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Hafsah Mijinyawa

concept, stories, layout & design and all the crazy shit

Benedict Cumberbatch and Michelle Rodriguez for their unwitting assistance portraying some people who don’t exist

special thanks

See more over at

behance.net/wetcloud

DISCLAIMER: Except for the photo on page 9, none of the photography used in this fictional publication belong to me. Their rights belong to their respective authors and owners.

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This is a manifesto from the end of the world.

It is the last rite & testament of Cannibal Humanity.

It is the bile vomited into the universes drainage sink.

It is a cosmic cry for help.

Welcome to the anarchy times.

a n d , m o s t i m p o r t a n t l y , i t i s f a k e

*

*

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INTERVIEW WITH THE TERRORISTA hot dry sun is rising over Tatouine, Morrocco. A youth hanging out of the window

of a passing car shouts out at me, his shining brown face smiling, his teeth straight

and white. It occurs to me that it is the first time I have seen a friendly face since I

disembarked from the plane that brought me here.

The plainclothes bodyguards hired to protect me from this regions

more unsavory characters were distinctly unamiable company, and

were satisfied with doing little more than squatting besides me in

the jeep, smoking large, pungent cigars. The dusty black jeep bounces to a

stop next to a somewhat rusty and rickety looking tent. A plume of smoke

rising from an opening in the cloth roof and the deep rich scent of strong

Arabic coffee heralds the strange meeting that I am about to have with one

of the most mysterious and secretive charac-

ters in the world.

When I enter the tent, a wiry man is sit-

ting among several throw pillows working on

an boxy looking laptop rigged to some kind

of networking setup. One of the machines

nearby is repetitively beeping out a polyphon-

ic chirp, which I detect to be the tune of ‘Daisy,

Daisy’. As I enter, the man turns and looks at me

over his shoulder. His face is young at first

glance, but beyond the youthfulness, a stark,

tempered sadness is present in his dark eyes.

His hair is a dusty blonde and his Irish white

skin has been tanned a burnt sort of brown

from the blazing Mediterranean sun. He is

wearing a leather jacket over a traditional white jalabiya, the dress of desert

men, and a black and white checkered scarf is wrapped about his neck. He

greets me in a quiet, proper English accented voice and offers me a cup of

Arabic coffee. It is strong and incredibly sugary, but refreshing. “I’m actualy

quite an English stereotype,” He laughs, “tea drinking and biscuits and all

that. I remember being partial to darker teas in my youth,” he recalls, swirl-

ing a toothpick around the bottom of the tiny glass, “but my travels have

compelled me to develop a somewhat crippling caffeine addiction. I’ve had

hundreds of types of roasts. I have to say the traditional Moroccan blends

are my favorite.”

He appears to expect my first question, as the sides of his mouth curl

into a grin. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you my real name since I myself don’t know

what it is. The name I go by now is Henry.” He

doesn’t tell me his chosen last name for se-

curity purposes. He informs me that he’s a bit

pressed for time as he is moving out the next

day. It had come to his attention that there

was a situation in the States that needed his

attention. Another one like himself, he said,

was under scrutiny for some, he emphasiz-

es “alleged”, act of terror. I ask him if he is

speaking of James Fawkes, otherwise known

to Western media as the Marriott Hotel Flyer,

so named for his impossible feat of survival

leaping from the 30th story of a Marriott hotel

during his escape from federal agents. Henry

quietly sips his coffee, nodding. “Mr. Fawkes

is not currently aware, but he and I share a mutual interest. When the time

comes, it will be him that you’ll want to speak with, and not me.” He grins.

When I ask him what it is that has driven him to become one of the most

mysterious and wanted men on the face of the Earth, he stares at me very

hard. “Do you really want to know?”

YOU ARE HERE!

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several fake passports, a Glock and a little vial of a chemical com-

pound that forensics discovered to be Sarin Gas. His name was Eric

Trudeau, a thirty-seven year old liberal arts major employed as a manager

at a BP gas station. Co-workers and former friends remembered Eric as

polite, unselfish, quiet. His sudden departure from his job managing the

gas station waxed peculiar to those who knew him as a homebody. He

purchased a ticket from Brooklyn, Michigan, left the family home where

he had resided since his teenage years, and set course for Los Angeles.

It was in the expensive new sea-side chateau he had been living in

for two weeks that his body was found. Drunken partiers on the riveria

insisted on seeing a UPS driver casually leaving the complex tucking a

gun into his uniform, but there was no evidence of any such scheduled

delivery, or surveillance footage of it. The only evidence was a card found

in Eric’s wallet. A simple white card with a black magnet strip bearing the

address: Evelyn Hollingsworth, 1151 N. Amsterdam St, The Company.

NOW HIRINGPRIVATE CITIZEN CONTRACTING COMPANY.LOTS OF BENEFITS & TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY

He was carrying over $12,000 in foreign currency,

The Company got around.

possiblefront

???

cards amethod of communication?

z

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gg

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Across the country in Pasadena, Florida, Bob Kennedy, the victim

of a recent forclosure was discovered in his kitchen, impaled on a

butter knife. A white “Company” card was found inside a bookshelf

in his house. Over the border in Manitoba, a widow who had aban-

doned her two stepchildren at her mothers house for, according to her

mother, “a trip to Hawaii,” was found with a bullet hole neatly centered

between her eyes. A “Company” card was still clutched in her hands.

In Ann Arbor, Michigan, a college student passing out brochures con-

taining slick advertising collateral for summer internships with a vague

“Company” was detained for questioning, but provided expressed igno-

rance on the identity of who had hired him to pass out the brochures.

Detective Kyle Griffith, who has been investigating the case

since early this year, is baffled, but determined to sort out the story.

“There’s definitely something strange going on and you can trace

it pretty easily back to this, so far, fictional Hollingsworth charac-

ter. I can tell you for sure that the address listed on those cards does

not exist anywhere in the United States or the world. It’s fake. It goes

to a black hole. At least, to my knowledge, perhaps the people on

the receiving ends of these cards have a different story to tell.”

Det. Griffith shows us his miniscule collection of data on the 1151

address. Sometimes, it is a warehouse. Sometimes the basement of a bar.

Sometimes a room in a multi-purpose office building. Det. Griffith suspects

it is a rotating location, existing whereever someone happens to be given

the address. “I have a shelf-ful of data on this—scattered reports of ordinary

people dropping clean off the map or being kidnapped and even killed. And

nothing can be tracked down, there’s no traces of anything, it’s as if noth-

ing happened to them at all…and yet, something did. Something terrible.”

Random occurrences? Government extradition? Is it a coincidence

that prior to the incidents, every victim had been in some kind of person-

al turmoil? One victim had gotten hit with a foreclosure; another had just

lost a fortune due to bankruptcy; a war widow saddled with medical bills

she couldn’t afford. And then out of thin air: Money. Business class air-

line tickets abroad. Expensive hotels booked under their names. Private

luxury dwellings in quiet parts of town. Where was the money coming

from? Who were these people working for? And what were they doing?

t h e y w o n ’ t l e t

y o u l e a v e

GLOBAL NETWORK?

privatecontracting company

secret society?

?black ops program

recruiting peoplewith nothing left to lose

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And just who is Evelyn Hollingsworth?

A Ieova fortitudo mea a quo timebo

From Jehovah my strength from which I will fear

Deus faveat - Divere foveat

Let God favour - Let him nurture in many ways

Vive ut vivas

Live that you may live

Vi virtute virens

Flourishing in strength and virtue

Per hostes per hastas

Through enemies, through spears

Labora ut in aeternam vivas

Labor that you may live forever

- B a t t l e p r a y e r o f L e g i o n 1 0 5 t h

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Led Zepplin’s “Immigrant Song” rages from a chrome and black

trimmed record player. Sitting cross legged on the bed, a young

woman with a mop of jet black hair pulled into a ponytail trums her

fingers to the beat as she stares out of the open window in our hotel room.

Her eyes are an extremely light hazel, speckled around the rims. Immediate-

ly striking. When she looks at you, she appears to look past you, or at some

point very far away. She is in her late twenties. But her eyes are those of a

much older woman. Full of memories.

fratres in armisAN INVESTIGATION INTO UNDERGROUND ARMS SMUGGLING

“How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore, of how we

calmed the tides of war, we are your overlooords!” She grins broadly. “Fuckin’

A! Classic shit. They’re not dead, y’know! Shit like this makes you immortal.”

This is one of the few times I have seen her completely at ease. Happy.

“This song reminds me of my old life.” She says, half-smiling. “I always envi-

sion myself on the swing set in my old ‘hood. I used to do all kinds of shit on

that thing.” She grins a little, remembering.“ Almost broke my fucking neck

once, trying to do flying backflips.”

Caroline, or “Carly” as her compatriots call her, is, like the majority of the

men and women rolling across the dubious rolls and hills of the vast Nevada

tundra in dark, clunky looking all-terrain vehicles, a gun runner. She laughs

with distinct derision when she is asked how she likes her job. “Oh yeah, it’s

fuckin’ A, brother! No life like it!”

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Just another day as a 22nd century

American arms dealer. Carly and her fellow runners, Jay-Jay, Dobermann, Rose and

K-Train (the crews rendition on her original “Catraine”), pass a joint

around the room, engaging in expletive laced conversation about the latest

hit of the day. Jay-Jay is twenty two, bright eyed and excitable, gesticulating

wildly: “We grabbed some pussy in this moth(er)fuckin’ peice of shit Chevy

about 60 mi(les) west of here. Dude had like a bajillion shells stuffed inside his

tires.” The crew break into snickers. “It was o(b)viously hot. Dum-muthafucka

prolly jacked it from some fuckin’ tourists.” K-Train shrugs. “He ripped the wheels

and we ripped him. Sheeeiiiit happens!” She drawls for effect.

“Mr. Steele”, a gunsmith living on the outskirts of Vermont, seems reluctant to tell

me anything, even as he stands surrounded by crates and racks filled with weapons.

LOTS of weapons. It is, after all, a shop he’s running. But this shop does have the

political advantage of being legal. So why is he so uptight? Most gunrunners, like Carly, pictured here, are former soldiers between the ages of 18 and 32 years old. Once successfully inducted into this particular line of business, their average life-spans are often

considerably shortened.

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Mr. Steele is consistently hesitant to talk, and does not

mention any of his employees by name. It’s well known to

people in his profession that smugglers are often in the most

innocent of trades, such as gunsmithing. “I’ve got a lot of kids

working here…some of them out of the corps for whatev-

er reason. Nobody else’ll hire them, so I will because they’re

good at something.” Good at fixing guns, that is. Like a young

ex-leuitenant who wanted to remain anonymous. She main-

tained that she wasn’t in the gun running business, but was

willing to explain how she ended up working in Mr. Steele’s

shop.

“My convoy’s jeep went over a landmine. My CO got his

leg stuck under the jeep and burned hisself pretty bad. I shat-

tered my fingers, toe bones. Dislocated some organs. Zapped

some of my nerves, lost some feeling. Docs said I’d never walk

again.” She proudly bounces her legs up and down and later,

demonstrates some jump-rope moves for us. When she walks

though, it’s with a slight, tilting swagger, designed to hide a

limp. “Basically, I was useless as far as the military was con-

cerned. And the legion didn’t offer work risids for folks in my

condition. I was in a bad way for a time there…then I met Mr.

Steele. He gave me a job.

She smiles. For a second, she is a different person. “I fix

guns now. Gotta love that.”

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