The arbitrageurs of the Apocalypse. Our place of rendezvous is on the second basement of a tower of the 13th arrondissement, a tower OPAC requisitioned by decree, as an ever growing Parisian real estate. Our trading room is lurking beneath the embers of this rundown Paris, city sacrificed by successive economic programs outlined by the Sixth Republic National Socialist economic programs such as dropped napalm bombs by a generation of political leaders of a pseudo-fed Science-cobbled together from an old flea market left by Naomi Klein, Susan George, Viviane Forrester, Subcomandante Marcos et al.
Traders catacombs. We work in crevices carved by the gap between the real economy and that which is dictated by the pundits EU 2 , trade secret where our careers are virtual which is undermined future wealth . Creative Destruction Inc.., A company being incorporated in Interzone and operating through the interstices where stealth marketing, but trampled never defeated and resumed his natural rights.
Traders from the hustle and bustle. The province is under the thumb of the beggar and the Parisians have long since lost their footing, their City of Light hittistes overwhelmed by the crevard, anarchists and revolving around the various black blocs. France turns the turbo-feudal regime. Up there in the street, everything is played in a courtyard of miracles. Down here in the middle of our underground halls, prevailing prices of goods of all kinds. Here at home, it's Black City. Where I dip into techno-literary affairs.
The sound pulse of a saturated rai music that makes them tremble whiskey glasses. I sip my ice-free Jameson, 40% alcohol that recalls the official unemployment rate . Next to me a rich new trader, I've never seen here before and that seems to be good start after a strong dose of Grand Theft Ego , pslamodie his pitch from hallucinated "leftover vibrations of police state paranoia Cultivated by narcotics bureaus.
Djamel beckons me across the room. I join him at his desk to remind him that there is no question of letting these manuscripts in the Bambara language these bastards officials. Real gems written on sheepskin, bark of trees and blades of a camel, a nice collection of world heritage that will sell for high prices. Djamel has found a batch of more than 5,000 manuscripts in a teacher rather poorly paid, university Sankore in Timbuktu. I confirm that I pay him three times the rate Unesco and hard cash. When it comes to literature, I am tchip easy and generous. A hand
cling by the shoulder. It's Eastern. He comes to news.
- So what becomes of this sequence neurogenetics?
- It's good, but there were few complications. I had to leave Copenhagen in speed, CAMBIA evangelists began to suspect something. I ended up sending the code to Natal from a Starbucks in Malmö.
- You're still employed our codec?
Not wanting to return to this story, I do not deign to answer. I quickly changed the subject.
- Where is Bilal?
- Telex No. 1 in a . It is a case. A story of coltan.
Behind Me Baby, trader Hungarian - Babelon real name, makes a hell of racket. He is angry with the rich new trader, which is obviously a worthy representative of Tchitchi Paris and who had the awkwardness of wanting to settle a case neuneus .
- I'll explain it in simple terms, you know, ABC style.
He pauses before getting to the bottom:
- My industrial group enters the fray of global warming and business that brews full of cash. Greenbacks of Americans, chintocks yuan, Indian rupee, Japanese yen, and so on. To know the value of a given ticket, nothing more simple. Just check the exchange rate on your PDA. But there are more important than monetary value, and that's what the Europeans, who spend their time trying to please everyone, never wanted to know.
- Look at these notes and tell me what you see. It tends
notes 50 and 100 euros to the caller.
- That portals and windows. There is not a guy on the damn tickets. And they dare to lecture me with their humanism junk! Molière, Shakespeare, Cervantes, all gone by the wayside! There are only points of passage for transbahuter Goudas and Camembert. And the worst part is that these crossings are no longer needed to pass anything. We prefer to use them as ramps.
- Behind every dollar it is the U.S. Marines and a melting pot that works. Behind every yuan there is a tsunami workers hands and growth as reliable as a metronome. We also know very well that there behind the yen and pound sterling. Same for the rupee. What's behind the euro? We never knew. The euro, or what remains of it, it's only paper. That's why nobody respects us.
- past, there were national identities. All this has been replaced by a European identity cobbled Loved bullshit treaties and declarations, ie by anything. Zero. Vaporware. Europe, it is more than a container ship drifting which carries no ideal. Everything is engulfed in a huge hypermarket Foir'Fouille for free movement of sausages, flat screens and pads that nobody on this continent small-wins can not buy anyway. We swapped our heritage cons few boxes of goods. Even the Americans, they say drugged consumption to the bone, yet never dared to do such a thing!
- Your euro, I am not.
The guy in front, who did not place since the beginning, remains nonplussed. Someone stands up to a table right next to tap him on the shoulder and give him a final notice, style friendly advice if he wants to continue attending the scene.
- Take in the seed, man.
Moreover, the bartender refuses systematically tips neuneus in here. They prefer encrypted codes that provide access to minutes of bandwidth on the Underbahn 2.
1: Telex - Cabin Internet, like the taxi-phones of yesteryear, often cobbled together from an analog telephone line to prevent rampant surveillance on digital lines.
2: Underbahn - a term commonly used in Europe to designate the Internet underground.
