COMMAND CENTER MENTALITY
The weight of Millennium smashes down upon your brain.
You feel ill at ease within your casualness.
You need to get serious.
You need to get into uniform.
You need to get ranked up.
You need to go straight to the top of the chain of command.
You need to be surrounded by huge telescreens showing satellite feeds full of zoom and enhance and targeting reticles and coordinates and vital statistics and heat signatures and eyes on every arsenal and troop maneuver and world leader.
You’ve got to have a nuclear option. Preferably a bunch.
You need to feel like the Most Consequential Person.
You need an ergonomically sound command chair.
You need a dramatic countdown.
You need sweat on every brow, every upper lip-save yours, you magnificent living statue you!
You need to get beyond body.
No meats on you, Now.
You’ve gone Full Notional.
The Human displaced by the Rank, by the Power.
Let it all work.
Telescreens and staff and State and citizens and nukes and soldiers and tax revenues and every last thing merges into the Higher You-the Grandiose Champeen who shall punch Millennium’s lights out!
. . . every dream fades into a lonely room, a pile of dirty laundry, fading vital signs, brippity farts under cover of dark, eyes glazing, Girls Gone Wild infomercial occupying the deep A.M., the thudding mediocre continuity of the No Clearcut Apocalypse Timeline . . .
