Cards of Satan: Captain’s Log (A Field Corporal’s Cross)

The method of performing a robbery of a food outlet, covering for the robbery, and understanding the consequences of snitching the true culprit, are simple.

A cop, pukes their guts out, on their rookie mission, to make them dependent on comfort food. Without that, they wouldn’t get free food, to fund them, when the state budget is low – there’s a boycott because of a civil rights incident set up by a food outlet. There’s competitions. Bringing us to our point of logic.

A major food artery, chokes off a small business, so the robbery happens, the snitch drops on the good looking wife, and then, if you snitch, one product goes out, forcing dependence on another product, hence a civil rights incident happens automatically.

Production goes up too high.

The plant fails, as in, the industrial or processing plant.

Burgers come out, hot dogs go in.

Bagels go out, donuts go up.

Bread gets robbed, stack comes in, industrial meat product in food in preservatives.

The wife that snitches by trigger word of agriculture economics, is the bitch.

She won’t discuss how law enforcement or food are linked, because it’s unpleasant, she’s a natural murderer.

She’s been marked, for covering for the family, that performs the robbery.

And then you catch a suspect.

And then the boycott happens.

Because of the civil rights incident.

And the cops, lose their pay.

And now, you need a need undercover squad, to puke their guts out, to be hardies, husbands and wives, for dummy cops, the beneficiaries, on the heist.

And so forth, forever.

You have very simple, lengthened logic, that closes and becomes more complex.

That’s a socio-economic proposition.

A tether, in grandiose capital terms.

Marx couldn’t figure it out, they poisoned him and jumped him on a jerky mullet.

He was in the hospital, eating canned yams, instead of tuna, to cover it up.

All the culprits that poisoned him, married into cop families.

I got jumped because my mother was the victim of a stage-up, for being the one the snitch got dropped on, for being sensitive about food and economics.

And I was studying economics.

It means I could snitch the whole business.

But I didn’t yam myself.

I ate the bread.

In the burger.

And didn’t eat the lettuce.

I pick off toppings and wipe down the mayo, the grease that fucks up your colon, on the side of the tray.

I was taught, by my mother, to hate pickles.

Pickles cause dementia.

It’s even in Scrubs.

I’ve never eaten a pickle in my entire life.

It’s why I’m sharp, rapid, and clever.

A pederast is created when they fiend on pickles, and eat them constantly.

It’s a dumb, slocum, prison bitch, that has a dream of being a rapist and instead impugnes themselves as a sex offender and perjures themselves in court to indicate they lied to get there.

You put a dab, of cocktail sauce, with horseradish, nothing else, on an infant’s tongue, on the very tip.

They won’t smoke cocaine, either, they’ll blow it out.

That was Vienna.

Published by cheater120

Consider me an expert in information munitions. I practice Zazen meditation, Yakuza Trappist form (a Yakuza, games cheat, and Trappist, a counter-agent), as a Bonafuda, a mercantile salesmen of information through philosophy, literature, fiction, and academics, distributed as munitions technique deployed for the purpose apparent to you, unless of course you have violated the ethics of my piece, in which case you will be trapped inside a theft of the piece and an action within the boundaries of the violation you have committed in Benedictine culture, the Jewish affiliate within Catholic culture. Buyer beware, and these poems, are free.

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