Men of Arms

So two adventurers no doubt, dr Metalchromegetsyouhome (4130), and professor inthebasementthereislifting. Both extrapolate on the favorite reification of today's adventure: the woman possesses the secret of who these heroes are, but they want none of it. It is a conflict for which they are prepared to die but a war not worth winning, yet a war that they return to in spare moments. They dig trenches and hang photos. Years pass. Comrades are gassed in the fields and lay hung, opened by large caliber wounds, on the razor wire fences which welcome each night's recovery from absorbing this other. They wish to be identified by the other's freedom, but do they want a part of letting that freedom fall where it lands and hope that the secret, soon to be revealed, is a good one? Or is the apprehension of her freedom a big scam, do they condition the animal to roll over on command but know at the periphery of each thought that the beast will tear the neck apart for fun and for amusement? There is a war on how they make us and we make them. Pack it up and you know you've lost. Get in formation, start the aerial raid, let loose your 20mm anti tank munitions, and you know it's an invisible target, a charade. It's a hell, a fucking blast, and what's this, oh shit, a green commodity based currency. The fucking arms trade infects everything, even my kitchen drawer.