My mind was a surgeon’s scalpel – glistening and clean. Subjects threw themselves onto operating tables in the fetishistic poses of solicitation. They offered the payment and the meat. This is the bounty of kings. Spoils of silent wars fought in razor-wired compounds deep behind the enemy lines of the human mask. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun thought waves splash currents of molten lead against dilapidated concrete. Villages burn in the tank tracks wake. From a tiny slit to a gaping sore.