K's Speech to The Birds.

K looked like an old photograph someone had once scanned into M's game console.

His large forehead and shaven head, covered in mosquito bites made him look like a feral Russian Billionaire on a jungle expedition to find slaves to turn into Biomechs for some mercenary army.

The bamboo box M found himself in felt like a solid cage as he shook a couple of bars and met with the resistance of solid objects.

"How is this real if I'm not?" He asked K.

K shrugged his shoulders from within his large olive green jacket.

"I thought that you could summon any hi-tech environment into life! What's with the cheap theatrics?" M demanded.

"The bars of the cage aren't real, although they are a more powerful perception than your own. If you truly knew the sophistication it took to programme this stuff in to look so primitive you would just walk out free through the bars." K began.

"I put the shotgun in an Adidas bag and padded it out with four pairs of socks, not my style at all, but that was what I was aiming for: if they think you're crude, go technical. If they think you're technical, go crude. I'm a very technical boy."

"Who is that Gibson?" Asked M.

"Who else? It's Johnny M of course!" Said K.

"When do I get out of here?" Asked M.

"That depends on you. I want to know who suggested that you come here up river, and why?"

M silently sat cross legged with his back against the bars looking at K.

"All you neocommies from the mainstream are deluded fools. You wouldn't last a day in the mines on the hot planets. You're hypocrisy is astounding! You are as removed from your own savage natures as Donkey Kong is from the first apes caught worshipping at a white marble pyramid built by alien visitors. You claim to want social justice but there will always be some poor sap you sadists enjoy torturing. Just yell "Nazi" in the street if you want to see a straight white man ripped apart by strangers colonizing the old lands at our expense. I hate them, god how I hate them. Bank of mummy and daddy spoiled/soiled brats with their Che Guevara t-shirts ironed by grandma, they are a collective joke. I've read all Che Guevara's books! Have you? Have they?

I don't even enter debates with these liars anymore. I had a trans girlfriend in Manchester once, she lived in a tower block in Hulme. I refused to talk about it to clear my name when I was accused of anti trans crimes. Fuck em all! They don't want resolution, they want a mind war with people who will win ten times over on any battle field these blue haired fucks might care to choose. That's why they need complete control of all the media backed by the world's biggest corporations. When I went to Mongolia after the human wars I stayed with a poor family in a yurt there. One day the father who was in his forties with a kind face and laughing eyes brought a basket of newly born puppies to show me. My heart melted when I saw their.little pink noses and closed eyes, all of them huddled together. I asked the Father what he was going to call them and he just laughed. He said Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so forth as there was seven of them, then he licked his lips and rubbed his.stomach. The next day it dawned on me that each of the little dogs was going to be eaten on their own particular day! There was no room for sentimentality or moral judgements as these poor people were starving. If you were to eat a real dog now in the colonies you would no doubt be put to death although I'm sure it goes on." K stopped talking to drink from a clear plastic water.bottle.

"What happened to, "we're all in this together?"" M asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"When racism became a capital crime you couldn't even question the lack of logic anymore. I grew up in a rough school in UK4 and the kids would call me Frankenstein because of my scars; It hurt but no one cared I was just expected to "suck it up" Fast forward fifty years and if I was to call a black convicted murderer "sofa lips" in an article I was to write on my blogstream, I would no doubt be put to death. That would be after.all the psychotherapy I would be forced to provide for this poor violent criminal who doesn't like to be on the receiving end of nasty words."

"What's the reason for this culture war then.?" Asked M.

"Humiliation." Said K.

"They hate us and want to see us subservient to they're every whim. When I say "them" I mean the cultural engineers in media and politics who take our kids minds and make them hate themselves to the point of despair and then offer them some phoney solution like gender alignment surgery or cheering at some overpaid sports star. Of course its all bullshit. Out here in the jungle, I work for Sandoz, and it's true that the larger company promotes all the vilest mind control this side of the re-education camps. I'm not hiding here. I'm sharpening my knives, and when they come for me, I'll be ready."

It was true what Central Command had told M. This operative out in the field was nurturing dangerous ideas. It wasn't that he'd gone mad; anyone could see that he was lucid and sane. It was the idea in his mind that was the problem. He was promoting ideas directly in opposition to harmony and well being. The man was a sociopath and a monster in the eyes of the state. His contract for living in the real or the virtual colonies had expired