EVE General Discussion

They are probably not in eve. They are likely too afraid to get contaminated by a goon operative and get the govenrment disbanded a few years later and the name of USA stolen into a bakery.

I mentioned in the other thread, but...the most likely spy in EVE is the junior enlisted intelligence analyst who plays EVE anyway. When I was in the service, we got bombarded with "report shady dudes" notices all the time, so I expect there's a few out there keeping notes on corp-mates, and turning it in to superiors. It's an encouraged thing.

This is because I said "Gerry Adams" in a post innit?

Oh wait, he's not a terrorist

He's a patriot





Jihad

Bomb

Embassy

Coca Cola

Yemen

Pants on Head

tinfoil

Major League Baseball

there we go all better

Some call him that, murderer by association in my book.

In your dreams, the terrorists and criminals wear suits these days, some of them even have job titles, like politician.

I thought you might be, but I wasn't entirely sure

why do you think miners are afk all the time ?
they're up to something

We really should start watching the npc corp hordes that come out in every nerf highsec thread. They are terrorist sleeper cell agents. I have a diagram with plenty of yarn and decaying newspaper clippings that shows Dinsdale Pirannha is the true evil terrorist mastermind of Highsec. All the more reason to nerf highsec.

How do you know what a real spy would do; are you a highsec trained terrorist? Are you a part of Dinsdale's ~inner circle~?

Mmmm Free Bird Seed.....


Wait a minute... that looks suspiciously like iron filings

I can’t go out no more.

There’s a man by the door
in a raincoat
smoking a cigarette

But


I’ve put him in my diary
and the mailers are all lined up
on the bed, bloody in the glow
of the bar sign next door

He knows that if I die
(or even drop out of sight)
the diary goes and everyone knows
the CIA’s in Virginia

500 mailers bought from
500 drug counters each one different
and 500 notebooks
with 500 pages in everyone.

I am prepared.
* * *

I can see him from up here.
His cigarette winks from just
above his trenchcoat collar
and somewhere there’s a man on a subway
sitting under a Black Velvet ad thinking my name.

Men have discussed me in back rooms.
If the phone rings there’s only a dead breath.
In the bar across the street a snubnose
revolver has changed hands in the men’s room
Each bullet has my name on it.
My name is written in back files
and looked up in newspaper morgues.

My mother’s been investigated;
thank God she’s dead.

They have writing samples
and examine the back loops of pees
and crosses of tees.

My brother’s with them, did I tell you?
His wife is Russian and he
keeps asking me to fill out forms.
I have it in my diary.
Listen–
listen
do listen:
you must listen.

In the rain, at the bus stop.
black crows with black umbrellas
pretend to look at their watches, but
it’s not raining. Their eyes are silver dollars.
Some are scholars in the pay of the FBI
most are the foreigners who pour through
our streets. I fooled them
got off the bus at 25th and Lex
where a cabby watched me over his newspaper.

In the room above me an old woman
has put an electric suction cup on her floor
It sends out rays through my light fixture
and now I write in the dark
by the bar sign’s glow.
I tell you I know.

They sent me a dog with brown spots
and a radio cobweb in its nose.
I drowned it in the sink and wrote it up
in folder GAMMA.

I don’t look in the mailbox anymore.
The greeting cards are letter-bombs.

(Step away! Goddam you!
Step away. I know tall people!
I tell you I know very tall people!)
The luncheonette is laid with talking floors
and the waitress says it was salt but I know arsenic
when it’s put before me. And the yellow taste of mustard
to mask the bitter odor of almonds.

I have seen strange lights in the sky.
Last night a dark man with no face crawled through nine miles
of sewer to surface in my toilet, listening
for phone calls through the cheap wood with
chrome ears.
I tell you, man, I hear.

I saw his muddy handprints
on the porcelain.

I don’t answer the phone now,
have I told you that?

They are planning to flood the earth with sludge.
They are planning break-ins

They have got physicians
advocating weird sex positions.
They are making addictive laxatives
and suppositories that burn.

They know how to put out the sun
with blowguns.

I pack myself in ice–have I told you that?
It obviates their infrascopes.

I know chants and I wear charms.
You may think you have me but I could destroy you.
any second now.

Any second now.

Any second now.

Would you like some coffee, my love?

Did I tell you I can’t go out no more?
There’s a man by the door
in a raincoat.


Stephen King’s Paranoid: A Chant (1985)