Life is funny, 'innit?

It's borderline frickin' -uproarious-. The gold-plated Commedia mask goes to Kenji Namura. Certified funnyman, apologist of baby murders.

About three centuries ago, you, not in person, but in soul; men of your ilk, your creed, your pinstripe, brought down the entire legitimate Rheinland government, plunged children into child labour, murdered a good few million servicemen, over good old kleptocapitalist tax evasion. 'Cus you chose not to be beholden to any state. 'Cus your fishfarming ancestors chose to squat on the Rheinland-to-Kusari demarcation triangle that divvied up the Fuel. Fairly.

So you've started another war, through your Kishiro Proxies, that has Samura battleships waltzing in to save your hide, the moment out goverment finally gets its ass in action. We've been lobbying for three hundred years to see you burn. To see justice restored, and now you drag in the cucksari and miniskirt wearing oligarchy fuelled low-octane feudalismo democrats to earn a slice of honour-pie back. You must be pissing yourself all the way to the bank.


The Union's been sitting back and letting the Federals claim credit for it. They'll always claim credit for it. They still fly Union designed spaceframes and swagger around in their post-imperial uniforms. The stilted Republic hasn't innovated in three hundred years, yet they'll still kick your gold-enema'd arsehole back to your plutonium mines.

This isn't the Eighty Years War. The Rhein has survived. We survive the Nomads, we've survived Wall Street, and we'll survive you.

From the body of the empire crawl the cockroaches; you have an infestation. We will eat you alive.

Y'all talk of peace, when all you want is another piece out of us. Your little suzerainty is coming back to the mits of the Rheinland worker. That's the truth of it.

When Unioner shipbuilders grease the cogs of the Rheinland Military once more, We won't be laughing at you down the barrel of a gun. We'll be building the guns.