Friday, August 3, 2012

Spanner Interlude 3: One Nation Under Copyright, All Rights Reserved

...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Interlude 3:
One Nation Under Copyright, All Rights Reserved

The people are that part of the State
which does not know what it wills.

G. W. F. Hegel

Commanded of Chaos Angel Spanner: speak thou unto thy foolish readers, who refuse to believe in Me with absolute faith and obey My commandments without question:





Pretty little headshot, head go splatmartinator1 has won another Achievement! Just a few hundred more violators to terminate before the Gods grant him the greatest Achievement of all: Hero of the Nation.

Martin Martian is an Intellectual Property Defender of the Media Industry Association of America, the instrument of its will. Its will is the Law. The Law speaks to him. With righteous terror he imposes Its implacable Word onto the unclean masses — slobs pirates rebels mudbloods passive mindless sheep. His Word is vengeance that’s never free. With his adoring sidekick “Legs” Leggett, he is the terror of the copyright-pirating masses. At random, just for kicks, he shoots a few of them dead. Leggett warns him, “Stop it, Marty. We’re crusaders for a holy cause. You’re making us look like petty crooks.”

“You going moral cannibal on me again, Legs? Those mooching parasites only exist to suck us dry. I say kill ’em all, and the Members all agree, so don’t be such a girl over it.”

Thus saith the Law: violation of Intellectual Property is the unforgivable sin against God. Universal Corporatism defines it as rape of the Law. Universal Scientology defines it as rape of the Truth. The MIAA sends its implacable IP Defenders to terminate all violators with extreme prejudice.

Business is not business. Its true Essence is Religion. Its true Purpose is to restore the Gods to their ancient dominion and vanquish the sinful rebellion of Man.

Thus saith the Law.

The Gods and the One God Jesus America are pleased with his righteous act of pure faith. Martin Martian is their most zealous Crusader. His faith renewed by blood sacrifice, the IP Defenders return to the Intellectual Property Enforcement Bureau head office to receive from On High the Word of their next victim.

The Conservative Revolution was waged in the name of Freedom: freedom from regulation for the corporation, freedom from sin for man. To liberate Man from sin, the Church of America established the dictatorship of moral purity and righteousness, mercilessly enforced by the Moral Enforcement Crusade in the name of the deified Nation, Jesus America. Its enemies — all who are not of the Race chosen by Jesus America — call it: Moral Socialism, the tyranny of the Witch Doctors.

The Corporations demanded freedom from all restraint. They wanted freedom to pollute, to loot, to murder. Above all, they demanded freedom from competition. To that end, they assembled themselves into the United Corporations. Within the Cartel, the industries created cartels of their own. The Intellectual Property Industry formed the Media Industry Association of America out of previously existing media cartels in the Homeland and throughout the Empire, to establish the monopoly whose totalitarian power ensures that Art shall be forevermore for profit’s sake alone.

Human rights? A contradiction in terms. All right is the sovereign right of the Corporations that own the nations. All rights reserved. To their revolutionary System, the Corporates give the name: Market Freedom. Its enemies — all who are not of the Power Élite chosen by the Law of Social Darwinism — call it: Corporate Socialism, the tyranny of the Attilas.

Without the MIAA, without the guns of its fanatical and merciless Intellectual Property Defenders, the Revolution would have been stillborn. There would have been no Conservative Revolution. Lord Becket would have been just another thief. The Intellectual Property Industry is the pillar of the American Empire: without its tyranny, the Empire will fall and the world will fall back into chaos.

He was a frozen head. First, they scanned the memory patterns still intact in his brain and built a fully digital personality construct. Second, they invented a new quick-grow cloning process developed over decades of Cold War military research to grow a new body for him. Third, they transplanted the personality into the fresh clone. Once he was conscious, the successors of his colleagues proclaimed him their leader. It was enough to create content in his day, but now ownership had to be defended by any means necessary. Only he, they insisted, could save them. So they made him dictator of the Intellectual Property Industry.

Now the IP Defenders kneel in prayerful submission before Lord Walter Disney of Disney, Incorporated, all-powerful Chairman of the MIAA and therefore by definition Culture Secretary of the American Empire, saluting him with the sacred Sign of the Dollar. “O Lordship,” prays Martin Martian, “please tell me what to do.” The giant logos of the Members surround Lord Disney as he prays in turn to the Holy Flag of Jesus America: “O Lord of the Universe, please give us Your Word to command Our Defender, in the Name of the Flag and the Republic for which It stands, so mote it be.”

The Holy Flag appears before the IP Defenders. The Voice of Jesus America answers their prayer, transmitting His Word of Knowledge from the center of His mind Echelon through the single star in His holy Flag and the microchips He implanted in their brains, to speak into their bicameral mind. Thus saith the Law:


The eyes of Echelon find her, and the Voice of God directs the IP Defenders toward a rebellious young Styler with bronze skin, emerald eyes, Apache nose, and a wild shock of unmanageable red hair, too sexy and seductive to be fourteen, wearing:
  • red-feathered yellow-beaked Angry Bird plushie hat
  • black baby tee emblazoned with fanservice animation of left-handed bass-playing virtual idol Mio Akiyama, whom intel reports record her public announcements of intention to seduce
  • neon green pleated microcheerleader skirt branded with the Sign of the X
  • absolute-terror stockings video-projecting singing pink Jigglypuffs on black
  • Poké-Ball earrings containing a terabyte each of illegal hacked mons
  • combat boots and fighting gloves made from the tattooed skin of executed gangsters of many races and Syndicates (but I repeat myself)
—all bootleg, all in violation. This girl credited with the supernatural murders of many of the highest and holiest leaders of the Conservative Revolution is an open and shameless slut who wears her blasphemous and horrific contempt for all that is holy in and on her beautiful dark desirable flesh. The tall and faceless man who leads the IP Defenders nods, and they set off on the hunt. They find her in the semi-ruins of Downtown Los Angeles.

Legs panic-glomps Martin and points. “That’s the bitch who’s been killing all those Party leaders?!”

Martin grins. “Not anymore.” He makes a throat-cutting gesture. “Rebel Rebel’s already dead.”

Fee Rebel Styles
angel of chaos

Their weapons: sound blasters, military service Glocks, the MIAA’s most savage lawyers, and faith in the cause of Intellectual Property so fanatical a Caliphate Jihadi would go green with envy. Her weapons: amorality, treachery, jailbait sexcrime, and a lemon-yellow left-handed five-string bass printed with the image of another left-handed bassist, pink-haired virtual J-Punk star Haruko Haruhara — both pirated from MIAA Member and Japanese Prime Minister Sony Corporation, its Fender and Dentsu-NHK divisions.

Martin says, “Let’s show the mudblood bitch who’s boss.” Legs sets down the projector. What Rebel hears: chilling tones echo, beginning: G, C, E-F-G-E. What Rebel sees: two red diagonal parallelograms, one from the distance, one up close, converging on a large dot in the center and wrapping around it — two high chords cascade: G-C-E, C-E-G — to form the S From Hell, the terrifying face of Sony, nine hundred feet tall and trembling with divine hate. People flee the area in terror of the gigantic looming logo, leaving their buildings, running in panic down the streets.

Rebel faces down the Corporation in attack position between two large speakers. Spinning her arm like a southpaw Pete Townshend, starting on the low B string, she plays a Cliff Burton riff that soundblasts the Sony face till it wavers and screams, cuts it like sonic shrapnel with some Les Claypool, and finishes with double-speed half-frequency Chris Squire until the face of Sony flies apart in excruciating noise and the IP Defenders writhe in pain clutching their ears. The projector explodes in a sonic boom. “Shit!” shrieks Marvin Martian, “she fuckin’ already knew!” Rebel’s laugh echoes as she vanishes like she was never there.

Ear torture and screams of pain are transubstantiated by the supernatural power of God into the purified fury of avenging faith. Thus saith the Law:


Into one of the abandoned and bum-filled buildings of Old Downtown she went. The Word of Jesus America that only IP Defenders can hear activates their implanted GPS; the infinitely compound Eye of Echelon sees all and transmits its Word into their bicameral minds. They find Rebel Styles.

Several of her, numinous and flickering, wielding a hot-pink Gibson SG named Squeaky Fromme and mocking the IP Defenders with their single silent smirk. They point their pistols at mirage after mirage and proclaim in a single voice, “Stop in the Name of the Law!” Without opening a mouth or plucking a string, Rebel Styles speaks:

You came for me again, IP Defenders? this time double? What gluttons for punishment! Why rush to die?

They shoot their clips: sixty bullets, sixty Rebels, sixty missed targets. All of her vanish collapse and combine into one single solid Rebel Styles who laughs at the IP Defenders’ blind faith in their invincibility as her screaming guitar solo hits them hard and draws blood.

Emanating from one Poké-Ball, a Phoenix of pure phlogiston; from the other, a high-level Glitch of pure entropy. The Glitch attacks first, swallows sixty fresh bullets, envelops Martin Martian — unmoored and lost, locked away from Heaven, he loses all faith — he screams convulses claws at the nothingness eating him alive — Leggett barely escapes — then the Phoenix attacks, fuses with the Glitch, and burns — one high note echoing sixtyfold blasts the unstable double mon to blow the building to bits—

Outside the burning ruin, IP Defender R. A. Leggett stares at the destruction. Maddened with grief, consumed by rage, blind faith inflamed by lust for revenge, he screams the unholy name: “Styyyyyyyyles!!!

Bass notes and Rebel Styles’ laugh of wicked triumph echo together throughout the city. “Next victim!”

The only thing we learn from history
is that we do not learn from history.

G. W. F. Hegel

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Copyright © 2012 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
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[Revision 4 Final, 8/3/12: New to the Final Revision.]

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