When operants lose themselves in their own fiction, the only solution is demolition -- the Cardenas-II Verbal Manoeuvre.

His soul is still new to the world, fresh and vulnerable. You need to walk him back one step at a time.

A faded sticker draws your attention -- an advertisement for a local ferry schedule. The year: 82.

A gentle curve, swaying through grime. Odd shape for corrosion.

The keystone.

We didn't do it for money -- we did it for a weird old man we'd never met.

There's a sheen of vulgarity, but she changes character as quickly as a master operant in theatre. Impressive.

Her name seems to brush across your inner thigh.

You hear her stifle a yawn.

...Mömmy?

The gäng only heard: 'finish yourself off'. Unbelievable.

Wake up. This isn't Melita.

Here it comes, your favourite part. A vaguely stern woman is about to choreograph you.

A shock through your body, the colour draining from your face. You shudder with pleasure.

You knew this was your fate. You knew you'd be right back there.

Yes... yes...

You gasp, you throb. You're just shit, you're just you.

Yes, yes, we're just like these other cunts, we're just normal fucking people going to our shit fucking office. More!

Goosebumps, everywhere, your body alight with pleasure.

You are fucked up.

Yes! Yes!! That's not a real model but fuck it!!!

The saw buzzes and whirls, deafening you. You stare into her empty eyes, stifle a scream.

You can feel it, your body tense, your skin ready for the shock...

It's going to feel so good...

Deep, cold, agonising pleasure. You writhe.

Swallow, swallow it.

Finish this metal bitch!

Finally!

Still vibrating a little from the adrenaline and the death whistle, Ramses, too, slowly comes back into himself.

Somewhere, in whatever cosmic accounts are settled, there has been a mixup. Until such a time as it is cleared up, you appear to be off the hook.

Another time, another place. A different life overlapping for a moment.

Vehicle riding full speed ahead to the Great Nothing.

The kitchen light hums and splinters momentarily.

An artifact of no substance onto which nothing of substance has been recorded.

Amateur wirework.

One among their number turns to look at you, his technicolour robe billowing behind. He wears a small, neat moustache, as well as a large pair of headphones.

COLD OR HOT THE WORLD WILL STOP --

Your blood froths. Demanding you fight or fuck.

YOU UNDERSTOOD NOTHING OF THIS SCREAMING MAN'S MANIFESTO. IS HE FOR REVOLUTION OR AGAINST IT?

No use. The Umatic disc encoding method is basically extinct. You can't play this thing without specialised equipment.

A Protypo 909 50-watt with multi-disc changer. Last-generation model, designed for affordability at the expense of power and clarity.

But, below that: vanilla, must. The pulpy fragrance of paper.

Wait! There's no neatly perforated line to guide your tearing. And the binding's flimsy -- any operation you attempt, without the proper precautions, will become a dissection.

It's a testament to the Ombre Hombre's popularity that they've been able to afford to keep it running this long.

The deity acknowledges its supplicant; your heart rate ratchets up a joyful notch.

This is a Umatic. While the form-factor's the same as any modern disc, the encoding method is entirely different.

The Opera has unofficially been considered the last come, last served among the world three's leading intelligence agencies for at least two decades.

ONLY THROUGH REPEATED TESTS OF PURITY AND UNWAVERING DESTRUCTION OF THOSE WHO FAIL THEM CAN A PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC POPULATED BY ACTUAL PEOPLE BE CREATED.

To master the own goal is to master the element of unpredictability.

Distrust as a replicating sickness.

Checks