Written by the Victors
It may be as you say but I only know this. A hitman collapsed on the hotel mattress with a squeak. A wasp buzzed at a sumo wrestler whose arm snapped up and down, never once hitting the wasp. A target pulsed "hit me" but arrows swerved aside. The sky a china plate clapped before the stars. All that space, never satisfied. A conspiracy of sorts, a movement to create a new kind of nation where people get everything they want all of the time. In the grey room were champions and chancellors of light. Around the table snorting and spying their glasses clinked. On each plate was a silver pen. A pitcher of ice water gushed with diamonds. An ex-executive (who shall remain nameless) spit into the microphone for good luck. The spit dripped down to his shoe, captured on a high resolution camera into the annals of conspiracy. Perhaps he had a bad taste in his mouth but the hitman wasn't sure. His mouth fell to the ground – the watermelon rind dentures grinned until the orator admitted that he had a problem he could not deny. So he became a spokesman. Up close, the hitman saw only tiny colored squares. Each one was different. He knew everything could stop being what it was.