Paris, 1789

Molotov Cocktail

Wisps of blue vapor waft out of the revolutionary’s starving stomach and are formulated into bars of revolt crafted by the crazed crab under the floorboards. He has been here for generations, reading his tomes, thumping his brain with his fist, waiting for the needle of opinion to sway his way. The masses need a script now and he has one prefabricated. They are willing to die not to starve. “Revolution,” they yawp, cracking bloody eggs in their ruddy palms, tongues finally out. The guillotine is on autopilot, the tree of liberty sucking its fill.

But bankers know the thrust of history, the equations of a revolt, how to fill their pockets. They are more ancient than the crab, and wiser. They have created the hysterics of religion, predicted the war-years, the sticky Opium trade, et cetera. “Change,” they chuckle, bellies vibrating to earthquakes. All will be blown apart, then sucked back in like reversible film, but the new configuration is more efficient for fleecing.

This would be the great turn-off, the hurried inhalation of the vapors, the sight of a retirement home. The hot terror turns into tepid fear as we grow grey.

“This is GOOD for you,” the black boot on the back of the spine, the lead and copper taste of nose-blood. “There Hamilton’s and Lincolns in it for you.” Stability is the new blue.

Knock the Jacobins for now, removed with the pimp-sway of a continental, but the gat’s full of nerf-darts and the second coming has been pushed back till further notice. I hope for a vengeful demiurge, for the chaos of his sparking hand.

But I am young.

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