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"You are in for a suprise." That's all what he told me. Last time I heard "suprise" in that context, was when we accidentally built that temporary station in the middle of a trade lane in New York. Those 'build-it-yourself-kits" you get thrown at as free extra bonus everywhere. "Here's your coffee, have a station for free. Say what?" Anyways, they were cheap as your sister back then, and we wanted to put a thorn into LPI's side.

Since I had no experience with building anything other but joints, I've put the responsibility into one of my most capable Rookies, yes coitus me, of course he screwed it up. So we were just about to leave New York with 'our house' when out of a sudden a station 'unfolded' in front of my face. And to my relief it floated right in the middle of a trade lane to 'Hattan. As if someone with OCD had put it there. I was really mad. Like, it wasn't drawing any attention at all. "Hey, I'm just a station in your way, don't mind my ADHD, but could you kindly take an alternative route while you're being thrown at me with your 2000 meters per second?"

You know that feeling, when you're lane-sitting for hours, and not a single 'tard passes by. And now, all my accumulated deficit of traders of four years just seemed to pay back. One transport after the other was crashing into the newborn station. While it was all like "I life here now.", transport leftovers and cargo were snowing on us. Christmas came early this year I thought. But the luck didn't last very long. As we were just about to harvest our fruits, an Overlord-class Dreadnought did facepalm "our house". Poof. Can't deny that I like such penetrating explosions. But as wonderful as it was, I was suprised to see the unharmed Dread' crawl out of the newly formed scrapyard. "Destroyer of humble dreams", I named him spontaneously. Well crap. Of course my Rookies were all gone in a blink (as you taught them, fool!). Making use of the moment of suprise, I effectively took to my heels, too. It was a good day.

Guess I drifted off a bit. Uhm, speaking of suprise. Yes, changes and things. Rank structures, boring, station relocations, dull, shipline reconfigurations, bland. I swear, that's houndshit, why am I even doing those stupid logs? Could aswell just get myself wasted and let my dog do it. Wait, now I remember, there was that thing. I'm no more the puppetmaster behind the Rogues, pulling the strings. Enough of those monthly warlord announcements. Serious times are over. I thought. I'm a powerhungry man, and I can't stand to follow orders of some arrogant snob, who's trying to compensate his lack in size. Those are the worst, I know best. Because I'm one. And I love it. And people loved me for being the idiot, who's doing the paperwork. Otherwise I wouldn't have lived that long. Or maybe I'm just lucky.

I'm not well-educated, nor am I an ex-militarist. But I'm good at surviving, and can read & write. Alone that qualified me to lead the Rogues in the first place. And of course luck. Or bad luck - matter of point of view. Whatsoever, now that stuff has changed (and it's not just my underwear), I was asked to present one of "The Five Rogues" or whatever they call it. Maybe a system to have it easier for Rookies to remember the number of leading figures. I'm worried about those who had lost fingers though. And their second hand is occupied with counting their brain cells already. Well, it's not THAT bad. It's actually worse. I mean, I had that one incident, where a Rookie tried to safe his wingmate from a battleship missile, by ramming him away from it. Well. He got both of them killed in the attempt. He had a good heart. But unfortunately, natural selection gives a fine pile of poop about brotherly love. What I wanted to say was, that I've accepted the offer, as I couldn't let my people down. They need a mother taking care for them dumb, adorable fools. And of course to "Always blame the mother." ...

I hate this place. Liberty is a dirty craphole. Dirty, but rich. Rich of deplorable feces-collecting derelicts whose birth certificate is an apology from the condom factory, crying out to have their decadent wallets robbed. I love this place. It's heaven in disguise. A quite disgusting disguise though. Its only use is it, to scare away competitors, those incalculably malignant plebeian and wearisome mucous-eating spawn from a lunatics rectum. When people ask me: "How do you survive just two days in this maniacal blood-curdling blight upon society, called Liberty?" I tell them: "I like being a rich fool." The Navy are devilishly hideous dunces and repugnant armpit-licking unfortunate occurrences of unprotected intercourse, which makes it even easier to bleed white the numerous unconscionably lascivious microphalluses. And the congenitally sock-sucking LPI? Them conspicuously obese neanderthals and debauched donut-eating repulsive fatties, don't give a bloody coitus about fighting the organized crime. And while I'm already at it, the Liberty Government is an egregiously vulgar coccydynia and a myopic one dimensional conglomerate of intellectual constipation on so many levels. Governing sickly corpulent rapscallions and rotten disease-ridden odious leach-covered globs of quivering slime.

Enough of the friendly words. I don't want people having a wrong image of me. In fact, I don't want people to know nothing about me at all. Transparency is a weak spot that is meant to be covered well. Just like Liberty is being covered in a glaring all-befouling excrement stain on a Sumo Wrestler's underpants. Ok, I'm drifting off. Anyways, I've always tried to kept my person secret. During the last years, when I was pulling the strings, everyone in the Rogues knew my face, but only a handful of them knew that I'm being their boss. They refered to me as "council guy", yet I was the one who was playing the cards, electing my puppets, the warlords. It may have been a bit conspicuous that they did change that often, but I couldn't let them believe that their reign is for eternity. Take it from them before their grip won't let it off anymore. I became really good wtih it.

Though, power comes with drawbacks. As mentally incapable as they may be, my enemies got a glimpse about what was happening within the Rogues. Frequent leadership changes, while the tactics and strategies didn't change much. They had an idea that there was someone else behind the curtains, stop making themselves a chronically flatulent shameless exhibition of genetic deficiency. They had a name "Mr. Barrow". They've hired Bounty Hunters, a demented flea-infested orgy of indignity, to collect my head. The first rank orgasm faking sub-literate simple minded mental Hunter lost his head quicker than he could say "There's a bounty on your head.". And the very next day, I collected my own bounty as "Mr. Johnson". They had no clue that the dead Bunter in Rogue colors in my damaged ship wasn't who they wanted. The payment made me reconsider my occupation. Quite lucrative. But I prefer to have others work for me. My name change did last a good two years, until some disastrous test tube experiment of an preposterously grotesque Rookie shat out my name. Can't even stand a week waterboarding, but "libertyaleboarding" they can. Whatever, soon the name "Johnson's Rogues" was in everyone's ears.

I've hidden myself in Cassini to wait it out, hoping that it'll be all water under the bridge sooner or later. But I just couldn't find rest. I've never seen them dare to get that close to our doorstep. For once, I was almost scared for my life. But when there's something Rogues are good at, it's running & hiding. Months later, I gave up. This wasn't what I expected "heaven" to be. But as ill luck would have it, I've met an old friend, my supervisor when I began wearing the Rogue colors. We made a deal. To have him back running the show.

This will hopefully be the last time I'll have to change my name. I know it probably won't. But for now it'll do. "Mr. Banks", "Clyde Banks". I like the sound of that. Very casual. Let's see how long it'll last.