tarp away and ran a bare hand—flesh and bone, not the chrome one—over the teak coaming. The wood was cold, wet, and impossibly alive.

She was the exit strategy. The shabbatical. A year of nothing but salt and sky and the clean, hard labour of sailing a classic yacht, a year in which the only thing I’d jack into was the Matrix for 09:00 stand-ups with a start-up that thought I was a dwarf in a wheelchair in Zurich. Legal code. Easy money. A ghost built of anonymised satellite links and false SINs, leaving no trace of the wetwork that had eaten a decade of my life.

I swung my seabag aboard and ducked into the cabin. The headroom was a little over one metre eighty—I was two metres sixty of chromed troll. I stooped, turned sideways, and wedged myself into the navigation station like a gorilla folding itself into a packing crate. The gesture was old, automatic, almost comforting.

My cyberdeck was already on the chart table, sealed in a Faraday pouch that had once housed a tactical EMP grenade. I didn’t open it. Not yet. First, I checked the bilge pump, the Nanni diesel, the standing rigging. The Raymarine Axiom plotter was a modern anachronism I’d installed via a dead drop in Cork, and its screen blinked awake with a reassuring hum. Electronics, at least, never judged you.

The work started the next morning. I brewed real coffee—synthcaf was a war crime—and jacked the deck into the boat’s sat-comm. The Matrix blossomed behind my eyes, a neon cathedral of data, and I slid through its back corridors with the ease of a black-IC ghost. My persona was a bland grey orb, intentionally forgettable. I checked the Swiss server, pushed a patch that closed a buffer overflow in an API no one cared about, attended a meeting where I typed “sounds good” twice, and was out again in forty-seven minutes. The deck’s cooling fan whirred down and the cabin was just wood and salt air once more.

That evening I walked to **Out of the Blue**, a seafood shack on the waterfront with a sign that flickered in the way old neon always did, an arrhythmic heartbeat of pink and blue. The owner, a gaunt elf with hair the colour of tarnished silver, brought me a dozen rock oysters and a plate of langoustines still steaming from the pot. I ate them slowly, my back to the wall, my tusks making the tiny fork feel like a toothpick from a doll’s house. The butter was gold. The lemon was real. I watched rain streak the glass and tried to remember the last time I’d tasted anything that wasn’t soy or blood.

It didn’t work. The war was still there, curled like a ghoul in the cellar of my mind: the tunnel beneath Brno, the rotting stench of awakened flesh, the wet *thump* of a pneumo-spike sinking into a skull that had once been human. I’d been a street samurai then, a troll with a monofilament sword in one hand and a deck in the other, a rarity, a two-trick freak who could slice ICE and throats with equal fluency. I’d walked out of those tunnels after ten years and thirty-seven wetwork contracts, but the tunnels had never quite walked out of me.

I finished the langoustines, paid with a credstick that was as clean as a nun’s conscience, and went back to the boat. Sleep came in fragments, punctuated by the rattle of halyards and the distant bleat of a foghorn.

---

The shabbatical began in earnest on a grey May morning with a westerly breeze smelling of rain and distant heather. I cast off the lines and motored *Windfall* out of Dingle harbour, her old diesel knocking with a rhythm that felt like a second heartbeat. Once clear of the headland, I killed the engine and hoisted the mainsail. It climbed the mast in reluctant jerks, the bronze slides grinding on the track, and then the wind caught the canvas and the boat heeled, and for a long, silent minute I stood at the helm with my face turned into the spray and felt something immense and rusted shift inside my chest.

The Celtic Sea was a grey heaving plain. I set a course for the Scillies, let the Aries windvane take the helm, and sat in the cockpit with a mug of tea while the rollers slid under the counter. A pod of dolphins broke the surface off the starboard beam, their sleek grey bodies glowing with the faint bioluminescent shimmer that had become common since the Awakening. I watched them until they sounded, then went below to check the sat-comm. No messages. Good.

I worked for two hours that afternoon, perched on a settee berth with the deck on my lap and the Axiom muttering course corrections above me. The start-up wanted a new authentication module. I wrote it in Python, the code as clean and anonymous as the persona I wore. When I jacked out, the sun was low and the Scillies were smudges on the horizon, pink granite softened by a haze of salt.

I anchored in **New Grimsby Sound** that night, between Tresco and Bryher, and dropped the dinghy over the side. The water was so clear I could see the anchor chain snaking across white sand twenty feet below. I rowed ashore to Bryher with a drybag containing a tent, a roll mat, and a bottle of Irish whiskey that had cost more than a month’s docking fees. The campsite—the same **Bryher Campsite** the old cruising guides gushed about—was a handful of grassy pitches behind a low stone wall, empty save for the wind and a pair of oystercatchers.

I pitched the tent badly, built a fire of driftwood in the lee of a dune, and sat cross-legged in the sand while the flames ate into the night. The stars came out, cold and infinite, the constellation of the Dragon winding between them. I poured whiskey into a tin cup—no synthahol tonight—and drank until the edges of the ghul tunnels softened. A memory surfaced: a runner called Scorch, a human decker with laughing eyes, who’d caught a ghul’s claw across the throat outside Katowice. I’d carried her body three klicks through the dark, my chrome arm locked around her torso, while the extraction team screamed over the comm.

I hadn’t thought about Scorch in five years. I toasted her silently and threw the last of the whiskey onto the fire. The flames flared blue for a second; then the sea whispered and the wind sighed and I crawled into the tent and slept dreamlessly for the first time in a decade.

---

The summer unspooled slowly, each anchorage a bead on a fraying string of latitude.

**Falmouth** was a blur of grey stone and overpriced moorings. I took the dinghy to the **Windjammer Café** and ate fish and chips with malt vinegar, my chrome hand leaving faint scratches on the Formica table. A couple of young norm humans at the next table stared; I let my tusks show and they went back to their synthwine. The food was good—real cod, not the synthesised krill-protein that passed for fish in the plexes—and for half an hour I was almost content.

Then across the Channel, a thirty-hour solo passage that left me salt-crusted and hollow-eyed, until **Roscoff** rose from the sea like a medieval fortress. I tied up in the Port du Bloscon, walked into the old town, and made a reservation at **Le Brittany** under the name I used for Matrix banking. The maitre d’hotel—a dwarf with a chrome monocle—didn’t blink at my bulk, just led me to a table by a mullioned window and presented a menu that was a love letter to the Breton sea. I ate a tasting course that began with a single Gillardeau oyster and ended with a sphere of salted caramel that shattered like glass. Each mouthful was a tiny, perfect weapon against the grey taste of memory. I drank a white wine that smelled of stones and sunlight, and when I walked back to the harbour through the silent streets, my footsteps were lighter than they had any right to be.

The **Golfe du Morbihan** was a maze of low islands and currents that twisted like braided hair. I anchored off **Île d’Arz** and spent three days working from the cockpit, the start-up’s code spread across my retina while the tide chuckled under the hull. An egret stood on a nearby mudflat and watched me for hours, motionless as a drone on overwatch.

But it was **Belle‑Île** that cracked something open. I’d read about **Ster Wen** in an old pilot book: a narrow fault in the black shale cliffs on the island’s west coast, opening into a hidden basin of emerald water. I motored in at slack tide, my knuckles white on the wheel, and dropped anchor in four metres. The walls rose sheer on either side, studded with gulls’ nests and tufts of thrift. I ran stern lines ashore and scrambled up the rocks, my wired reflexes making easy work of the climb, and sat on the cliff top as the sun sank into the Atlantic. Somewhere far below, *Windfall* was a sliver of warmwood in a pool of shadow, and I was a troll alone in the wind, and for a long moment the sheer beauty of the world was a physical pain, a wound that bled something other than guilt.

I camped ashore that night with the tent, no fire this time. Just a sleeping bag and the sound of waves squeezing through the cleft like breath through a flute. At 03:00 my commlink pinged with a Matrix alert. I had the deck in my hand before I was fully awake, my wired systems dumping adrenaline—and then I saw it was just the start-up’s monitoring agent, reporting a successful nightly build. I killed the alert and lay back on the mat, my heart hammering. The ghost of Scorch seemed to stand in the tent flap for a moment, then dissolved into the salt mist.

---

Southward, always southward. The Atlantic coast of France gave way to the perfect half-moon of **La Rochelle**’s Vieux Port, guarded by its twin stone towers. I cleaned up, pulled on a smart synth-silk jacket that still bore the faint impression of a shoulder holster, and ate at **Les Flots**, an 18th-century estaminet where the lobster was poached in champagne and the waiters had the blank politeness of corporate security. I felt grotesque among the weekend yacht-owners, all gleaming teeth and Family-sized SINs, but the food was a revelation. I left a tip that could have bought a mid-range cybereye and walked back to the marina through streets that smelled of rain and crepes.

The crossing of Biscay was a 200-mile prayer to forgotten gods. I ran into a summer squall off the Capbreton canyon: the wind shrieked to forty knots, the sea piled up into breaking cliffs, and *Windfall* surfed down the faces of waves older than the Awakening. My dermal plating didn’t help me there. I wrestled the wheel with all the strength of my troll chassis and muttered endearments to the boat like a lover, and when it was over—when the sky lightened and the swell turned glassy—I sat in the cockpit shaking from exhaustion and something very like joy.

**San Sebastián** was a perfect crescent of soft gold and harder stone. I docked in the port right under Monte Urgull and walked straight into the old town, where the Basque tapas bars were a chaos of noise and perfume. **La Mejillonera** was a hole in the wall that smelled of garlic and the sea, and I stood at the zinc counter with a plate of mussels and a glass of sharp cider, letting the human din wash over me. A woman laughed beside me—gilt hair, a sleeve of glowing bio-tattoos—and didn’t flinch when she saw my tusks. For half a second I almost spoke to her. Then the memory of Katowice flared, and I paid and left.

The **Rías Baixas** were fjords of drowned valleys, green and deep and full of shelter. I anchored in **Ría de Aldán**, a wooded inlet where the water was so still it reflected the sky in perfect duplication. I pitched the tent on a sandy beach beneath eucalyptus trees, heated a pouch of real-food stew on the portable stove, and spent the next day debugging a nested concurrency issue for the start-up while the sun moved across the cockpit like a warm hand.

At the **Cíes Islands**, I hiked to the lighthouse and looked down at *Windfall* lying off Playa de Rodas, a tiny artefact of another age. The beach was a sweep of white that the old media had called one of the world’s best. I swam in water that was colder than it looked, my chrome arm glittering unnaturally, and for a while the cold was all there was, a clean sensation that pushed everything else aside.

In **Vigo**, I bypassed the **AC Hotel Palacio Universal**’s smart lobby and found a berth in the marina, then ate at a tasca near the fish market where the octopus was beaten to tenderness on a stone slab. That night I lay in the V-berth and checked the Matrix again for any trace of my old life. Nothing. The wetwork files were buried under six layers of encryption I couldn’t crack myself. I was a ghost, a cipher, a troll whose past was dissolving like salt in the sea.

---

Autumn rusted the leaves of Portugal’s riverbanks. **Porto** arrived in a haze of port wine fumes and rain, and I moored at the Douro marina before taking the metro into the city. **Café Santiago** served a *francesinha* that was a heart attack on a plate—meat and cheese and an egg swimming in a tomato-beer sauce—and I demolished it with the monolithic patience of a troll who hadn’t eaten real protein in days. I walked off the calories in the steep alleys of the Ribeira, where the buildings leaned together like old drunks, and wondered if I would ever belong in a place like this.

**Lisbon** was a promise of warmth that the Atlantic didn’t keep. I anchored off the Algarve at **Ilha da Culatra**, a sand-spit in the Ria Formosa lagoon, and there, at last, I camped for a full week. The tent was my home now, the roll mat a familiar enemy. I worked in the mornings—the start-up had a funding round and the code reviews were getting sharper—and spent the afternoons walking the empty beaches, collecting shells that I lined up on the chart table like tiny offerings. On the eighth day, a campervan of nomads arrived on the far side of the island and played music around a fire. I didn’t join them, but I didn’t retreat, either. I sat in the cockpit and listened to the guitar carry across the water, and the music was a thread tying me, however loosely, to the human world.

---

Morocco was a different continent, a different century. **Essaouira** rose from the sea in a huddle of whitewashed walls and blue shutters, its fishing port a frantic ballet of wooden boats and seagulls. The air smelled of cumin, grilled sardines, and the faint, sweet tang of hashish. I docked in the harbour and found a riad—**El Morocco Club** was fully booked, so I took a room in a smaller place nearby, a converted caravanserai with a rooftop that looked straight over the ramparts to the Atlantic.

The medina was a warren of spice sellers and leather tanners, and I walked it with my troll’s bulk parting the crowd like a ship’s bow. No one looked twice. In the souks, I was just another foreigner, my chrome arm and tusks no stranger than the Scandinavian orks who haggled over carpets. I bought a clay tagine, a bag of saffron, and a small curved knife that was decorative but could still slit a throat. Old habits.

I anchored off the beaches to the south of the city and camped in the dunes, the sand deep and soft under the tent. The nights were cold now, the stars sharp as broken glass. I cooked the tagine on a driftwood fire, the spices filling the air, and ate with my fingers, crouched in the light of the flames. The ghul war was a distant murmur now, a radio playing in another room. I could hear it, but I didn’t have to listen.

---

Winter and spring I crossed the Mediterranean in slow, sun-drenched stages. The Strait of Gibraltar was a corridor of tankers and patrol boats, and I threaded through them with my AIS squawking a civilian ID. **Puerto Banús** glittered with wealth so ostentatious it made my tusks ache; I ate paella at **PiCú** and watched the chrome-plated megayachts parade past, then left before I started to hate the species again.

The Balearics were a dream. **S’Espalmador**, the uninhabited island off Formentera, gave me an anchorage of white sand and water so turquoise it looked artificial. I swam every morning, my troll body suspended in the cool blue like a creature from another age, and let the salt scrub every trace of the old life from my pores.

Greece came with the scent of wild thyme and the clatter of goat bells. **Kioni Bay**, on Ithaca, was a tiny horseshoe of village and harbour, where I tied up to the quay and ate grilled octopus under a grapevine trellis. An old human fisherman—face like a walnut, hands like cables—sat down at my table uninvited and poured me a glass of his own ouzo. “You carry something heavy, troll,” he said, in accented English. “The sea can take it, if you let her.”

I didn’t answer. But I drank the ouzo, and it was good.

The Turkish coast came into view on a morning of perfect stillness, the Lycian mountains rising from a sea of hammered copper. **Cleopatra’s Bay** was a fjord-like inlet with pine trees crowding the water’s edge and ancient rock tombs carved into the cliffs. I anchored in twelve metres, the chain running out with a sound like a drawn sword, and shut down the engine. The silence afterwards was immense.

I worked for the last time that afternoon, a quick bug fix for the start-up’s new deployment. The code compiled clean. I pushed it, closed the deck, and slipped it into its Faraday pouch. Then I took the pouch, walked to the foredeck, and looked at it for a long time.

The start-up would manage without me. I’d trained the junior developer—a keen young ork from Hamburg who would never know my real name—and my ghost persona could fade into the Matrix’s background noise. The money was enough. More than enough.

I didn’t throw the deck overboard. That would have been theatrical, and a wren’s egg of a cyberdeck like this one was worth six figures. But I tucked it deep into the bilge, behind the spare diesel filters, where I wouldn’t have to look at it.

That night I built the last campfire of the shabbatical, on a tiny shingle beach in the lee of a tomb that had stood for two thousand years. I sat on a rock and watched the flames translate wood into smoke, my tusks casting long shadows over the pebbles. The stars came out, one by one, and I thought of Scorch and the tunnels and the wetwork and all the blood that had bought *Windfall* her mahogany decks.

But the thoughts didn’t bleed. They just sat there, old and tired, like furniture you’d inherited and didn’t know how to throw away.

The sea lapped against the bow of the Burmester sloop, a steady, intimate sound. I stretched out on the deck of the tent, closed my chrome-lidded eyes, and let the Mediterranean night fill my lungs.

A shabbatical, that’s what they called it. A year of rest for the land.

I was that land—scarred, fallow, bristling with old metal—and the sea was letting me heal. My hand, the flesh one, rested on the wooden coaming above my head. The mahogany was warm, still holding the sun.

For the first time in a decade, I didn’t scan the horizon. I didn’t check the sat-comm. I just listened to the water, and the water, at last, had nothing to say. 

Meanwhile

 I know about Catholic Kitsch and Jewish Kitsch, but Shinto Kitsch was new for me.

#jedi

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

Interesting

 So, this is the hardcores. That is not that unusual in the USA.

I wondered why he insisted on the 1st.  

The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution (part of the Bill of Rights) protects fundamental freedoms: freedom of religion, speech, press, assembly, and petition. It prohibits Congress from establishing a state religion or restricting free exercise thereof, and from restricting freedom of expression, allowing for peaceful protest and government accountability.

Key Aspects of the First Amendment:

Religion: Comprises the Establishment Clause (no state religion) and the Free Exercise Clause (freedom to practice religion).

Speech and Press: Protects individuals from government restrictions on expression, including symbolic speech and the press. This includes the right to criticize the government without fear of punishment.

Assembly and Petition: Guarantees the right to gather peacefully and petition the government for redress of grievances.Limitations: 

The Supreme Court has ruled that certain speech is not protected, such as obscenity, fighting words, defamation, and speech that incites imminent lawless action 

The problem is that it is cut out of context. The voice coming in about the profanity, did not quote any Supreme Court decision as it would be needed to be a legal argument in court. You can't just drop in keywords, as in Germany, you have to argue your point.

There is a chance that the man is righteously aggravated and therefore used language that is obscene, but not in his sociological part of society and therefore protected, but exceptionally, by the 1st. 

That means, if he was not given the chance to make is argument and not heard a statement ... to be able to later find a chance to apologize for the profanity, that court as such has committed a Constitutional Violation of His Citizen Rights.

Since Rambo I, no Judge ever went to prison for that, even if found guilty.  He might serve under another Ulysses Grand, but Americans do use force, no matter origin or faith, eventually if their freedom rights are violated to often.

I am not American.

I would not show up there to begin with having been made mad that level. 

#TIE #51sts #cyberpunkcoltoure 

The Kingdome of Hell

Here we fight 

Post the heavy lifting

Paris, dans la nuveau Renessaince. A future potentielle est possible.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1133007218772112693/

 Douze anne, plus apres minuite.

Vive La Resistance! La Nation, ca partir. Prospérer la Republique.

#noblessoblige 

...in a close potential future...

 Weather.

Incorporated with DeepSeek

The rain that unmade Europe did not arrive as a single catastrophe. It came as a forecast—100 millimetres in twenty-four hours across the Ruhr, the Emscher, the valleys of Saxony—and then it stayed, week after week, year after year, until the word “flood” lost its emergency meaning and became simply the name for the ground.

In the beginning, the German state distributed sandbags and deployed the Bundeswehr. Pumps roared day and night through the BASF complex at Ludwigshafen, through the BMW works in Leipzig. But exponential climate shift means rainfall does not respect industrial logic. It accelerates in curves that outrun concrete. The halls of ThyssenKrupp filled with brown water that rusted the coiled steel still waiting for shipment. Robots at Volkswagen’s Wolfsburg plant stood waist-deep like patient herons until their servos seized. Insurers collapsed; reinsurance chains snapped clean. Capital fled to wherever dry ground still existed, and then it fled nowhere at all.

Deindustrialisation under permanent rain is a quiet, fungal process. Factories do not explode; they delaminate. Roofs bow, sprout moss, then admit the sky. Railway embankments slump into canals. The A40 autobahn became a linear wetland where carp breed in the former fast lane. Europe’s industrial north, which once thought of water as something to be channelled, piped, and banished, learned that water is patient and will eventually inhabit everything.

The new poor of the Northern Hemisphere are those who could not, or would not, accept that the dry-world covenant was broken. They are the pensioner in Essen who still waits for the insurance adjuster, the former line manager who polishes his drowned Mercedes in the sixth-floor car park of a condemned shopping centre. They burn laminated chipboard furniture for warmth and die of respiratory infections that a functioning clinic could have cured. Their tragedy is that they measure their fall against a vanished baseline, clinging to the idea that normalcy is a state to be restored rather than a story they once told themselves.

But there are others—the ones able to fit and change—and they looked not to their own past but to the latitudes that had never known a dry covenant at all. They remembered that human beings have lived with rain in all its drenching abundance for millennia, just not in Düsseldorf.

In the water-sewn quarters of what was once Dortmund, a new architecture rises. It is not the architecture of flood defence—dykes and barriers belong to the old thinking, the war against water. Instead it is the architecture of accommodation, lifted directly from the Mekong Delta and the stilted villages of Bangladesh. Houses are jacked up on salvaged steel piles, connected by bamboo walkways that flex and float. Corrugated iron, taken from collapsed factory roofs, is repurposed into louvered walls that breathe in the ceaseless humidity. The colour palette has shifted: bright blues, marine greens, the ochre of turmeric painted on wood—colours borrowed from rural Thailand, where a house is also a statement of life against the grey monsoons.

Food production moved upward. The flat, flooded plains of Lower Saxony now host floating gardens—rafts of water hyacinth and coir, layered with compost, seeded with amaranth, taro, and quick-cycling brassicas. The technique came from Bangladeshi farmers via YouTube archives saved on local mesh networks, then was adapted for the cooler, darker winters of 52 degrees north. Knee-deep in green water, a teenager in a rain-cape harvests morning glory as casually as her grandmother once picked apples from a dry orchard. She has never seen an apple tree.

Transport is amphibious. The old S-Bahn tunnels are catfish nurseries; movement happens on the surface, in a flotilla of vessels patched together from fibreglass dinghies, welded oil drums, and the occasional intact kayak. The Vietnamese-style coracle, round and woven from salvaged plastic strapping, has become the common runabout of flooded Essen. Children learn to paddle before they learn to walk on dry land—if they ever do. The bicycle, once the pride of Dutch and German mobility, survives as a stationary object, its frame repurposed as a pump mount or a rain-gauge stand.

Clothing has shed its northern stiffness. The new poor who adapt wear loose, quick-drying layers—repurposed tarpaulin ponchos, polyester sarongs, wide-brimmed hats woven from discarded cable sheathing. Feet are bare or shod in sandals cut from old tyres; socks are a memory, a recipe for trench foot. Bodies have changed too. Skin is constantly macerated, and fungal infections are a fact of life managed with herbal pastes taught by Lao and Khmer herbalists who found themselves, via chain migrations a decade earlier, living in the wet Ruhr. Their knowledge, once marginalised as “traditional medicine,” is now the only pharmacy.

The most profound adaptation is mental. The new poor of the North who thrive are those who abandoned the idea that a person must master their environment. They adopted the monsoon mind: a cyclical awareness that periods of inundation are not interruptions but seasons, with their own tasks and rhythms. During the heaviest weeks, when the water rises above the floor joists, life moves to the upper levels and to the rooftops. Repairs happen, stories are told, the dead are remembered. When the water recedes—though it never fully goes—the silt is scraped away and greens are planted. The year pivots not on winter and summer but on the great in-and-out breath of the watershed.

In the hills above the drowned Rhineland, communities calling themselves “the fitted” have built rain-shrines out of defunct server racks and Berlin Wall fragments, where they leave offerings of iron oxide and clean water to a god they no longer name but whose domain is unmistakable. Their children speak a creole of German, Bengali, and Thai, and they measure wealth not in euros—which rotted along with the central banks—but in dry-kindled charcoal, waterproofed seed stock, and knowledge of the river’s moods.

Europe deindustrialised under heavy rain is not a wasteland. It is a wet, green, impoverished, intensely alive place where the global South has come north in its practices and its people, and those who could learn, who could bend, who could allow their old identity to dissolve like a sugar cube in the monsoon, have found a way to persist. They are, by any material measure, poor. They own almost nothing that cannot get wet. But they have something the old industrial billionaires did not: a working relationship with the sky. 

#

The rain that night did not fall so much as boil upward from the ground, a warm exhalation of the drowned river valley that had once been a city of spires and wine. No one called it by that name anymore. I called my stretch of it Hell’s Kitchen The Valley, because the GIs who used to come here for black-market schnapps and needle-worked ink had told me stories of a New York alley where everything burned and everyone fought. The GIs were gone now—fled back across the Atlantic when the great Atlantic conveyor died and the weather turned exponential, leaving their ghosts and their slang behind. The Germans, what few remained who still spoke a language I recognized, called me *der Letzte der Eingeborenen*. The Last of the Natives. It was not a compliment.

From my hoist-window three storeys above the black water, I watched a night-green mist drift across the rusted spars of the old cathedral. The rain was a steady forty millimetres an hour, needle-rain, driven nearly horizontal by a wind that tasted of the chemical plain now become an inland sea. Tonight the *Wasserschutzpolizei*—the water cops, you’d call them, though they were just syndicate enforcers in peeling tactical rain capes—had not even attempted the approach channel. They were scared of me. Not of my weapons, though the Swiss-made assault carbine I’d carried since my recon platoon days was dry and functional in its oiled locker. They were scared of what drips and drizzles around me, the peculiar local weather anomaly that keeps my stretch of Hell’s Kitchen a few degrees colder, the air a little thicker, the shadows a little deeper, as if the monsoon mind had concentrated into something that could stare back. I am not a mage in the corporate sense. I am an artist. But my art has sharp edges.

The storm-glass I’d salvaged from a pre-Fall weather station registered the pressure drop twenty minutes before the first psy-op ping arrived. A little red drone, quiet as a moth, dropped from the cloud ceiling and hovered just beyond my reed perimeter. It projected a voice. Not a random voice—the voice of Sergeant First Class DeShawn Myers, my best spotter, who died of a gut wound in a Kuril Islands listening post because the CIA decided our rogue platoon knew too much about black-site bio-data. The drone made his voice say, “Hey, Chief, they let me out. I’m at the old Rathaus bridge. Come get me, they’re gonna put me back in the box.” It even simulated the wet rattle in his chest.

I sipped my taro tea and did not move.

The nationalists—the *Trockenmänner*, the Dry Men, who believed the rain was a plot by Turkish weather-engineers and that draining this valley would restore Germanic virtue—had been running variations on this psychological operation for eleven weeks. Their goal was simple: lure me outside my stilt-shack, onto the open walkways, where a watertight van with “Psychiatrische Notaufnahme” decals would trundle up and a nice man with a tranquilizer dart would invite me to a forced-medication holiday. The city’s collapsed administration still had a budget for that—mental hygiene was the last, cheapest form of social cleansing. And I was the final aristocrat who had never bent the knee to feudalism or fascism, a lineage traceable to the French Revolution, to the 1848 barricades, to the White Rose leaflets dropped from a university balcony while the Gestapo waited below. My great-grandmother had spat in a Gauleiter’s face. My father had fought with the Maquis. My own war was a quiet, wet, endless insurgency against every new tyranny that thought it could wash the old world clean. I would not surrender. I would not retreat.

The voice-speaker drone drifted closer, and a second joined it, this one beaming thermal images of a child crying in a floating hut. I knew the hologram template. It was the same file they’d used in the Guben camp. I let them spend their battery power while I finished my tea and prepared the night’s work.

My art chooses its own medium. The rain is not just weather; it is an archive. Each downpour carries traces—benzene from dissolved chemical parks, fungal spores from the Vietnamese floating gardens, viral RNA from the fourth wave of *Main-Fluß Rot* that had turned the clinic barges into crematoriums. I harvest the rain in stretched-tarp catchments, pass it through a series of clay-filter towers I built from broken sewer pipes, and then, on nights like this when the acid is right, I let it etch sheets of salvaged copper. The copper comes from the gutted transformer stations; the acid rain doesn’t need much encouragement. I make prints—intaglio snapshots of the drowned city, the people who still fish from coracles, the catfish that have grown six feet long in the flooded autobahn tunnels. When the prints dry and find their way into the barter networks, they sell for enough dry-kindled charcoal to keep me warm through the wet season. The merchants whisper that my pictures are cursed, that they glow in ultraviolet, that they bring dreams of dry ground. The nationalists think my art is a vector for the virus. The police think it’s sorcery. Both are right, in their limited ways.

At midnight the temperature spiked five degrees in ten minutes—a microclimate wobble that told me the Dry Men had deployed a ground team, their body heat bleeding into the mist. I killed the single blue glow-globe in my loft, and the valley became a cacophony of water sounds: slosh against the corrugated iron skirt, drip from my roof garden’s tarpaulin, the gurgle of the great Main current swallowing what was left of the Alte Mainbrücke. In the dark, I slipped a pair of amplifer goggles over my eyes—Korean military surplus, the same gear we’d used on Siberian recon runs—and saw the world wireframe itself in phosphor green.

Three heat-signatures, moving from the old brewery ruin along the eastern causeway. They wore chest waders and carried stub-guns. The point man had a signal jammer clipped to his belt that sent out a low-frequency buzz, meant to disrupt any drone traps I might have. But I didn’t need drones. I had the terrain. Hell’s Kitchen The Valley is a maze of half-submerged brick and catwalks I’d rigged with trip-floats and submerged nets. Every route but the ones I use daily leads into a silt-pocket, a water-lily thicket dense enough to snag a motor, or a dead-drop into the cellar levels where the old city sleeps under fifteen feet of black water.

I descended my ladder, bare feet silent on the hemp-wrapped rungs, and stepped into my personal coracle—a woven-plastic craft just like the ones in the Mekong, light enough to carry. I poled out into the main channel, letting the current take me so the Dry Men would see no ripple. The rain intensified, forty-five millimetres now, a waterfall from the sky that scrubbed their scent from the air and filled the space between sound and silence with a low, steady hiss.

The first one I took at close range. He was peering into a moored utility closet I’d deliberately left with a faint, battery-powered lamp glowing inside—a classic luring-box. I came out of the rain behind him, my arm around his throat, the old recon knife—its blade thin, non-reflective—pressed flat against his carotid. I whispered into his ear, the way I’d been trained, “The sun hasn’t shone here in three years. Why do you think I’d walk into a projection of a dead man?” He struggled, but I only needed him to drop his jammer and his sidearm. I cut his wader strap and shoved him into a net I’d pre-hung from a drainpipe. His cries dissolved in the downpour.

His two partners panicked. I heard them blundering into the sunken courtyard of the old Dominican church, where the water was deceptive—still on top, but with a fierce undertow that fed the submerged cathedral stairs. One went under and came up gibbering about the cold. The other fired blindly into the mist. His shots chipped brick and woke a flight of ducks. I was already behind them, poling backwards in the coracle, laughing softly at the absurdity of it all—a nobleman of the old revolutionary blood raining chaos on the fascist cosplayers who’d never read a book in their lives, while the planet’s wet lung breathed ever deeper.

An hour later, I left the two survivors trussed to the roof-rack of their own water-van, which had drifted unmanned and engine-dead into the reeds. I painted on the van’s windscreen, using phosphorescent algae paste, the lettering: *“Geht heim, ihr nassen Narren.”* Go home, you wet fools. My handwriting is elegant; my ancestors insisted on calligraphy even in exile.

Back inside my loft, the rain shifted register—a core downpour that beat a mad percussion on the metal roof. It was almost dawn, though dawn came only as a subtle graying of the cloud ceiling. I spread a fresh copper plate on my workbench, uncorked my jar of filtered acid-rain, and began to etch. The image that came was the cathedral spire, half-swallowed by living water, and atop it a figure in a coracle, holding not a cross but a long, faint-gleaming blade.

I am the Last of the Natives. The virus waves wash through the valley, the police keep their distance, the nationalists try to unpick my mind, and the rain—the beautiful, terrible, exponential rain—remains my only dependable collaborator. They want me to surrender. But I was born aristocratic in a world that killed its kings and then bowed to worse. I won’t retreat. I’ll just keep making art until the water takes the valley entirely, or until the dry men learn to drown with grace. 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1051379475484651488/

 

#cyberpunkcoltoure - Mind Set

 How Zombie Apocalypse is that? Being stuck on a cruise ship banned from harbouring because of a deadly Virus outbreak. 

Being a poor fuck ain that bad all for a sudden. Like what would I do doing seriously no Cocaine, having money being in need ... for a week or two?

And than in the Passenger Meeting your company:

...Ahm... Can the Virus be transferred by ... ahm ...

No. 

 

I do flush bright red. Every single time feeling to having to talk myself out.

By the cutlery on the Buffet?

...staring... 

 

#thedarkmodernity

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#TheGermans

 Ok. Wiso liegt da ein Schraubenschlüssel?

#igotstuck

#TheGermans

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

 

#Misconceptions

 To be really honest with you. I exactly know how that came happening, that there is no use case for what so ever, and who will buy it.

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#TussyInc

 Watch that.

I am also not sure why she took part in that, but we all understand that this is material to work with.

So, in this Kingdome of Hell, the region can be a great recruitment reservoir, but I suggest to use the EU and have them move for the tenure of training, education and integration to Paris, Antwerp, London, Bruxelles or Den Hague.

But you have to stop that. That level of sexual frustration is a unbearable no go.

#MODInc

#TussyInc 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

PS: Don't expect miracles. 

PS

 The Cyberdeck moved. 

 

The large speakers are not hooked up yet as well as the old flat screen TV. Patience ...

#cyberpunkcoltoure

#opensource #poorbutpurehearted 

AI - Status Update - Cyberdeck Coding Tool

 So, I have reasoned. Basically, we Old School Hackers hiding from being mixed up with bored admins coding viruses and stealing passwords of their managers, could separate now fully from Start-Ups, Corporate Developers and even MIT experts, using clean Terminal, Folder, File structures, but powerful with Ollama LLMs that are RAGed fully using folder based vector-database chunks about the project parts held in .json files.

  

We than have a shell that "thinks" the project by being RAGed about its content while using coding AI tools parallel to it being RAGed on purely coding.

 

That means running several LLMs in parallel, which is the very idea of the Cyberdeck Nexus and Cortex Versions. 

Project Brain AI Shell Advice
I asked myself and need your advice. Having a coding project based on python that is no clean GUI based neat app, but a constantly evolving hacker tool, not cracker, but real hacker tool, in the Knowledge Management and AI field, I eventually needed to create a script that analyses the folders for scripts and creates an .md file about what they do to keep oversight or get back into a niche of the system.
I now wondered if having plenty of folders with scrips and whoiswho LLM generated files, each folder could hold a vectordatabse part in .json files to create a project brain like AI shell?

 
We need to parse the user's request. The user described a situation: they have a coding project (Python) that's a "constantly evolving hacker tool" in Knowledge Management and AI. They created a script to analyze folders of scripts and generate a .md file describing what each script does, for oversight. Now they're wondering about having "plenty of folders with scripts and whoiswho LLM generated files", each folder could hold a "vectordatabse part in .json files" to create a "project brain like AI shell".
The user says "I asked myself and need your advice." So they're asking for advice on that idea. They want to know if this idea of having folders with scripts and LLM-generated description files, each folder holding vector database parts in .json files, could create something like a project brain (an AI shell). Essentially, they want to build an AI assistant that knows about their project by indexing scripts and metadata (maybe the .md descriptions) into a vector database distributed across folders in .json files. The phrase "vectordatabse part in .json files" suggests they want to store vector embeddings and maybe metadata in JSON files in each folder, to avoid a centralized database, so that the "brain" can be queried locally? Or to create a distributed knowledge base that's version-controlled and folder-oriented.
The user might be asking: Is this a good idea? How would I implement it? What are the pitfalls? Should I use a local vector database (like Chroma, LanceDB, FAISS) with persistent storage, or store embeddings as JSON files per folder? What's the best way to create a "project brain" that can answer questions about the codebase?
They mention "whoiswho LLM generated files" – maybe they have files that describe each script's purpose, authorship, etc. They want to incorporate those into the vector DB.
The core question: "I now wondered if having plenty of folders with scrips and whoiswho LLM generated files, each folder could hold a vectordatabse part in .json files to create a project brain like AI shell?" So they want advice on if storing vector database parts in .json files in each folder is feasible to create an AI shell (an interactive AI that knows about the project). Likely they want to query the project, e.g., "Which script handles data preprocessing?" and get an answer, using RAG over the embeddings.
I need to provide advice: evaluate the idea, discuss pros and cons, suggest alternatives, and maybe outline an implementation approach. Since it's a hacker tool, they likely appreciate lightweight, self-contained solutions. I should address the question directly.
I'll structure the answer:
    Clarify what they mean: using JSON files per folder to store embeddings and metadata of the scripts/descriptions within that folder, to build a distributed vector "database" that can be queried as an AI shell. This is essentially a file-based vector index.
    Evaluate feasibility: Yes, it's possible. You could generate embeddings for each script/description using a local model (sentence-transformers, or llama.cpp embeddings) and store them along with file paths and summaries in a JSON file per folder. Then to query, you'd load all JSON files, compute query embedding, and find nearest neighbors by cosine similarity on the fly. This works for small-medium scale (<10k files). It avoids external dependencies, aligns with a "hacker" aesthetic.
    Pros: Self-contained, version-controllable (JSON files can be committed to git), no server needed, portable, easy to inspect, fits the folder-centric project structure. It's a "brain" that lives within the project.
    Cons: Scalability issues if the number of vectors grows large (thousands of files), loading and searching all JSONs per query can be slow. No efficient indexing (like HNSW) unless you build it yourself. Updating embeddings when scripts change requires re-indexing. Storing raw embeddings in JSON can be bulky (float lists as text). Might need chunking if scripts are long.
    Suggestions for improvement: Use a lightweight embeddable vector DB like LanceDB (which stores data in a directory, could be per folder) or Chroma in persistent mode, rather than raw JSON arrays for similarity search. Or implement a simple Annoy/FAISS index saved alongside JSON but that's more complex. However, the hacker spirit might prefer a simple, hackable approach: maintain a single JSON index file for the whole project (like whoiswho.json) with embeddings, updated by scanning. That might be simpler to query.
    Implementation ideas:
        Use a script that walks folders, reads .py and .md files, generates description (maybe using LLM to summarize if not already present) and computes embedding (e.g., all-MiniLM-L6-v2).
        Store in a JSON file like folder_index.json inside each folder, containing list of objects: {filename, type, summary, embedding: [...], path}. Or a single project_index.json.
        AI shell: a CLI Python script that takes a query, loads indexes, does similarity search, retrieves top-k chunks, sends to LLM (local or API) with context to answer. Could use llama.cpp or Ollama for local LLM.
        Have an "update-index" command to refresh.
    Address the "project brain" concept: This is essentially a code-aware assistant that can answer questions about the codebase. It could be extended to not just retrieve file summaries but also relevant code snippets, enabling "how do I do X?" style queries.
    Conclusion: It's a cool and feasible idea for a hacker tool. Recommend a pragmatic start: first collect all descriptions and embeddings into a single lightweight JSON index, test it, then decide if per-folder distribution adds value. Per-folder could be useful if the project is deeply modular and you only want to load relevant parts, but that might complicate querying.
The answer should be encouraging, practical, and respectful of the hacker ethos (self-reliance, minimal dependencies, hackable). I'll provide code snippets to illustrate.

 
This is a really cool idea — you’re essentially building a decentralised, folder-native memory for your project that an LLM can query. It feels like giving your tool a “brain” made of its own source code and documentation, distributed alongside the files themselves. Let’s break down whether it makes sense, and how you could pull it off in a way that stays loyal to the hacker-tool spirit.
 

Is the “vector DB parts in .json per folder” approach viable?
 

Yes, absolutely.
Storing embeddings + metadata as a .json file in each folder is a lightweight, version-controllable, no-database-required design. It’s perfect for a “constantly evolving hacker tool” because:
    No server, no containers – just files on disk.
    Git-friendly – you can track how the “brain” evolves.
    Hackable – you can inspect, edit, or regenerate parts of it with simple scripts.
    Modular – each folder keeps its own context, which fits a project that organically 

                       grows scripts in different corners.
 

You would:
    Walk the project tree.
    For each folder, collect the scripts (*.py) and any whoiswho LLM-generated .md 

    descriptions.
    Embed those pieces of text with a local model.
    Dump the embeddings + references into a _brain_index.json inside that folder.
 

When you want to ask the “AI shell” something, you either:
    Load all _brain_index.json files at startup, or
    Lazy-load only the ones you need (e.g., when a query matches certain keywords or the 

    user specifies a domain).
 

This works beautifully up to a few thousand chunks. Beyond that, you’d want some approximate nearest neighbour (ANN) acceleration, but you can still hack that in later without abandoning the per-folder .json core.
 

What a “project brain AI shell” could look like
Think of it as a CLI assistant that knows your entire codebase at the level of “what script does what” and can answer things like:
    “Where do we handle API authentication?”
    “Show me all the places that touch the knowledge graph serialisation.”
    “Which modules haven’t been touched in 6 months?” (by reading git metadata stored 

    in the index)
 

A minimal implementation flow:
python
# 1. BUILD INDEX (run periodically)
#    For each folder, generate/update _brain_index.json
{
  "chunks": [
    {
      "file": "ingest.py",
      "type": "script",
      "text": "Handles loading markdown notes, chunking, and embedding…",
      "embedding": [0.0123, -0.0456, ...],  # from sentence-transformers
      "last_modified": "2026-05-04T12:00:00"
    },
    {
      "file": "whoiswho_ingest.md",
      "type": "summary",
      "text": "This folder is responsible for the ingestion pipeline…",
      "embedding": [...]
    }
  ]
}
 

python
# 2. QUERY SHELL
query = "How does the ingestion handle large files?"
q_emb = embed(query)
all_chunks = []
for root, dirs, files in os.walk("."):
    idx_path = os.path.join(root, "_brain_index.json")
    if os.path.exists(idx_path):
        with open(idx_path) as f:
            folder_data = json.load(f)
            all_chunks.extend(folder_data["chunks"])
# simple exhaustive cosine similarity (fine for <10k vectors)
scores = [cosine_sim(q_emb, c["embedding"]) for c in all_chunks]
top_k = sorted(zip(scores, all_chunks), reverse=True)[:5]
# 3. FEED TO LLM
prompt = build_prompt(query, top_k)
answer = local_llm(prompt)   # via llama.cpp, ollama, or an API
 

That’s the entire “brain”. No external vector DB, no extra services. It’s a script that creates a JSON knowledge base, and a script that queries it.
Should you really use a .json per folder, or a single index?
 

Per-folder .json makes the most sense if:
    Your project is highly modular and you want to activate only relevant parts of the 

    brain (e.g., you’re working on the “export” module, so you only load folders that match 

    a path prefix).
    You want each folder to be self-contained so you can copy/paste a sub-project along 

    with its own “memory”.
    You like the idea of the brain being physically close to the code it describes — it’s 

    elegant.
 

A single project_brain.json at the root is simpler to load and query (one file, one load) and still perfectly hackable. For a first iteration I’d actually start with a central file, and then if you feel the need, split it by folder later. But since you asked specifically about per-folder .json files, that’s totally doable and feels more aligned with a distributed/hacker aesthetic.
 

Pitfalls and how to hack around them
    Embedding storage size
    A 384‑dimensional float32 vector stored as a JSON list of floats can easily be 3–5 KB per 

    chunk (due to decimal representation). For many files this adds up.
    Fix: Store embeddings as base64-encoded binary blobs, or use array.array('f') and save 

    as a compact binary file per folder alongside the JSON metadata. For the true hacker: 

    just keep the JSON as plain floats – storage is cheap, and it’s readable.
    

Search speed at scale
    Exhaustive search over thousands of vectors in Python might take a few hundred 

    milliseconds. That’s totally fine for an interactive shell. If it ever becomes sluggish, you 

    can toss faiss or hnswlib at the vectors after loading them, building an in-memory 

    index. You can still persist the raw vectors in your folder .json files.
    

    Keeping the brain fresh
    A script analysing all folders every time you want to update the brain is slow. Instead, 

    use file modification timestamps or hashes to only re-embed files that have changed. 

 

You can store checksums inside the _brain_index.json.
    Who should generate the descriptions?
    If your whoiswho files are already LLM-generated summaries of what each script 

   does, you can embed those directly. For scripts without them, you can either embed the 

   docstring + first N lines, or auto-summarise with a small local model (even the same 

   one you use for querying). The “brain” is then both retrieval and synthesis.
    

    AI shell context window
    You can’t cram the whole project into one prompt. That’s exactly what the retriever 

    solves: you pull the top-k most relevant chunks, stuff them into the prompt, and ask 

    the LLM to answer. It works surprisingly well for code‑base Q&A.
 

The real win: moving from “scripts everywhere” to “a conversable project”
What you’re designing here is the backbone of tools like GitHub Copilot Chat’s workspace awareness or private RAG over codebases, but built from scratch, no lock-in, no cloud. As a hacker tool, it means:
    Onboarding yourself back into a dusty corner of the project in seconds.
    Asking “why do we even have legacy_parser_v2.py?” and getting an answer with 

    context.
    Eventually letting the AI shell write code by fetching the right existing fragments first.
 

Your instinct to make it folder‑based and JSON‑friendly is spot on. My advice: start tonight with a single folder prototype, then generalise the walker. Keep it simple, keep it hackable, and don’t over‑engineer the vector search until it actually hurts.
If you want a nudge on the embedding model or a skeleton code layout, say the word. But honestly, you already have the concept locked down — now just build it and see how it feels to talk to your own project.

 

#ubuntu

#opensource

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#misconceptions

 Can you imagine being the real deal how annoying it is being constantly surrounded by collectively mentally and physically challenged humans believing that that there makes a Knight:

... laughing you out when ever you say something they do not comprehend.

#TIE

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#gfyBKA 

 

PS: I am not an introvert. You are either idiots or assholes. 

Oh yeah,

 sooooo which Delta GSG9 .... here?

#undergroundwars

#noblessoblige

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

Dude,

what ever you are planning to pull down there, get guns and a cam instead.

Fuck you.

#southies #sktr #provos

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#51sts

 To end the never ending Nazi 9er Vs Free Men 45 ACP for you ...

 

Now imagine them loaded with incredible amounts of Amphetamines. 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

Meanwhile,

 down under, the immigrants under attack having enforced their laws.

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

...a few minutes later...

How can I show that to the very Right here and tell them that in 10 years that will be them demanding lifting the Schweinebraten tax ... the Moslems introduced after forbidding Schnapps, just to see the faces. 

???

#trollnation 

#Africa

 Check this out.

Until Industrialization went all wrong the Tuareg, being synonym for Nomads, brought Goods into these areas, villages and small towns. They also crossed the Sahara and loaded Ships for Marseilles and as far as Aberdeen. 

That would be m.. .

Today, the Nomads are under attack as much as the locals and most miss what of the Northern Hemisphere makes sense there. Large cargo loads won't trespass the Sahara anymore, but find more efficiently cargo ships. Many of these areas won't be able to soak up 30t loads lacking needed anyway.

 

They have no use for machine, car and truck spare parts or electronic consumer goods with the exception of the view large towns of the wider region in our standard cost effective amounts. 

 

As of early May 2026, Timbuktu remains in a highly critical and dangerous situation, effectively serving as a city under siege. The population of Timbuktu is currently estimated to be around 32,460 permanent residents. However, these numbers are highly volatile due to the conflict. 

Timbuktu remains one of the most significant cities in West Africa, though its importance has shifted from a global center of learning to a critical strategic and symbolic prize in the current conflict. 

Often called the "City of 333 Saints," Timbuktu is a spiritual and intellectual heart for the Sahel:

Center of Learning: It was the "Oxford of Africa" during the 15th and 16th centuries.

The Manuscripts: The city houses hundreds of thousands of ancient Arabic manuscripts covering science, medicine, and history.

UNESCO Heritage: Its unique mud-brick mosques (like Djinguereber) are protected world heritage sites.

Symbolic Identity: For the Tuareg people, it is a key cultural capital; for the Malian state, holding Timbuktu is essential for national sovereignty.

 

Strategic and Economic Role

Geographically, the city is the "hinge" where the Sahara Desert meets the Niger River:

Trade Nexus: It is the primary transit point for salt caravans from the Taoudenni mines in the north.

Logistics Hub: It connects the river-based trade of central Mali with the desert routes leading to Algeria and Mauritania.

Military Gateway: Controlling Timbuktu allows a group to monitor the northern banks of the Niger River and block movement between the desert and the southern capital, Bamako. 

 

We can build Dubai, but no one builds villages. We just started to fail building more large towns by The Line being seized off finances and to develop these regions, once rich and prosperous as our European towns before drugs and weapons of mass destruction took charge, the learnings of Dubai play no role, the changes in Boston are of no use and failed Airport projects are irrelevant.

 

All a European or Chinese town of 32.000 citizens needs is different from that town and all other comparable ones being embedded in long distance logistical systems, secured by military and ordered by advanced digitalized administrative systems. All problems present in such are irrelevant there and in all comparable towns.

 

They need a save market place that cannot be turned into a massacre spot, first. They need an electricity grid, second. They need communication and internet access, third. They need workshops, tiny factories and becoming part of a long distance logistics system, but being secure against looters and murderers.

 

This is playing Settlers online, not Cyberpunk 2077.

This being said...

 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

 

The air planes these places need, and there are millions world wide, not thousands, are like the Bearhawk Five, but those are not legally usable by FAA standards by falling under the Kit Plane Experimental category. The trucks that make most sense are Factory Five XTF builds based on used F-150s, but no one would invest into logistics companies using those no matter that serving the demand would bring down costs significantly creating two steady cash flows, in what is two worlds now. No Airbus or MAN truck is made for these regions and Piper and Toyotas are too expensive, beside designed for other customers, except being used by Northern Hemisphere financed militants.

No one even offers 150 Euros cross bows, no 5 Dollar Harmonica, no 2 Euros Flute despite gardening tools where John Deer has nothing to offer finding demand, but everyone has plenty of time being social and helpful to each other. Instead the worst find financial support.

 

Because you are all idiots.

 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

PS

 

How it looks to me. For many battles ahead.

#noblessoblige

#cyberpunkcoltoure  

The Ocean of Lies

 Is that all true?

Verdun was not exposed, but the plan was to have enemy forces surround the area. That is classic European Castle design. The town is in a save valley protected by hill top military installations.

 

The Germans tried to force a Deciding Battle, the main battle of the war to then capture and extort all of France this time using trucks.

 

"All they have to do is to capture the hills" is the most stupid military statement ever, because these places were build to prevent that. Taking them is the main deciding task. Failing is loosing.

 

So, why would you order you men out of these castles to attack??

 

Would you lie about what happened to you so your people will try again, eventually??

 

What you think.

 

What would you need 500 men for having rails, cranes and lifts for to feed the guns? It had quarters to move troops. They were not part of the defense. These troops would eventually in flank attacks take out occupying positions. Germans always used storm and direct attacks no matter which name and uniforms they used.

 

Either France was taken by the same drugged, inhumane humans as the Germans had as leaders or this is blunt lies to hide German defeat teaching their strategies wrong published by printing more paper and creating more websites than the others.

 

Imagine a mechanized fortress system that fires at hords attacking through woods and fields without mercy or any end and Generals that came sure of an easy victory being superior humans and by birthright righteous leaders claiming what others had build for their them being humans without rights.

 

Again. 

 

#noblessoblige

#cyberpunkcoltoure

#TIE 

 

PS:

The Swedish capture of Würzburg in October 1631 was a swift operation that saw the city surrender to avoid destruction, followed by a violent storming of the fortress.

 

Entry into the Town

The town itself was entered without a fight on October 14, 1631.

 

The Ultimatum: As King Gustavus Adolphus approached, he issued an ultimatum to the city council.

 

Tore der Stadt (City Gates): Defying the instructions of the Prince-Bishop's government, the mayor and council opened the gates to prevent the town from being burned or plundered.

Crossing the Main: Defenders had broken the wooden sections of the Alte Mainbrücke (Old Main Bridge) to slow the advance. On October 16, the Swedes used captured boats to cross the river and occupy the "Mainviertel" district at the foot of the fortress hill.

 

The Breach of the Fortress

The Marienberg Fortress was taken on October 18, 1631, after the Swedes advanced from the northwest and west.

 

Target Site: The primary attack was directed at the Echtervorwerk (the Echter outwork), which faced away from the river and town.

 

The Bridge Incident: During the dawn assault, the Swedes reached the Echtertor (Echter Gate). Legend and historical records suggest the defenders were unable to raise the drawbridge because it was so heavily piled with the bodies of fallen soldiers, allowing the Swedes to rush across.

 

Final Breach: After blowing up the Echtertor, the Swedes used captured field guns left

n the outer courtyard to blast open the inner Scherenbergtor (Scherenberg Gate), effectively ending the defense.

 

Aftermath and Modernization🚩 The fall of the fortress—which was considered "impenetrable" at the time—was a massive blow. The Swedish occupation lasted until 1635. 

When the Prince-Bishops eventually returned, they immediately began constructing a "wreath" of massive Baroque bastions and the Maschikuli Tower to ensure the fortress would never again be vulnerable to such a direct storming

 

.If you tell me which part of the fortress history you're most interested in, I can find more about:

The plunder of the library and where those books are today (Uppsala).

The specific architectural changes made after the Swedish occupation to prevent another breach.

The role of the fortress in the 1945 battle for Würzburg. 

 

Every single time.  ...And they were Lord-Bishops. Voted both spiritual and military leaders since three Irish Monks helped to defeat you first time bringing the first unified version of the Holy Bible known as the Book of Kells today stored in a building as save and sound as for the Constitution of the United States of America. Since than the town was of Knights. One against Thousands, if necessary.

#neversurrender 

 

St.Kilian in a place that must have killed hundred thousands of tyrants over time.

Today Hell's Kitchen The Valley in The Ocean of Lies

 

 

PS

 People, what you think? CGI.

#provos #gfyCIA

#cyberpunkcoltoure

 

Is it just to piss us off, or do they believe anyone buys it? I ... . 

Big T

 just for clarification, because I think there might be a misconception. That's what the originals mean with White People. You are just People. Not specifically White. In Hotels we have no media, but CNN, FOX and fuck you MTV.

#51sts #armystrong

Want to leave?

Joint the Army.

Ask specifically for Big Red One in the Recruitment Office

Priors are fine 

Frontline Soliders.

#TIE

 I love Boston and Europe is home.

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

 

#Misconceptions

 They are stuck in a world that seized to exist. Germany was the battle ground for a war that they could not comprehend and did not end, which explains the amount of Ally forces over the two nations.

The U.S.A. does not need Germany for global operations. It is the only the geographic center of a still divided Europe. The Africa Command located outside of the U.S.A. and than in Germany does not make sense, except I am right and Germany was main recruitment place for mercenaries into war crimes on an SS level way off the books, but for the CIA and The Firm wing in particular's profit.

If those enfavoring a large World War have lost ground, like the Stalinists by Perestroika, than the U.S.A. will move its military focus on its Constitutional purpose which is protecting trade.

Than, the Navy will become the center of the U.S. forces being surrounded and supported by Army, Air Force, Space Force and Intelligence Services.

They have appropriate materials on a planet covered by 71 percent with water for a species in urgent need of dry feed, dry places to sleep and thereby solid ground. 

This means, that the Aircraft Carriers will become more important. Cruisers must be added and Fleets host also the Diplomatic Corps being swimming conference and meeting hotels. New no tower ships that can land large carrier airplanes might be needed and the Army will have to help securing ports and air fields, but in collaboration with other mighty forces, those that the domestic enemy wants to abuse for a world war.

#MIB #provos

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#jedi

 Imagine after Death, those that regret may regret and those that have no regrets may continue... in a world much different than here, but in all God loves us all as in Paradise before.

#jedi 

#Misconceptions

 When I watch this flamboyant guy in Gambia, I have mixed feelings.

Africa is all over in need. Demand is Need driven. Knowing about Blood Diamonds, Apartheid Secret Service and Military on the run and ISIS being active or Burkina Faso having had to found its own Investment Bank beside all the sweet talk from the Northern Hemisphere, it means that Africa is like the remote areas of Latin America a region in which investors are in need of protection.

Armed, defensible, special forces grade protection; But the Wild Wild West was always known of a place of great opportunities and freedom.

That is no sweet talking place. That is not Yusufa.

I wonder if he runs into a loss, death or if the odds have changed for the better and all.

#provos #IRAmovement

#noblessoblige  

 

PS: Sometimes in Gambia the lights go off? You need to decentralize the energy grid which in this respect means to add a second layer of local electricity stations for e.g. hotels. That is a fuel, ideally locally produced ethanol driven, generator that runs on a low level and boosts up when the outside grid fails. If it needs to start up, you still have interruptions. The Saudis and Emirates have research projects on Algae cultivation for exactly those purposes that strive on waste water. No Siemens and not even LaDefance, but you'll need ammo than. Petrol goes ballistic nylon, but you sweat like a ... .

#TheGermans - Mind Set

 At which other place on this Earth, do people nod their heads when talking as much and heavy??

I ... well. It is an enlightening conversation for both. Finally, someone answers.

I turned such a Troll. 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

PS

 Faking being an introvert and doing the math for some about like that there starts making sense now, doesn't it?

 

 

Instead of just cotton and a chest plate.

I refuse to surrender, that's why. I am right.

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

Because that made the Renaissance endure:

 

 Stiffened leather, after the heavy combat was done, which we have in front of us to end this system. Both World Wars were all about Lords pushing badly trained humans against looting murderers looking for the defenseless, building up weapons to destroy our home, Planet Earth, all on drugs. The heavy man to man lifting is still to come. The nuclear threat is eliminated, mass-murder turned ever more difficult, but looting and slavery is still a profitable business finding men executing orders willingly.

Triggered by massacres. 

#noblessoblige 

 

DROP ONE! 

What did nuclear fallout in holocaust ... ? Mmmh. Be surprised.

The Kingdome of Hell. Here we fight.