I fly back to confer with Peters. I am once again in that airplane, plying those free drinks, my mind absorbed in many things at once. I look at the little kid with the sexy mother in front of me. He has his head over the seat, well fed child looks at me, his eyes reflect all that is mysterious- reflect the inside of this aircraft- giant mechanical thing of which we are both parts. He smiles at me and I want to grab him, bring him up close and tell him what is wrong with the world. I hold off because I know this would cause a scene. I can stare between the seats, get a glimpse of the mother, but no longer fight feelings of lust. I can do other things though. I can fight a war in vain. I can kill for My Cause. I can put the barrel of my extra-long killing machine to a head and blast away. I look at the window and beyond the glare from the red sun see shiny small cities below domes the roads clogged with the hubris of ground travel the thin smoke trails of lingering industries the slow moving sludge of the canals. I imagine the cities going up in the light heat blast nausea of atomic bombs, the ultimate consumption that will happen because the order of nature is violence. The earth is an altar on which every living thing must be sacrificed without end, until we are all consumed. Until my petty insecurities are gone and death dies. I have lost control, I am an addict of action to absolve myself of all my unworthiness. I should want the woman ahead of me. (I bet in that head lies a special talent.) I wonder what keeps the world in line, what keeps us from taking the things we want for life is short and desire burns bright. That well-fed boy, in the third world he would hold special value, nay- not very worthless now if what I have heard is true. Huge mills have been set up in the third world. Little (very valuable) third world boys lie strapped Down on the conveyer belt, whirling knifes of awesome machines ginzu sharp dicing blades (machines substituted here for purposes of ritual, do not doubt- people could do this job as well) harvest the organs that fly in the air like mince-meat, collect in the funnel and get shot out of the nozzle blood gore organs skin vessELS hAIR boNES eYES The only things left are little bits of fingernails and shucked feces. It is good sacrifice. Like the Indians with their buffaloes, nothing is wasted and the herds are thinned to keep us strong. Everything is transplanted into the rich and powerful with little waste. No one questions the source of these raw materials transported in small plastic coolers packed with ice, what!?- they come from the vats of altered monkey cell culture!?