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C8 Dink

He had fucked up 9/11. It was right in front of his eyes and he blew it.

Dink could never stop whipping himself for this oversight.

In retrospect, the hints were clear, but there was nothing solid enough to go running upstairs to Shroud.

In the aftermath, informational interference created so much chaos and distorted feeling that Dink’s blindness was never addressed, in spite of the fact that the hints came long before the FBI or the CIA picked up on their own.

But there was no punishment or even a simple citation from the upper echelons of Deep 6, let alone Shroud.

Perhaps that’s what was intended, he wondered.

They could cite an identifiable track. But it wasn’t necessarily a track that would lead anywhere near the truth.

In fact, it was meant to lead people away from the truth. Even in Deep 6.

Dink sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been programmed at some point in Training School to fuck up when necessary for some nefarious event to proceed according to someone else’s agenda.

It could’ve happened during those blackout periods, from complete exhaustion, too much coke, and too many beers.

All was allowed in Deep 6. Candidates must be educated to entertain themselves, as well as follow procedures.

It was going to be a long twenty years—the minimum commitment.

But the money was good. The money was enormous.

In spite of the complete absence of sunlight for twenty years and the horrors that could wreck your psyche. Not to mention how the skin turned into white paper within six months of being here.

The rookies would go to the tanning room and the gym every day, hoping to maintain the healthy blush of the peers they left behind.

But before long they became sluggish like everyone else.

Pale like everyone else.

Most people in Deep 6 looked like death warmed over. The Gestapo outfits were the killer, topped by a long black leather coat.

Everybody was pale as paper and looked like they weighed in at a hundred pounds. Nazi Zombies, Dink called them.

From all the shit they did to keep up with the madness.

Dink tried not to let it bother him.

He’d have plenty of time for daylight when his assignment was finished.

He was forty now, halfway through.

He was glad to leave his wife and kids behind.

They all hated him anyway.

So be it.

He sent them plenty of green to help them forget about him.

Dink was working at the Pentagon then. The Pentagon had a cozy relationship with the Shadow State.

The U.S. military was simply a function of the Shadow State, its personal global police force.

They worked together to help him disappear for twenty years.

He might pull another twenty down. He wasn’t in a hurry to get out of there, in spite of the drudgery.

Dink knew he could outprogram, deprogram, and break code better than anybody on the twenty levels above him.

But the lowest position was the only position open.

Dink was in a hurry to disappear. There were the gambling debts. He wiped that out with a couple of paychecks.

He lowered the Playboy magazine he was reading, frustrated that they had never done a spread on Britney.

Still, he was comforted by the fact that she had just trashed Justin.

He checked Monitor 17.

A dozen internationals were selling off their subsidiaries like hotcakes—fast and cheap.

His first thought was that the Shadow State cabal was it again, jolting the stock market into panic for three days so they could swoop in and pluck up all the scared little chickens for a song.

Like a pack of hungry foxes.

After a few days, the market would go back to normal and no one would notice any signs of the manipulation. Meanwhile, the old boys netted billions.

He did a cross search of all the companies involved and nailed it on the first try.

Their founders were board members at TransGlobal.

He did another cross search and nailed it again.

TransGlobal had been the center that big sell-off a few days before.

Shit.

An urgent email popped up in front of him on every monitor in the station. It was a request by another queer member of the Shadow State who needed information pronto.

His request.

He’s heard a rumor that there’s a video of naked boys under twelve being drawn and quartered by horses tugging their limbs apart until the limbs left the body.

This was getting too sick, even for Dinkleberry.

Dinkleberry sometimes wondered why the sickest minds became the shadow people.

Their sick dicks seem to run in one direction while their greed ran in another, as if horses were pulling apart their souls in some kind of sick ritual of self-hatred.

It wasn’t human.

Dink decided to visit Sonny Boy. Sonny Boy ran the station above him. Sonny Boy ran coke for Shroud.

The coke and booze train came with the Underground just before payday. Most guys had spent their paycheck before they even got it.

But there was always plenty of coke around. He couldn’t remember Sonny Boy ever being in short supply.

Sonny Boy’s problem was disciplining himself. He spent his life lying to people. He was in charge of Distortion Propaganda.

He couldn’t live without the shit.

Dink was just an occasional user. Sure, he went through some heavy dose periods—everybody went over the top once in a while.

But today, he needed a fix.

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