The Soviet Union

Nuclear power plants and all that chitinous military plating bristled with cannon-pokes and rocket-valves unused and unbuffed since the war, making their way up through mounds of rubble, probes burgeoning like quills, as radiation wind rattles them metallically and faceless factory ships fibrillate brine shrimp used as food for aquarium fish. They're shot through a slot, fibril by fibril, in through a stitched tapered tuck. A wary rat watches all of this, sharpening shrapnel for Midgar industrials, and after pulling its crude protective night coat of rags around itself dozes off, only to be cauterized by repeated H-bomb blasts.

So thank you, Soviet Union, where there is more mining than manufacturing, where doctors and two fifths of all scientific workers are women, where children build jails obscured by all the commotion. Known for savagery, bestiality, how can days and happenings and moments so good become so ugly? As opposed to your enemy, the United States, where the acquisition of pussy is on the mind of any dutiful boy in school, trapped in the prison of his skull and solitary iPod world.

I wish to stroke your lapis and pearl dish washers washing away the tears that have accumulated in the face of danger, and shout gee-whiz at Mickey-Mouse happy meals, strutting about sporting fashions formed by an exploited metal-kneed slave-labor force. That'd be neat. I want to find truth for myself, and see the way of the world - me first and to hell with everybody else.