The Best Hairdresser In Dam-Torsad Is Not A Terrorist

Fiction Portal Intergalactic Summit
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Please. There has been some sort of “mistake.”

Rafik Zohar is a genius at scalp massage therapy contemporaneous with deep root tints, and just last year gave a fabulous presentation on the importance of glyph vector analysis in rebalancing anomalies of qliphoth integration at Ethelle Goldruhm’s “What The Sefirot Has Done For Us” symposium held on Hilaban… Hilaban… oh, blast, there’s too damn many space balls in Hilaban for me to keep track of them all but you get the point!

He certainly wouldn’t be running around kidnapping quantum geology interns!

I mean, come on. This is transparent Federal misinformation intended to obfuscate whatever foul plot ORE is hiding behind electron wave folding. Many people have told me, really terrific people, the best, frankly, that ORE’s compression project is in fact funded by the Federation’s Deep Bureaucracy as a technique for reducing the footprint of Matari immigrant settlement facilities.

Tangentially, I do adore the expedition frigates. Keep up the good work!

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Wow. I had never heard about this before… It makes a lot of sense!

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Doesn’t it, darling? The Deep Bureaucracy’s insidious cleverness is insidiously clever.

Sure, it starts with Matari immigrant test subjects. But once electron wave folding proves safe enough, the Deep Bureaucracy and its mining front won’t stop with settlement facilities.

We might all find our electrons rolled up into a state of never unrolling, trapping us in a miniaturized subspace microverse where the scarcity conundrum has been cracked wide open. Why, any person, no matter how common, could just reach out and grab a mint mango martini off a gold tray before settling down to a documentary on how the swollen tip of a Miasmos produces advantageous fluid vacuum dynamics when sliding into the docking canal of…

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All right, I admit the Deep Bureaucracy and its mining front might be on to something.

But that is no excuse for this criminal absence of transparency. If miniaturizing Matari is a necessary step toward utopia, then by all means, just say so. There is no need to frame the artists… ARTISTS… who perform follicle miracles at Gabriel’s Old City Tetra Gramma Metatron Salon.

I mean, please. What despicable smears are next? Will we be told that a charming female-to-male transgender Ni-Kunni androgyne with curly blond hair is secretly running a gargantuan soul-smuggling cartel out of a hair salon gigolo emporium?

I mean, come on…!

Oh, just a moment, there’s someone on the other line…

Darling! Were your adorable little ears burning? I was just insisting you are above reproach, and… What’s that? Oh. Oh. Oh, my goodness. I see. How insidiously (dare I say “devilishly?”) clever! That’s that, then. While I have you, the Dowager Duchess remains over three moons with the imperial seraphim sapphire hairnet you made for her. Will we see you at the next recital? Oh, wonderful! Yes, yes, I’ll take the usual, yes, five Brutor, three Krusual, and that Achuran twink with a flawless complexion. Toodles!

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Where were we? Right! I am certain whoever won an important federal election recently forged eleven thousand votes in a swing province with an intent to disadvantage patriotic nationalists. Absolutely certain. Release the krakens!

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You need to tell me more about this Deep Bureaucracy, lovely. It sounds positively insidious! Whatever can we do to stop it?

Do you have any informational pictures I could circulate within a group of like-minded individuals on GalNet? Please leave them unsourced, however. I found during my time sharing the word of the New Halaima Code of Conduct that footnotes really ruin the aesthetic.

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Unsourced images are a brilliant idea! BRILLIANT!

There’s got to be a velator around somewhere that used to belong to the president’s son, but could easily be in the possession of Mssr. Roden’s former solicitor once he realized the Scope would give him an interview slot if he possessed such a thing. I don’t remember the man’s name, but anyone who lets his face melt on camera must necessarily be above board.

Now, if we had all the resources of the cluster’s largest post-industrial industrial police state at our disposal (plus those of a mining consortium that has been digging up rocks longer than there have been rocks, not to mention a nefarious sisterhood that may or may not be in league with a drug cartel… whoa! Full circle!), where would we base the nerve center of our operation?

The basement of a fast food restaurant on Luminaire?

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Gosa darling. Wonderful to see you sharing your unique insight with the cluster once again. The years of your absence have been dreadfully partisan and dull.

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You must be talking about Fedo-an-Rice! Who would create a Fedo-themed menu unless it was a cover for something else. Plus it’s an anogram for “Rodan? Fierce!”

I mean, you have to add an extra ‘r’ but they wouldn’t leave a clue that obvious in plain sight. You have to expect to do a little work…

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Indeed, no one would create a Fedo-themed menu unless it was a cover for the Deep Bureaucracy! No. One.

The anagram crypto proves it! A -1R stragegy! Insidious! You’ve cracked the code, darling!

If an arms dealing zillionaire like Roden and his gigantic mining consortium buddies, plus their occult sisterhood, plus the vast Deep Bureaucracy of the largest post-industrial industrial police state in history think that by controlling every event that happens (even those that superficially appear disadvantageous to them), they can defeat a spunky group of truth-seekers with access to GalNet and a library of unsourced images, then they have another thing coming.

We will not sit by while our freedom to live in a world plagued by scarcity is attacked by despots with small utopias. Suffering, particularly that of other people, defines who we are!

The math to determine how small a Matari with all of their electrons folded up into an uncollapsed state might get is terribly difficult. Caldari Graduate Assistant! Blast. Where has she run off to? I’m sure that it is several orders of magnitude of reduction. If Roden and his ORE buddies figure out how to roll up proton waves, we’d be shrunk down to our neutrons. If we have any. Itty bitty. And of course, once they’ve figured out how to roll up electrons and protons, neutrons wouldn’t be far behind.

Inside of the miniaturization diorama, we would become nothing but equations of potential.

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Good grief! Roden, ORE, the Sisters, and the vast Deep Bureaucracy are on the precipice of inventing the Ethereal Plane! They must be stopped at all costs!

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Good grief! What if they have already perfected rolling neutrons up into collapse-less waves? We might be living in one of their insidious ethereal dioramas without realizing it! Anyone with a sufficiently advanced understanding of mathematics and an adequate power source could create any object from all potential existences at the click of a button in the basement of a Fedo-themed fast food joint.

This is terrible!

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What can we do? Will you run for President against Rodan at the next election to stop this?

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Oh. My. God. That is brilliant. !BRILLIANT!

I will emigrate at once. Slogan… slogan…

“A great wall to a greater future!”

The greatest future!

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You have my vote! And I’m sure you will win… unless the Deep Bureaucracy buys the election!

We must warn everyone in our Galnet groups at once!

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I came here looking for a hair dresser, what I found was reassurance that the Federation is a terrifying place.

I’ll just crawl back into my Caldari hole. At least there we know we are being exploited.

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Before I became an espresso sipping bohemian sipping espresso on the Crystal Boulevard (above a micro brewery franchise chain that serves deep fried balls of fedo fat rolled in glutinous rice), I too greatly admired the clarity of overtly fascist systems of government.

But now that I am a nun, a coffee sipping bohemian, and a presidential candidate all at the same time, I recognize the need for free and fair elections observed by rabid partisans. Only rabid partisans can defeat the elitist scab grown over Freedom™’s wound.

That said, Gabriel’s Tetra Grama Metatron Salon in Dam-Torsad’s Old City is divine, even if (or possibly due to the fact) its petite curly blonde androgyne proprietoress is running the Angel Cartel out of his waiting room.

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Why are the Defenders of Freedom always the beautiful ones? I mean, look at us, lovely!

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Darling! You are so right! For it is written (right now, see, I’m writing it down as we speak!): “freedom is beautiful, and so shall the beautiful be free.”

Oooh! That makes me a prophet! No, that’s not appropriate for my new federated life. Also… I don’t want to intrude upon that particular gentleman’s turf.

A guru!

I am a guru, a nun, an espresso sipping bohemian, and a presidential candidate.

Whew! Let all the angels with horns blow them among the stars over our heads - you know, those ones we haven’t figured out to reach even after centuries of space flight.

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Disgusting.
Freedom is an Inhuman concept.
And freedom fighters are outright fanatics and terrorists.
Defenders of freedom are disgusting! Terrorists are crappy amateurs, for terrorism is poor man wars. Those who resort to terrorism are just unprofessional embezzlers, they are UGLY, furriers with grenades. If you want to see real Beauty, you have to see Professional Army, Well Dressed Officers, and Soldiers Marching in Tight Formations!!

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Diana, sweetie, darling, you are so scrumptious! You would fit right in among the petite androgynes of Gabriel’s Tetra Grama Metatron Salon (even though you are not in any way, shape, form, or amorphous concept affiliated with cluster-spanning cartels hiding indecent intentions behind religious metaphors).

Truthfully, I feared the beauty of freedom might trigger you. I still remember that night when Valerie revealed her naked statue of Silas at the Murder Party. When your attention was drawn to the manner in which the sculptor so skillfully captured how the nipples floated, free from the restrains of gravity, you turned positively incandescent shades of gesticulating pink.

Now, I too greatly admire professional, well-dressed officers and soldiers marching in tight formations.

The way fabric cloaks a firm buttocks in motion can be even more revealing than a fully revealed buttocks. Certainly it is a different kind of reveal than the one produced by droplets of sweat mixed with moisturizing baby oils on a buttocks fresh from hours of rigorous Kimkerchop martial arts conditioning, but fabrics perform wonders with form and shadow that elude naked, even oiled, flesh.

That notwithstanding, Diana, sweetie, darling, the soldiers who flex toned glutes wrapped in skin-tight poly-metallic fibers while marching from one end of a Chimera to the other, back and forth, back and forth, over and over, every hour of every day not spent fighting… lathering themselves into a militarized stew of raw determination and throbbing purpose…

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…where was I?

Right! Those musk-intoxicated warriors dream of one particular kind of freedom: a galaxy free from the brain-eating face tentacles of Gallois space cuttlefish. You know it’s true, darling.

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What?

Do tell.

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Oh, dear me, where does one even begin with the menace of brain-eating Gallois space cuttlefish? It was only the libelous slander of scalp masseur and cabalistic scholar Rafiq Zohar that made me truly aware of the Federal Deep Bureaucracy’s conspiracies within conspiracies at all.

Of one thing I am certain: Roden is the Elder Cuttlefish.

I have set up a spy post just inside Matari space - barely a few jumps away from the system that serves as the cuttlefish tadpole pool. From there, instructions beam out to a million fast food chains all across settled (and perhaps even unsettled) space. The central system is so incredibly obvious, so mind-blowing out-in-the-open-for-all-to-see-and-forget obvious, that I am in awe of Roden’s malignant genius.

The menace presented by old fossils falling out of space onto our heads is tray passay. The true threat of our time is a creature conceived in it (though perhaps not all constituent parts are completely contemporaneous in every meaning of the word).

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So, what I gathered from that, lovely, is that the Federation is controlled by a deep bureaucracy, which of course does make sense. I really can’t believe that a government that has trillions of individuals is actually run by a democratic process. Someone, or some group is pulling the strings. And in this case it seems you believe that person is Rodan.

That’s a logical conclusion. He is the type of power hungry creep to be such a person.

But how do the cuttlefish fit into this? Do they contain a psychotropic element that makes people more susceptible to believing that they actually have a say in the Federation?