THIRD FRIDAY: 08.16.19
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Gus Romero IV
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Lyle Toledo Yazzie
The blaring sound of the sirens could be heard even from the Club district. It was most likely another shuttle deploying to a mining complex somewhere far away from here.
The report said that the victim was last seen here before someone showed up with a slug-thrower and checked him out.
Senny and Gus pulled up to the club where the coordinates were set. Grid-313, Block-4B.
Puffing his CigRet in and out very slowly, the vapors leaving the left side of his mouth and out his nostrils. Senny checked his Phase-Revolver, counting the number of bolts in the chamber using his right thumb. He counted seven bolts in the chamber, anyone looking to cause the two of them any trouble tonight would receive a verbal warning before either of them would have to use stun. And if things got really heated, they would be forced to go lethal.
Gus tossed an empty cup of Cafinite into a trash bin. Putting out his CigRet and exhaling the last puff of vapor that he held for a few seconds.
He looked up to the balcony of the club, there were some punks up there talking to a pretty shady looking character. The jackets they were wearing were lit up by the club's sign, which was unreadable because of the rain, and the fact that most of the letters were shorted out.
Senny and Gus both looked at each other, weapons at the ready should anything go wrong in the club. They got out of the car and walked right up to the front door. Before they went through however, Gus noticed a splotch of blood on a broken window-frame.
Senny noticed too, he pulled out his Revolver set to stun bolts. Gus pulled out his long slide, also set to stun bolts. The caliber would pack a little more punch from the revolver than the long slide, knocking someone down as soon as it hit.
Gus stood on one side of the door while Senny stood on the other end. They nodded to each other once...twice...On three they busted through the door. And at their feet lay a large blonde haired man, with his skull bashed in.
Four other bodies lay in the corner where a table stood, with cards strung across the floor. Each of them beaten and bloodied with broken bones. One of the bodies, a man with an implant in his left hand lay there with a crushed neck.
Gus walked up to the bartender with his weapon still drawn.
"What the hell happened in here?" He said with an urgent tone in his voice.
"The guy's up on the balcony right now," the bartender said. Pointing to the staircase to his left. Not very concerned with the mess of bodies in his own club, it seemed.
The two detectives ran up the steps with their weapons heated and ready to fire.
Once they reached the balcony, the punks Gus saw out in the car were standing there counting credits. One of them was missing his left shoulder, with wires exposed and crackling as the rain spilled all over the balcony.
"Hands up, all of you!" Senny said. The punks obeying the command, even the one missing a shoulder. The rest of his arm falling off as it hit the ground with a loud splash.
Senny walked over to the railing to see someone walking away from the club. He was unable to make out what the figure looked like because of the damn rain. Before he could give chase, the misty figure disappeared into the rainy night. No trace of it left...save for the bodies.
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A great specter is looming over the art world: the specter of Inter|Sekt. For far too long we have watched the artists of our generation turned into a disposable commodity, bought and sold by the galleries, stifled in their expression by the tastes of the art consultants who purchase pieces on behalf of financially minded clients who want a "solid investment".
They have been amalgamated into schools, said schools are a device of gallerists and art historians to divide and conquer the creatives and free thinkers.
For we live in a nation which thinks itself to be free yet is not, they expect the same of their artists.
Our culture has been raped and plundered by the upper echelon, picked apart and sold by the same greed mongers who claim to be it's patrons. The tool which has most effectively stunted the growth of modern American art in particular is the clever indoctrination of this idea of schools to not only the art student but anyone whom even reads a brief survey of the history of art sees that it is broken up into these categorized schools; the philosophies of these various sects creates conflict, division, and ultimately destruction of the morale and submission to the established order. Thus rendering the creative spirit confused and useless.
This helps curb the rebellious spirit of the average citizen outside of the art world in other spheres of society.
Art history is a lie and galleries are dens of thieves!
Inter|Sekt is not destroying the schools or the galleries, we are simply showing you they were never real, at least not in a world outside of that constructed by academics to sell text books to art students.
The reign of the gallerists and art consultants is over when you want it to be.
From the ashes of the indoctrinated schools of every form of art shall arise The New World Creative.
-Steven Lee Matz-
The inter|sekt manifesto