Vindicating war on the lower class through means of Hegalian dialectic, page 1

Well here is a rough draft of a short story, I made it up as I went (as usual per my writings, start with a title that pops into my head and write what pops in).

"We would be completely justified in doing so," the big rich banker said to Glenn Burnankey, head of the Federal Monetary Agency."but don't think for a second we couldn't do something worse, much more harmful, dreadful, devastating, irrational, and most of all, obvious. If propaganda is the strings, the public is the puppet, and we, the fat cats, the puppet masters. Let them burn and shed their blood, for it pleases Jabula." Rich, now irate with madness; a hint of lunacy in his eyes, and a half drunken glass of rich scotch in one hand, nearly burnt out cigar in the other, contrived aloud. Garbling on with militaristic tact, yet drunken tomfoolery (let's not forget this would be his 5th glass, Glenn thought to himself), Rich stammered on and on in his usual manner of untidiness.

Half not caring if he would interrupt Rich, half not giving a damn about the whole conversation, Glenn exclaimed in a somewhat weak voice, a hint of vodka on his breath still yet from this morning, "God damn it Rich, don't you get it? That's the problem, we couldn't possibly make it out to be any more obvious! What with the tin hats online and the Jews with their liberal media, we'd be downright run out of town for this!" And with this Rich slammed a fist down on his quarter ton (metric tonnes too not that Nancy boy short tons, Rich gleefully belts out to any and all visitors of the Rich Morgan office) cherry wood desk.

And with that Glenn nearly soiled himself. Caught off guard by this display of drunken anger, Glenn braced himself for the backlash, the onslaught, the unrelenting rant that lay before him like a mutated cow awaits death. "I don't give a damn what you think, Glenn, you are just here to do as we say! You are the puppet master of the people, and I, you. Let us not forget who brought you into your enviable position of head of FMA....." At this point, Glenn knew this would be a good time to bring up his 4 o'clock, lest he be kept here to listen to the life and times of the American public in the days to come til evening.

Doing just that, Glenn thanked Rich for the excellent scotch he was allowed to observe the big shot banker consume, whilst being denied his own glass, the itchy eyes and lingering smell of death via cigar-in-poorly-ventilated-room, and heated one way Lincoln-Douglas on the fate of 300 million souls, and stepped out the door. Not even paying attention to the fact that Rich was attempting to remind him of who his daddy is (I'll never get you another job again you baboon's arse, and I'll make sure no one else does either, Rich belted out into the corridors of RP Morgan HQ), Glenn casually strolled through the myriad of secretaries, paper work, and ho-hum humdrum conundrums that seemed to have become the norm in this day and age. Out of the darkness and into the light, Glenn stepped onto the sidewalk of Palisade Street, ground zero of numerous federal bailouts.

Ah yes, the bailouts. It wasn't long ago that Glenn was forced into embarrassment by his puppet masters. Sitting feebly in a leather chair made from the carcasses of soldiers, made for the fat cats, big shots and shot callers, Glenn was forced to answer, in a ridiculously, suspiciously, and moronic manner, that he had no idea where half a trillion in taxpayer USDs had gone. The truth was, he wasn't lying. Glenn had no idea. He isn't the bankers after all, ask THEM where half a trill ran off too. The only smug bastard response he could muster was, "well I'm pretty sure it went to the panties and bras of grade A European prostitutes, via the slimy hands of random prime ministers and sheiks," to which he earned a unanimous laughter amongst Congress, the people, and the fat cats.