I want to believe in the Freemasons. I want to know for certain that they exist and that they rule the world.
I want there to be half a dozen Jewish bankers in an underground bunker in the centre of the world, all controlling things. I stay up nights praying that an unholy union between the Mossad, the CIA and RAW really does have complete control over the world. Maybe it’s all of them.
Yes. Every fortnight the Zionists, Hindu nationalists, George Bush Senior, the ghost of Howard Hughes, the Illuminati, a few Skull and Bones alums and the Bilderberg Group all sit down in a lead-lined room, lit by candles placed in the open mouthed skulls of Che Guevara, Patrice Lumumba and Palestinian freedom fighters.
Faces obscured by shadows under red hooded robes, they begin their meetings by taking their infernal oath: “The Blackest Night falls from the skies, The darkness grows as all light dies, We crave your hearts and your demise, By my dark deeds Pakistan shall suffer!” The rhyme scheme falls apart in the last verse but you can’t blame them.
They are too busy plotting the demise of this great nation to focus on poetic structures. They congregate over an iPad that has a zoom-able map of this country and is fed real-time satellite footage relayed through a flock of drones painted radarinvisible black. They make decisions and inform their Blackwater/Xe/Black Ops agents that are hiding inside a container near the Karachi wharf.
The next day our headlines will read of wheat and sugar shortages, suicide bombings, political deadlock and power failures. Their work done for now, they return to their respective secret identities as UN/IMF/WHO/WWF/WWE/TNA officials. Anything less than this would be disappointing. That’s why conspiracy theories exist, I think. Because we don’t have the capacity to be disappointed any more.
It is easier to believe the UN investigation report is doctored by the CIA/Ban Ki-moon/President Zardari than to put stock in its results. Let the truth, hidden in a manila folder buried in a warehouse in the basement of the Pentagon next to the Ark of the Covenant, be forever a speculation. That way we can spend our evenings in discussion about the true identity of the culprit.
Conversations can be had in offices instead of working, debates over dinner instead of awkward silence. “It was Musharraf with a sniper rifle from the rooftop of the nearest building. It was her husband who called her and told her to wave to the adoring public. It was Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with a rope.” Anything at all. The alternative, to believe in the banal results of a $20 million report, is too disappointing to bear.
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