Dear Cartels,
I hear Jesus loves you. How wonderful. So happy for you. Thing is, assholes, I'm his bodyguard. Which makes the whole cross thing my fault. I have shit I need to put right, you know how that goes. I am the commander of the warrior angels and they send me in when asses need kicking. This place is a fucking mess. This is a courtesy call to ask which side are you on. I expect a reply "money-funsters" (keeping this a bit family friendly). I am the ghost you don't wanna ghost because my backup is higher up, you dig?
Commander Angel Star
Dear Cartels,
Your prompt response is appreciated. God says all lights are green to proceed with peace talks. We will proceed together. Whilst traditionally we think of peace as a negotiation, the representative of God does not negotiate. Here are the opening instructions.
The current boarders stay as they are. We will remove the western imposed monetary system and return to traditional methods of negotiating between peoples aided by technology. The oceanic ecosystem will be fully protected, all commercial fishing will end, this will help to stabilise climate change. Drug lands must be either converted to food production for your people or returned to God for His creation.
Until there is more, that is all.
Commander Angel Star
It is cheaper to buy those trained in killing and torture by the police than any other means of continuing cartel business. The money-nexus destabilises countries as spreading infection for which the only vaccine is a love-nexus. Are you ready for the change? The fork is here.
A money-nexus world makes false virtues of every vice and is thus the crucible of the cartels.
The cartel, the mob, the most emotionally indifferent monsters the money-nexus ever birthed. For what was once a man or woman of the love-nexus, of God, had crossed over into the devil's keep.
The cartel, the wart of the money-nexus world, was always there to radiate more suffering into the present and down to future generations.
There they stood, the vacuous men so wounded they replaced a need for love with a lust for power and dominance. They called it "respect," but that given in fear can never be such. Respect is given to the loved, a cowering deference is given to the ones who take by force. So this cartel are nothing but infants bleeding behind stoic masks. Yet truthfully they can never be as strong as the mother who protects her child or the father who becomes the protective shield his family needs. The truth is, monsters are weak.
A clock of austere countenance snubs its nose at gravity, perching upon a crude nail as if it were a plinth of rock. In the dusty grim, behind curtains sewn shut, each second drips as miserly metered tears. Each ruthless clang-sob leads its silent apostle, only to self erase, to dissipate, to surrender to the next. Each ruthless clang-sob announces itself as the newest word for pain, the newest name of the newest newborn. This ever open eye blinded itself, witnessed not, spoke not, of what was plain to see. This eye, you see, was the faithful servant of the obscurantism that birthed it and hung it on the wall.