Sunday, 29 March 2009

THEY SAY. . .#1: The Broken Wall

To the unknowing observer, this must have been a truly arcane sight. The authorities have a vague suspicion, but only those who were part of it know the happenings of the night before, the audacious swoop, the astuteness of the preparation, the shrewdness of their escape, a clandestine operation, but the damage dealt not so surreptitious though. . .

It’s 3am and we were on schedule, just a few kilometres away from the Medical Research Council. We knew they would still be there. But they didn’t know that we knew about them. We’ve been watching them. Dr Alberts and Prof MacIntyre were developing something. Something unobtrusive. Something noble. That would revolutionize the way man existed. We could not have that. This discovery they’ve made would change the world forever.

What they’ve done is create the world’s strongest adhesive. Just a drop could keep a half ton of metal attached to another, infinitely. This adhesive is yet to fail in the test they have done. It will make construction of anything substantially cheaper, and we won’t have that. WE want that power. Unlike most organizations, our mandate is not just to steal or fraud or petty things like that. We want control. Control is money. And money is power. With this herculean adhesive and the recipe to make it in our grasp, we will start to gain control by taking over property development, construction, power-generation, until everything uses our glue, and when that happens, we asks for tax on it, and then we will take over. . .anyone who would denounce our movement would be ended.

There was security abound at the main entrance. Guards, cameras, electric fences. So we had to make alternative arrangements. We drove past the entrance about 500 meters down. We could use a helicopter, but where’s the stealth in that? We line up a ramp so that the thick pavement can’t dent our pre-prepared hummer, or impede it’s path, or break it’s speed. We place an old mattress on the wall, to smother the impact, to silence it, and to make it easier for our 3 ton, fully-titanium, imperishable beast. De Jong was behind the wheel. 20 years of in-field training would suffice for this feat. So what, he just needs to ram his hummer into a wall? That’s easy!


It’s not.

He only has a tricky run-up, and a minimal amount of nitrous-oxide that needs to be released at just the right time, he needs to turn sharply, from the main road into the ramp and slap bang into and through the wall, without ruining the electric fencing above it, otherwise the alarm would go off, all this, while bearing the knowledge that his baby son is in the hospital with hand, foot, and mouth disease and his daughter is 3 months pregnant with a girl who will be named after his divorced wife, Petronella, who ran off with his physically disabled cousin Kerneels after having an affair with him for 12 years behind his back. His secret life of lies and deceit had caught up with him in the most unfortunate of ways. But all that was of no relevance for him now. All that mattered was the task that lay ahead. He had to break this wall. Cleanly.

In less than five seconds of precise driving acumen, De Jong rammed into the wall after a wicked turn, adorned by the glittering colours of the Nos smoke, hit the mattress and flat-out pulverized the wall, leaving the way for the speedsters to do their thing.

They now had exactly 5 minutes to run across a one kilometer long stretch of lush field to get to the laboratory. All they needed to do was steal the recipe for the adhesive. And one sample. That’s it.

Or was it?

In the hummer, a security breach. An entourage of cars was making their way towards our position. One or two cars would be understandable. 3:30 on a Monday night? Could be raucous, rancid youth, returning home from shit-faced Mondays, but these were 6 cars. It was the Scorpions. . .

The Scorpions were on to us. Chris Petersen ratted us out. Matter fact, he was working for them the whole time. He infiltrated the ranks of our organization, ingratiated himself with the relevant leaders of the group, for a whole six months, and tonight, just as we were about to launch our offensive, the culmination of many months of research, he tried to collapse it, he tried to stop us from realizing our vision. . .

He was duly shot in the back of the head. Cold bloodedly murdered. But in this organization risks have to be taken to keep what we are doing secret. And to be exposed now would be a monumental obstruction.

Petersen had left us a farewell gift. He had a nano-chip in his watch. If he stopped breathing, the Scorpions would immediately be notified on his position co-ordinates, also where all his belongings were. Our bullet-proof vests were his creations; we thought he was the best thing since rum and coke. We were incorrect.

Now with a revised deadline of 3 minutes our speedsters had their work cut out for them. They were still trying to hack into the alarm system of the laboratory when they heard about our updated mission status. But Donald and Williams were masters at what they do. They deciphered the code of the alarm and that of the safe housing the samples and the recipe rather quickly, immobilizing the good doctors with some long-distance tazer action.

Our back-up cars had to leave to make the scene less conspicuous, the hummer as well, leaving only the turbo-charged Corsa. A clever ploy to mask our intentions. A souped up Corsa is common-place at drags and could pass as those spoiled, impish youths wasting away their parents’ hard-earned money on car-parts, body-kits and sound systems.

As the scorpions arrive our Corsa leaves the scene, bulleting out of that hole in the wall like an infant Chuck Norris round-house kicking his way out of his mother’s womb and sped off into the suburbs to hide away in our well hidden, civilian-like espionage house, where we analyzed our efforts for the night in the underground hq. Chris might have thought he had 1-upped us, but unfortunately this company trusted no-one. Any data or applications from our systems and archives are programmed to automatically evolve into a malicious Trojan virus when it finds itself on any operating system other than ours, then it multiplies into every folder on their system, and creates an .exe file that, when opened, closes all other windows and fills the screen with our majestic, regal trademark: bubbles. Thousands of bubbles. That have to be popped until any other operation can be performed.

This usually fries the cpu and crashes the hard drive.

The next time you see a bubble, you will remember it’s power.

This photo was taken at 06:34 on the 19th of November 2008. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, this one spoke 1157 words.

Monday, 16 March 2009


The reason for this blog is to give you a new twist on imagery and writing. . .the first real post will be up soon. . .