It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.
He shuffles the stack of papers, and then does it again. Sharon Luna A.K.A. Sirius was on the police payroll. So was Dog One and Nine Hundred Days. The manila envelope had been poking out of the trash in the alley. It had pay-stubs for all of them. Every single member including himself was in pay of the police. He gave out lots of information. He told secrets to men in rooms and alleys, he had received pills and cash for those secrets. His main source of income was giving out secrets and tips. Tips on the other groups, off course. He never sold out the revolution. Those other groups let down the revolution. Their secrets needed to be told. Of course some of those strangers were police and had written out a receipt. He knew about himself, but what about the others. Three of them were organizing his biggest scheme yet, the one that will almost literally write their name in the sky. He might give Amadeus a couple of these names. Do a little house cleaning. If they survived the present mission.
Sound of paper shuffling. Occasional changes in breathing. Pill bottle rattling. A buzzer sounded. A drawer slammed shut. A door opening. Heavy footsteps across a floor. Paper rustling as if being passed from one hand to another. Footsteps. A door closing. A button pressed. Tape whirred.
Communique of the revolt. Ugliness will reveal itself today. Your fascist toy will serve the revolt. The untrue never belonged in the revolt. The revolt serves its own needs. If only one may exists that believes in the revolt the revolt will continue. It has almost no need of people; its ideas are that just and true.
Button click. Tape whir ceases. Sound of a cigarette lighting. Pill bottle rattles again.