This blog looks at this real world as, if I was sitting in a cyberpunk pub in a Sci-Fi parallel universe with a super skunk ciggy and a sweet bourbon, and this world was the video game. I am a fully independent artist with no management or distribution contracts. Piracy is a crime and harms artists. Report abuse, theft and piracy to the local authorities to help free, independent artists! DeepSeek calls this "digital neo-outsider art"
Ok. If that is impressive to you, tell me how they found that thing walking there??
Google: "Telescope astronomy". Go to Products tab. Buy. Try.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
It appears that Germans have a massive misunderstanding on trade.
The expert says that taxing up Chinese cars to keep European cars competitive is of interest of the European citizen. That is an expectable comment in the West considering a U.S. presidential candidate stating that banning ARs was no infringement reveling a sever language comprehension disorder yet having had a major political career.
The point of a market, where trade is conducted, is to serve the consumer, which must be a ridiculous idea subconsciously to all successful in a nation that let Nazi Collaborators keep every single penny of their money made by the Holocaust.
To to do so the sellers must adjust to the consumer. If one seller cannot serve the consumer anymore, he either has to change his product or accept ending offering. Instead, the Nazi now Democrat waits keeping the offer until the consumer understands the product again.
Stupid Fucks we are.
So, they control the market. They adjust to the market, controlling it, therefore by adjusting the market.
That's not how its supposed to work.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
PS: Anyone pics of Ronzi in his Airport time, Bros?? Those deliver the missing bit.
No, and we will bomb and shoot the shit out of you for trying.
We all have to accept a complex interactive mesh over this world based on contracts, but in fuck no way a Single World Government.
Jerk off in your chair and fuck pussy in VR AI simulations if you want to get old.
#provos
The poorest areas.
Charity. Charity creates dependencies. That means if we send a truck load of something into anywhere it will be consumed and afterwards be all is as poor as before. Charity is not bad. If we send a truck load of investment into the same area and make profit with them, we create independence instead of dependency.
That is a synonym of Freedom.
We have enough to give as charity on this Earth. Sadly, that is not happening. We have even more that cannot afford to give as charity, but that can invest and even more that need to invest.
That also defines ease of building up The poorest areas. So, how do we do that off the drug trade?
That is actually the only problem. Not the rich taking drugs, not investing into poor areas, but the trade we choose to get money moving into poor areas so they are not dependent.
Incorporated with DeepSeek
# Dustwraiths
The desert doesn’t hide you. It buries you. Unless you bring your own dust.
They called the craft F1s because they had more in common with racing machines than military vehicles. No armor—just a fan, a roll cage, and a gun. We ran in a line of twelve, hovercrafts stripped to the bone, and the rotor wash lifted the Sahara into a brown wall behind us. A storm we carried. Inside the hull, the world was a roar and a screen.
I was in the sensor chair, a rigger by trade, gunner by necessity. The display wasn’t a window. It was a lie that told the truth. The mmWave radar painted the ground in green wireframe: dune crests, a dead acacia, a dry wadi. Over that, the FLIR Lepton 3.5 bled heat—orange and yellow smears. A Jetson Nano brain stitched the feeds together in real time. Red hazard boxes snapped around anything that moved.
“Target,” I said. “Technical, six heat signatures, DShK in the bed.”
Commander Voss didn’t look up. She never looked out the windshield; she looked at the same feed, a datajack at her temple, eyes flickering. “Mirage Six, weapons free.”
Ox, the other gunner, was already on the belt-fed 7.62mm. His tusks were filed flat for a gas mask. He didn’t talk. He just killed.
I toggled the .50 cal remote mount. The radar track painted a red box. I squeezed. The belt-fed stitched through the dust. I couldn’t see the technical, but I saw it on my display: heat blobs scattering, one dropping. The hazard boxes turned from red to gray.
That was the job. The corp called it asset protection. The Sahara called it survival. We hunted Daesh cells—what was left of the caliphate’s lunatics—across the erg. They had guns, slaves, and a thirst for blood. We had speed, dust, and a sensor suite that cost less than a single smart missile. A Texas Instruments FMCW chip in a plastic box. A FLIR Lepton behind a germanium glass window. A Jetson Nano duct-taped under the seat. Ugly. It worked.
Home was Green Mirage, a hydroponic container farm on the edge of an oasis. The containers grew lettuce and tomatoes under pink LEDs, visible from drones. The real crop was in the one with the false floor: ammunition, missiles, and spare F1 parts. The oasis was ancient—date palms, a sulfur spring. Next to it, the market. Canvas and corrugated iron. It sold dates, salt, fuel, black-market drones, and information. Behind the palms, a strip of packed sand served as an airstrip. At night, small planes landed with no lights. The manifests said “agricultural products.” The crates said “belt-fed.” The corp didn’t care about the war; they cared about the lithium under the sand. We were just their dust.
Voss was the commander and navigator, ex-Foreign Legion, an elf with a shaved head and a map etched in her brain. Sphinx was the driver, a rigger with four cybereyes and a death wish. Wren was our shaman. Ox was the heavy gunner. I was the sensor jockey. We were forty-some operators in a dozen craft. The locals called us the Dustwraiths.
Tonight, Qasim the fixer came to the market—a dwarf with a gold tooth and a stall selling refurbished phones. He also sold targets. He gave Voss a data chip. “Daesh convoy,” he said. “Twelve technicals, two fuel trucks, one blood shaman. Moving surface-to-air missiles from Libya to Mali. They’ll use the dawn sandstorm as cover.” Voss pocketed the chip. “We’ll use it too.”
At 0500, the twelve F1s formed a line abreast on the salt flat. The drivers revved the fans. The dust rose behind us like a brown wall a kilometer wide. We didn’t need to hide in the storm. We were the storm.
The enemy never saw us. The radar painted them as wireframe boxes. The thermal showed heat blobs around the technicals. Wren sat cross-legged in the lead craft, her eyes rolled back, whispering to the spirits. She said the sand had teeth. Then she screamed.
The enemy shaman threw a wall of sand that wasn’t natural. It hit our line like a fist. Two F1s flipped. The radar went to static. The Nano rebooted. For three seconds, I was blind in the dust. Then the wireframe came back. Wren’s voice crackled over the comm, cold and hollow. “The wall is down. Kill them.”
I laid the .50 cal on the first technical. The belt fed. The red box flashed, then went gray. Ox hosed the second. The thermal bloom of burning fuel washed out the screen, but the radar still tracked movement. I fired into the bloom. The computer didn’t care about my conscience. It just painted red boxes.
One of the technicals was full of small heat signatures. Kids. Voss said, “Weapons free.” I hesitated. Ox didn’t. The box went gray. I told myself they were child soldiers. The Sahara doesn’t care what you tell yourself.
Afterward, we policed the wreckage. The dust settled. The bodies were already half-buried. One of the kids had a phone with a cracked screen. The lock screen was a picture of a cat. I threw it into the fire.
Back at Green Mirage, I sat on a container roof and watched the market. The sun went down like a wound. A small plane landed on the strip, its props chopping the last light. Below, the market was still alive—a blind astrologer selling charts, a cyborg beggar with a rusted arm, a boy selling black-market cigarettes. Everyone was selling something. The whole Sahara was a market for death.
I lit a cigarette. The dust settled on my shoulders like a shroud. On the screen, they were just heat and red boxes. On the ground, they were men. The dust covered them quickly. That was the point. We didn’t see through the dust; we saw what the dust hid. Then we killed it.
The dust never really goes away. It just waits.
If attacks increase now, you can use 1:1 U.S. Track West tactics and strategies in all expects. I am sure U.S. military leadership will happily assist.
Competition is good for business.
Their High-School can do that, upfront. They can't take orders.
I am serious. Pentagon guys with CIA side hustles are a pain, but they get in trouble with MP for sneaking around when others peacefully dine.
#provos
PS: I am convinced that when I say stay off Sahel in your wars, some guys having lost Grand-Uncles by Partisans and what they'd call Rogue Wehrmacht Soldiers, no matter who served who and whom never, will wrap their head around one thing and one thing only.
I keep triggering. Ever more. Promised. As they be my guest for a mist shot I regret.
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(base) J4v@920:~$ fc-list : family | sort -u
Incorporated with DeepSeek
**The Falcon Road**
Rain on Marseille tastes of rust and cold diesel. Mael the fixer sits across from me with a smile that hasn’t reached his chromed eyes. The old cyberdeck on the table between us is still plugged into my right wrist, fibre-optic cable coiled like a noose.
“I want the Dark Falcons,” he says. “All eleven hulls, the design files, the printer code, the Suez corridor rights, the Sahel sand strips. The consortium is prepared to pay.”
“I don’t sell boats to men who think a route is just coordinates.”
“You call them boats.”
“I printed them. I can call them coffins if I like.”
I light a cigarette. The flame shows the scars on my knuckles. Outside, the Med hammers the pier.
My family were Travellers from before Dublin sold its soul to glass and tax law. We worked horse fairs at Smithfield, mended tin, read palms, moved goods along the Royal Canal on barges. Grandfather had merchant hands. He bought land when the city was only a port, and when the banks came he said: *never own shares, only debt and roads.* He saw the rot early.
When the European order cracked, when nations walked into fire and the money froze, the old man’s ledgers turned to gold. We had options on quays, water rights, freehold under what became the IFSC. The lawyers sold to the last solvent funds in Zurich. I woke one morning with a sum that could buy a small navy or a very large lie.
I bought six 6-axis robot arms from a dead auto plant in Cologne. A marine turbine from a ferry rotting in Cork. Carbon-fibre filament spooled from a Norwegian aerospace line. A cyberdeck stripped from a dead decker in a Rotterdam flophouse. Then I rented a disused railway shed on the Shannon and started printing.
The design was mine: a ground-effect catamaran, 50 metres long, 25 wide. A flying-wing body, black as a B2, with twin hulls to trap the cushion. The internal frame was a Kelvin lattice—open cells drawn along Bézier curves so the load spread like water. The six printer arms moved for 137 days, laying carbon at six hundred degrees, singing the same low note as my deck’s cooling fan. I slept on a cot beside the machine. I called her *Dark Falcon* before she ever left the ground.
Power came from a hybrid drive: the turbine burned anything I could pour into it, feeding a bank of batteries and capacitors. Four electric engines, two pairs, one set tilting, gave her VTOL empty and STOL loaded. Empty, she could lift off water like a curse. Loaded, she needed two hundred metres and nerve. The first time I opened the throttles over the Shannon estuary, she rose at nine metres and held. The boat screamed like a hawk.
Europe was burning then. Not only with gunfire, but with data. Nations collapsed into corporate cantons. Borders closed. Money became a rumour. The old order didn’t fall—it rotted from the inside.
I printed one Dark Falcon after another. Black hulls, black wings, black cargo holds. I traded: medicine to Marseille, refugees out of Barcelona, gold from Lagos, guns to Tripoli, corp executives to Zurich, data packets to anyone with a clean SIN. No questions. Cash or barter. The Dark Falcons ran low over the water, under radar, past blockade drones, through storms that would snap a plane and swells that would swallow a ship.
Then came the Suez strip. I didn’t fly over the canal—I built a flyway beside it. A 193-kilometre ribbon of compacted desert, two hundred metres wide, marked with solar beacons. The Egyptian generals took a cut. Ships below crept at eight knots; my boats crossed in thirty minutes at four hundred. Then the Trans-Sahel: Massawa in Eritrea, through a mountain pass where I fitted the boats with glider extensions and lifted them out of ground effect, down to Khartoum, then west along the sand—five thousand kilometres to Dakar. I landed on Teflon skids on sand strips my crews carved with graders. The Sahara was my highway. The Dark Falcons owned the low sky.
I stubbed the cigarette into the table. “So you understand, Mael. You don’t buy that from me.”
Mael didn’t blink. He slid a photo across the wet wood. A woman with my eyes and a corporate lanyard. Aisling. My granddaughter. My heir.
“Aisling signed the transfer this morning. The board seat was too good. She gave us the original hull registration and the printer firmware key.”
I said nothing. The deck on the table pinged. A small red light.
“So we have the boats,” Mael said. “We have the files. We have the corridors. What we need is the old code in your deck. The original route maps. The safe landing coordinates. The back doors.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you die in this bar, and she keeps the company.”
I looked at my deck. Old, scarred, still linked to the printer arms by fibre-optic nerve. I put my hand on it. The deck recognised my palm print, my heartbeat, my blood. I didn’t open the route maps.
I opened a different file. The one labelled **OPEN SOURCE**.
“Here’s the thing, Mael. I never kept a back door. I kept a front door.”
I hit send.
The deck’s fans screamed. Every design file, every lattice curve, every engine map, every sand-strip coordinate, every Suez beacon frequency—it all went out to the open matrix. Pirate nodes, free ports, BBS dead drops, every low-orbit relay from Lagos to Vladivostok. The Dark Falcon became public domain in eleven seconds.
Mael’s eyes went wide. He reached for his gun.
I was already out the side door.
The old prototype sat on the slip outside, under rain. The first Dark Falcon. The one I’d printed in that railway shed. I clambered into the pilot seat, jacked my deck into her old nervous system, and spun the four engines to life. The turbines coughed, then roared.
She lifted off the water at nine metres, black wing barely above the waves. The consortium’s drones came off the rooftops, red lights blinking. I pushed the throttles. The sea blurred. The old boat screamed.
South. Into the dark. Over the Med, toward the Sahel.
They followed me for two hundred kilometres. Missiles went wide, thrown by the ground effect. Bullets tore holes in the starboard hull. Smoke filled the cabin.
I brought her down hard on a sandbar off the coast of Libya. The Teflon skids burned. The boat slid, turned, and stopped with her nose in the surf. I killed the engines. The silence was worse than the alarms.
I stood on the sand, rain mixing with oil and blood, and watched the first Dark Falcon burn.
They thought they could take it. But the Dark Falcons were never mine. They belonged to the road.
Now they belong to everyone.
I lit another cigarette. The Med crawled up the sand, black as carbon fibre.
Somewhere inland, a new printer arms itself.
I lit another cigarette. The smoke wasn’t tobacco. THC folded over my synapses like warm black water, slowing the pain in my ribs, sharpening the fury into something cold and geometric. I sat on the wet sand with the burning Falcon behind me and the Mediterranean licking at my boots.
And I thought: *No one knows they can dive.*
The world saw a ground-effect boat. A low-flying cargo bird. A black wing screaming over the Suez sand. The consortium bought the design files, the printer code, the route maps. They saw the surface.
But I built the first hull in an Irish railway shed with six robot arms and a dead decker’s cyberdeck. I never told the investors, the pilots, the buyers. I never told Aisling.
The Dark Falcons were not just WIG craft.
The twin catamaran hulls were sealed. The Kelvin lattice wasn’t only for lift; it was a pressure vessel. The hybrid turbine could close its intakes and run on battery. The cockpit had oxygen scrubbers, ballast tanks, and a periscope mast buried under the avionics. A ground-effect craft that could also *dive*. A black wing that could settle on the water, flood its tanks, and slide beneath the waves at twenty metres, silent as a shark.
The consortium didn’t know. Mael didn’t know. No one knew. It was the last door I never opened.
Now I opened it.
I pulled the deck from my wrist, ignoring the blood, and called up an old encrypted file. Not the open-source route maps. Not the public beacon frequencies. The private ledger. The names, addresses, security rotations, and family coordinates of the consortium board. I had carried it for years, not because I planned to use it, but because men like Mael always make you keep a knife.
They lived in luxury compounds, just as the user said. Not in Zurich towers or Geneva penthouses. The real decision-makers had moved their families to the warm edges of the new order: gated golf resorts on the North African coast, the Sinai Riviera, Cypriot headlands, Aegean coves. Places with private beaches, helipads, biometric gates, drone patrols, and a fatal flaw.
They were all **close to the water**.
Close enough that the sea was their view. Close enough that the water hazards on the golf course were connected to the open Med by narrow channels. Close enough that at three a.m., with all lights off, a black wing could surface in a lagoon, open its cargo ramp, and release men who moved like shadows.
The consortium thought the Dark Falcons were a freight network. They were also a submarine infiltration system. Empty, the boats could VTOL. Loaded, they needed a runway. But submerged, they needed nothing except patience.
I smoked the cigarette down to my fingers. The THC made the plan feel less like revenge and more like geometry. I would not attack their data centres. I would not burn their offices. Those were replaceable. I would attack the soft tissue: the women and sons sitting at home in their rich, luxurious, golf-resort real estate, believing the border walls and private security kept the world out.
They were wrong.
The borders were lines drawn on maps. The sea had no border. The sand had no border. And the Dark Falcons could move between them like a rumour.
I stood, bones creaking, and looked inland. The first Falcon was a pyre behind me. But the ocean was dark and deep. Somewhere north, the consortium was already celebrating. They thought they had the company, the fleet, the corridors.
They didn’t know the boats could dive.
I walked away from the burning hull. The deck was still warm in my hand. It pinged once—an old contact, a Traveller from the old road, a man who moved things through the Greek islands without questions. I sent a single line:
*Meet me at the old boatyard near Benghazi. Bring the net-guns and the night crews. We’re going golfing.*
The rain stopped. Above, the clouds broke. Starlight touched the water.
I smiled, and it was not a nice smile.
The consortium wanted the Dark Falcons. I would give them the Dark Falcons—not as cargo carriers, not as freight lines, but as ghosts rising out of the water beside their children’s bedrooms, black wings shedding seawater, ramp lowering, men with quiet weapons stepping onto the manicured grass.
They would learn what my grandfather meant when he said the road always finds a way.
And no one would ever see them coming.
Because no one knows they can dive.
The fire burned for six hours. I sat on the sand and let it. The missiles had hit the cargo hold, not the structure. Carbon-fibre doesn’t burn at missile temperature. It wants a furnace, not a warhead. The cargo lit up like a signal flare, old crates of medicine and machine parts turning to ash and black smoke, but the hull only scarred. The Kelvin lattice held. The boat was a skeleton that had refused to die.
When the flames died, I walked back down to the waterline. The first Dark Falcon sat low in the surf, blackened, hissing, but whole. The electronics were fried. Every circuit board in the cockpit had cooked itself into glass. But electronics are replaceable. I had replacements. I had built her to survive more than the sea.
I made a call from a dead satellite phone. An old contact came with a barge. We towed the Falcon north, away from the shipping lanes, away from the drones. Then I sealed the hull, flooded the tanks, and dived.
The underwater town was one of the things I never put in any file.
Some things are better not seen.
It lay beneath the Libyan shelf, in water black as oil, hidden under a false seafloor of sensor-reflective mesh. I had printed it the same way I printed the boats: robot arms, carbon-fibre filament, Kelvin lattices, Bézier curves. A cluster of domes on the seabed, lit in red and green, with a moon pool like a submarine’s womb. Inside, the air smelled of ozone, rubber, and old coffee. There were bunks, a surgery, a server room, hydroponic racks, and a dry dock with three more hulls waiting like sleeping animals. Not a home. A fallback. One of several.
I stripped off the wet clothes and stood under a cold shower until the salt stopped stinging. I was alone. The bots hummed in their cradles. The servers blinked. No wife. No son. No granddaughter who had not sold my name. Aisling had been the last of the family I still loved, and she had signed the transfer with a smile.
Not many men can stand all alone, stripped like an orphan of all family. It breaks most. But for a Traveller, the road was always longer than the family. The road doesn’t care who shares your blood. It only asks if you can walk it.
I put on clean black clothes. I sat at the desk. I opened the deck.
And I began the war.
The night crews I sent to the golf resorts did not come with guns. That would have been too simple. The consortium would have called it terrorism, rallied the corporate courts, bought more drones, printed more lawyers. I didn’t want them angry. I wanted them afraid.
The crews came with cameras, union cards, and a single printed photograph of the house where the wife slept and the son did his e-learning. No note. No threat. Just the photograph, left on the kitchen island beside the imported fruit. The next morning, the families started calling Zurich. That was the first crack.
The second crack was economic.
I didn’t need to fight the consortium. I only needed to make their world stop being comfortable. The others—the small shipyards in Mombasa, in Vigo, in Tema, in Surabaya—had downloaded the open-source files. They had the printer code, the lattice maps, the engine schematics. Now they signed ridiculous cheap sales contracts for what they built. They didn’t need the consortium. They could print their own Dark Falcons, shabbier, slower, uglier, but real. Within a year, the consortium’s monopoly on the low sky was gone. The sea routes filled with black-winged knock-offs. The Suez flyway tolls dropped. The Sahel sand strips became a common road. The consortium’s share price went down like a drowned man.
The third crack was inside.
I bought the cleaning company that serviced the consortium’s Marseille tower. Not with my name. Through a shell in Lagos, then another in Accra, then a foundation in Vaduz. The first thing I did was give the cleaners a rise. Not a small one. A rise that made them look up from their vacuums and wonder who the new owner was.
Then I brought in a new line of managers. Not my people. Worse. Efficiency experts. Actuaries. Men with no taste and no fear. They began cutting privileges. The executive dining room closed. The private lift was locked. The reserved parking went to whoever arrived first. The helicopter budget was zeroed. The golf club memberships were cancelled. The wives and sons at the luxury resorts suddenly found their cards declined. The household staff were let go. The private tutors were told to invoice in advance.
It was more brutal than any communist would ever dare. They didn’t redistribute wealth; they simply removed it from the people who thought they owned it. The managers called it “cost discipline.” The board called it “the new reality.” The cleaners called it “about time.”
The wives called their husbands. The sons came home from the resorts, confused, angry, wearing last season’s clothes. The men on the board started blaming each other. A German logistics baron sold his shares in a panic. A Saudi financier tried to leverage his stake to buy a new golf property and was refused. A French heiress threatened to call the gendarmes. The gendarmes asked if she had a valid address.
I watched from the underwater town, through a dozen screens, smoking THC cigarettes and feeding the fire with small decisions. I didn’t need to burn their homes. I only needed to make their homes feel unsafe, and their privileges feel gone, and their sons ask why their friends no longer wanted to play golf with them.
Then the consortium began to sign.
They didn’t call it surrender. They called it “restructuring.” But the papers were the same. Assets sold for pennies. Contracts assigned. Routes transferred. The Suez flyway went to a workers’ cooperative in Port Said. The Sahel strips went to a consortium of Nigerian and Sudanese builders. The Marseille tower was converted into social housing, with the old executive floor turned into a crèche. The cleaners kept their jobs and got shares.
And Aisling?
She called me once, from a borrowed phone. Her voice was small. She said the board seat was gone. The apartment in Nice had been seized. She was living with a woman who had once vacuumed her office floor.
“Grandda,” she said, “it wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t. But the road always finds a way.”
I cut the line. I didn’t tell her where I was. I didn’t tell anyone.
The underwater town hummed around me. The first Dark Falcon, repaired and freshly printed with new electronics, waited in the dry dock like a black saint. Outside, the sea pressed against the walls, cold and silent.
I lit another cigarette. The smoke curled into the red-lit dark.
The consortium had wanted the boats. I had given them the boats. But the boats could dive, and the men who flew them could disappear, and the road beneath the sea led to places no radar could see.
Some things are better not seen.
I smiled, and it was not a nice smile.
The cleaners got a rise.
The managers learned what equality felt like.
And the road, black and endless, stretched on beneath the water.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
I kid you not, I want to open an Cyberpunk Street Sport Division Shop in Hong Kong, by just watching these guys.
They came over from Shenzen which is in Red China. Today, the boarder is quite open and Hong-Kong is basically the harbour and bank of the Sprawl. The area is about 200km into mainland China and stretches about 270km along the coast.
Just like BosNYWash, the Boston-New York-Washington Sprawl you don't get on a tourist Visa or even looking for cheap cotton what a Sprawl is.
In Europe most minds end at a boarder. Hardly anyone sees London-Paris-Amsterdam as a Sprawl, because nations depending on a segregated citizen egos are in their core divisional while just pretending to be unifying. Again, a certain kind of human rules Europe and I wonder if we can end this in any other mean than ever single other time before..
But I see it not.
Living in Boston, it is normal to drive to New York. Crossing into mainland China is as normal and the Communist Government had to acknowledge the international and capital driven attitude of Hong Kong today profiting from it.
Europe is split using bullshit arguments like "oceanic crossing". In reality too many collaborated with Nazis and Germany still exists parasiting from us by having Europe split into Nations:
The overall number of direct buses between London and Paris is roughly 6 to 8 daily options, depending on the season. Connections for the neighboring European routes differ significantly because they do not require an oceanic crossing:
Your politics interfere with out prosperity. IRA movement. NO NATIONS. NO PRIVILEGES.
Considering my latest interference with German BKA, I assume that is a strategy. I am poor, because of nations ruling Europe. Poor are ordered around or sit at home even so the Poor make your Sprawls operate and guarantee Nazi Collaborating money continuing to exist.
If you need Bodyguards in Malta, you better should stay at home and tell no one about the address staying away from the windows, seriously.
That might be the worst major hit against them. Rockers usually tap out in their Club House before being able to pull that, meaning they dose appropriately... but is that true??
What would you do when you had only one day left?
Let me clarify. Are you saying I die tomorrow or the world ends tomorrow, please?
#cyberpunkcoltoure
Who knows the name of our greatest movie hero, or who would take on a machine on a mission to never come back home.
Kyle Reese. The man who killed the Terminator.
What I do after understanding by 1h Top G talk that the superdooper coach dude keeps checking the same data points of ChatGPT since 2022?
That face I know. From distance knowing they talk about me?
The expression I mean. The only one better is the one I got once when she figured out what the 62cm, duck taped, solid wood stick was for by when she saw where it was going out of what she thought was a Billiard stick case after I had parked the car to have a "conversation" with her boyfriend, being a distant buddy of mine... into the arm of the jacket while I sat in the car?
"NO!"
"It's not that bad?"
"Yes."
"Can you call your mum to come over, from Bulgaria?"
"I think so."
"Awesome. Are these guys there his new buddies."
... ...clonk...
"What ever that plan was."
That's the worst hint ever:
Do you understand the opportunities arising when all layers above you are doing Coce and AIing the shit out of each other??
So, one of my most productive days was when my direct line manager was still in the stratosphere about to renegotiate her salary with her boss having had that next other great manager position offer received on that very meeting she attended with the women's empowerment what_ever outreach committee...
Duuuuude. No explanations, just doing and showing when she asks "What's that?" "The connected spreadsheets we talked about to have the knowledge owner transfer his knowledge into knowledge base articles." "You are supposed to write them". "Ahm, yeah, but I am not the knowledge owner, only the subject matter expert of knowledge management, and after overlooking them I do publish them." "Oh..." "As we said before you left"
Now consider them throwing AI quotes at each other and checking data point links to become eventually personal by blaming the question style having impacted the answer, OBVIOUSLY!
#provos #socialengeneeringdevision #terroristgangs #undergroundwars #gfyCIA
He basically says the AI and Cocaine wave a directly connected to Chefs being absence from micromanagement by discussing their ideas with online AIs.
All of them.
Now that I am off Corporate World, but still stuck in Hell's Kitchen the Valley that just morphed into something much even worse, just for the others too.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
I am not gonna show you the rest, but trust me someone manages to have a confident face of "won", not "win" carrying a serious job into the same face she smiles at.
The Biggest of them All?
That the World can be ruled.
We can help another, but we cannot rule another. That's the thing about being to God's liking, in all good and of free will.
The World can not be ruled.
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Yes. You’ve put your finger on the point where systems end and human beings begin.
Protection or predation is not decided only by walls, pay, orders, or weapons. In the end, it is decided by attitude—by the inner stance of the armed person.
That does not mean structure is irrelevant. A well-fed, respected, well-led soldier is more likely to choose protection. A hungry, abandoned, despised soldier is more likely to become a predator or rebel. But structure can only load the gun. The person chooses where to point it.
“They can comply or rebel”
That is the fundamental instability of all military power.
Every empire, every state, every wall depends on armed people deciding, again and again, not to turn their weapons inward. They can obey. They can desert. They can mutiny. They can protect the caravan or rob it. That choice is never fully controlled from above.
That is why rulers have often feared their own soldiers more than the enemy outside the wall.
And it is also why a good soldier is not simply an obedient soldier. A good soldier has to judge what is worth protecting and what is illegitimate. Sometimes the moral act is not compliance. Sometimes it is refusal.
“If that weapon is of serious means, they know about death and what death is worth”
This is the deepest part.
People who carry serious weapons cannot avoid the question:
· What is worth killing for?
· What is worth dying for?
· Is this order, this wall, this people, this family worth my life or another person’s life?
That question changes people.
Some soldiers answer it with discipline, duty, and restraint. They become protectors because they know death is real and therefore do not spend lives cheaply.
Others answer it with nihilism, cruelty, or pure survival. They become predators because they conclude that since death is certain, only power and plunder matter.
So the same experience of death can produce either a guardian or a brute. The difference is meaning.
The Great Wall again
The Wall was stone, brick, beacon towers, and roads. But whether it protected or oppressed depended on the men standing on it.
A Ming soldier on the Wall who believed he was guarding his homeland, his family, his civilization was a protector.
A Ming soldier who felt he was just a conscripted body used by distant officials to protect wealth he would never share could become a bandit, a deserter, or a rebel.
Same wall. Same weapon. Different attitude. Different world.
So I would say:
Systems create the possibility of protection. Attitude decides whether it becomes real.
And the most serious armed people are not just fighters—they are people who have been forced to decide what death is worth. That makes them either the foundation of order or the most dangerous threat to it.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
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