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You're intel, Stephen. Of the old school. You can stitch a sentence, fire a rifle, jump through a tire. So why yer' screwin' with the text box, honey?

So, like, actually what is this? What real asinine intern in the psychological warfare put you up to this?

Is the Buro trying to stupid me to death - 'cus that'd make sense, current acts factored n' all. Well crap. Martin Luther on a current bun, I think you're succeeding. I'm on the edge of white-out - seeing angels, waltzing me to a paradise filled full of beer and short men. You're really frickin' thrown me in a brainbuster here, Steve'. Give me a moment to get my mental collective engaged, Christ.

Okay, you jackbooted swine. Time for some real-talk.

I’m nowhere near pissed enough to take this in stride, so I’m just going to tell this as it is.

Go lick the NC's shrivelled, infertile clit.

Before I handle jam a shiv up your arse, you might want to go to somewhere a less traceable with your neural net communiques. I don’t want a frickin’ tactical police unit blowing my doors down because I was snobbish enough to be baited into a two-way feed with a frickin’ intelligence officer. You want a diplomat? Go talk to a frickin’ diplomat. I send barely literate warbands off to strip pelicans down to the structural panels, not plan the manifest destiny of the movement or some other ideologue’s con. I’m a Wedel woman, Soft-Fingers. I fly ships, pull triggers, get paid for it. Nobody pays me to chat for a living. You’re on the wrong neuralnet page for free phone sex, Narcissus.

First. That wasn’t so much a ‘talk’ as a disorganised mess of federals champing the bit to send the plasma flying whilst you suckled the collective genitals of a bunch of Auxesian neo-crusaders who we’ve got some pretty hefty circumstantial evidence were there on the whims of anti-government saboteurs. You really might want to check who you’re collaborating with, Buro.

Secondly, we don’t respond to coercion. You think we’re new, up-and-coming in some way? Our ancestral memory stretches long into the past before the Kaiser ordered your formation. We built the ships your precursors flew. We are indispensable to the growth of what you now are. You think our recent activities are in any way irregular? It’s in response the Hessians, not you. We act overtly because of the very real danger traitors of your ilk are going to just let the Republic fall into Heinrich’s lap.

Thirdly, you don’t represent the Republic, dog. You want to talk big and strap yourself in some patriot pants? Come at me again when you’re not flying around a vintage Omicron bastardised cruiser created by some goddess edge worlds spawn, or playin’ with Nomad technology. Real rich of the BDM to try to stick a knife in what we export when you run around with active alien technology like the Nomad war was some bloody pipe dream. It was the BDM who managed to get the Republic so bloody infected durin’ the 800 crises, the entire frickin’ human race nearly went down the crapper. Worse, you’re more than happy to do the wetwork of the Maltese - the same shifty-eyed Hispanic inbreds who want to turn Rheinland’s poor into substance dependents to further their own frickin’ agenda.

You regard us as scum, mate. It’s in your intonation. We tried talkin’ to you as equals and you threw the dove in the meat processor. You wanna’ negotiate down a gun barrel? Try it. You can kill me and there’s a good few million more versions of me to wear my shoes. Unioners are bloody legion, you understand me? Your Republic made us out as rats? We can play the rat game. Doesn’t matter how many pest-controllers you throw at us - we thrive. You’re a clown without a pony to dance on.


Why don’t you back and suck the infertile, cardi-shrivelled genitals of your special interest groups like a good little tin soldier, traitor, instead of flexing yer' fat suit and tryin' to lift? Unlike you, I’ve got some real patriot work to do - like tryin’ to figure out how to stop the volksrevolution all by ourselves with half the firepower and a third of the training. You go polish your fluorescent guns and starch the uniform you’re not fit to fill, Arschloch.

Maybe when you stop repeating the mistakes of history and setting the house up for another nomad crises, or takin’ the socialist boot in the kidneys, then we can get real chummy like. Right now you’re acting like an ornery man-bro who copped a feel in the sauna and thinks it gives him the right to demand nudes. Go get a doll.


All you’ve basically proven is that the BDM, a bloody government funded agency. have managed to collectively forget who the Unioners are in two hundred years of intense masturbation to alien relics. Jesus, dude - If I was a taxpayer I’d be demandin’ my credits back.

Finally, we’ve got a diplomatic channel - it’s detriangulated so tin-boys like you can’t square a sig-ori’ on it. If you really wanted to do diplo’ and not just give us a hilarious vidclip to spread around the intranet, you’d be there already, being an intelligence agent with all the, uh, intelligence.

So all summed up an' squared away; if you’re gonna’ troll the Union over the Neuralnet, you need to work your diminutive Federal mind a lil' harder, jackass.

Maybe you can right a wall chart on that blood money cruiser you like to go pimpin' around in. Score more Maltese girls.

At the end of the day, you had all the federal fundin', wiz' tech and accolades of the military industrial complex at your disposal to pull Rheinland up by the ass, and you still nearly ended all human life one decade, screwed up a war in another, made paddy-cake to the Maltese and GMG who are guttin' your constituents from the inside, and now you've nearly handed the house, arse over eyebrow, to the Socialists. That's the service record of the BDM over the last thirty odd years.

Go taint someone else with yer' failure.

Hell, at least I had fun. Good t’know yer’ can’t read, Stevie. Means ‘ah don’t have to encrypt nothin’ when sendin’ rally orders.

Oh, tin-man - when this here redneck watches you hang from the stockade? I’m gonna’ drink to yer’ memory.