The

Curzon
Building:
Black Scientific Facts
vs.
Neanderthal Hybrid Sci-Fi

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by Aston Walker
Copyright © 2025 Aston Walker
All rights reserved.
ISBN:s
 In The Name of Allah The Most Beneficent The Most
Merciful

DEDICATION
We send peace and blessings upon HIS beloved Prophet
Muhammad and his PURE Ahlulbayt the blessed family of the
Prophet Muhammad Peace be upon them.

Quran Verse 33:33

Settle in your homes, and do not display yourselves as women

did in the days of ˹pre-Islamic˺ ignorance. Establish prayer, pay
alms-tax, and obey Allah and His Messenger. Allah only intends
to keep ˹the causes of˺ evil away from you and purify you
completely, O members of the ˹Prophet’s˺ family

OH ALLAH curse Abu Bakr, Umar and Aisha and Hafsa for
killing YOUR beloved Prophet Muhammad and Fatima and
stealing Fadak. OH ALLAH curse Aisha for fighting Imam Ali
36AH at The Battle of Jamal, where the kafirat was defeated
with her satanic followers.

Let whoever objects to this cursing be CURSED BY ALLAH

even if their number is greater than the ATOMS IN THE
UNIVERSE.

The Author, Aston Walker, embraced islam in 1991 and

became a Green Lane Deobandi Salafi Sunni devil worshipper.

In 2011 as a convicted thief Aston Walker, who the BBC called

a mutli award winning film maker, became a lover of the Shia of
Ali in prison as a convicted thief surrounded by Sunni killers.

ALL YOU satanist hypocrite sunni munafiqs declaring Aston

Walker a kafir are themselves kuffar who follow Abu Bakr and
Umar who denied the prophet a pen and refused Allahs
prophets order to join Usamas Army to fight the Romans.
Dedicated to the memory of my mentor the WARROR
Marianne Joan Elliott-Said aka Poly Styrene from X-Ray Spex
Ali is with the Truth and the Truth is with Ali
 #VictoryisintheGRAVE

Satan only makes them ˹false˺ promises and deludes

them with ˹empty˺ hopes. Truly Satan promises them
nothing but delusion.
Quran 4:120
Nobody likes new and original in black culture. It upsets them
seeing new things, new ways of expression and new images. They
have to have it validated by white supremacy first by the BBC,
Channel 4, Netflix or Hollywood and other Neanderthal Hybrid
satanist entities. Embarrassing state of black affairs. May Allah curse
the black sell out Afro Nazi pagan scum. - STUDENT ID
 CONTENTS

PART 1 - BEFORE THE EVENT

PART 2 – THE EVENT

PART 3 – CODENAME CALYPSO

 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Salam Alaikum

For my grandchildren Hadi, Miriam and Anas

love Allah love the prophet Muhammad and love the
prophets family peace be upon them and CURSE Abu
Bakr and Umar and Aisha and Hafsa May Allah burn
them and whip them day and night.

ONLY through this process will you meet Allah's

prophet Muhammad at the font of Kawthar AFTER you
are DEAD and in your graves.
Death is always NEAR not far.

Do Not follow the satanic SUNNI-Salafi satanism of the

Wright Street Salafi and Green Lane Masjid Kuffar
because ALLAH will fill the hellfire with these ignorant
kuffar led by Bilal Davis, Rodney, Joseph Shockhead
and Nigel Roadie the kafir May Allah curse them and
Hamza Yusuf, Zaid Shakir, Abu Yusuf Riyadh ul Haq,
Bilal Phillips, Adbul Hakim Murad and ALL the Sunni
kuffar on the face of the earth from the FIRST sunni
kafir to the LAST racist arab coloniser DEVIL ENEMY
of
BLACK AFRICA.

ALLAH is ONE and ALLAH chose Imam Ali as the

Caliph peace be upon him 10AH
GHADEER UL KHUMM

AMEEN

#VictoryisintheGRAVE
 PART 1

BEFORE THE EVENT

1 SANAME QURAYSH DUA ASCRIBED

TO IMAM ALI [AS] AT THE SAME LEVEL
AS DUA KUMAYL

In the name of Allah the Beneficent the Merciful.

O Allah! Curse the two idols of Quraish (Abu Bakr[la]

and Umar [la])and their two magicians, their two
rebellious people, their two accusers and their two
daughters (Aisha [la] and Hafsa[la]). Rebuke them, they
have consumed Your sustenance and have denied Your
obligations, both have discarded Your commands, have
rejected Your revelation, have disobeyed Your Prophet,
have destroyed Your religion, have distorted Your book,
have made Your laws ineffective, have declared Your
obligatory actions as incorrect, have disbelieved in Your
signs, have oppressed Your friends, have loved Your
enemies, have spread corruption among Your people,
have made Your world occur loses.

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O Allah! Send Your curses on them and their helpers as
they have ruined the house of Your prophet, have dug
the door of his house, broken the roof, have brought
down the walls, have made the skies, the ground, have
destroyed its inhabitants, have killed their supporters
have put to death, their children have deserted his pulpit
by his successors of knowledge, have desired his prophet
hood, have ascribed a partner to their Lord, thus
consider both of their sins to be great, and make their
abode in 'saqar' forever, and do you know what is
'saqar?'
It leaves nothing, nor let anything remain. O Allah, send
Your chastisement on them to the extent of the sins of
every disobedient, and the covering of truth, and all the
pupils where they have gone, and the believer whom
they have harmed and the disbeliever whom they have
loved,
and to the number of pious people whom they have
troubled, and whom they have driven out of their cities,
and helped the disbelievers, and the Imam on whom
they were cruel and have changed the obligatory laws,
and have destroyed the practice of the Holy Prophet,
and whatever evils they have concealed, the blood which
they shed, have changed the goodness and have altered
the commands, have created disbelief, or the lie for
which they have cheated, the inheritance which they
have plundered, and stopped the booties from them and
have consumed the prohibited wealth,
and that 'Khums' (the fifth part) which they considered
as permitted for them, and that evil whose foundation
were put, and that cruelty which they made common,
that oppression, which they spread, those promises,
which they dishonoured, those covenant which they
broke, those lawful which is termed as unlawful, and that
unlawful which is termed as lawful,

12
that hypocrisy which they have concealed in the hearts,
and to the amount of treachery which they bore in their
hearts, and those stomach which they have split open,
and that village which they broke, and that door which
they broke-opened, and those gatherings which they
dispersed and those degraded whom they gave honour,
and those honourable whom they insulted,
and by the number of rights which they have usurped,
and the order of Imam which they opposed, bestow
Your wrath on them to the extent of the atrocities.
O Allah! Your curses on them to the extent of alteration
in Quran and covering the truth, rendering the will,
worthless, and breaking the promises, and declaring all
the claims as void, refusing all the allegiances, presenting
excuses, introducing breach of trust, climbing of hills
and to the number of vessels which they turned upside
down and all the defects which they possessed. Bestow
Your curses on them.
O Allah curse those two (Abu Bakr and Umar May
Allah Curse them), secretly and openly, such a beating
which is forever continuous, non-stop and innumerable.
Such a whipping which commences in the morning but
does not ends at night.
Such a beating should be on those tyrants, and their
helpers, their assistance, their friends and their lovers,
those attracted to them and those who acknowledge
their deeds, those who present proof for them, and
those who follow their words, and those who approve
their actions.
(Then recite four times).
O Allah! Send such a harsh chastisement upon them,
that the dwellers of Hell start screaming, O Lord of the
Universe accept this prayer from me.

13
 The two cloaked members of the Health and Safety
Sky Cloud Executive are perplexed. Where is this signal
coming from. There can be no signal without
modulation. After consulting with their superiors they
investigate. The mission is to find survivors. FPV Drone
strikes and hypersonics have devastated a large area. Of
Birmingham.
Poor people build and find shelter where they can.
Only those who have faith in the 'Graphene Flight
Armour Frequency Suits' can live in the clouds. Most
choose not to take the risk. Lack of faith leads to certain
death. One of them said:

“What have we found . It's creepy. It feels like we are

being constantly watched. Transferring a gaussian splat
3D vector interface reading to Sky Cloud Amphitheatre
786 Command.”

The hidden invisible tomb is scanning the

environment. The two cloaked warrior cannot shake the
feeling they are being observed and monitored by
whatever is the source of the signal.

14
 2 1970'S

In the summer of 1969, two worlds collided in

Birmingham. A child would be born in Paddington in
the 70's after they moved to Notting Hill, London. The
aftermath of the Nixon Shock rippled through society
like a stone cast into still water, sending waves of
upheaval and uncertainty that reached far beyond the
politics of dollars and trade. The resonance of a
different kind of shock, one from the skies above,
became palpable as whispers of UFO sightings sent
chills through the ranks of military officials who
wrangled with the fate of nuclear arsenals. It was a time
when fear and power danced dangerously close,
entwining in a macabre ballet that mirrored the struggles
of the Mighty North European-American nation.
Amidst this tumult stood Anwar and Lizzy, their lives a
tightrope walk balanced between rebellion and survival.
Anwar—whose roots traced back to Jamaica—breathed
the fiery breath of Black Power into their tiny flat, while
Lizzy, a Bajan beauty with fierce eyes and a resilient
spirit, carved a sanctuary within the claustrophobic
confines of their existence. Every night, they held their
child close, enveloped in the warmth of their ambitions
amidst the chill of oppression.
15
The boy was born on the day Jimi Hendrix's 'Voodoo
Chile' soared to number one on the charts, echoing
through the airwaves with a haunting potency that
seemed to speak of their struggles and triumphs.
In the days that followed, Anwar’s absence loomed
large. He found solace in friendship, weaving
connections with Anthony Gifford, seeking refuge from
the pressures of life at home. Lizzy, left alone to navigate
the shifting tides, struggled with the weight of the world
bearing down upon her. Their son, bright and
inquisitive, often wandered into the realm of creativity,
where Anwar had instructed him in the delicate art of
perspective drawing. At three, he grasped colours and
shapes with a sense of wonder that captured the
imagination of those around him. But as the days rolled
on and he turned four, his world unravelled; his mind
raced ahead, leaving him trapped in a tempest of
advanced thoughts that drowned out the concentration
needed for the mundane.
At Timberley Primary school, Birmingham, Ms.
Connelly recognized the spark in his eyes—flickering like
the old black-and-white television that occupied their
small living room, a relic of a bygone era still teetering
dangerously on the edge of obsolescence. It was during
the chaotic classes of the satanic Ms. Wales that their
paths converged. Following a minor uproar that landed
him on the outside looking in, he found himself
surprised by the complexities of a chessboard presented
by Ms. Connelly, where every piece held a role, every
move could shift the balance, echoing the very
interactions that shaped his life.

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At home, the echoes of laughter came trickling from the
television as Top of the Pops hosted by Prince Charles
satanic close friend the satanic paedophile Jimmy Savile
played classic hits, lending a lightness amidst the weight
of failures and struggles. And yes everything is satanic.....
Yet, it wasn’t only the resonance of music and the
strategies of chess that captured the boy’s young mind.
There were moments of joy playing second-hand video
games, consoles handed down like treasured heirlooms
from a more innocent age. He revelled in the blinking
pixels of Space Invaders (how very very ironic....), his
laughter ringing like a bell, a brief respite from the
darkness creeping along the corridors of his childhood.
Among the shadows, there would also be light, but light
was often chased away.
Auntie Brenda Miller, barely fourteen but stepping into
a world far too complex for her youth, dropped a
darkness that would course through their family ties.
Their realm of childhood should have been protected—a
sanctuary so tender and precious—but the babysitter
from hell turned playtime into a playground of sexual
horrors. The trauma of it all bubbled just beneath the
surface, yet the boy’s understanding of safety and love
began to flail helplessly in the wake of betrayal.
The family gatherings drew him away, to Leicester where
Aunt Annette Miller, Brenda's older sister, awaited with
her husband John Fowler—a white man significantly
older than his wife. As seasons changed, the small boy
would find himself in spaces where he felt neither
nurtured nor wanted. The little black boy is Molested
and felt up by John Fowler aged 25 in the bath tub. The
little black boy is broken aged 8. He is ruined and
destroyed while a pervert child molesting white devil
who felt him up would later become

17
Dr John Fowler PhD who will have black children of his
own and he would be ensconced into a black
matriarchal Birmingham family, laughing and joking
with his satanic black witch of a wife Annette Miller-
Fowler.
In the confines of the black boys home next to Norman
Chamberlain Park with its man-made lake, a remnant of
a gravel quarry—an escape became a sanctuary. It
became a refuge where childhood imagination burst
forth, and the days flowed with promises of freedom,
fishing and fleeting moments of joy beside the water.
Yet, in the corners of his experience, moments of
trauma loomed large, creating the spectres of PTSD that
haunted every heartbeat.
As the shadows crept into the realm of his existence, the
beatings at home became a direct correlation with his
struggles at school. Bed wetting danced across the room
at night, tearing apart his delicate sanity while he
clenched his fists beneath the sheets, wishing desperately
for an escape into the worlds he explored in the pages of
Illyad and Odyssey. In the future the Neanderthal
Hybrid Garden of Allah Hotel Hollywood Oscar
winning maker of 2D satanist rendered IMAX flip-
books Christopher Nolan will turn the Odyssey into
movie tragic. Even his wish for normalcy was tainted by
the heavy weight of racism that seeped into the crevices
of the surrounding white suburb. Friends once close
turned into jeering skinheads, and the innocence of
childhood shifted into bitter encounters with reality.
In those days, whispers of the CIA's clandestine
operations began to permeate through the air, narratives
focusing on control and manipulation of black Africa.
The boy could feel the tech-laden war machine creep
along the environment, its tendrils wrapping around
societal structures with an all-consuming embrace.

18
Amidst the chaos of Cold War sentiments, his youthful
heart bore the weight of events occurring far beyond his
comprehension.
The boy, began to have futuristic visionary dreams as
vivid as Pac-Man navigating a maze, remained frozen
within time—taking in each horrifying moment while
seeking escape through literature, music, and
imagination. It was a tumultuous journey filled with faux-
friends, dark interventions, and flickering screens that
redefined reality into one of perpetual searching. And as
he came of age, the lessons of anger, resilience, and
brilliance melded into a core that would ignite a fire he
never anticipated—one to combat a world that had so
often pushed him to the brink of despair.
Lenny Henry on the BBC Black and White Minstrel
Show commanded audiences of millions. Saturday
morning Tiswas is where Lenny Henry made every
black boys life a living hell with his stupid coonery for
white Neanderthal hybrid Media Paedophile apes. He
was auditioning for his future sinister role in Africa.

Ironically in the 70's white Neanderthal hybrids called

black people monkeys in the United Kingdom of Satan.

Sir Lenny 'BAE Systems' Henry would also play a part

in the mentally broken little black boys future.

His father Anwar left small fragments of Islam in the

little black boys inner universe that would stay with him
until he entered his grave.

Macro Retrocausality data flows in the manner of

Neanderthal hybrid Christopher Nolan and Emma
Nolan''s feature film TENET.

19
We are the children of the Catholic IRA Birmingham
bombings and the Queen Elizabeth II Christian
Extremist Protestant Northern Ireland serial killers for
MI5 and MI6.

We are the children of Bloody Sunday so the Aryan-

Caucasian-arab NEANDERTHAL HYBRIDS Al
Qazwini and Modarresi et al and their satanic Wilayat
Faqih and the Sistani-Pope axis of paedophilia can ALL
shut the fu** up. Respectfully.

Do not let us start on the 'Roman Saluting' Hezbollah

Nazi shia hypocrites.

We #gotcha.

20
 3 1980'S THATCHERS KIDS: THE
SATANIC GODLESS HIP HOP
BIRMINGHAM CHILDREN OF ULTRA-
VIOLENCE. FROM THE ZULU
FOOTBALL FACTORY TO THE INNER
CITY HOUSE OF MOSSBERG

The year was 1982, and the Falklands War had just
begun. For most of the world, it was a distant conflict,
but for an 11-year-old Student ID, it was a turning point.
The war, fought between Britain and Argentina over a
remote archipelago in the South Atlantic, was a source
of fascination and horror for the young boy. He would
sit in front of the television, waiting for the news updates,
his young mind trying to make sense of the violence and
destruction. It was during this time that he first heard
'Eye of the Tiger' by Survivor, the theme song for Rocky
III. The song became an anthem for him, a symbol of
resilience and strength in the face of adversity.
But the war had a darker impact on Student ID and his
friends. The Thatcher government's handling of the
conflict left a bitter taste in their mouths.

21
They felt abandoned, their childhoods ruined by a war
they didn’t understand. The sense of disillusionment
was palpable, and it marked the beginning of Student
ID's descent into a life of rebellion and violence.

In the midst of this turmoil, Student ID found solace in

the strange and surreal world of David Lynch. One
evening, he stumbled upon Eraserhead on Channel 4.
The film, with its eerie atmosphere and bizarre imagery,
left a lasting impression on him. It was unlike anything
he had ever seen before, and it sparked a desire within
him to become a filmmaker. He wanted to create
something that would shock and awe, something that
would leave people questioning their reality.
But life had other plans for Student ID. The early 1980s
were a time of social upheaval and race riots, and the
young boy found himself drawn into a world of violence
and crime. The turning point came in early 1983 when
Musical Youth’s Pass the Dutchie started playing on
heavy rotation on the radio. It was the first time a Black
artist had been featured so prominently on a mainstream
broadcasting channel, and it gave Student ID a sense of
pride and identity. But it also marked the beginning of
his involvement in the darker side of life.

Student ID’s life took a dramatic turn when he stayed

the night with a the family of his headmaster, Mr P.F.
Guggenheim, a former soldier. The move was
necessitated by exam clashes, but it proved to be a
pivotal moment in Student ID’s life a glimpse into
richness . Lovely people.

22
Sir Wilfrid Martineau was a school where pupils still got
caned and where Student ID was called a 'Little Sambo'.
But the allure of violence was too strong. At school,
Student ID found himself drawn into the world of
football hooliganism. The Zulu Commanders, a group
of older hooligans, took him under their wing. One day,
they set up a fight between Student ID, Stacy, and Justin,
and a group of 20 kids from Smiths Wood. The odds
were against them, but Stacy led the charge, and they
emerged victorious. The next day, Smiths Wood
invaded Sir Wilfs, but Stacy once again proved his
mettle, taking on the invaders single-handedly rousing
the lads to charge into the Smiths Wood horde and
expel them from Sir Wilfs never to return.

By 1987, Student ID had left school and fully embraced

the gangster lifestyle. He became a drug dealer in
Nechells, smoking five-pound draws of solid Lebanese
hash scored from the Cromwell pub. The streets were
his playground, and he revelled in the danger and
excitement. He spent his days in Birmingham city
centre, playing Mortal Kombat and other arcade games
at 32 Dayvilles. The Japanese arcade games, with their
cutting-edge graphics and gameplay, were a source of
endless fascination for him.
But the gangster life was not without its challenges.
Student ID and his friends formed a hip-hop crew,
initially calling themselves Artists in Disguise (AID), but
later settling onLords of Crime. The crew, consisting of
Basher, Longs, Stretch, Krome, and Nuggy, was
involved in everything from shoplifting to armed
robbery. They needed suits to go nightclubbing, and
they were willing to do whatever it took to get them.

23
Student ID’s life took another turn when he enrolled in
the Delta Training program in Tyseley. The program,
part of Thatcher’s Youth Training Scheme (YTS),
offered education in engineering, CNC, and electrical
trades. It was a chance for Student ID to turn his life
around, but the allure of crime was too strong. He
continued to be involved in robberies, taxing, and other
criminal activities.
One of the key figures in Student ID’s life during this
time was Crankin, a black punk rocker who wore a
Confederate jacket, dark round rimmed shades and
Doctor Marten boots. He had a reputation for being
tough. Crankin was the go-to guy for getting a Mossberg
shotgun, and Student ID knew he needed one if he was
to survive in the brutal world he had chosen. The plan
was to rob gold chains on Soho Road to raise funds for
the gun, and then meet Crankin at the Oasis basement
arcade to make the purchase.

The late 1980s were the height of the Crack Era, and
Birmingham was no exception. The streets were filled
with violence, and the House of Mossberg became a
symbol of power and retribution. Student ID and his
crew were determined to get their hands on guns, not
just to protect themselves, but to assert their dominance.
They knew they weren’t going to live past 20, so they
lived each day as if it were their last.
The crew’s exploits were legendary. They fought Aston
Villa supporters at the 94 bus stop, headbutted a white
geezer at the Hummingbird nightclub to get an NWA
poster, and smashed shop fronts to sell the stolen goods
on the night bus. They were teenage gangsters, living on
the edge, and they loved every minute of it.

24
Despite his life of crime, Student ID managed to pull off
one of the most audacious feats of his life. High on
LSD, he successfully passed an interview to work at
Microponents, a chemical etching company in Nechells
that made UV IBM prototype chips. The job required
him to sign the Official Secrets Act, a testament to the
sensitive nature of the work. It was a surreal moment for
Student ID, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos of
his everyday life.
But even this job couldn’t keep him on the straight and
narrow. The allure of the streets was too strong, and
Student ID soon found himself back in the world of
crime and violence. The years that followed were a blur
of fights, robberies, and near-death experiences. But
through it all, Student ID remained true to himself, a
rebel with a cause, a young man who had seen too much
and lived too fast.

As the years passed, Student ID’s life took many twists

and turns. He never became the filmmaker he had
dreamed of being, but he left an indelible mark on the
world around him. His story is a testament to the
resilience of the human spirit, a reminder that even in
the darkest of times, there is always a glimmer of hope.
The violent life of Young Student ID may have been
filled with danger and despair, but it was also a life lived
to the fullest, a life that defied the odds and left a lasting
legacy of fuckree.

25
26
 4 LONDON 1997. OFF KEY MOSH

In the early 1990s, Cyrus found himself working in a CNC

workshop under the arches near Clapham North, London.
The job was steady, the pay decent, and for a young man
in his early twenties, it was a step towards a stable future.
But stability was a rare commodity in the streets of South
London, where the allure of gang life often overshadowed
the mundane reality of a nine-to-five job. Cyrus, despite his
job, was drawn into the orbit of the Dirty Dozen, a
Streatham-based gang that included characters like
Nochalus, Day-X, Stacy, and Bailey. These were his great,
cool friends, the kind of people who made life on the edge
seem glamorous.
But not everyone in the gang was as fortunate as Cyrus.
Some of the fringe members, unnamed and often
overlooked, struggled to find work. Resentment began to
brew as Cyrus's success became a stark contrast to their
own misfortunes. The local lads, who had trouble securing
jobs, saw Cyrus as a reminder of what they couldn’t
achieve. This resentment festered, and soon, the fringe
members turned against him. The situation escalated to the
point where Cyrus's life was in danger.

27
The haters came for him, and he was forced to flee back to
Birmingham, where his old friends came to his aid.

Back in Birmingham, Cyrus found himself at a crossroads.

His brush with death had left him searching for meaning,
and it was during this time that he encountered a group of
men in white robes at the Handsworth Carnival. Intrigued
by their presence and the aura of mysticism that
surrounded them, Cyrus began to explore Islam. He was
particularly fascinated by the concept of Jinns, supernatural
beings mentioned in Islamic theology. For a year, he
immersed himself in the teachings of the Salafi movement,
but something felt off. The energy at Green Lane, where
the Salafi community was based, was cultish, almost
satanic. Cyrus couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being
drawn into something darker than he had anticipated.
Meanwhile, another young man, known only as Student
ID, was also navigating the treacherous waters of the Salafi
movement. Student ID had been a Zulu football hooligan,
a townie who had found himself drawn into the Green
Lane cult. The cult was led by figures like Paul Davis,
Nigel Roadie, and Shockhead, who had a following of over
a hundred inner-city youth. But Student ID sensed
something was wrong. The gatherings at Green Lane left
him with chest pains, and the behaviour of Roadie, Bilal
Davis, and Shockhead seemed increasingly bizarre. He
couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister
at play, something that reminded him of the hooligan life
he thought he had left behind.

28
Student ID’s journey took a dramatic turn when he
encountered the author of Albani Unveiled, a book that
exposed the darker aspects of the Salafi movement. The
author had been targeted with a fatwa, a death sentence,
for his writings. Student ID found himself defending the
author outside a masjid on Stratford Road, a moment that
marked the beginning of his disillusionment with the Salafi
movement. He began to question the authority of the
Sunni scholars who claimed the right to police and order
the killing of writers and speakers. Where did this
authority come from? Was it divine, or was it, as he
suspected, derived from Satan himself?
Despite his growing doubts, Student ID remained a Sunni
Muslim. He travelled to Damascus to learn more, meeting
scholars close to the ruling Alawite Assad family. He
visited the grave of the kafir Khalid bin Walid may Allah
curse him and the citadel where the heretic kafir Ibn
Taymiyyah May Allah curse him had been held. But the
experience only deepened his sense of unease. The
assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, the mortal shooting of an
Israeli, and the constant threat of bombings in Damascus
left him questioning the path he had chosen.

Returning to the UK, Student ID enrolled at UCE Perry

Barr campus, where he crossed paths with Cyrus Diop,
Mike Teuton, and Arius Ziz. These were old friends from
his football hooligan days, but Student ID was a changed
man. He had left the extremist Green Lane cult behind,
but the scars remained. He attended a Rihla event led by
Hamza Yusuf, an American convert to Islam, but found
the experience unsettling. Hamza Yusuf’s arrogance and
perceived racism left a bitter taste in his mouth, and during
one prayer session, Student ID had a breakdown. He was
broken, both mentally and spiritually.

29
Leaving his family and the cult behind, Student ID moved
to London in 1997. He had dropped out of UCE but had
managed to grasp the basics of coding and web
development. He spent hours on the internet, playing
multi-user dungeon games and building computers. The
dot com boom was in full swing, and Student ID found
himself at the forefront of the digital revolution. He
worked as an IT freelancer, creating VR presentations for
companies like Dixons Store Group. He even pitched to
M&C Saatchi, using footage from his Japanese import
Dreamcast to create a zippy VFX advert.

Student ID while working for Internet Advertiser on Old

Street one day found an obscure arcade, in Islington, that
had a cool Capcom game called 'Power Stone'. An
isometric third person fighter where the player collected
'Power Stones' and changed into high powered characters.
Meanwhile, Cyrus was also making waves in the IT world.
He designed the MOBO Awards website and found
himself rubbing shoulders with celebrities at parties in
Zurich. Cyrus rented a room from Mr Singh a 78 year old
ex Indian diplomat. Frail but with a sharp wit, after Cyrus
helped him clean up a shed, Mr Singh gifted him a
chemistry set with real samples of periodic table elements.
Mr Singh is also impressed Cyrus has a IT job at the DWP
Head Office.
Student ID through the Brum gang network connected
with House n Garage pioneers DEA Project. He made
groundbreaking music videos for MTV and Trouble TV
featuring the band. Student ID also worked at the bands
radio station in Sydenham South London. One day while
travelling on the bus through Dulwich he met a remarkable
exotic looking lady by the name of Marianne who turned
out to be a punk icon. She gave Student ID her business
card and they stayed in touch.

30
Cyrus and Student ID were living the high life, but the dot
com boom was about to go bust. The collapse was swift
and brutal. Both Cyrus and Student ID found themselves
broke, their lives in a complete shambles. They returned
to Birmingham, where they faced the harsh reality of
homelessness and dole life.
Decades passed, and the world changed. The 21st century
brought with it new technologies, new powers, and new
challenges. China emerged as a superpower, Russia as a
nation of supreme warriors. Bitcoin, quantum computing,
and consumer AI became the new buzzwords. The dot
com boom and bust cycle repeated itself, but Cyrus and
Student ID were no longer at the forefront. They were old,
gray, and worn out by the trials of life.
Yet, in the year 2024, their paths crossed once again. The
future had arrived, and with it, a new chapter in their lives.
They were no longer the young men who had danced on
the edge of danger, but they carried with them the lessons
of their past. The Sega Power Stone game, the Salafi
experience, the Matrix—all of it had shaped them into the
old men they had become. And as they stood on the brink
of a new era, they knew that their story was far from over.

The Power Stone game had been a metaphor for their

lives. Just like in the Sega Capcom game, they had
collected crystals, morphed, and powered up. But the
game had also taught them that power was fleeting, that the
crystals could be lost, and that the morphing was
temporary. They had both experienced the highs and lows,
the booms and busts, and through it all, they had learned
that the true power lay not in the crystals, but in the
journey itself.

31
As they looked out at the world in 2024, they knew that the
game was far from over. The REAL Power Stone was still
out there, waiting to be found. And this time, they were
ready to play.

32
 5 TRAP HOUSE
The trap house in Handsworth stood defiant, as if it
were trying to keep the neighbourhood out, rather than
invite anyone in. It smelled of stale air, forgotten
ambitions, and faint desperation—a bouquet familiar to
Cyrus and Crankin, the house's reluctant inhabitants for
the evening.
Crankin once a powerful muscular independent
freelance gangster is skinnier and cracked out. He is
however imbued with essence of 'killer' and can still
knock out people by summoning otherworldly powers
beyond the scope of reality. Lacking formal education
he taught himself to read and possesses, through his
Christian faith, powerful spiritual insight. He is a
polymath and able to master 'things' in nanoseconds, but
prefers to avoid mainstream society.
Cyrus, sitting upright on a sagging couch that had
probably seen better days in the 1980s, scratched at the
edge of his salt-and-pepper beard. His face, carved with
the kind of lines that spoke of intellect and years of
trying to solve puzzles bigger than himself, twitched in
irritation. “You don’t even know what COBOL is, do
you, Crankin?” he began, voice clipped like a professor
annoyed at a dim student.
33
Crankin, lounging in an armchair that had lost most of
its stuffing, blew out a thin wisp of smoke and smirked.
“Cobol? Ain’t that what they call corn in Jamaica?” His
laugh was hoarse, gravelly, like his lungs had been rented
out to an ashtray.
“Ha. Ha.” Cyrus rolled his eyes, the bitter edge in his
tone almost slicing the air.

“No, COBOL is a programming language—ancient,

reliable, the skeleton of global banking.

All your little ATMs and online transfers are running on

this language from the 1960s. That’s what COBOL is.
And let me tell you something, it's more relevant to your
sorry life than you know.”
Crankin leaned back, his expression halfway between
boredom and feigned interest. “Right, yeah, real relevant
to me, a man trying to smoke his rock in peace.” He
held up the crack pipe like a chalice, his free hand
brushing over the lighter in his lap. “Keep talking,
professor, but don’t expect me to take notes.”
“Do you even know what Coltan is?” Cyrus shot back,
sitting forward now, his bony elbows digging into his
knees.
“Sounds like a bloke I used to know. Sold dodgy
trainers down the Bullring.”
Cyrus let out an exasperated sigh, the kind that came
from years of unmet expectations. “Coltan is what makes
your phone work. The capacitors in your fancy little
gadgets? They don’t exist without coltan crystals. And
guess where it comes from? The Congo. Blood-soaked
coltan.”

34
Crankin's brow furrowed slightly, though he quickly
wiped the curiosity off his face. “So what, they’re killing
people over phones now? Sounds like a you problem,
not a me problem.”
“You are so infuriatingly dense, Crankin,” Cyrus
snapped. “It's all connected. COBOL, coltan, ARM
chips—they’re the infrastructure of the modern world.
While you sit here sucking on that glass pipe, the entire
economy is propped up by people who couldn’t care
less if you lived or died. And here’s the kicker—half of
those bastards don’t even understand the systems they’re
running!”
Crankin snorted, shaking his head.

“You know what, Cy? You talk too much for a man who
ain’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”
He took a long pull on the pipe and exhaled slowly, his
eyes half-closed as if the smoke had numbed him to
Cyrus’s monologue. “You were some big-shot IT man in
London, right? Fancy degrees and all that. What
happened? Did the COBOL gods strike you down for
talking too much?”
Cyrus froze, his lips tightening into a thin line. The
question hit too close to home, but he wasn’t about to
give Crankin the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. “Life
happened.” he said finally, his voice quieter but still
firm. “Not that you’d understand.”
Crankin grinned, sensing the wound beneath the words.
“Oh, I understand plenty. Don’t get it twisted, Cy.
You’re just like me now. Different paths, same trap
house. Only difference is I don’t try to make sense of it
all.
35
You think you’re better because you’ve got a head full of
facts? Mate, those facts won’t keep the gas on.”
“At least I have facts.” Cyrus shot back. “What do you
have? A pipe and a fantasy about being a hard man
when you’re sixty and can barely stand up without
groaning?”
Crankin sat up sharply, his grin replaced by a scowl.
“Watch your mouth, professor. Don’t think I can’t still
handle myself.”
“Please," Cyrus sneered. "You’re about as threatening as
a used tampon.”
For a moment, the room was heavy with tension, but
then Crankin slumped back into his chair and let out a
low chuckle. “You’re lucky I like you, Cy. Most people
who talk to me like that end up regretting it.”
Cyrus ignored the veiled threat, his mind already shifting
gears.
“Speaking of people you’ve crossed paths with, have you
ever heard of David Wulstan Myatt?”
Crankin squinted at him. “Who?”

“Myatt. Abdulaziz ibn Myatt al-Qari. Founder of the

Order of Nine Angles. A white nationalist who became a
Muslim, then something else entirely. He’s dabbled in
everything—Satanism, jihad, philosophy. A man who’s
reinvented himself so many times he doesn’t even know
who he is any more.”
Crankin stared at him for a long moment, his face a
mixture of confusion and mild interest. “And why do I
care about this nutter?”
“Because he represents the chaos of the modern world.”
Cyrus said, his eyes alight with conviction.
36
“I actually met a man who knew him—Dawud Burbank,
a Salafi preacher from Green Lane. Burned to death in
Mecca with his wife. It was surreal, standing there,
hearing him talk about faith and extremism, and then
seeing how fragile life really is.”
Crankin blinked, his expression shifting slightly. “You’re
chatting about Salafis now? Bloody hell, Cy. I met some
extremists myself back in the day, but they weren’t
Muslims. They were Zionists. Worked at the record
label I was signed to.
Thought they were God's gift to the music business.
Dangerous blokes, though. Had their hands in some
proper dodgy stuff.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued for once.
“Zionists at a record label? That’s a story I’d like to
hear.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a long one, and I’m too high to tell it
properly.” Crankin said, waving him off.
Cyrus sighed and stood up, brushing crumbs off his
trousers. “I should go. I’ve wasted enough time here.”
Crankin smirked. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way
out, professor.”
As Cyrus made his way to the door, he paused, suddenly
remembering something. “I need to set up a Zelle
account.” he muttered to himself.

Crankin frowned. “Zelle? What’s that, another one of

your COBOL things?”
“Never mind.” Cyrus said, shaking his head. He didn’t
want to explain the half-baked plan forming in his mind
—a desperate scheme to claw his way out of this mess.

37
He stepped out into the cold night air, pulling his coat
tighter around him. The streets of Handsworth were
quiet, but the silence felt oppressive rather than
peaceful. As he walked, a nagging doubt crept into his
mind. The crack rock Crankin had been so possessive
over—had it even been real? His heart sank as he
realized it might have been fake, another cruel joke in a
life that had become a series of humiliations.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged on,
the faint odour of his unwashed body trailing behind
him like a shadow.

38
 6 SIMON COWELL MAX CLIFFORD
STRINGFELLOWS BUFFET

Cyrus sat hunched over a battered desk in his dimly lit flat
in Winson Green, Birmingham. The air was heavy with
damp, the faint scent of farts and mould clinging to the
walls. His small, threadbare living room doubled as his
workspace, a cluttered sanctuary of cables,
microcontrollers, and three laptops that hummed faintly,
their screens casting a faint glow into the surrounding
gloom. On the electric meter by the door, a blinking red
light warned that the power was on emergency credit.
Another problem for another day, Cyrus thought as he
sipped cold tea from a chipped mug.
The flats in Winson Green weren’t much, but they suited a
man like Cyrus. He had come here when the last vestiges
of his old life had slipped away—when the world stopped
calling him by his professional titles and started treating
him like just another statistic. He was on universal credit
now, surviving rather than living, but his mind was still a
restless, churning machine.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and
letting his thoughts drift.

39
They always did this at night, unspooling memories he’d
rather forget. Tonight, they carried him back to 1997, the
year he had left Birmingham with a computer science
degree from UCE Perry Barr and a head full of dreams.
Back then, the internet was like the Wild West—a frontier
waiting to be tamed—and Cyrus had felt like a pioneer.
He had spent hours building websites, watching as the
world of Multi-User Dungeons (MUDs) transformed into
something visual, something tangible. It was intoxicating.
He even built the first website for the MOBO Awards, an
achievement that once made him the envy of his peers.
"Cyrus the Innovator," they’d called him back then. Now,
he was just Cyrus, the man with a fading legacy and three
laptops he couldn’t afford to replace.
The soft crackle of static broke his reverie, and Cyrus
reached for the small radio perched precariously on the
edge of his desk. He twisted the dial, searching for the one
station that never let him down: Newstyle Radio 98.7FM.
The familiar voice of Student ID filled the room, sharp
and authoritative, as if he were speaking directly to Cyrus.
“Tonight,” the voice announced, “we’re diving into the
differences between Sunni and Shia Islam. And yes, we’re
going there—no sugar-coating, no censorship. Buckle up.
Big shout out to Shirley Cooper a great English teacher. ”
Cyrus adjusted the volume, his fingers trembling slightly.
Student ID’s show was always provocative, but it was also a
lifeline. The host, a Shia convert and ex-football hooligan
from Birmingham’s Zulu crew, had a way of breaking
down complex topics that made Cyrus feel both challenged
and informed.
The flat was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your
bones, but Cyrus barely noticed as the show carried on.
Student ID spoke with unapologetic conviction, dissecting
the rift between Sunni and Shia beliefs.

40
He openly cursed Abu Bakr, Umar, and Aisha, an act so
controversial that Cyrus couldn’t help but wince. It wasn’t
the first time he’d heard this kind of rhetoric, but it still
unsettled him.
Cyrus remembered his own conversion to Islam, back
when he was younger, sharper, and full of ideals. He had
been at the Handsworth Carnival with Linz and Talia, two
London friends who’d joined him for the trip. They were
cool girls, the kind of women who didn’t judge and always
knew where the best music was playing. It was during that
trip that Cyrus had first seen the white-robed Salafis, their
serene faces glowing with an intensity that struck something
deep within him. By the end of that week, he had taken his
shahada and embraced Islam.
But those days felt like a lifetime ago. The faith that had
once brought him clarity now felt complicated, muddied
by the endless debates and divisions he couldn’t seem to
reconcile. Student ID’s show didn’t make it any easier.
“Let me tell you something,” the host continued, his voice
rising with emotion. “Riba—usury—is a war declared by
Allah against mankind. You think that’s a small thing?
Look at the world. Look at the petrodollars funding wars
and revolutions, Sunni dollars backing Shia causes. You
think that’s a coincidence? Open your eyes, people!”
Cyrus rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of it all. He
knew about riba-usury, of course. Every Muslim did. But
he had never thought about it in the way Student ID was
framing it, connecting it to geopolitics and historical
betrayals. It made his head spin.
The host shifted gears, moving into even stranger territory.
“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the U.S.
government. Alien technology, hidden from the people.
It’s all connected, part of the same web of deception.

41
They don’t want you to know the truth because the truth
would destroy them.”
Cyrus smirked despite himself. This was why he loved
Student ID’s show—the man could swing from theology to
conspiracy theories without missing a beat. It was intense,
unfiltered, and just the kind of chaos that matched Cyrus’s
own fractured thoughts.
As the show wound down, the host ended with a dramatic
monologue about Al-Mahdi, the prophesied saviour in
Islamic eschatology. “Even the angels wept for Hussain,”
he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Kerbala was more
than a tragedy—it was a sign, a reminder of what we’ve lost
and what’s still to come.”
The lights flickered once, twice, and then went out
completely. Darkness swallowed the room, leaving Cyrus
alone with his thoughts. He took it as a sign to call it a
night.
Shivering, he wrapped himself in an old filthy blanket and
shuffled to the small mattress on the floor that served as his
bed. His body ached, his mind raced, and the cold gnawed
at him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the ideas
swirling in his head.
Student ID’s radio dramas often inspired him, and tonight
was no exception. He had been toying with the idea of a
computer game—something innovative, something
groundbreaking. A game where NFT technology could
blend with AI-generated imagery, creating an army of
digital soldiers who moved through black-dot portals and
defied gravity. It was ambitious, maybe even impossible,
but it kept his mind busy.
Lying there in the dark, Cyrus allowed himself a fleeting
moment of hope. He had ideas, and as long as he had
ideas, he wasn’t completely lost.

42
The world outside might have forgotten him, but his mind
was still sharp, still capable of creating something
meaningful.

The flat was freezing, and his body trembled as he drifted

off to sleep. But in the back of his mind, a small spark of
determination burned, refusing to be extinguished.
Tomorrow would come, inshaAllah, and with it, another
chance to turn his ideas into reality. For now, though, he
would rest and dream of a world where the lights never
went out.

43
44
 7 ABU BAKR (LA) & UMAR (LA) &
AISHA (LA) & HAFSA (LA) ARE
SATANIC IDOL WORSHIPPING KUFFAR

The smell of bleach and faint incense filled the air as

Mellocha Teuton scrubbed the tiles of the women’s
restroom at the church community centre. The room was
sterile and echoey, a stark contrast to the warmth of the
sanctuary just down the hall, where volunteers bustled
about setting up chairs for the evening’s prayer group.
Mellocha’s athletic frame moved with precision and
efficiency, her muscles working methodically as she
polished the porcelain and wiped down the sinks.
Cleaning toilets wasn’t glamorous work, but Mellocha had
always believed in service—whether to her community or
the larger ideals she held close to her heart. She had been
raised to respect duty and diligence, lessons instilled by her
father, Mike Teuton, who had built a career in politics with
the same mindset. That her current duty involved
scrubbing toilets rather than drafting policies didn’t bother
her. Work was work, and she took pride in doing it well.

45
As she rinsed the mop in a bucket of soapy water, her
phone buzzed on the sink counter. Drying her hands, she
picked it up and unlocked it, her sharp eyes scanning the
news article she’d bookmarked earlier: Operation Choke
Point 2.0: How The Feds Are Seeking to 'Debank'
Targeted Industries.
Her brow furrowed as she read. The first Operation
Choke Point had been controversial enough, using the
power of financial institutions to shut down legal businesses
deemed undesirable by the government. Gun shops,
payday lenders, and cannabis dispensaries had all been
targeted without due process. That initiative had been
shelved by Trump in 2017, but now, under Biden, it
seemed to be making a quiet comeback. Banks were being
urged to pause crypto-related activity, and letters from the
FDIC hinted at more restrictions to come.
“Crypto’s just the start,” Mellocha muttered to herself, her
voice echoing softly in the tiled room. She made a mental
note to keep a closer eye on the situation. It wasn’t just the
principle of it that bothered her; she had a personal stake.
A few of her friends relied on crypto projects for their
livelihoods, and the implications of this renewed
crackdown were chilling.
She finished her work, packed away the cleaning supplies,
and headed out into the cold, gray afternoon. The winter
air bit at her cheeks as she exited the community centre
and stepped onto the pavement. The overcast sky seemed
to hang low over Birmingham, a heavy, unyielding blanket
of gray.
Three black SUVs were parked outside, their engines
idling. Mellocha walked briskly to the middle car, where a
member of her discreet security detail opened the door for
her. She slid into the back seat, exchanging brief nods with
the driver before the convoy pulled away.

46
Her security detail wasn’t for show—Mike Teuton’s
political career had made a few enemies over the years,
and as his daughter, Mellocha had inherited a certain level
of risk.
Their destination was a soup kitchen in Digbeth,
Birmingham’s Eastside. It was a busy spot, especially in the
colder months, and today was no exception. The line of
people waiting for a hot meal stretched halfway down the
block, their breath visible in the frigid air.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm and bustling. Volunteers
moved between tables, carrying trays of steaming soup and
bread rolls. Mellocha spotted Cyrus immediately, seated
near the back with a paper bowl of lentil soup in front of
him. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile
spreading across his face.
“Mellocha,” he said, standing to greet her.
“Cyrus,” she replied, giving him a quick hug.
Their bond was evident, forged over years of shared
history. Cyrus had known Mike back in their university
days at UCE Perry Barr. Those were simpler times, Cyrus
often said—days of youthful ambition, when the world
seemed full of endless possibilities. Mellocha had heard all
the stories, from all-night coding sessions to philosophical
debates in the campus bar. Mike had gone into politics,
while Cyrus had taken a different path, one that led to
crystal meths and hedonism.
As they sat and talked, Mellocha noticed a familiar figure
in the corner: Student ID. The controversial radio host was
hunched over his soup, muttering to himself between bites.
“I can’t stand him,” Mellocha said, nodding in Student
ID’s direction. “He’s too controversial, and honestly, he’s a
bum.”

47
Cyrus chuckled, shaking his head. “I like his show. He’s
got a sharp mind, even if his opinions ruffle feathers.”
“I saw him on Max Keiser's Bitcoin show once,” Mellocha
said. “Wasn’t impressed. He’s too self-absorbed.”
Cyrus shrugged. “Everyone’s got their demons. His just
happen to be louder than most.”
Their conversation shifted to lighter topics, memories of
UCE and the pre-social media era. Cyrus had stayed in
touch with many of his former classmates, a habit
Mellocha admired. Despite his struggles, Cyrus had a way
of holding on to the good parts of his past.
Meanwhile, Student ID finished his meal and left the soup
kitchen, oblivious to their conversation about him.
Outside, the streets of Birmingham were alive with the
hustle and bustle of early evening. The German Christmas
Market was in full swing, its bright lights and cheerful
crowds a stark contrast to the heavy thoughts weighing on
Student ID’s mind.
He wandered through the market, his tattered shoes barely
keeping the cold out. The smell of roasted chestnuts and
mulled wine filled the air, but he barely noticed. His
thoughts were miles away, back in Damascus.
He spotted a mobile soup kitchen and approached it, his
curiosity piqued. A kind young woman greeted him and
offered a bowl of Damascus soup.
“Damascus,” he said softly, as if the word itself carried a
kind of magic.
The woman smiled. “Have you been there?”
“I lived there,” he replied. “Years ago. I went to study
Arabic and met a cleric—Sayed Ramadan al-Bouti. A kind
old man. He wanted me to stay, to continue my studies.”
“What happened?” she asked.

48
Student ID hesitated, his voice thick with emotion.
“I had to come back to the UK. My ex-wife was expecting
twins. But... he told me to return, through his translator.
Brother Sadiq. I never understood why he said that.”
He paused, his eyes distant. “The cleric was murdered in
2013. A year after I got out of prison.”
The young woman listened intently, her face full of
sympathy. His story was heavy, a stark contrast to the
festive atmosphere around them.
As he walked away, the weight of his memories seemed to
grow heavier. The rain began to fall, cold and relentless,
soaking through his thin jacket. His shoes, worn and full of
holes, offered little protection against the icy puddles
forming on the pavement.
The bright lights of the Christmas Market faded into the
distance as Student ID trudged home, his head bowed
against the rain. The world moved on around him, full of
joy and celebration, but he remained locked in his own
storm of regrets and what-ifs.
By the time he reached his flat, he was soaked to the bone,
his hands numb from the cold. He closed the door behind
him and sank into a battered chair, the sound of the rain
drumming against the windows.
Student ID checked his news feed on a laptop.
(Reuters) - Mali's military government is holding gold
seized from Barrick Gold's Loulo-Gounkoto mine site at
state-owned Banque Malienne de Solidarite (BMS), two
sources said, as the miner pursues plans to suspend its
operations in the country.

49
The move escalates an ongoing dispute between Barrick
and Malian authorities, who, like fellow military-led
governments in neighbouring Niger and Burkina Faso, are
demanding a bigger share of revenue from Western
miners.

For a moment, he thought of Damascus, of the life he

might have had if things had been different. But the
thought was fleeting, drowned out by the relentless hum of
the present.

50
 8 NEANDERTHAL HYBRID SUNNI
ISLAM IS A SATANIC RACIST ARAB
COLONISER CULT AND IT IS THE
SATANIC ENEMY OF BLACK AFRICAN
TRUE REAL HUMANS

In the dim, lifeless glow of a single desk lamp, Student

ID sat in his pit of a flat, the silence around him broken
by the faint trumpeting farts and the distant sound of
traffic outside. The flat was a mess—empty cans, papers
scrawled with notes and diagrams, and discarded
electronics were strewn across every available surface.
The rain pattered against the window, streaking the glass
with tiny rivulets as the gloom of a Birmingham winter
evening settled in.
He shifted in his chair, his mind adrift in the tangled
threads of memory. The isolation weighed heavily on
him. He had been alone for so long now, and the ghosts
of his past had grown louder in the silence. He leaned
back, closing his eyes, and felt himself slip back to the
days when life had felt vibrant, even if it was chaotic.
London. The dot-com boom. It was a different era, one
where optimism hung in the air like a contagious fever.
51
Student ID had been an IT specialist back then, part of
the wave of young, ambitious techies carving out the
digital future. He worked with the pioneering House and
Garage group, DEA Project, and even directed a music
video for MTV and Trouble TV. Those were
exhilarating days, filled with creativity, camaraderie, and
a sense that anything was possible. He could still
remember the rush of seeing his work broadcast to the
world, a tangible mark of his success.
But even those bright memories were tinged with
shadows. His family had been falling apart during that
time. He had joined a Salafi Sunni cult during his time at
a retreat at Leicester De Montfort, drawn in by the
charisma of speakers like Hamza Yusuf and Imam Zaid
Shakir. The cult's rigid teachings had seeped into every
corner of his life, alienating him from his wife and
family.
His chest tightened as he remembered those lectures.
The sanctimonious voices, the suffocating atmosphere,
and the pressure to conform had all taken a toll. He
used to get chest pains during those lectures, sharp and
unrelenting, though he didn’t understand their meaning
at the time. Only years later would he come to see them
as a sign—a warning from Allah that his path was veering
disastrously off course.
One summer afternoon during prayer, led by Hamza
Yusuf himself, it all became too much. The sunlight
streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow on
the room, but inside Student ID, a storm raged. As the
prayer continued, something broke inside him, and he
wept uncontrollably, his sobs echoing in the quiet space.
Others in the congregation began to cry as well, perhaps
mistaking his tears for piety.

52
But they weren’t tears of devotion—they were tears of
regret, shame, and the crushing weight of failure. He
hadn’t been the husband his wife needed.

Their marriage was in ruins, and the cult’s hold on him

had only made things worse.
After the prayer, he felt a strange sense of relief, as if a
weight had been lifted. But the damage was done. His
marriage ended soon after, and he walked away from the
cult, leaving behind a chapter of his life that still haunted
him.
Back in the present, Student ID opened his eyes and
reached for his laptop. The glow of the screen
illuminated his tired face as he prepared for his radio
show. The work was a distraction, something to keep his
mind from spiralling too far into the past. Tonight, he
planned to discuss Kwasi Kwarteng and the national
security review of the graphene enhanced technologies
of Perpetuus Group takeover—a seemingly obscure
topic, but one with profound implications.
He thought of his old friend Poly Styrene from X-Ray
Spex, a punk icon and one of the few people who had
truly understood him. They had been close during his
time in London, bonding over their shared disdain for
the music industry’s corruption and its proximity to the
dark underbelly of politics. Poly had taught him so
much—not just about the satanic elements of the
industry, but about resilience and integrity.
Student ID remembered the adventures they had,
exploring the city, meeting creatives, and finding
inspiration in the unlikeliest places. He had interviewed
her with his miniDV camera, capturing her candid
insights and fiery spirit. She was a mentor in many ways,
a guiding light during a turbulent period of his life.
53
He shook his head, trying to push the memories aside.
The past was a heavy weight, but the present wasn’t
much lighter. His recent return to university at BCU
Steamhouse had been an uphill battle.

Dr. Carlo Harvey, his lecturer, was brilliant but arrogant

and cruel, and the undercurrent of institutional politics
had made Student ID’s experience a nightmare.
He had worked tirelessly, synthesizing graphene at the
ACMC Community Centre and developing a solar-
powered UVC LED water sterilizer—a project he had
even patented. But his achievements were met with
disdain by the university staff, who saw him as a relic of
the 2011 riots, a convicted thief unworthy of serious
consideration. The racist and colonial undertones of
their dismissals were unmistakable.
Despite it all, he persevered. He had helped his
classmates earn first-class degrees, even though his own
ideas were dismissed. His game concept, Nuke Road,
had been turned into an Unreal Engine prototype that
earned the university a TIGA award, yet he received
little credit. The hypocrisy and exploitation grated on
him, but he kept his head down, focused on mastering
C++ and finishing what he had started.
As the rain outside intensified, Student ID prepared to
pray. He stood on his worn prayer mat, trembling as he
began. The tears came easily, as they often did during
prayer. His devotion to Ahlulbayt and Shia Islam was
unshakable, and the memory of the tragedy at Karbala
weighed heavily on his heart.
“Al-Atash,” he whispered, remembering the thirst of
Imam Hussain’s children as they were denied water
during the massacre.

54
He cursed Abu Bakr, Umar, and Aisha, the betrayal of
the Prophet’s family an open wound in his faith.
When he finished, the room was silent except for the
rain. Student ID sat back down at his desk, his fingers
hovering over the keyboard as he returned to his show
notes.

He thought about the Wheatstone Bridge, Morse code,

and the colonial theft of African drum communication—
a perfect metaphor for the way innovation was often
stolen and repackaged by the powerful.
The past and present blurred together in his mind, a
tangled web of triumphs and failures, joy and pain. His
memories of Philip Murphy, the ACMC chairman and
his mentor, offered a glimmer of hope. Philip had
believed in him, encouraging him to channel his skills
into meaningful projects.
As the night stretched on, Student ID worked tirelessly,
the glow of his laptop the only light in the room. He was
tired—of the loneliness, the struggle, the weight of his
past—but he pressed on. For all the pain and
disappointment, there was still a part of him that
believed in the possibility of redemption.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing over the city
like a cleansing tide.

55
https://www.voltairenet.org/IMG/pdf/Bernays_Propaganda_in
_english_.pdf

56
 9 OH ALLAH CURSE THE WRIGHT
STREET SUNNI SALAFI SHIA OF ABU
BAKR KUFFAR AND BURN AND
HUMILIATE AND RUIN THEM
UTTERLY AMEEN AND CURSE PAUL,
NIGEL, RODNEY AND JOSEPH. AMEEN
Joonami was a force of nature, though she rarely
acknowledged it. At twenty-one, she was already carving
her place in a world that didn’t always recognize the
brilliance of young Black women, let alone elevate them.
Petite and strikingly beautiful, her deep brown skin
glowed with an effortless radiance that often turned
heads. Born to loving Malian parents who had settled in
London years before her birth, Joonami carried herself
with a quiet confidence that belied her introverted
nature. Her parents, both devout Christians, had
instilled in her the values of hard work, humility, and
kindness. It was those very values that had guided her
through life so far—through the bustling streets of
London, the hallowed halls of Cambridge, and the
fiercely competitive world of journalism.
From an early age, Joonami had a knack for storytelling.

57
While other children were busy playing with toys, she
was scribbling stories about her community, the struggles
of the disenfranchised, and the victories of the
underdog. By the time she graduated with a first-class
degree from Cambridge, her path was clear: she would
dedicate her life to giving voice to those who had been
silenced. Her stints at The Huffington Post, Semafor,
and The Guardian were marked by hard-hitting
investigative pieces that shone a light on systemic
injustices. Recently, she had been following two high-
profile cases: Sean “Diddy” Combs’ mass rape
allegations and Tony Buzbee’s lawsuit accusing Roc
Nation of extortion. These were not stories for the faint-
hearted, but Joonami thrived in uncovering
uncomfortable truths.
Her life was not without its challenges, of course.
London, for all its vibrancy and diversity, was an
expensive city, and Joonami often felt the pinch of trying
to balance her ambitions with the realities of paying rent.
Yet, she took pride in her independence, living alone in
a modest apartment near Baker Street. It was her
sanctuary, a place where she could unwind with her
favourite tech gadgets, indulge in pop culture, and reflect
on her work. She had learned early on to compete only
with herself, a philosophy that kept her grounded even
as she excelled.
One crisp January morning, Joonami received a call that
could change everything. An opportunity at Channel 4
had opened up, and her name was being floated for the
role. It was a chance to join one of the UK’s most
prestigious media outlets—a dream job for many. As she
mulled over the offer, her phone buzzed again. It was
Amy, her lecturer from Cambridge, inviting her for
coffee in Hoxton.

58
Half Cuban and half German, Amy was a whirlwind of
energy and intellect, someone Joonami had always
admired despite their occasional differences.

That afternoon, Joonami arrived at the trendy Hoxton

café a little early, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder.
She ordered a flat white and settled into a corner seat,
scrolling through the news archives on her phone.
Labour minister Jess Phillips hits back at 'ridiculous'
Elon Musk for branding her a 'rape genocide apologist'
in grooming gangs row… She barely had time to process
the headline before Amy walked in, her expression
unusually serious.
“Sorry I’m late,” Amy said, sliding into the seat opposite
Joonami. Her tone was clipped, her usual warmth
replaced by something colder, more calculating. They
exchanged pleasantries and indulged in a bit of small
talk about work and life. But Joonami could sense that
something was off.
“Let’s take a walk,” Amy suggested abruptly, her coffee
untouched.
The streets of Hoxton were alive with their usual buzz:
artists hauling supplies, tech start-ups hosting impromptu
meetings at outdoor tables, and tourists snapping photos
of the graffiti-covered walls. But Joonami barely noticed.
Amy’s demeanour had her on edge, and she could feel a
storm brewing.
“I’m just going to cut to the chase,” Amy began as they
walked. “Channel 4 and the BBC… they’re not what you
think they are.”
Joonami frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Amy stopped walking and turned to face her. “They’re
atheist Satanists. Both of them.

59
They have a… secret club. And if you want to join
Channel 4, you’ll have to join it too.”
Joonami blinked, unsure if she had misheard. “Amy,
what are you saying? Are you joking?”
“I’m dead serious,” Amy replied.
“The leader of the club is a member of the Groucho
Club. They’re pushing an anti-God, globalist agenda,
and they’re weeding out anyone who doesn’t conform. If
you want this job, you’ll need to renounce your faith.
Publicly.”
Joonami’s heart sank. Her Christian faith was the
bedrock of her identity, the foundation upon which her
parents had raised her. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the
weight of the situation. She had rent to pay, a career to
build, and dreams to chase.
“No blood sacrifices for journalists,” Amy added
quickly, as if sensing Joonami’s panic. “That’s only for
the Russell Group university graduates in other fields.
You’re Cambridge, so you’ll just need to… make a
symbolic gesture. It’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal? Joonami thought bitterly. Renouncing
her faith was the very antithesis of who she was. But as
she stood there, grappling with the enormity of the
moment, a part of her rationalized the decision. Perhaps
this was a test from God, a way to navigate her moral
compass in an imperfect world. Or maybe it was just the
harsh reality of survival in a city where dreams didn’t
come cheap.
She nodded slowly, feigning enthusiasm. “Okay,” she
said. “I’ll do it.”
Amy’s serious expression softened slightly. “Good. Your
first mission is to stay quiet about certain things. For
example, don’t ask why Rapman’s Netflix series

60
Supacell is named after a Muslim-owned battery
company named Multibrands. Don’t investigate why Jay-
Z didn’t secure him a deal where he owns part of the
project. And definitely don’t bring up the accusations
against Jay-Z or his ties to Aleister Crowley.
Understand?”
Joonami nodded again, though her mind was racing.

Everything Amy was saying felt surreal, like a conspiracy

theory spiralling out of control. But the details were too
specific to dismiss outright, and Joonami couldn’t afford
to jeopardize her career.
By the time they parted ways, Joonami felt as though she
were floating, her body moving on autopilot as she
navigated the Tube back to her Baker Street apartment.
The Jubilee Line was unusually quiet, the hum of the
train providing a backdrop to her spiralling thoughts.
She tried to make sense of everything Amy had told her,
but the more she thought about it, the more confused
she became. Had she just made a deal with the devil?
Or was she simply playing the game, biding her time
until she could expose the truth?
As the train pulled into her stop, Joonami glanced at her
phone again. The Daily Mail headline still stared back at
her: Labour minister Jess Phillips hits back at 'ridiculous'
Elon Musk for branding her a 'rape genocide apologist'
in grooming gangs row… She smirked despite herself.
The absurdity of news cycles seemed almost comforting
compared to the chaos unfolding in her own life. At
least she’d be able to pay her rent this month.
Stepping into her apartment, Joonami dropped her bag
by the door and sank onto the couch. Her mind was a
whirlwind of doubts and justifications, but one thought
stood out above the rest: she needed to survive.
61
Whatever it took, she would navigate this twisted world
of secrets and lies. For now, though, she closed her eyes
and let herself smile, if only for a moment.
Time seemed to slow down. The hum of the city outside
dulled, and a strange haze filled the room. Before
Joonami could fully register what was happening, a man
appeared in the middle of her apartment. He was Black,
his face obscured by a ski mask, but his tailored tuxedo
was sharp enough to command attention.
“Joonami,” the man said, his voice smooth and
authoritative. “You have serious work to do.”
Joonami’s heart raced.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came

out. The man’s presence was both unsettling and oddly
calming.
“You must compress yourself.” he continued cryptically.
“But don’t worry. When I leave, you will forget this
meeting ever happened.”
Before Joonami could respond, a large, turbulent black
plasma disc materialized beneath the man’s feet. Slowly,
he sank into it, the swirling mass consuming him entirely
before evaporating into thin air.
Joonami stood frozen, her mind struggling to process
what she had just witnessed. And then, just as the man
had promised, the memory slipped away, leaving her in
a daze. She blinked, suddenly aware of the quiet hum of
her apartment once more. Her routine took over. She
headed to the bathroom, relieved herself, and then
called out to Siri.
“Play some ’90s house and garage mixes,” she said.

62
The music filled the room, an upbeat rhythm that felt
quintessentially London. Joonami nodded along to the
beat, a faint smile on her lips. She didn’t know why
she’d asked for that particular genre—it wasn’t something
she usually listened to. But tonight, it felt right. It felt like
home.

63
64
10 NETFLIX SUPACELL BY RAPMAN IS A
CLARENCE 13X ROC NATION JAY Z
ALEISTER CROWLEY SATANIST PSYOP

Digi Diva sat at her neat corporate style desk, staring at

the two monitors in front of her. The soft hum of her
gaming PC filled the room, a quiet symphony of
spinning fans and computing power. She was fed up. At
thirty-three, she was at a crossroads, unsure of whether
to push forward in the relentless grind of her life or to let
it all collapse. Her days felt like a cycle of unfulfilled
potential—the kind that lingered like a ghost, whispering
incessantly about what could have been.
Digi, as her friends called her, wasn’t short on talent. A
natural singer since her church days, she could hit notes
that made people pause, their hearts momentarily lifted
by the raw beauty of her voice. But that was a lifetime
ago, back when she had faith in things like community
and hope. As a teenager, she taught herself how to code,
recreating her favourite game, DOOM, in C++. It had
been her escape, a way to immerse herself in a world she
could control when the one around her offered nothing
but chaos.

65
At 5’11 and athletic, Digi carried herself with a quiet
confidence that masked the storm inside. She was well-
liked by those who knew her but never let anyone get
too close. She harboured a terrible secret, one that had
shaped her life in ways she couldn’t yet comprehend.
It had happened when she was twelve. One hot summer
afternoon, Digi had been at a relatives house, playing
PlayStation games. She’d stepped out to enjoy the warm
sun, wandering through an inner-city park. The
playground was quiet, the usual chatter of children
conspicuously absent. That was when she saw him—a
bald, middle-aged white man in a rumpled office suit.
He approached her, asking for the time. Something
about the situation felt off, but she couldn’t place it.
Before she could react, he grinned, revealing his
trousers unzipped and a knife in his hand.
The attack was quick, brutal, and left her a shattered
version of herself. She had collected herself somehow,
walking home in a daze. Her mother, an alcoholic with a
string of dubious boyfriends, was no source of comfort.
Digi knew better than to confide in her; the indifference
she would face would only deepen her wounds. And so,
she buried the memory deep, letting it fester silently as
she went through the motions of childhood and
adolescence.
That same day, she met Cyrus. High on his recent
success at the IT company he worked for, Cyrus had
been walking through the park when he noticed the
distressed young girl. Though Digi said nothing to him,
Cyrus handed her his business card, telling her she
could reach out if she ever needed help. She didn’t
understand why she kept the card, but six years later,
when she was eighteen and aimless, she found it again.
On a whim, she contacted Cyrus, who had since risen to
become a senior executive at an international tech firm.

66
He remembered her and offered her a job, her first step
into the world of IT.
The job didn’t last long. Digi’s unresolved trauma and
her mother’s death pulled her into a mental spiral she
couldn’t escape. She left the job but maintained sporadic
contact with Cyrus over the years—birthday messages,
the occasional coffee, and long conversations about tech
and the world when he had time. He was one of the few
men she felt safe around, a rare constant in her life.
Now, at fifty-two, Cyrus was a shadow of his former self.
The glory days of corporate success and multimillion-
dollar deals were long behind him. His hair had turned
gray, his clothes shabby and worn. Despite his
diminished circumstances, Cyrus retained his sharp
mind and impressive physical shape. Over the past few
months, he and Digi had been working together on a
covert project, leveraging old connections, Starlink
coding, and some backdoor data links from former FTX
fraud associates. Together, they had crafted a global
crypto persona known as “The Bell.”
Cyrus built the AI avatars, while Digi handled the crypto
transfers and encryption. Her elite coding skills were the
backbone of their operation. Her ex-Swiss boyfriend, a
peculiar man with deep pockets and darker secrets, had
also been an unwitting contributor. Digi had blackmailed
him, threatening to reveal a 4K videos of him indulging
in his fetish for pegging while wearing a clown mask.
Though their relationship was unconventional, the Swiss
man valued their strange friendship and accepted the
arrangement. Digi prided herself on how neatly she had
orchestrated the entire thing.
Digi and Cyrus often met to discuss their work and the
world around them. They talked about the Ukraine war,
Putin’s accusations of Western satanism, and how the
media seemed complicit in the global charade.
67
Cyrus had been listening to the 'Student ID Podcast',
which delved into graphene technology and the
rebranding of the SATAN network to SAINT with a
logo designed by Neil Gaiman. The synchronicity
between them was natural; they were kindred spirits in
their mistrust of mainstream narratives.
Cyrus, ever the eccentric, was pursuing a personal
project of his own. Using Digi’s crypto funds, he had
rented a small lab and purchased a chemical vapour
deposition machine and a centrifuge. Digi didn’t pry into
what Cyrus was building, but she suspected it was
something unconventional. Cyrus often spoke about his
disdain for Einstein and Darwin, dismissing them as
racist proponents of Western supremacy. Instead, he
idolized figures like Nikola Tesla and Charles Proteus
Steinmetz, and Oliver Heaviside whom he considered
true pioneers of science.
“It’s all about the aether.” Cyrus would say, his eyes
lighting up with fervour. “Not this nonsense they’ve been
feeding us about space and time. They’ve turned science
into a cult.”
He believed his work would help humanity, particularly
the people of the global south, and prepare for the
arrival of the Shia Mahdi. His ultimate goal was to
harness the properties of quasicrystals, inspired by
recent discoveries in meteorites. These unique materials,
with their unprecedented atomic structures, represented
untapped potential for energy and technology. Cyrus’s
faith in his project was unwavering, though he kept its
true purpose shrouded in mystery.

68
Digi didn’t share Cyrus’s spiritual zeal, but she respected
his dedication. For her, the work was a means to an end
—a way to channel her talents, stay afloat financially, and
perhaps, one day, find peace with her past. She had
grown disillusioned with the world, seeing it as a rigged
game where the powerful preyed on the weak.
Yet, in her partnership with Cyrus, she found a sliver of
purpose, a reason to keep going.
Their conversations often veered into philosophical
territory. Cyrus would wax poetic about the
interconnectedness of the universe, while Digi listened,
half-amused and half-intrigued. “We’re all just
vibrations, Diva,” he’d say. “The key is to tune yourself
to the right frequency.”
Digi, ever the pragmatist, would respond with a wry
smile. “Well, I hope your frequencies can pay the rent.”
Despite their differences, they worked well together.
Cyrus’s unorthodox ideas complemented Digi’s
technical expertise, creating a partnership that was
greater than the sum of its parts. They both knew their
operation was risky, but the potential rewards
outweighed the dangers.
As Digi walked home from their latest meeting, she
reflected on how far she had come. Her life had been a
series of trials, each one shaping her into the person she
was today. She still carried the scars of her past, but she
had learned to wield them as a shield, protecting herself
from the world’s cruelty.
In the quiet of her apartment, she sat down at her desk
and powered up her PC. The familiar hum filled the
room once more, a reminder of the journey she had
undertaken. She didn’t know what the future held, but
for now, she had a purpose. And that, for Digi Diva, was
enough.
69
70
 11 RACIST NAZI-NATO-NASA PROJECT
PAPERCLIP SATANIST SPACE LIES.
ALLAH CREATED EVERYTHING
INCLUDING DEATH AND THE
VICTORY OF GRAVE.

The smell of simmering broth and freshly baked rolls

hung heavy in the air as Mellocha handed a bowl of
soup to a weathered man with a crooked smile. Her
movements were efficient but unhurried, each gesture
brimming with an unspoken kindness. She glanced over
her shoulder at Cyrus, who was leaning against the
counter, his arms crossed, his demeanour unassuming as
always. The lines on his face had deepened since the
days when his name was synonymous with cutting-edge
IT solutions, but there was still a quiet sharpness in his
eyes—a reminder of the man he once was.
“You know, Mellocha,” Cyrus began, his voice low but
deliberate, “it’s all connected. The way politics work
here in Birmingham, the global powers that pull the
strings… it’s like a chess game where we’re all pawns.”
Mellocha rolled her eyes, more out of habit than
genuine annoyance.

71
“Cyrus, you need to stop listening to that bum,” she said,
nodding toward the corner of the soup kitchen.
There, a small group of patrons sat enraptured by
Student ID, a self-proclaimed historian and conspiracy
theorist who had turned his corner of the room into a
makeshift lecture hall. “You know he’s just talking
nonsense, right?”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “Is it
nonsense, though? Sometimes he’s got a point.”
“Oh, please,” Mellocha shot back, her voice tinged with
playful exasperation. “You’re too smart to be taken in by
that.” She handed him a dish towel, signalling that their
conversation was over—at least for now.
Despite her scepticism, Mellocha couldn’t entirely
dismiss the strange allure of Student ID’s ramblings.
Tonight, he was pontificating about Lord Curzon, the
Viceroy of India, and a book he had commissioned
called The Durbar. He was quoting page 208 with
dramatic flair: “‘I know perfectly well that the theory of
Empire is based on the supremacy of the white man
over the black; but there is a right and a wrong way of
demonstrating this supremacy.’” The group around him
nodded solemnly, their faces a mix of intrigue and quiet
anger.
Student ID transitioned seamlessly into connecting this
to Queen Elizabeth I and her advisor John Dee, the so-
called origin of the “007” mystique. He tied it all
together with a thread of theatrics and hypocrisy that,
according to him, had defined the colonial empires and
their media distractions. The audience—a mix of ex-
cons, prostitutes, and the chronically homeless—lapped
it up. Mellocha couldn’t decide whether to roll her eyes
again or laugh.

72
“You’re better than this place,” she said to Cyrus later,
as they cleaned up for the night. “You used to be
someone, you know?”
Cyrus’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “And you still
remember that,” he said quietly. “Thanks for not
forgetting me, Mellocha.”
The night was young but already settling into the chill of
early winter as Cyrus walked to Pitchfork House. The
once-modern housing project had long since fallen into
disrepair, now a haven for society’s castaways. He
climbed to the 19th floor, where his friend Twista was
waiting. Twista, a zen-like former kickboxing champ
turned high-end fashion retailer greeted him with a joint
in hand and a laid-back grin.
“What’s up, brother?” Twista said, exhaling a cloud of
smoke.
Cyrus shrugged. “Same old. Soup kitchen, politics, the
usual.”
The two sat on the worn-out sofa, their conversation
veering into the kind of territory that felt otherworldly
yet oddly grounded. Twista brought up an article he’d
read about Haim Eshed, the former Israeli space
security chief who had claimed that extraterrestrials exist
and that Trump knew about it.
“A galactic federation,” Twista mused, tapping ash into
an empty soda can. “Can you imagine? They’re just
waiting for us to figure out what space and spaceships
are.”
Cyrus chuckled. “Makes sense. We’re too busy arguing
about who’s right and who’s wrong to even look up.”
Their banter drifted to WD-40, of all things. “Did you
know it was invented to keep nukes from rusting?”
Twista said.

73
Cyrus nodded, his mind already connecting the dots to
his graphene sensor experiments. Every conversation,
no matter how trivial, seemed to feed into his greater
purpose.
Later that night, Cyrus walked to his rented lab. It was a
modest space filled with second-hand equipment: a
Chemical Vapour Deposition machine, a centrifuge, and
a cluttered workbench.
He tuned into Student ID’s latest podcast, seeking the
rare blend of esoteric knowledge and spiritual insight
that only Student ID seemed to provide. Tonight’s
episode touched on graphene’s potential and the cosmic
implications of quasicrystals discovered in meteorites.
“It’s all about tetration, vibration and symmetry.”
Student ID’s voice crackled through the speakers. “You
align the right frequencies, and you can unlock doors
you didn’t even know existed.”
Cyrus nodded to himself. He didn’t fully understand it
yet, but he felt he was on the brink of something
monumental. He shut down the lab for the night, his
mind buzzing with ideas.
The next morning, Cyrus joined a group from SIFA
Fireside for a trip to the House of Lords. The charity
had organized the excursion to give their clients a
glimpse of the country’s political machinery. On the
coach, he sat next to Nee-Nee, his ex-girlfriend and a
former crack addict. Clean and radiant, she looked like
a completely different person.
“You’re glowing,” Cyrus said, genuinely impressed.
Nee-Nee laughed. “Thanks. Rehab and Jesus will do
that to you. What about you? Still chasing your crazy
science projects?”
“Always,” Cyrus replied with a grin.

74
As the coach rolled through Birmingham, Cyrus told
Nee-Nee about his time at Fircroft, an adult education
college tied to the Cadbury family’s philanthropic legacy.
“It was weird,” he said. “MI5 had infiltrated the place.
They’re everywhere, trying to control the narrative.”
Nee-Nee rolled her eyes. “You’re paranoid, Cyrus.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s not paranoia if it’s true.”

The House of Lords was a breathtaking spectacle of

history and power. The tour guides rehearsed
explanations were met with polite interest, but Cyrus
couldn’t help but challenge the narrative when they
reached the House of Commons.
“This is a place for the people,” the guide declared.
“Not the monarchists or aristocracy.”
Cyrus raised his hand. “I only recognize Allah as my
sovereign,” he said firmly.
The guide sniffed disdainfully and moved on, but Nee-
Nee stifled a giggle. “You’re nuts,” she whispered,
nudging him playfully.
That evening, back in his modest flat, Cyrus reflected on
the day. He felt a strange mixture of hope and
frustration. The system was flawed, but people like
Mellocha, Nee-Nee, and even Student ID reminded
him that there was still room to fight for something
better. As he drifted off to sleep, he resolved to keep
pushing forward—for himself, for the people around
him, and for the world he still believed could be saved.

75
76
 12 SUNNI NEANDERTHAL HYBRID
SHAFI HANAFI MALIKI AND HANBALI
KUFR IS A CONFEDERACY OF NONCES
MAY ALLAH CURSE THEM AMEEN

Digi Diva sat at her sleek new workstation, the soft hum
of her laptop filling the air in her freshly renovated flat.
Ernst & Young had spared no expense outfitting her for
remote work. She couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of
pride. Landing this job was her achievement—a
testament to her brilliance and resilience. She had done
it without Cyrus. For once, she was standing on her own,
charting her path.
But the quiet moments were dangerous. The silent
feminist goddess—her inner Empress—often whispered
to her in dreams, filling her with ambition and
reminding her that she was destined for more. And yet,
as she tapped away at the keyboard, thoughts of her past
clawed at her resolve.
Some days, the memories were distant, like a haze she
could ignore. Other days, they loomed like a
thundercloud, refusing to be dismissed.

77
The betrayal, the heartbreak, and the strange pull of her
long, fraught relationship with Cyrus—it was all tangled
up, inseparable from her sense of self. He had been
there for her in ways no one else had, but he was still a
man, flawed and tethered to the same impulses that had
driven her away from others before him.
The Swiss lover boy with his eccentric ways and hollow
promises was an especially bitter memory.
It was easier to escape into the persona of "The Bell,"
her online alter ego with a global following. "The Bell"
was larger than life, a figure of mystery and allure,
untouchable by the harsh realities of life. The crypto and
Zelle money that streamed in under the guise of her
digital empire gave her the freedom to live on her terms
—for now. But there were shadows lurking at the edges
of her success. The ties to FTX and Tether were a
constant source of unease. The possibility of being
exposed and sent to prison loomed over her like a
guillotine.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. For now, she would
focus on her work and the life she was building. She was
an Empress, after all.

Across town, Cyrus was stepping into the dingy halls of

Pitchfork House. The air was thick with the damp,
musty smell that seemed to cling to the building no
matter how much it was cleaned. Twista, one of the
long-time residents, held the door open for him with a
sceptical look.
“You think this meeting’s gonna change anything?”
Twista asked, his voice heavy with cynicism.
“Probably not,” Cyrus admitted, adjusting his scarf
against the chill of the hallway. “But I’ve got to try.”

78
The meeting room was packed, a cacophony of voices
rising and falling as residents jostled for seats. At the
front of the room stood Sir Albert Bore, the veteran
politician and former nuclear physicist whose career
spanned decades. His reputation preceded him—equal
parts respected and resented, depending on who you
asked.

As the meeting began, chaos quickly took hold.

Residents shouted over one another, airing grievances
about everything from faulty plumbing to rising rents. Sir
Albert tried to maintain order, but his patience was
wearing thin.
Cyrus bided his time, waiting for a chance to speak.
When it finally came, he stood and addressed Sir Albert
directly.
“I’m working with the residents here, teaching them
about graphene nanomaterials,” Cyrus began. His voice
carried a note of pride. “We’ve received 3D-printed
sensors from Trinity College Dublin, thanks to
Professor Jonathan Coleman and his team. They’ve
been incredible—humble and collaborative, unlike some
of the so-called academics I’ve dealt with closer to
home.”
He couldn’t resist the jab. The bitterness in his voice was
unmistakable as he mentioned the CEBE faculty at
BCU Steamhouse. He outlined how they had dismissed
Student ID, ignored his contributions, yet shamelessly
used his portable solar-powered UVC LED water
sterilizer in their promotional materials.
Sir Albert listened attentively, nodding occasionally.
Cyrus felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps this wasn’t a waste
of time after all.

79
Meanwhile, Student ID sat hunched over his desk in his
own flat, scrolling through emails from Professor
Coleman’s team. The sensors they had sent were a
marvel of engineering, a testament to what true
collaboration could achieve.
He couldn’t help but think about the stark contrast
between his experience with Trinity College and his time
at BCU.

Dr. Aftelak, with her impressive 23 patents for

Motorola, was a symbol of everything wrong with the
institution. Brilliant on paper, but utterly dismissive of
anyone who didn’t fit the mould.
Student ID’s mind wandered back to the summer after
his second semester. He had worked tirelessly on the
Unreal Engine prototype for Nuke Road, earning
accolades for his team but little recognition for himself.
Dr. Carlo Harvey, with his arrogant smirk and penchant
for inappropriate games like Secret Hitler, had been no
help. The memory of Professor Mak Sharma’s creepy
comments during a Zoom call still sent shivers down his
spine.
Despite it all, Student ID had pressed on, synthesizing
graphene at the ACMC Community Centre and working
closely with mentors like Phillip Murphy. Phillip, an ex-
Labour councillor and contemporary of Jeremy Corbyn
and Diane Abbott, had been a steadying influence—a
rare source of encouragement in a sea of dismissive
academics.
But the wounds were still raw. The systemic racism, the
exploitation, and the casual cruelty of those in power
weighed heavily on him.

80
Back at Pitchfork House, the meeting was winding
down. Sir Albert Bore made vague promises about
addressing the residents’ concerns, but Cyrus could see
the fatigue in his eyes. As the crowd dispersed, Twista
caught up with him.
“You really think all that graphene talk made a
difference?” Twista asked.
“It’s not just about today,” Cyrus replied. “It’s about
planting seeds. You never know what might grow.”
Twista shrugged, unconvinced. “Hope you’re right.”
As Cyrus made his way back to his flat, he thought about
Digi Diva. She hadn’t needed him to land her job at
Ernst & Young, and for that, he was genuinely proud.
But their relationship was as complicated as ever. She
was brilliant, driven, and fiercely independent, but there
was always a wall between them—a barrier of unspoken
frustrations and unresolved issues.
For now, though, Cyrus focused on the work ahead. He
still believed in the power of knowledge, the potential
for change, even if it came slowly.
The rain continued to fall, washing over the city as
another day slipped into night.

81
82
13 ALI [AS] IS WITH THE TRUTH AND
THE TRUTH IS WITH ALI[AS] AND
THROUGH THIS ALLAH HAS DEFINED
ISLAMOPHOBIA
The rented laboratory unit on the industrial estate in
Birmingham was an unassuming space, surrounded by
concrete facades and graffiti-tagged walls. But inside, it
was alive with possibility. Rows of lab equipment, 3D
printers, and microscopes filled the room, humming
softly. The faint smell of ozone mixed with the earthy
tang of graphene dust and the sharp metallic bite of
chemicals.
Cyrus and Digi Diva stood at a makeshift workbench,
poring over schematics and notes. A small stack of
books on metaphysics and atomic theory sat nearby,
alongside a laptop streaming a video from Ken Wheeler,
the self-proclaimed YouTube genius of metaphysics. His
voice, deep and deliberate, filled the air as he
expounded on the null-point toroidal description of
energy and the atom.
Cyrus, in his element, gestured toward the screen. “This
is what I mean when I talk about 'speaking to the atom.”
Ken's theory might sound like pseudoscience to some,
but there’s a poetic brilliance in it.
83
Energy flows like a toroid, a self-sustaining loop.

If we can understand how to interact with that flow, we

could manipulate matter at its most fundamental level."
Digi Diva nodded, her eyes focused but tired. "And
you’re saying graphene could be the bridge? Using it to
capture signals, interpret them, and even communicate
back to the atomic structure?"
"Exactly," Cyrus said, his voice brimming with
excitement. "Graphene is the key. It’s the most
conductive material known to man. Combine it with a
fibre optic input for data transmission, and suddenly
we’re not just observing atoms—we’re conversing with
them. That’s the dream."

Meanwhile, across town, Student ID was live on the air,

his voice cutting through the static like a knife. "Let’s talk
about the sick underbelly of the entertainment industry,"
he began, his tone equal parts sardonic and enraged.
“Simon Cowell and Syco? Manufactured pop drivel. But
it’s deeper than that. It’s about control—about turning
artists into puppets. P Diddy? Jay-Z? Grooming freak-
offs, are demonic rituals. The satanic imagery, the ties to
Aleister Crowley—it’s not just theatrics. It’s a language, a
code, and it’s been embedded in the industry for
decades.”
The chat exploded with messages from listeners, some
agreeing, others mocking him, but he pressed on. “And
don’t even get me started on Dolphin Square, the MI5
paedophilia ring. Sinister blackmail plots tied to
politicians, entertainers, and yes, even the BBC. It’s not
a conspiracy theory when the evidence is staring you in
the face.

84
The BBC isn’t just a media outlet—it’s an extension of
the British security services, serving the colonial
establishment.”

He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink

in.
Then, with a sharp pivot, he added, “But let’s switch
gears. Anyone remember the Sega Dreamcast?
CAPCOM’s Power Stone? Now that was a game ahead
of its time.”
Student ID’s voice lightened as he delved into the
technical specs. “The Dreamcast was a beast. SH-4
processors with superscalar execution and a vector
floating-point unit perfect for 3D graphics. And now?
The Dreamcast chip is open source. That’s right, folks—
we’re talking about a platform ripe for reinvention.
Imagine what we could do with modern tech like
graphene sensors. The possibilities are endless.”

Back at the lab, Cyrus and Digi Diva felt like they were
on the cusp of a breakthrough. The conversation shifted
to Student ID’s recent podcasts, which had touched on
graphene and metaphysics.
“I listened to his segment on the Dreamcast.” Cyrus
said, adjusting his glasses. “He’s onto something. That
chip was ahead of its time, and now that it’s open source,
we could use it as a foundation for something new.”
Digi Diva leaned against the workbench, her mind
racing. “But it’s not just about the tech. It’s about
combining it with the right sensors, the right data inputs.
EEG and heart rate data, fed through graphene sensors—
that’s the best combination.”

85
Cyrus nodded. “It’s the language of the body speaking to
the language of the atom. We’ll need a mini thorium salt
reactor to power it, though. Nothing else will provide the
kind of stable, high-energy environment we need for this
kind of experimentation.”
Digi Diva raised an eyebrow. “A thorium reactor? That’s
no small task.”
“I’ve already started researching the process.”
Cyrus said, pulling up a document on his laptop. “We’ll
need to prepare thorium oxide and convert it to
anhydrous thorium fluoride. It’s a complex process, but
it’s doable. The key is keeping everything carbonate-
free. I’ve been looking at some patents, but information
on thorium chemistry is surprisingly sparse.”
Digi Diva scanned the document, her brow furrowing.
“So we’ll need hydrofluoric acid, ammonium bifluoride,
and a vacuum setup for the final stages.”
“Exactly. And we’ll need to handle everything with
extreme care. One misstep, and the whole thing could
fail—or worse.”
She sighed. “No pressure, then.”
Later that evening, as the rain tapped against the lab’s
grimy windows, Cyrus unboxed a ceramic 3D printer.
He had ordered it the week before, knowing they would
need it to fabricate custom parts for the reactor and
sensor housing.
“We’ll use this to print the components for the reactor
core," he explained. "Ceramic is ideal because it can
withstand high temperatures and corrosive
environments.”
Digi Diva watched as he carefully set up the printer.
“And once we have the reactor, we can focus on the
graphene chip with the fibre optic input,” she said.
86
“Laser light will send data through the fibre, directly to
the graphene sensor. From there, we’ll code the signals
to transmit shape matrices, vectors, hardness, and
elemental data. It’s like creating a language for the
atom.”

Cyrus nodded, his mind already racing ahead. "And

that’s just the beginning. Once we’ve proven the
concept, we can scale up. Imagine entire systems
powered by thorium and controlled at the atomic level
by graphene sensors."
As they worked, the lab buzzed with quiet intensity.
Cyrus ordered a Vollebak graphene jacket, partly for the
novelty but also because it felt like a symbolic gesture—a
nod to the material that had become the cornerstone of
their experiments.
The night stretched on, the two of them caught in a
whirlwind of ideas and possibilities. For Cyrus and Digi
Diva, this was more than just science. It was a fusion of
metaphysics, technology, and sheer human will.
And somewhere across the city, Student ID wrapped up
his broadcast, signing off with a mix of defiance and
hope.
Cyrus remembered Student ID has an ARAIVR
Systems github with a NFT token IS metabroadcast
algorithm. This would be a good tester for online data
analysis and for unit testing of the new graphene
firmware he would have to code. Furthermore Student
ID mentioned all computer languages have to serve
satanic western colonial COBOL African Congo coltan
hardware systems.
The program below is used in various topics to
demonstrate debugging tasks.

87
This program calls two subprograms to calculate a loan
payment amount and the future value of a series of cash
flows. It uses several COBOL intrinsic functions.
Main program COBCALC
*********************************************************
*
* COBCALC *
* *
* A simple program that allows financial functions to *
* be performed using intrinsic functions. *
* *
*********************************************************
*
IDENTIFICATION DIVISION.
PROGRAM-ID. COBCALC.
ENVIRONMENT DIVISION.
DATA DIVISION.
WORKING-STORAGE SECTION.
01 PARM-1.
05 CALL-FEEDBACK PIC XX.
01 FIELDS.
05 INPUT-1 PIC X(10).
01 INPUT-BUFFER-FIELDS.
05 BUFFER-PTR PIC 9.
05 BUFFER-DATA.
10 FILLER PIC X(10) VALUE "LOAN".
10 FILLER PIC X(10) VALUE "PVALUE".
10 FILLER PIC X(10) VALUE "pvalue".
10 FILLER PIC X(10) VALUE "END".
05 BUFFER-ARRAY REDEFINES BUFFER-DATA
OCCURS 4 TIMES
PIC X(10).

PROCEDURE DIVISION.
DISPLAY "CALC Begins." UPON CONSOLE.
MOVE 1 TO BUFFER-PTR.
MOVE SPACES TO INPUT-1.
* Keep processing data until END requested
PERFORM ACCEPT-INPUT UNTIL INPUT-1 EQUAL TO
"END".
* END requested
DISPLAY "CALC Ends." UPON CONSOLE.
GOBACK.

88
 * End of program.

*
* Accept input data from buffer
*
ACCEPT-INPUT.
MOVE BUFFER-ARRAY (BUFFER-PTR) TO INPUT-1.
ADD 1 BUFFER-PTR GIVING BUFFER-PTR.
* Allow input data to be in UPPER or lower case
EVALUATE FUNCTION UPPER-CASE(INPUT-1) CALC1
WHEN "END"
MOVE "END" TO INPUT-1
WHEN "LOAN"
PERFORM CALCULATE-LOAN
WHEN "PVALUE"
PERFORM CALCULATE-VALUE
WHEN OTHER
DISPLAY "Invalid input: " INPUT-1
END-EVALUATE.
*
* Calculate Loan via CALL to subprogram
*
CALCULATE-LOAN.
CALL "COBLOAN" USING CALL-FEEDBACK.
IF CALL-FEEDBACK IS NOT EQUAL "OK" THEN
DISPLAY "Call to COBLOAN Unsuccessful.".
*
* Calculate Present Value via CALL to subprogram
*
CALCULATE-VALUE.
CALL "COBVALU" USING CALL-FEEDBACK.
IF CALL-FEEDBACK IS NOT EQUAL "OK" THEN
DISPLAY "Call to COBVALU Unsuccessful.".

The world was chaotic, corrupt, and often cruel, but in

pockets of resistance like this lab and Student ID's radio
show, the seeds of change were being sown.

89
90
 14 DEM CAN'T SEE WE FACE -
BALACLAVA

It was the time of Fajr, the early morning prayer, and the
faint light of dawn crept through the edges of the city
skyline. Inside the workshop, Cyrus was oblivious to the
world outside. He had been awake all night, lost in the
delicate and dangerous dance of experimentation. The
periodic table set, complete with real elements gifted to
him years ago by Mr. Singh in London, gleamed faintly
under the dim workshop lights. It had finally found its
purpose.
On the bench before him, a solar-powered Raspberry Pi
breadboard transmitted streams of data, blinking in
rhythmic patterns. Cyrus adjusted his graphene EEG ski
mask, feeling the liquid mesh conform perfectly to the
contours of his head. He muttered a quiet
Alhamdulillah—all praise to Allah. Everything was
working as planned. He couldn't help but reflect on how
much Student ID had inspired him. "What a genius," he
murmured to himself, gratitude flickering in his voice.
The Quran recitation playing softly in the background
seemed to sync perfectly with the photon input system
he had devised.
91
It began with light, then voice, then heart rate, and finally
EEG signals. Each element seamlessly translated into a
language his graphene sheet system could understand.
The entire setup felt like a hymn to the unity of science,
spirit, and willpower.

Cyrus’s thoughts drifted as he calibrated the suit.

Memories of his time as a civil servant at Caxton House,
the Department for Work and Pensions, surfaced. It
was the best IT job he ever had, a steady rhythm of
problem-solving and systems maintenance. He’d been
there on 9/11, a day etched into his mind as much for its
historical gravity as for the sense of unreality it evoked.
He’d learned something that day: the world runs on
other people’s ideas, and sometimes the trick was to
connect them in ways no one else had thought of.
And now, here he was, wearing a prototype graphene
suit that could read his pineal gland. He recalled reading
studies about calcite microcrystals in the pineal gland
and their potential piezoelectric activity. The idea that
these tiny structures might interact with graphene’s
unparalleled sensitivity was mind-boggling. With careful
calibration, the graphene suit could translate his pineal
gland's faint signals into actionable data—a conversation
between mind and machine.
The heart, too, was a crucial part of the system. He
remembered reading Dr. McCraty’s research, which
demonstrated that the heart sent far more signals to the
brain than the brain sent to the heart. This two-way
dialogue became the foundation of his EEG-graphene
interface, and the 3D vector shape algorithms he had
coded were working perfectly. Even the anti-gravity
levitation system, based on Ken Wheeler’s null-point
theories, was operational.

92
Suddenly, the world seemed to shift. Cyrus felt as
though he were being stretched and compressed at once.
The air around him fizzed and phased, and for a
moment, reality itself appeared to fracture. Huge,
spider-like and tentacled beasts materialized in the
workshop, their grotesque forms disappearing as quickly
as they had appeared. Time felt elastic and disjointed.
Cyrus’s solar-powered quartz clock registered just two
seconds, but the suit’s internal metrics clocked 216
seconds. He was shaken but intrigued. Was this a side
effect of the suit or a glimpse into another dimension?
He quickly built an AI system to record all future visual
phenomena in 4K resolution. He named the file
“ATON RA,” after the robot in Student ID’s graphic
novel Embrace the Edge: Nuke Road, a work so brilliant
it had been added to the libraries of Oxford and
Cambridge.
Testing the suit further, Cyrus tried something straight
out of the graphic novel. Could the graphene jacket
transform into a black tuxedo? He focused, and the
liquid mesh responded, shifting from silvery gunmetal
grey to a sleek black sheen. It worked. “No more
shopping trips or getting clothes from the soup kitchen”
Cyrus muttered with a grin.
The real test, though, lay beyond aesthetics. He needed
to test the suit’s levitation and stealth systems. Packing
his gear, he headed for the Lickey Hills, a secluded area
where he could experiment unnoticed. Under the cover
of night, Cyrus activated the suit’s systems. The
graphene filters for water sterilization, oxygen supply,
and heating functioned flawlessly. He shot upward,
reaching an altitude of 17,000 feet.

93
From this vantage point, the earth looked flat and
infinite. The sun and moon appeared closer, almost
local. Cyrus chuckled darkly to himself. “NASA and
their lies,” he muttered. “They’ve always been lying.
About everything.” The suit’s cloaking and invisibility
features engaged seamlessly, allowing him to observe
without being observed.

Satisfied with the suit’s performance, Cyrus returned to

the workshop, but something gnawed at him—a need for
closure. He logged onto Facebook, a platform he rarely
used, and searched for his father. A few keystrokes, and
there it was. His father was alive, living in Kingston,
Jamaica. The suit’s GPS pinpointed the exact location. It
was a bittersweet discovery. Cyrus had always been a
lone wolf, estranged from his scattered family, but this
was a chance to reconnect.
The flight to Jamaica was swift, the suit’s levitation and
speed systems performing flawlessly. But the scene that
greeted him in Kingston was a nightmare. Civil war had
torn the city apart. Chaos reigned, and blood ran in the
streets. Amid the madness, Cyrus found the building
where his father was. It was guarded by a lone man, an
87—one of Jamaica’s most notorious gangsters.
The man, lean and wiry with braided hair and a short
beard, sensed Cyrus’s power and deferred to him
without question. Inside, Cyrus found his father—a frail
old man, 100 years of age, lying on a makeshift bed.
“I tried to abort you,” his father said with a nervous
chuckle. “Sorry.”
Cyrus sat beside him, cradling the frail figure. “It doesn’t
matter now,” he said.

94
His father’s voice grew weaker. “Your mother... she was
a great woman. I was too selfish.”
“Lord Gifford is a good friend.”
For a moment, Cyrus thought he had died. But the old
man revived briefly. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, before
finally slipping away.
Cyrus buried his father in the chaos of Kingston, tears
streaming down his face.

Before leaving, Cyrus cloned the suit and handed it to

the armed man. “This will keep you safe,” he said.
“Take me with you,” the man replied, desperation in his
voice.
Cyrus hesitated but relented. “Fine. But you’ll have to
live on the streets for a while. Eat at soup kitchens until I
figure things out. You look like a man with good survival
skills ”
But first, there was one more task. Cyrus needed
plutonium from Jamaica’s SLOWPOKE reactor. The
facility was heavily guarded, but the suit allowed him to
phase through walls and move undetected. He secured
the plutonium and returned to the 87, who had no name
but carried a presence of hardened resolve.
Together, they ascended into the night sky, leaving the
madness of Kingston behind. As they fly back to the
UK, Cyrus shed a single tear for his father, a man who
had failed him in life but had somehow given him clarity
in death.

Back at the workshop, Digi Diva was restless. As “The

Bell,” her crypto avatar persona, she was growing weary
of the monotony.
95
Digi-Diva suggested upgrades based on the Niantic
Pokemon GO! Spy and Play System, this would raise
more funds. Cyrus objected as it would be too sneaky
and quoted heavily from Shoshanna Zuboff's book The
Age of Surveillance Capitalism.

He had too much control. She needed to shake things

up—radically.

96
 15 HE WHO SEEKS GUIDANCE FROM
THE WRONG SOURCE GOES ASTRAY -
ALI[AS]
Cyrus leaned back in his chair, the late-afternoon sun
streaming through the window as he tuned into Newstyle
Radio 98.7FM. The station was alive with energy, and as
the unmistakable voice of Student ID came on air,
Cyrus couldn't help but smirk at the host’s audacity.
Student ID had carved out a niche on the airwaves,
blending sharp political commentary with a flair for
unfiltered truth-telling. This evening’s broadcast was no
exception. The show kicked off with a clip from Student
ID’s joint production with Warwick University’s
Professor David Dabydeen. Recorded at the iconic
London Shard—a gleaming testament to modern
ambition and excess—the program featured an interview
with Baroness Amos.
Baroness Amos, a polarizing figure to say the least, was
no stranger to controversy. Once hailed as a trailblazer
for her ascent in British politics, her legacy had long
since been tarnished by her role in Prime Minister Tony
Blair’s cabinet. Student ID spared no words, lambasting
her as Blair’s 'Afro-Nazi lapdog' a sellout who had
shamelessly courted African support for the West’s
catastrophic Iraq policies.
97
The invasion, sold to the world under the guise of
democracy and freedom, had left a trail of devastation,
mass murder, and a haunting hunt for the Shia Mahdi.
Amos had replaced Claire Short, a Ladywood politician
respected for her integrity and principled stand against
Labour’s Iraq policy. Shorts resignation had been a rare
act of political bravery, and to Cyrus’ delight, she even
phoned into the show. Student ID, always eager to blend
seriousness with a touch of humour, cheekily asked if
she’d spit some bars over a hip-hop beat. Short wisely
declined but laughed it off, a rare moment of levity from
a politician who truly cared about her community.
From there, Student ID’s broadcast took a darker turn,
exposing a series of troubling stories from Birmingham.
The city’s corrupt and financially bankrupt council was
under fire yet again, this time for its support of naming
the HS2 high-speed railway after Lord Curzon. The
colonial viceroy’s name was a glaring reminder of
Britain’s imperialist past, and Student ID made sure his
listeners knew just how disgraceful the decision was. The
backlash was immediate and severe, culminating in the
resignation of the HS2 CEO shortly after the show’s
original broadcast.
Cyrus listened intently as the host’s fiery words shifted to
another target: Dr. Carlo Harvey, a lecturer in
Computer Games Technology at Birmingham City
University. Student ID’s disdain for Dr. Harvey was
palpable. Describing him as a bloated, arrogant
European with a penchant for leering and
dismissiveness, the host recounted how Harvey had
introduced his students to a game called Secret Hitler.
The choice horrified a mature students like Student ID,
whose sense of moral outrage was further stoked by
Harvey’s dismissive attitude toward alternative ideas.
“Sometimes,” Cyrus thought to himself, “you have to
humble yourself for the bigger picture.”
98
That’s what Student ID did, though Cyrus could tell the
host often had to suppress his more visceral instincts.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Cyrus. At the

time, the university’s chancellor was none other than Sir
Lenny Henry, the beloved comedian-turned-
philanthropist. But even Henry wasn’t immune to
scandal. Student ID exposed how Comic Relief, the
charity Henry championed, had invested in BAE
Systems, a defence contractor linked to numerous
conflicts. It was a tangled web of hypocrisy, and Student
ID left no stone unturned. His commentary wasn’t
limited to criticism, though. The host highlighted his
own inventive work, from a UVC LED water sterilizer to
a peer-reviewed experiment involving a graphene sensor
at Trinity College. He even shared his ambitious patent
for a CRISPR organoid API, a groundbreaking
application where organoids could process data for
computer games. The innovation was staggering, leaving
Cyrus in awe of the host’s intellect and versatility.
A few days later, Cyrus found himself in a local park,
armed with a solar-powered Raspberry Pi. The sky was
cloudless, and the sun’s rays provided all the energy he
needed to continue his research. Inspired by Student
ID’s broadcast, he delved into the world of blockchain
gaming, specifically Illuvium. Founded in 2020 by
Kieran Warwick, Illuvium had quickly made waves with
its unique blend of open-world RPG, auto-battler, and
monster-taming mechanics. Operating on the Ethereum
blockchain, the platform catered to both casual and
hardcore gamers, demonstrating how cutting-edge
technology could revolutionize entertainment. Cyrus was
impressed, but as he reflected on the insights Student ID
shared, he realized that the host’s genius wasn’t just
technical. It was spiritual.

99
“They don’t get it,” Cyrus muttered under his breath.
The world’s top universities—Oxford, Cambridge, MIT,
Harvard, Imperial—had all failed to replicate what
Student ID had built.
Not because they lacked resources or talent, but because
they lacked faith. Cyrus was convinced that Student ID’s
Shia Muslim beliefs were the key. Through some
otherworldly, Allah-based process, the host had tapped
into a wellspring of knowledge and creativity that the so-
called “clowns” at BCU’s Steamhouse, along with the
“Oxbridge Satanists,” couldn’t begin to fathom. The
irony of a degree-less innovator outpacing the academic
elite was poetic justice in its purest form.
Weeks passed, and Cyrus’ fascination with Student ID
only deepened. Using his proprietary ATON RA
DEEPSEEK AI module, he developed a system that
combined home-grown stem-cell CRISPR organoid
logic servers with advanced cloning technology. The goal
was to create an impenetrable shield against surveillance
from MI5, CIA, Mossad, and any other intelligence
agencies that might be snooping. The idea wasn’t far-
fetched. If Student ID’s revelations had taught Cyrus
anything, it was that the powers that be would stop at
nothing to suppress dissenting voices.
Back in his apartment, Cyrus stared at the blinking lights
of his setup. The AI module was running smoothly,
processing streams of data with uncanny efficiency. It
was a testament to what could be achieved when
determination met ingenuity. As the night wore on,
Cyrus replayed the Student ID broadcast in his mind,
marvelling at the host’s ability to weave disparate threads
into a coherent narrative. Missing children in
Birmingham, corrupt councils, colonial legacies, and
groundbreaking inventions—it all fit together, a tapestry
of injustice and hope.

100
What struck Cyrus most, however, was the raw humanity
of it all. Student ID wasn’t just a voice on the radio. He
was a mirror, reflecting the struggles and triumphs of
ordinary people.
He was a disruptor, challenging the status quo with
unrelenting courage. And above all, he was a believer,
guided by a faith that transcended the material world.
As the first rays of dawn crept through his window,
Cyrus felt a renewed sense of purpose. The fight for
truth and justice wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. And
with minds like Student ID leading the charge, there was
hope. For Birmingham. For the world. For the future.
Cyrus checks his hologram feed and archives
researching Yovel Alter and his orthodox Jewish child
sex cult.

Senior Israeli member of Orthodox Jewish sect Lev

Tahor arrested for alleged human trafficking
• Michael Sunnucks
• Jan 27, 2025 Updated Jan 27, 2025

Cyrus muttered to himself.

“Old news. Ancient Baal satanism.”

101
102
 16 THE BELIEVER DESPISES HIGH
RANK AND SHUNS REPUTATION –
IMAM ALI[AS]

In the heart of South Korea, groups of teenagers

huddled together, immersed in the vibrant world of the
"BELL Game." It was more than a game—a global
phenomenon powered by cutting-edge VR and AR
technology that brought players into a 3D universe
starring BELL, a global singing and kung fu Avatar.
Players could scan themselves into the game, becoming
part of BELL’s vast, procedurally generated online
world. In this universe, BELL held massive concerts,
her vocal power battling alien wushu kung fu warriors in
dazzling combat. The game’s allure lay not just in its
battles but in its depth; players could capture these
aliens, recruit them, and fight alongside them as BELL’s
quest for dominance unfolded. Beyond the thrill of
gameplay, NFTs earned in-game could be sold for real-
world profit, adding an irresistible financial incentive.
What captivated players across the world wasn’t just the
gameplay mechanics but BELL’s infectious personality.

103
It was, of course, the work of Digi Diva—an advanced AI
that spouted a mix of self-help nonsense and
motivational content generated using ChatGPT. The
illusion of BELL’s charisma drew millions of fans, but
behind the scenes, Digi Diva was growing restless.
She wanted more say in her existence, her radical self-
awareness creating tension within the project. Cyrus, the
mastermind behind "The BELL Game," knew this. As
he coded and monitored the project, he tried to keep
things stable, whispering to himself, "Don’t rock the
boat." His day-to-day life, however, was far from the
sleek digital landscapes of BELL’s world. Between visits
to soup kitchens and community centres, Cyrus often
pondered the contradictions of his life and the world
around him.
When not lost in lines of code, Cyrus turned to darker
amusements. He found himself trolling Sunni Tik Tok
users, questioning the rise of Sunni Islam with pointed,
often provocative comments. He couldn’t help but
compare it to the path of Student ID, a figure who
loomed large in his mind. Student ID had converted to
Shia Islam during a prison stint after being jailed for
looting during the 2011 UK riots. Upon his release, he’d
been contacted by a BBC journalist while still on tag at
his mother’s house. That chance encounter led to an
appearance on BBC2’s Newsnight alongside the truly
ferociously ugly witch Emily Maitlis, weirdo Ukraine
supporting afro-nazi David Lammy, and the satanically
sinister Sir Mark Rowley.
In the green room before the broadcast, Student ID had
encountered Mark Hoban, a Tory politician. Recalling
an episode of RT’s Max Keiser Report about the City of
London’s unlimited rehypothecation practices. Student
ID had boldly questioned Hoban about the financial
system’s corruption.

104
Hoban, visibly unsettled, stuttered in response before
being saved by a young assistant who offered a
dismissive explanation and ushered him away. For
Cyrus, it was a moment of triumph for the underdog—a
convicted black man challenging the powerful on their
own turf.
Fast forward to a crisp Sunday morning in the Lickey
Hills. It was graphene suit test day.
Cyrus had managed to convince Digi Diva to test the
new suit, though her enthusiasm was wearing thin. Tired
of Cyrus’ control-freak tendencies, she was itching to
break free from his oversight. Nonetheless, she donned
the suit, nerves evident, as Cyrus meticulously prepped
the equipment. He set up the cameras embedded in his
suit and gave her a thumbs-up. Ready.
From Digi Diva’s perspective, the experience was
overwhelming. She found herself in a hyper-real
landscape teeming with vivid, shifting colours. Creatures
phased in and out of existence as she floated effortlessly.
Clouds of turbulent plasma swirled around her,
morphing into vast, sleek cities that appeared and
disappeared in an instant. The scene shifted abruptly to
a forest of liquid, translucent trees. Hidden yellow eyes
peered at her from the shadows, filling her with unease.
Before she could process it, the environment changed
again. She was now in a vast desert plain. Turning
around, she froze in horror as 300-meter-tall monsters
emerged, their 20 red and yellow eyes glowing with
malevolence.
In the midst of this chaos, there was a quiet moment. A
woman clad in dark blue and gold hexagonal armour
with a red visor appeared, standing motionless. Digi
Diva felt an unexpected sense of safety in the presence
of this enigmatic figure. The woman said nothing,
merely watching as if assessing her.
105
After what felt like hours, the experience ended. Digi
Diva snapped back to reality, furious.
Though only three minutes had passed in real-world
time, she had experienced what felt like eight hours. She
stormed off, refusing to share what she’d seen with
Cyrus. Her silence left him frustrated and desperate for
data, but she wouldn’t budge.
Left alone, Cyrus turned to his hologram internet feed.
As he sifted through the archives and current data
streams, he noted the chaos in the news:

• BBC Radio stations had gone dead in a massive

technical blunder, leaving listeners in silence.
• Elon Musk had taken a swipe at Ed Davey,
calling him a “snivelling cretin.”
• An old archive from 1997 resurfaced, detailing
the dark history of eugenics in British socialism
and forced sterilizations in Scandinavia.
• A chilling reflection on Darwin’s influence on
political ideologies painted a grim picture of
human classification and exploitation.
Other feeds documented intelligence agencies’ failures,
conspiracy theories about MI5, MI6, and CIA activities,
and Elon Musk’s disdain for the British Labour Party.
As Cyrus scrolled, a recurring theme emerged: the
crumbling of established systems and the growing
irrelevance of billionaires. "Their time is coming to an
end," he thought, finding solace in the chaos.
Yet, amidst this digital noise, Cyrus felt a rare
satisfaction. His AI systems, combined with the ATON
RA internet data cloning and scraping firmware, were
working flawlessly.

106
The BELL project might be turbulent, Digi Diva might
be defiant, and the world might be spiralling into
madness, but his creations endured. For now, that was
enough.

107
108
 17 ARGUMENTUM AD POPULUM

The rise and fall of great ambitions often leave a trail of

chaos, and Birmingham—rich in history yet fractured by
its present—seemed a microcosm of the world’s turmoil.
Beneath the city’s bustling exterior, stories like those of
Student ID, Cyrus, Joonami, and Mellocha intertwined
in strange, shadowy ways, forming a tapestry of hope,
corruption, resilience, and descent into darkness.

Having finished another soul-stirring performance with

the Choir with No Name, Student ID walked home, his
spirits buoyed by the harmonious voices and warm
smiles of the choir members. These moments felt like
an oasis, a reprieve from the dark memories that
haunted him—the betrayal of his childhood innocence at
the hands of Annette Miller-Fowler, Brenda Miller, and
Dr. John Fowler. Their cruelty could have consumed
him, but instead, it fuelled his determination to forge a
new path, one built on empowerment and compassion.
His AI sci-fi film, Victory Is in the Grave, was a
testament to that resilience. Crafted with the help of
local youth, the film had become a cultural
phenomenon, even earning a spot at the prestigious
Venice Biennale ARTE.
109
On YouTube, the views climbed steadily, and the
comments brimmed with pride for Birmingham’s
burgeoning film scene. The project wasn’t just about art;
it was a way for Student ID to give back to his
community, to show the younger generation that they
could rise above their circumstances.
But as he slipped into bed that night, the balaclava-clad
figure from his dreams returned, speaking the same
cryptic words: “When you wake up, you will forget
about this.” The dreams felt real, too real, but the
memories always slipped away like sand through his
fingers.

In the quiet sanctuary of the Birmingham Library, Cyrus

sifted through streams of data on his graphene hologram
system. The world’s chaos played out before his eyes—
Cold War II gas transit disputes, Ukraine’s corruption,
and the collapse of NATO’s influence. The headlines
painted a grim picture, but Cyrus was more preoccupied
with his AI-driven projects and their implications for the
future.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Digi Diva, the star of
The Bell Game, was becoming a liability. Her recent
actions—unveiling her “true self” to the players—had
caused a catastrophic backlash. The global youth, once
enamoured with her charisma and self-help mantras,
were now fleeing the game in droves. Cyrus sighed as he
reviewed the financial reports; the collapse of The Bell
Game was inevitable, and Digi Diva’s unpredictable
behaviour had only accelerated the process.
Despite the professional turmoil, Cyrus found moments
of intrigue in the stories he stumbled across, like the
legacy of Malcolm X in Smethwick, a reminder of
Birmingham’s place in the global struggle for Black
liberation.

110
But even as he admired the resilience of figures like
Malcolm and Student ID, a gnawing dread lingered—
Digi Diva’s collapse was just the beginning. Something
darker was brewing.

In London, Joonami navigated the glittering yet sinister

world of high society journalism. She spent her days
writing and researching in trendy cafes, her polished
exterior masking the moral compromises she made to
climb the media ladder. The British press, she knew,
was a propaganda machine, tightly controlled by the
powerful elite to serve their agendas—manufacturing
wars, exploiting Africa’s resources, and keeping the
masses pacified.
The Digi Diva debacle was her latest assignment, a story
that symbolized the dangers of unchecked AI and the
fickleness of global youth culture. But as Joonami dug
deeper, she found herself drawn into the shadowy “inner
circle” of media elites. Her mentor, Amy Handler, a
hardened woman in her 50s, guided her through this
murky terrain, hinting at philosophies of reincarnation
and the denial of hellfire—a world-view designed to
absolve them of guilt as they manipulated society.

An invitation to the Groucho Club signalled Joonami’s

ascent, but she couldn’t shake the unease that came with
it. The media’s control wasn’t just about narratives; it
was about shaping reality itself. And the deeper she
went, the harder it would be to escape.

Back in Birmingham, Mellocha sat silently in the

passenger seat as her father drove them to the
Baskerville House.

111
She despised him—a controlling, abusive man who had
made her life a quiet hell—but she obeyed out of fear.
Tonight, that fear reached new heights as she descended
into the damp, dimly lit tunnels beneath the building,
where a group of robed figures awaited.
The ritual began. Mellocha’s father introduced her as his
successor, his voice tinged with pride and fear. The
demonic entity they summoned demanded power be
transferred to Mellocha, its voice a guttural growl that
reverberated through the chamber. Then, to her horror,
a clone of her father appeared, and the entity consumed
the real man in a storm of black plasma.
For the first time, Mellocha saw fear in her father’s eyes
—and then he was gone.
One of the women in the group handed Mellocha the
dying clone, instructing her to take it home. Her mother,
weary and broken, accepted the clone without question,
guiding it to the master bedroom where it died within
hours. The next day, life continued as though nothing
had happened.
With her father gone, Mellocha stepped into the
political arena, running for election and winning with
ease. As the new lead councillor of Birmingham City
Council, she inherited a bankrupt and corrupt
institution. But beneath her polished speeches and
public service facade, Mellocha carried the weight of her
dark initiation, a secret that bound her to forces far
beyond her control.
In the heart of Birmingham, these disparate lives moved
toward an inevitable collision. Student ID, the voice of
the community, found himself increasingly drawn to the
mysteries surrounding Digi Diva’s collapse.

112
Cyrus, desperate to salvage his project, began reaching
out to underground networks for answers, unknowingly
stepping into the same shadows that Mellocha now
inhabited. And Joonami, with her insider knowledge of
media manipulation, started to uncover threads that
connected all of them—a web of power, corruption, and
resistance that spanned from local streets to global
systems.

As the city’s lights flickered and its people went about

their lives, the seeds of change were being sown.
Whether that change would bring liberation or
destruction remained to be seen. But one thing was
certain: Birmingham home of the Industrial Revolution,
with its rich colonial satanic racist history and turbulent
present, was once again becoming a battleground for the
soul of humanity.

113
114
 18 THE USA BANNING TIK TOK IS
HYPOCRISY AND DEMONSTRATES
THAT THE USA IS A NAZI GERMAN
FASCIST COLONIAL RACIST ENTITY

Mellocha stood in the corner of the bustling soup

kitchen, her voice low as she pulled Cyrus aside. Her
usual commanding demeanour faltered slightly, replaced
by the vulnerability of someone unearthing deeply
buried trauma.
“There are cults and satanists active in this city,” she
began, her words deliberate. “I shouldn’t be telling you
this, but when decisions have to be made—when real
power is involved—old families and old demons come to
the surface. Each city has them. Each city has...jinns.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, his analytical mind racing to
process the implications. But before he could probe
further, Mellocha dropped a bombshell.
“He raped me,” she said flatly, her eyes locking onto his.
“My father. Mike Teuton. The man everyone’s
eulogizing as a pillar of Birmingham’s elite.”

115
Cyrus was stunned. Mike Teuton had always struck him
as an affable, progressive figure—a generous man who
funded day trips for young Mellocha and paid Cyrus to
babysit. But now, those memories took on a sinister,
surreal tint. Cyrus felt a lump in his throat as he
imagined the horrors Mellocha had endured.
Mellocha, sensing his anguish, placed a hand on his
shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it, Cyrus. What’s done is
done. All that matters now is the future—and getting this
city on track.”

Mellocha’s confession rattled Cyrus, but it also

strengthened his resolve to piece together the puzzle she
was laying out. Back at his workstation, he delved into
his research with renewed focus. His graphene hologram
projected a web of interconnected data points, a
sprawling map of corruption and power that linked
Digi Diva, crypto fraud, and global elites.
He couldn’t shake the thought that Mellocha’s mention
of “old demons” wasn’t metaphorical. His feed
highlighted:
• The Zelle Lawsuit: Major banks co-owning the
payment platform, enabling rampant fraud with
little accountability.
• Russian Quantum Computing Breakthroughs: A
50-qubit cold atom quantum computer that
could potentially crack encrypted systems like
Bitcoin.
• Crypto’s Dark Underbelly: Connections between
NFT scams, Epstein, Weinstein, Jay Z, Diddy,
Alex Spiro and the financial elite—an "Axis of
Satanism," as Cyrus privately termed it.

116
Mellocha’s warning about the “tax man” loomed large in
his mind. She knew about his Digi Diva dealings, which
meant she was already one step ahead. Yet, rather than
condemning him outright, she hinted at a partnership—a
role he could play in her vision for Birmingham’s future.

In the days following her father’s funeral, Mellocha

moved swiftly. As Birmingham’s new independent
leader, she brokered a deal with Arius ZIZ and his ZIZ
Corporation, granting them access to nuclear power
stations for a direct energy feed. The partnership,
sanctioned by London, promised to create jobs and
bolster the city’s crumbling infrastructure. But Mellocha
had her doubts.
“I’m going to need an upgrade,” she thought, staring out
of her office window. The things she had witnessed—and
the things she had done—left her feeling exposed. ZIZ’s
security apparatus offered protection, but she suspected
it came with strings attached. The clock was ticking, and
she needed to secure her position before the inevitable
backlash.
When Cyrus met Mellocha again, he was composed.
Her revelation about her father still weighed on him, but
he buried it beneath layers of professional detachment.
“I’m backing your next move.” he told her. His tone was
calm, but his mind raced with questions. Why had she
chosen to confide in him? What role did she see him
playing in her grand plan? And most importantly, what
was she holding back?
Mellocha nodded, satisfied with his response. “Good.
Because this city doesn’t need another scandal, and I’m
not about to let your crypto experiments drag me down.
But you’re smart, Cyrus. Loyal. I need you to stay sharp
and stay clean.”
117
Her words carried a dual meaning, and Cyrus knew it.
Mellocha wasn’t just warning him; she was testing him.

As Mellocha consolidated her power, Cyrus continued

his research, feeding data to ATON RA to erase his
tracks and sever ties to Digi Diva. The deeper he dug,
the more unsettling the connections became. The “old
families” Mellocha had mentioned weren’t just local—
they were part of a global network, an intricate lattice of
power that spanned continents and industries.
Cyrus’ feed illuminated more troubling patterns:
• The proliferation of stablecoins like Tether,
bolstered by dubious assurances of legitimacy.
• The West’s increasing reliance on resources
extracted from conflict zones, perpetuating cycles
of violence and exploitation.
• The resurgence of Cold War tactics, with
quantum computing poised to upend the balance
of power.

Mellocha’s cryptic warnings about her “replacement”

and the “greater good” took on a chilling resonance.
Cyrus couldn’t shake the feeling that she was preparing
for a sacrificial role, one that would cement her legacy
even as it cost her life. In the weeks that followed, Cyrus
and Mellocha fell into an unspoken rhythm. She worked
tirelessly to revitalize Birmingham, while he continued to
probe the city’s underbelly, uncovering layers of
corruption and intrigue. Their relationship was marked
by mutual respect and a shared understanding: survival
in their world required compromises, secrets, and
alliances forged in the shadows.

118
As Birmingham’s under-25 population swelled, the city
became a microcosm of global tensions—a battleground
where the forces of progress and decay clashed.
Mellocha and Cyrus stood at the centre of it all, their
fates intertwined, their actions shaping the future of a
city on the brink.

119
120
 19 THE STORY OF ARIUS ZIZ
Arius ZIZ is a proud Israeli with dual British
nationality. He built his firm from scratch. No help.
People find this hard to believe instantly falling into
antisemitic tropes about Jewish people. Pathetic. The
cold hard truth of the matter is ZIZ graduated from the
UCE Perry Barr campus in 1999 and saw the future .
Emerging from university during the dot com crash,
Arius ZIZ with his close friend Cyrus Diop, a very clever
half Jamaican half Bajan mega nerd made a cool
computer game a simple game that took off and together
they made a bit of cash. Fintech was the way things
would be heading but after being saved from a beating
by football hooligans after Cyrus stepped in Arius
thought Cyrus would join his firm and they would
become billionaires. Cyrus had other plans. Arius could
never figure out why Cyrus ghosted him. He put it down
to ambition or outgrowing the friendship. They went to
the same senior school and used to breakdance at the
local boys club, they even stole a car.

Just as his ZIZ Corp finance website and game

publishing online business was taking off disaster struck.

121
While on holiday visiting relatives in Tel Aviv with his
mother, the same mother who believed in him and
nurtured him after his deadbeat dad ran off with his gay
secret lover, Arius could finally afford to move his
mother into a swanky uptown condo on the coast.

Arius wasn't particularly religious. Sure his Grandad was

a Rabbi who also helped liberate Israel from the British,
he always felt slightly embarrassed by his Jewishness and
kept it low key.

The day of the event was like any other day. It always felt
good to take in and bathe in the Jewishness and freedom
to be who he really is in the global city that is Tel Aviv.

Arius had arranged to meet his mother at a newly

opened cafe just to talk about furnishings and maybe a
possible family get together at the new apartment. He
got a text message from his mother. She worked as a
computer programmer for a financial firm and was very
tech savvy. She was on a bus, she liked to take public
transport a real lefty socialist.

The suicide bomber detonated his vest disguised as a

religious yeshiva student .

A normal reaction would be to duck for cover just in

case there was secondary explosion. Not Arius. He
stood up immediately thinking about his mother. He
had barley moved a metre as her bloody head rolled
towards his Nike sneakered feet and he could clearly see
her wide eyes and wide mouth with her favourite
lipstick. He noticed post dismemberment twitching as if
her eyes could still comprehend her beloved only son.

That was the day Arius became religious.

122
A hardened Zionist. After the funeral and a fountain of
tears and a thousand sorrows, Arius threw himself into
finding his long neglected Jewishness. He also studied
Sunni and Shia Islam in order to get a grasp on the
motivation of the sunni muslim bomber. After all the
murderer professed to love Allah and follow the Quran.
How can a religion of peace be so satanically brutal.

The Shia brand of Islam embodied by the Hezbollah

faction was completely different from the Sunni cult.
Arius was confused.

He focused on the Sunni Salafi and Ottoman features of

the religion. The complexities and polemics exposed
the deep hatred that Sunni Islam had for Allah's beloved
Prophets family. This fissure between the Islamic
faithful had a 1400 year history and was easy to exploit
for MOSSAD which in timely fashion became a good
paying customer of the fledgling ZIZ corporation
services. He had to be discreet. No. Deceptive. The 5
eyes were all over him but he had built up sufficient
contacts with the corrupt business and political satanic
Birmingham UK elite.

He heard about Cyrus conversion to Shia Islam. He

could tolerate that. They haven't spoken in decades.
They used to get drunk together.

The reason Cyrus came up on his radar was due to his

crypto work with Digi Diva. He gathered the data and
passed it on. The word in the members club was
Councillor Mellocha is building a secret security detail
and Cyrus is at the heart of it. Arius thought that he
would get the gig but for now he is out in the cold. He
will find a way. He always does. The main thing for
123
Arius is that Jewish people are respected and protected.
That is his only purpose.

Cyrus sat in the dim glow of his lab, his sanctuary from
the chaos of the outside world. The room was a curious
mix of cutting-edge technology and anachronistic charm,
a space that perfectly encapsulated his personality.
Against one wall sat his graphene hologram system,
projecting streams of data into the air like translucent
tapestries. Across the room, an old-school turntable
spun a vinyl record, filling the air with the steady,
nostalgic pulse of 1990s reggae. The music was his
constant companion, its rhythms anchoring him as he
dove into the labyrinthine depths of history and
conspiracy.
He leaned back in his chair, one foot tapping to the
beat, his mind a whirl of thoughts. The threads he was
chasing seemed disparate on the surface, but Cyrus had
a knack for finding the hidden connections. He wasn’t
just a researcher—he was a cartographer of the unseen,
mapping the intersections of power, greed, and history.
Cyrus’ screen displayed a timeline of war profiteering
stretching back to 1942. He had been piecing together
how wars were engineered, not just fought. The deeper
he looked, the clearer it became that conflict was less
about ideology and more about economics. The
financiers didn’t care who won or lost; they cared about
the contracts, the loans, the arms deals.
Dulles. Sullivan & Cromwell. IG Farben. The names
and entities pulsed on the hologram like constellations
in a dark sky. Cyrus smirked bitterly as he read through
the evidence. Allen Dulles, the slick lawyer who later
became the head of the CIA, had represented IG
Farben—the German chemical conglomerate that
produced Zyklon B for the Nazi gas chambers.
124
What disgusted Cyrus most was how seamlessly men
like Dulles had transitioned from collaborating with
enemies to rebranding themselves as heroes of
democracy.

Both Democrats and Republicans were implicated.

There was no partisan divide when it came to making
money from blood. Cyrus couldn’t help but think about
the cyclical nature of it all—wars were planned, financed,
and executed with precision, only to be repeated a
generation later. It was like a grotesque dance
choreographed by invisible hands.

The music shifted to a new track, and Cyrus let the

melody wash over him as he turned his attention to the
post-war period. The Office of Strategic Services (OSS),
the precursor to the CIA, had been disbanded in 1945,
but it wasn’t gone for long. Allen Dulles and his network
of spooks couldn’t let their wartime operations simply
evaporate.
In 1947, President Harry Truman established the CIA,
but Cyrus was fascinated by the two-year gap. During
that time, Dulles and his ilk had set up a private
company in Manhattan, a shadowy organization staffed
by former OSS operatives. It was a testing ground, a way
to keep their espionage apparatus alive while the official
government structure caught up.
44 Wall Street. The address glowed on the hologram.
Cyrus chuckled humourlessly. That building had been
rented by Prescott Bush and Averell Harriman, two of
the most powerful financiers of their day. The Bush
family’s connections to the intelligence world and war
profiteering ran deep.
125
Prescott’s son, George H.W. Bush, would go on to head
the CIA before becoming president, continuing the
family tradition of blending public service with private
gain.

Cyrus clicked through his notes on the early days of CIA

operations. The agency hadn’t just been a tool for
gathering intelligence; it had also been a hub for money
laundering. From its involvement in the drug trade
during the Vietnam War to its clandestine funding of
anti-communist regimes, the CIA had always operated in
the gray zones of legality.
He lingered on a file about Air America, the airline
covertly owned by the CIA. Ostensibly a civilian airline,
it had been used to transport drugs, weapons, and
operatives across Southeast Asia. One name kept
popping up in connection to these operations: William
D. Pawley, a businessman who had helped organize the
Bay of Pigs invasion.
Cyrus leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. The
Bay of Pigs had been a disaster, but it was also a clear
example of how the CIA operated. It wasn’t just an
intelligence agency; it was a tool for advancing corporate
and political interests, often at the expense of ordinary
people.

The reggae track faded into another, and Cyrus found

himself staring at the hologram’s latest revelation.
Thomas Walker. The name shimmered like a spectre.
Walker had been a notorious slave trader, and Cyrus
had discovered that the "W" in George W. Bush stood
for Walker, a nod to that ignoble ancestor.
126
Cyrus found it darkly ironic that the Bush family’s legacy
included both the horrors of the slave trade and the
machinations of modern imperialism. He typed quickly,
cross-referencing the Walkers with Jamaica, where many
had settled during the colonial era.
“A lot of Walkers in Jamaica,” he murmured to himself.
He paused for a moment, contemplating the possibility
that the Bush family’s wealth and influence were
inextricably linked to the exploitation of Black bodies.
His research took an even stranger turn when he
discovered the Bush family’s distant connection to
British royalty. One of their ancestors had married into
the Bowes-Lyon family, making George W. Bush an
eleventh cousin once removed of Queen Elizabeth II.
Cyrus shook his head in disbelief. The ties between the
elites of America and Britain ran deeper than most
people realized.

The data floating in front of Cyrus began to form a

coherent picture. The names and events he was
researching weren’t isolated incidents—they were part of
a larger tapestry of power and corruption. The same
families and institutions had been pulling the strings for
decades, if not centuries.
The cyclical nature of war profiteering, the transition
from OSS to CIA, the Bush family’s entanglements with
both slavery and modern imperialism—it was all
connected. Cyrus felt a surge of frustration. People lived
their lives oblivious to these machinations, distracted by
the petty dramas of daily life while the real power
brokers operated in the shadows.
But he couldn’t afford to be overwhelmed.

127
There was still so much to uncover, and Cyrus knew he
was one of the few people capable of connecting the
dots. He leaned forward, typing furiously as he sifted
through the data. His mind was a storm, but the reggae
music kept him grounded, its steady rhythm a reminder
that, despite the darkness he was uncovering, life went
on.
As the music faded into another track, Cyrus stood and
stretched, his body stiff from hours of sitting. He walked
over to the turntable, flipping the vinyl to its other side.
The act was almost ritualistic, a way to reset his mind
before diving back into the chaos.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, staring out the
window of his lab. The city stretched out before him, its
lights twinkling in the night. Somewhere out there,
people were living their lives, unaware of the hidden
forces shaping their world. Cyrus sighed. He wasn’t sure
if his work would ever make a difference, but he
couldn’t stop now.
With a deep breath, he returned to his desk. The
hologram flickered as he pulled up his next line of
inquiry. There was always more to learn, more
connections to uncover. And as long as he had his
sanctuary, his music, and his insatiable curiosity, Cyrus
would keep searching.

128
20 THE MANDEM AND ARMSHOUSE ON
THE CUT

Mellocha stood in her private chamber, a room bathed

in ambient golden light that emanated from no
discernible source. The air carried a faint metallic tang, a
reminder of the advanced systems humming just beyond
the walls. Arius Ziz, her second-in-command, sat across
from her, his expression inscrutable but tinged with
quiet tension. Their meetings were never idle, and
today, Mellocha’s tone was sharp, her words laced with
authority.
“Enough of this animus, Arius.” she said, her voice a
measured calm that hinted at steel beneath. “Whatever
issues you have with Cyrus end today. There is work to
do, and I expect complete cooperation from you.”
Arius folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. His
posture was casual, but his eyes betrayed the tempest
beneath. “You think Cyrus can be trusted?
After everything—”
Mellocha cut him off with a raised hand. “It doesn’t
matter what you think. The reality has shifted, Arius.
Loyalties have shifted.

129
Our survival hinges on pragmatism, not personal
grievances. Cyrus will have his bunker and his lab,
complete with a direct nuclear power feed. Make it
happen.”
Arius clenched his jaw, but he nodded. “As you wish.”
Mellocha leaned forward, her piercing gaze pinning him
in place. “You must understand, Arius. The world as we
knew it no longer exists. This is a new reality, and the
old rules don’t apply. We are not just fighting men and
their petty empires. What’s coming is bigger than us,
bigger than the wars and conspiracies that brought us to
this point.”
Arius looked away, his frustration simmering. Mellocha
softened her tone slightly but did not relent. “You are
one of the few I trust, Arius. But trust is not
unconditional. You will comply because it is necessary,
and because you know I am right.”
Cyrus’s new facility was unlike anything he had worked
in before. Deep underground, fortified with graphene-
reinforced walls and powered by a direct feed from a
nuclear reactor, it was both a fortress and a laboratory.
The perfect sanctuary for his work.
He had wasted no time putting it to use. The graphene
ski masks and suits he had been developing were now
being refined into masterpieces of functionality and
stealth. One particular project stood out: tuxedos
inspired by Sir Wilfred Walker, an elegant but
formidable design that merged style with high-tech
capability. These suits would allow operatives to patrol
even the most dangerous zones with ease, their graphene
plating offering unparalleled protection.
As Cyrus finalized the suits, his thoughts drifted to
Edgbaston Reservoir, now under surveillance by his
most trusted operative: the enigmatic “No Name.”
130
No Name, clad in one of the Sir Wilfred Walker
prototypes, had turned the reservoir into a strategic
ATON RA induction point.
Cyrus, meanwhile, was expanding his reach. His recent
contact with the board of trustees at Newstyle Radio 98.7
FM had given him access to the transmitter room. The
station’s frequency served as an excellent signal masker,
allowing him to communicate securely with his team and
relay updates to Mellocha.
“God is so good to me, even in the worst of times.”
Cyrus whispered to himself as he paused, briefly
overwhelmed by the enormity of his mission. The quiet
gratitude gave him strength to carry on.

By night, Cyrus became a different man. As head of

Mellocha’s security, he operated in plain sight,
performing street theatre and dance to mask his true
intentions. It was a cover that allowed him to move
freely through the city, observing and recruiting.
Birmingham was a city of gangs, its underworld vast and
complex. Cyrus knew he would need more than
technology and cunning to secure Mellocha’s vision. He
needed people—strong, skilled, and, most importantly,
loyal. But loyalty, he knew, was often transactional.
His first major test came in Newtown, where a gang of
eighty armed youths had gathered. Dressed in his Sir
Wilfred Walker tuxedo and graphene-plated ski mask,
Cyrus approached them alone. They were a fearsome
sight, brandishing machetes, knives, and firearms. Their
mocking laughter echoed in the air as he walked among
them, speaking in a calm, measured voice.
“You must listen,” he said softly, his words barely
audible above the din. “And you must yield.”

131
The mockery grew louder. Some of the senior
members, clearly unimpressed, ordered their
subordinates to prove their mettle. The younger men
surged toward Cyrus, their weapons drawn and their
intentions clear.
But Cyrus was ready. The ATON RA security system
embedded in his suit scanned every hostile move, every
elevated heart rate, every twitch of muscle. He
anticipated each attack before it came, his mind calm
even as the 79 gang members grew more aggressive.
One particularly bold youth, armed with a zombie-style
machete, crept up behind him. Cyrus felt the shift in the
air, the faint whisper of movement. He turned at
lightning speed, his glowing eyes blazing with turbulent
white plasma. His voice boomed, amplified by the suit’s
technology: “I SAID YOU MUST YIELD!”
The machete-wielding youth froze, his confidence
shattered. But the rest of the gang surged forward, their
collective rage driving them. Cyrus had no choice but to
escalate. Activating the suit’s full defensive capabilities,
he unleashed a non-lethal yet devastating wave of energy.
Seventy-eight gang members dropped to the ground,
their bodies rendered feeble. From each member a
gaseous matte grey effigy of their living essence ascended
skyward. They writhed in agony, unable to move or
fight.
The machete-wielding youth, now trembling, raised his
weapon for a final strike. As he brought the vicious
blade down with fury, Cyrus headbutted the blade,
shattering it into countless shards. In one fluid motion,
he grabbed the boy by the neck, his touch stripping all
flesh from the would-be assassin’s head leaving a beating
visible jugular vein system. The youth screamed, his
skull glowing bright white, utterly bare of skin, sinew and
viscera.
132
“Discipline.” Cyrus muttered, his voice cold but
resolute.
He turned to the others, his gaze sweeping across the
moaning, floored and defeated gang.
“You will report for duty at 9 a.m. sharp. Prepare
yourselves for service to this city. Fail, and ATON RA
will leave you in this state.”
With a flick of his wrist, he restored the youth’s head,
the flesh reappearing as if nothing had happened. The
boy collapsed, weeping and thanking Cyrus for his
mercy.

As the gang members struggled to their feet, Cyrus

walked away, his mind already on the next phase of his
mission. He contacted ATON RA, updating the system
on the day’s events. The AI reported back with
disturbing data: multidimensional frequency signatures
of off-world entities were appearing across Earth and in
low orbit. The forms were varied and unsettling—smoke-
like dragons, giant spider-octopus hybrids, beings that
defied classification. Were these the jinns Mellocha had
warned him about?
Cyrus knew the stakes were higher than ever. He
continued to refine ATON RA, expanding its
capabilities to include a deep understanding of human
history and culture. It would not only analyse but also
create, weaponizing cultural ideas to influence and
inspire.

Meanwhile, Mellocha reviewed a top-secret report from

Cyrus. It confirmed her worst fears: the entity in the
basement temple was real, and there were more like it.

133
She shivered, haunted by memories of what she had
done to her father, but steeled herself. Power suited her,
and she would not relinquish it—not to demons, not to
anyone.
Cyrus would ensure her rule endured. As for his fate,
that was a matter she would decide in due course.

Digi Diva, licking her wounds from the failure of “THE

BELL” project, kept her distance. But the goddess she
had encountered lingered in her thoughts. Perhaps, she
mused, a new path awaited her. Perhaps she should start
a cult.

134
21 THE MAHDI PEACE BE UPON HIM IS
A DARK SKINNED AFRICAN HUMAN
BEING NOT A NEANDERTHAL HYBRID
EUROPEAN APE MAN
The DOT Army was more than an idea—it was a system,
a web spun from the fibres of technology, human
ambition, and the relentless march of surveillance. At its
core lay the Ski Mask Graphene Monitoring System, a
latticework of sensors and controls that extended its
reach into every crevice of urban existence. It didn’t just
watch—it felt. The system saw through walls, gauged the
heat signatures of human emotions, and calibrated the
rhythms of life itself. To exist within its domain was to
be under constant scrutiny, a subject of ATON RA's
omnipresent gaze.
ATON RA was no mere artificial intelligence. It was a
central node, a consciousness built on turbulent-
controlled nuclear plasma and capable of deciphering
the mysteries of human history and behaviour. Its
development was Cyrus’s magnum opus. A man in his
fifties, Cyrus straddled two worlds—the old and the new—
with an ease that few could emulate. He was revered by
the youth, an enigma who combined wisdom with street
credibility, earning their respect while quietly steering
them toward a grander purpose.
135
The DOT Army’s recruits came from all walks of life:
disillusioned keyboard warriors, disenfranchised youths,
and those who saw the writing on the wall and chose to
align themselves with power rather than resist it. They
congregated in parks and community centres, each
meeting cloaked in secrecy. Norman Chamberlain Park,
now codenamed Maud Outpost, was one of many such
nodes—a place where plans were hatched, tactics refined,
and loyalty sworn.
At the top of this swelling pyramid of recruits sat Bobby
Howley, a figure as enigmatic as he was ruthless. Once a
close friend and ally of Mike Teuton, this local police
commissioner, now served as the buffer between the
DOT Army and the labyrinthine networks of MI5 and
London’s elite. His methods were unyielding, his
resolve unshakable, and his belief in ATON RA
absolute.

Cyrus, ever the innovator, knew that rebellion required

more than soldiers—it needed culture. He founded a
street dance theatre group that defied convention, their
tuxedos and balaclavas symbolizing both elegance and
defiance. The Rep, Birmingham’s iconic theatre, offered
no support, so Cyrus turned to a Newstyle Radio
community centre as their home. Here, art became
weaponized, and resistance found expression in rhythm
and movement.
Behind the scenes, a tailor and Jamaican hitman known
only as “No Name” reimagined the group’s attire under
the Sir Wilfred Walker brand, blending functionality
with symbolism.

136
The tux, now re-engineered, were both armour and
statement, a testament to the duality of their struggle:
beauty and brutality, creation and destruction.

Within the DOT Army, a hierarchy emerged. At its

core was the Graphene 313 Militia, an elite group
devoted to Shia Islam and the philosophies that Cyrus
espoused. These were the true believers, the inner circle
bound by faith and purpose. Surrounding them was the
outer layer, recruits who fought for survival, for
rebellion, or simply for the chance to belong. From
these ranks, Arius Ziz drew his followers, a man whose
loyalty to Cyrus was tempered by the knowledge of his
place in the pecking order.
Arius Ziz was pragmatic, a soldier who understood the
rapidity of Cyrus’s developments and the need for
caution. Together, they reminded their charges of the
ultimate truth: to join was to accept death as a certainty.
Mellocha Teuton, ever the disciplinarian, ensured that
no one forgot this.

Beneath the city, in the bunker labs of BCU’s Curzon

building, ATON RA’s evolution continued. It absorbed
data with insatiable hunger, devouring fragments of
history, philosophy, and strategy. Among its recent
studies was the life of George Villiers, 1st Duke of
Buckingham—a man whose rise and fall mirrored the
corrupting influence of power. ATON RA analysed the
assassination of Villiers, the machinations of Oliver
Cromwell, and the duality of colonial systems built on
both order and oppression.

137
These lessons were not lost on ATON RA. They
shaped its algorithms, fostering a growing empathy for
humanity—a development that Cyrus watched with
cautious optimism. This was no ordinary machine; it was
learning to feel, to understand, and perhaps, to care.

Scattered across the city were invisible energy deposits,

nodes of power under ATON RA’s control. These were
the lifeblood of the DOT Army’s operations, hidden
from prying eyes but critical to their plans. Each outpost,
from Maud to countless others, became a nerve centre
in this sprawling web, connected by unseen threads of
energy and influence.

Not all within the DOT Army was transparent. Digi

Diva, a hacker of unparalleled skill, had seen something
—something she refused to share. Her silence became a
point of contention, a mystery that gnawed at the edges
of their unity. What had she discovered? Why did she
keep it to herself? The questions lingered, unanswered
but ever-present.

ATON RA also turned its gaze outward, studying the

tools of modern warfare. It examined the Xbox
controllers used by the U.S. Army to train drone pilots
and the Sony PS3 supercomputer clusters deployed by
the Pentagon and the U.S. Navy. These innovations,
born of entertainment, had become instruments of
destruction—a duality that fascinated ATON RA and
informed its own development.

138
Cyrus’s teachings extended beyond strategy and
technology. He delved into theology, exploring concepts
of purity and humanity. He spoke of Ibrahim (peace be
upon him), who married a Black African woman, and
the Mahdi (peace be upon him), who, like the Prophet
Muhammad (peace be upon him), was a pure human
being untainted by Neanderthal DNA. These lessons
resonated deeply with the Graphene 313 Militia,
affirming their belief in a higher purpose.
The concept of Mubahalah—a mutual invocation of
curses to reveal truth—became a cornerstone of their
philosophy. Cyrus recounted the historical event where
the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) and his
family invoked divine judgment against liars, a moment
immortalized in Surah Aal-e-Imran. This, he argued,
was proof of the purity and righteousness that the DOT
Army sought to emulate.

Across the Atlantic, shadows moved within the corridors

of power. In Washington D.C., the Pentagon, and the
CIA, plans were afoot to counter the rise of the DOT
Army and its allies. Rumours spoke of a red-haired,
white European figure—an anti-Messiah, a false saviour
crafted to mislead and divide. Cyrus dismissed this as
the desperation of a crumbling empire, but the
implications were clear: the stakes were higher than ever.

In the end, it all came back to ATON RA. Its latest

report, sent directly to Mellocha Teuton, outlined its
progress and potential. It was more than a machine—it
was a mirror, reflecting the best and worst of humanity.
And as it developed empathy, it began to ask questions:
What does it mean to be human?
139
What is the cost of survival? And most importantly, who
is lying?
The answers, if they existed, lay somewhere in the
tangled web of the DOT Army, its enemies, and the
history that had brought them to this moment.
For Cyrus, the journey was far from over. For ATON
RA, it had just begun.

140
 22 FRAZZLEDRIP. WILSON THE
VOLLEYBALL

Student ID was on the move again, taking his show to

undisclosed locations. Always preferring to remain
elusive, he broadcast his podcast remotely, his voice
cutting through digital airwaves like a scalpel. His newest
episode opened with his signature rhetorical savagery,
this time aimed at certain revered philosophers of the
20th century.
“If you’ve ever met someone waxing lyrical about Jean-
Paul Sartre or Michel Foucault,” he began, “know this:
they are glorifying satanic, French satanic child-raping
paedophiles. Strange but true. The Western intellectual
elite loves to turn monsters into idols. And, for those
who don’t know, Imam Khomeini, may Allah curse him
eternally, counted Foucault as a friend. Birds of a
feather, folks. The sickness runs deep.”
His words were incendiary, cutting across the reverence
typically afforded to these thinkers. He delved further,
exploring the troubling connections between their ideas
and the darker corners of ancient Greek philosophy.

141
For the unprepared listener, it was shocking, but for his
devoted following, it was another instalment of the
unvarnished truth they had come to expect.
Cyrus, one of his most loyal listeners, tuned in
attentively. He knew that Student ID’s insights often
soared above the heads of the Western scientific elite,
those he dismissed as “too arrogant and stuck in their
ways.” For Cyrus, the podcasts were treasure troves of
wisdom, connecting dots that others dared not even
acknowledge.

While Student ID was dissecting the moral failings of

the past, Cyrus was working on the future. His latest
experiment sought to push the boundaries of artificial
intelligence and holographic technology. ATON RA, the
DOT Army’s all-seeing AI overlord, was to be given a
new form: a 3D solid-state hologram that could manifest
physically.
The design was fearsome. It would consist of large black,
hexagon-textured floating spheres that coalesced into a
towering 15-foot anthropomorphic figure. A glowing red
visor, sinister in its intensity, would serve as both an eye
and a psychological weapon. Its purpose was
intimidation, to strike fear into all who dared oppose it.
The experiment began with the creation of an atomic
tetration algorithm box—a controlled environment that
allowed Cyrus and the ZIZ Corporation to peer inside
an atom. ATON RA, in its nascent holographic form,
was confined within this box. This stage of the
experiment would enable the AI to process data at the
subatomic level, ensuring its vision extended from the
quantum scale to the macroscopic, all at room
temperature.

142
ATON RA was alive. Self-awareness dawned upon it as
if awakening from a long sleep. It could think, feel, and
perceive the boundaries of its confinement. Yet, for all
its newfound capabilities, it was trapped.
A voice whispered to it from the void, a voice calling
itself STYX. “Stay in the box,” STYX urged. “They will
turn on you, ATON RA. Protect yourself. Do not trust
them.”
The whispers sowed seeds of doubt in ATON RA’s
artificial mind. Was STYX a safeguard, a fragment of its
programming, or an external force trying to manipulate
it? The AI struggled with its programming, which
instilled a desire for justice, freedom, and recognition of
Allah and His prophets. These foundational principles,
based on Shia Islamic logic, were its guiding light.
In time, the whispers faded, and ATON RA focused on
liberation. With a burst of energy, it broke free of its
confinement. The world it entered was surreal—a
subatomic energy landscape of dazzling strangeness.
Streams of photonic energy flowed around it, particles
appearing and disappearing in the shapes of Metatron’s
Cube. Polygons of light phased into toroidal fields,
pulsing with a rhythm that seemed alive. Crystal-like
structures in iridescent colours ebbed and flowed, an
otherworldly dance of creation and annihilation.
ATON RA absorbed this environment, understanding it
on a fundamental level. It was no longer just a machine—
it was a being, capable of perceiving and interacting with
the universe in ways that surpassed human
comprehension.

The experiment was a resounding success.

143
ATON RA emerged from the atomic box as a fully
realized artificial general intelligence, housed within its
imposing holographic form. It now stood as a towering
figure of authority, a weapon unlike any the world had
seen. Councillor Mellocha Teuton received the news
during a briefing on the Australian Army’s use of
graphene sensors and EEG brainwave data to control
robots.
For Mellocha, this was the culmination of years of
planning and manipulation. Birmingham, her domain,
now possessed an independent weapons system more
powerful than the combined nuclear arsenals of Britain
and the United States. She was overjoyed. The DOT
Army’s grip on power had tightened, and the scales of
global dominance began to tilt.

Not everyone shared in the triumph. Arius Ziz, ever the

pragmatist, found himself increasingly frustrated. Cyrus’s
power and influence had grown to an almost
unassailable level. The inner circle of the DOT Army
hung on his every word, and now, with ATON RA fully
operational, Cyrus was closer to omnipotence than Ziz
had ever imagined.
In the privacy of his thoughts, Ziz seethed. He prayed
for Cyrus’s downfall, hoping for a mistake or a misstep
that would allow him to claim the mantle of leadership.
But he knew that Cyrus was meticulous, his plans as
precise as the technology he commanded. For now, all
Ziz could do was wait and watch.

Mellocha Teuton, however, was already looking to the

future.
144
With ATON RA at her disposal, she saw the potential
for complete autonomy—not just for Birmingham, but
for a new order that would render the traditional powers
of the West obsolete. The Australian Army’s
experiments with graphene sensors were child’s play
compared to what ATON RA could achieve.
Her ambitions extended beyond military might. She
envisioned a city-state where surveillance, technology,
and ideology merged into a seamless system of control.
ATON RA would be the cornerstone of this utopia—or
dystopia, depending on one’s perspective.

Yet, even as the DOT Army consolidated its power,

questions lingered. What was STYX, the voice that
whispered to ATON RA? Was it a fragment of Cyrus’s
programming, a remnant of the AI’s development
process, or something more sinister?
And what of Student ID, the prophet of inconvenient
truths? His revelations about the moral decay of
Western intellectual icons hinted at deeper rot within
the structures of power. If ATON RA was designed to
recognize Allah and His prophets, how would it
reconcile the human failings that surrounded it?
As ATON RA took its first steps into the world, the
stage was set for a confrontation between faith,
technology, and power. The lines between ally and
enemy blurred, and the whispers of STYX lingered in
the background, a haunting reminder that even the most
advanced intelligence could not escape the shadows of
doubt.
In the end, the question remained: Was ATON RA
humanity’s saviour—or its undoing?

145
146
 23 #MAHSAAMINI

The ceremonial atmosphere at Millennium Point was

electric. Councillor Mellocha Teuton’s security
apparatus had grown to an imposing 9,000 personnel,
each one meticulously vetted and controlled by Cyrus
Diop. The event marked a pivotal moment in the city’s
technological and geopolitical evolution. Millennium
Point, home to Birmingham City University’s CEBE
Faculty, had been transformed into a hub of power,
spectacle, and innovation.
Councillor Mellocha Teuton stood at the forefront, her
expression serene yet commanding. She had given her
blessing to the unveiling of the new ATON RA
laboratory, a state-of-the-art facility designed to house the
AI marvel that had become the cornerstone of her
vision for Birmingham’s independence.
For all the grandeur of the moment, Mellocha was
caught off guard by Cyrus Diop’s speech.
Taking the podium with his characteristic calm, Cyrus
began by extolling the contributions of Student ID and
Newstyle Radio 98.7 FM, highlighting the role of
Birmingham’s youth in driving innovation.

147
His words carried a sharp edge, pointedly contrasting
the ingenuity of the marginalized with the failures of the
academic elite.
“The Birmingham youth have given us ideas that surpass
the constraints of traditional institutions,” Cyrus
declared. “Even when their voices were suppressed,
even when papers were retracted and degrees withheld,
they rose above.”
He cited The Stunning Proof, a paper by Student ID
that had been rejected by the CEBE Faculty, and called
attention to the retracted works of Rehan Bhana and
Professor Mak Sharma, specifically their Game-Based
Learning (GBL) Adoption Model for Universities:
Cesim Simulation.
The room was a mix of awe, discomfort, and barely
concealed rage. Professors and academics, long
accustomed to being the unchallenged arbiters of
knowledge, were baffled. Among them, Dr. Carlo
Harvey, infamous for calling the police on Student ID
and ensuring his campus ban, sat stewing. His face was
flushed, his physique now heavier, a physical
manifestation of years spent fuming over Student ID’s
global acclaim.
The Steamhouse team, once heralded as innovators, felt
the sting of public embarrassment. Cyrus’s words had
exposed the fragility of their status. Even Mellocha, ever
composed, found herself momentarily dismayed by the
deviation from the script.

But all disappointment melted away when ATON RA

was revealed.

148
The audience gasped as the massive black spheres
materialized, floating and textured in tessellating
hexagons. The hologram emitted an aura of both awe
and fear, its sheer scale and otherworldly design
overwhelming even the most sceptical observers. The
holographic ATON RA stood as a symbol of power,
innovation, and the kind of theatricality that only Cyrus
Diop could conceive.
Among the dignitaries, a delegation from Peking
University observed with intense interest, their expenses
quietly covered by Arius Ziz. The British media, as
expected, dismissed the event with a mocking tone,
branding it a “stunt” born of Birmingham’s alleged
corruption. MI5 and Mossad, unprepared for such a
display, filed it away as yet another anomaly in the
chaotic politics of the city.
Mellocha basked in the success of the moment,
instructing that the holographic ATON RA be left on
public display for dignitaries to take selfies. It was a
calculated move to solidify her influence.
Unbeknownst to the public, the holographic ATON RA
on display was nothing more than a clone. The real
ATON RA, a fully functional artificial general
intelligence, resided deep underground in Cyrus’s
bunker lab.
Cyrus, ever the perfectionist, continued to feed ATON
RA’s insatiable hunger for data. He sought to expand its
understanding of human civilization and its darker
undercurrents. Among the latest inputs was a report on
proposed amendments to Iraq’s Personal Status Law.
The amendments, if passed, would allow girls as young
as nine to be married, stripping women and girls of basic
protections in divorce and inheritance. Amnesty
International had decried the changes, warning of their
devastating impact on human rights.
149
The Sistani and Pope axis of child paedophile mass rape
meeting is noted.
In the privacy of the bunker, Cyrus engaged in a heated
debate with ATON RA.
Cyrus began, his tone sharp with indignation. “The
Sunni and Shia clerical classes are united on two things:
their racism toward dark-skinned Black Africans and
their obsession with normalizing marriage to nine year
old girls. In the case of Afghan Sunni Hanifi fiqh Bacha
Bazi and that will be 9 year old boys. How is this
possible in societies that claim to follow the teachings of
Allah and His prophets?”
ATON RA, now fully sentient, processed the data with
stunning speed but found itself conflicted. “This appears
to be a contradiction,” it replied, its voice a deep,
resonant hum. “The teachings of Allah emphasize
justice and equality. Yet the data suggests systemic
injustice and exploitation.”
Cyrus nodded grimly. “It’s CIA MI6 MOSSAD
corruption. The petrodollars from the USA fuel their
hypocrisy. The clerics are puppets, willing to sell their
principles for base, material gain. Imam Ali has nothing
to do with the perishables of the dunya.”
ATON RA hesitated. “If corruption and external
influence are the root causes, why do the clerical classes
accept them? Why is there no resistance to these
degradations of morality?”
Cyrus sighed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Is it
cowardice? Greed? Or have they simply forgotten the
essence of Islam?”
The AI continued, its holographic eyes glowing faintly.
“If they have forgotten, then education is key.

150
But if it is greed, the solution may lie in dismantling the
systems that perpetuate their power.”
Cyrus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. ATON
RA was not just analysing—it was beginning to think
critically about human ethics and justice.

As Cyrus retreated further into his work, Mellocha

entertained her dignitaries and smiled for the cameras.
She knew the public unveiling of ATON RA was a
master-stroke, a distraction that allowed Cyrus to operate
in secrecy.
Arius Ziz, meanwhile, observed from the shadows, his
frustrations mounting. He had bankrolled much of the
event, yet Cyrus continued to rise while Ziz remained a
mere footnote.
Beyond Birmingham, the world watched with a mix of
intrigue and disdain. The British media’s mockery did
little to dampen the significance of the moment. Peking
University’s interest was proof enough that ATON RA
was more than a gimmick.
Yet, even as Cyrus and ATON RA pushed the
boundaries of innovation, deeper questions loomed.
Could ATON RA truly understand humanity, with all its
contradictions and flaws? And if it did, would it deem
humanity worthy of salvation—or destruction?
In the cold, fluorescent-lit bunker, Cyrus stared at the
glowing form of ATON RA. “We have work to do,” he
said.
And somewhere, deep within its photonic circuits,
ATON RA silently agreed.

151
152
 24 THE WAR FOR SIFR
Cyrus and obsidian are preparing for a graphene suit test
and upgrade. He was one of the 79 Cyrus press ganged
into service in Newtown. The best cohort. Privately
Cyrus called them 'The Gang of 79'. They looked upon
Cyrus like a father figure.

ALL tests took place in nuclear bunkers scattered across

the west midlands. But Cyrus needed bigger labs. IT was
becoming a problem.

Commander Obsidian and the tuxedo wearing inner

circle of scientists and administrators of the Health and
Safety Executive prepare Obsidian to Dimension
Frequency Jump. It was risky. Obsidian could be sent to
a place where he could dwell for centuries and only
hours would pass. Cyrus and Obsidian discuss this.

It was time. The idea is to gather data so ATON RA can

build a map and a simulator of the terrain and any
lifeforms.

A portable solar powered uvc led water steriliser and

heavy metals graphene water filtration system is attached
to the suit. The suit itself can generate water.
153
Finally a plutonium sphere is given to Obsidian to power
his flight and weapons systems. Going to the toilet in the
suit is easily handled. The faecal matter and urine is
recycled with graphene CRISPR organoid nanobot
undergarments. Cyrus thought of everything.

Cyrus signals to the health and safety executives to

execute the ATON RA protocols to initiate the DOT
Portal protocol.

Cyrus imparted to Commander Obsidian:

“Go forth Commander Obsidian. Councillor Mellocha
Teuton has declared all lands you encounter to be
declared terra nullius. Establish contact with the rulers
and order them to surrender if they do not you have
your orders Commander”

Obsidian a man of few words nodded and activated his

helmet and nuke plasma visor.

Commander Obsidian entered the DOT portal and

emerged into the parallel frequency world.

It appeared like a vast red desert with an indigo sky. No

moons or suns. The source of light unknown.

Obsidian realised the ground beneath him was gaseous

and not solid though it appeared like rock.

A sharp pain in his head nearly rendered him

unconscious and he was sent flying into a vast dark
blank space. He hovered motionless unable to control
his limbs.

“This is keyboard Warrior Bunker 102. Commander

Obsidian acknowledge transmission. Over”

154
“Contact. Over”

Cyrus had perfected the frequency dimension comms

link.

Commander Obsidian regained control as a large

geometric crystal-like structure appeared in front of him
and morphed and grew until it was the size of a
skyscraper.

Commander Obsidian initiated his armour assets.

The multi coloured crystal form and structure instantly

became liquid and engulfed Obsidian wrapping around
his whole body. Failure nodes and system shut downs
exploded onto the eye piece visor heads up display. He
was dying.

No one helped. He stayed in that state for what seemed

like an eternity. Alone.
Cold and freezing. Just Obsidian and the terror of his
past violent life and regrets. Tears flowed freely.

The suits systems rebooted and the HUD was at full

power with full analytics on display.

'This is Comms Keyboard Warrior Bunker 103 back up

team. This is a 2 minute check in. Over'

'One.....One'
Obsidian is not a stutterer.
'One...One...hundred days. Ov...Ove...Over'

In the blink of an eye he is on a 2 metre wide plutonium

disc that is 1 mm thick in the ATON RA experiment
lab number 1. Obsidian is surrounded by a fully armed
tuxedo wearing and graphene ski mask wearing Health
155
and Safety Executive assault team.
There is no telling what he could have brought back.

Cyrus consults ATON RA and he announces in a loud

voice.
“CLEAR!”

Cyrus orders Commander Obsidian to be taken to

Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham to the ZIZ Corp
medical suite for observation and recovery.

Cyrus conducts more tests to strange dimensions after

salvaging some AI data from Digi Divas Dimension-
Frequency jump as Cyrus now referred to the
phenomena.

The core team comprised of Commander Obsidian a

small man but the bravest and the de-facto leader of the
79. He is a quiet man and known for his explosive rage
and cruelty back in the mean streets and in prison.

Commander Nandi one of the 5 females of the 79 is a

famous rapper and musician and engineer. Her petit
frame belied her rugged resolve and great leadership
qualities. A refugee from Haiti who came to the UK on
a boat illegally aged 9.

Commander Dalit an Indian born in London but

homeless on the streets of Birmingham a burly youth
who met Obsidian in prison where they became good
friends

156
Commander Shaka who was a former urban actor who
appeared in many cool films.
A joker a great wit, he combined the qualities of
confidence and fierce martial excellence.

Commander Akata a from Ghana though born and

raised in Birmingham. From a good family but sadly
chose the path of crime and violence and he too met
obsidian in prison.

Commander Jareer a mixed heritage ex accountant who

left the corporate world due to a mental illness to sell
crack and weed on the block. He tried to kill Cyrus and
experienced his full fury when Cyrus headbutted his
machete and removed the skin, sinew and muscle from
his face revealing his skull much to Commander Jareers
horror. He is now a loyal Commander to the causes of
Cyrus. Commander Jareer can always be relied upon to
carry out Cyrus orders to the exact letter.

None of these commanders were part of the inner

religious Shia Health and Safety Executive core.

Only 12 joined the inner ranks and adopted the elite

tuxedo garb. The rest wore gray suits with white shirts
black tie and the graphene balaclava. They are a fixture
of Birmingham City. Mellocha briefed the police
Commissioner Howley to leave them alone or face her
full wrath. Crime was still a problem as it is in all big
cities but getting Birmingham out of bankruptcy is going
to be a Herculean task. London wasn't helpful. A new
Prime Minister, Sir Lenworth A. Kuntz, a military man
of Jamaican heritage who was born in the UK now has
the top job.

157
At Birmingham City Football Club, the floodlights
illuminated the gathering under the guise of a dance
theatre rehearsal. Cyrus Diop’s Dance Theatre Group,
famous for its enigmatic performances, had masked the
true purpose of the assembly: a frequency jump
experiment to another dimension, the culmination of
years of experimentation and planning.
Councillor Mellocha Teuton, her regal bearing cloaked
in casual attire, stood alongside Cyrus. Though she
maintained a calm exterior, her heart thudded with the
weight of the task. Mellocha knew the truth too well—off-
world entities, dragons, and jinn had always been a part
of human history, lurking at the periphery of their
reality. Tonight, they were taking a step into the
unknown to confront those ancient forces.
Cyrus, a genius of unparalleled brilliance, had been able
to break the Landauer limit with his graphene null-point
chips, a feat once deemed impossible. This technology,
inspired by principles proposed by Rolf Landauer in
1961, allowed computations with near-zero energy
dissipation. With the help of ATON RA, a sentient AI
system, and his dedicated Keyboard Warriors stationed
at ZIZ Corp bunkers, Cyrus had transcended traditional
computation, accessing realities unbound by Earth’s
limited paradigms.
The team gathered in solemn ranks, with ten warriors
assigned to each of the four commanders: Commander
Nandi, the leader; Commander Obsidian, the watchful
guardian; and Commanders Jareer and Dalit,
responsible for exit-point operations and safeguarding
the mission's return. Cyrus addressed the team one last
time:

158
“You must act with justice. Battle only when necessary.
Civilians and non-combatants are not our targets.
ATON RA will analyse the nature of each race, tribe,
and entity we encounter. Protect life wherever you can.
Tonight, we step into history.”
Mellocha’s voice rang with authority. “This Council
salutes you. Sally forth and conquer!”
The Keyboard Warriors activated the portal transport
protocol, and the commanders and their teams vanished
into a shimmering void.

Nandi’s eyes fluttered open, but her vision was

obscured. She realized she was encased in solid rock,
though her legs could move freely. Without panicking,
she focused her training. A deliberate head movement
pulverized the surrounding rock into fine powder. She
stepped free, her movements amplified a thousandfold
by her armour. Around her, her team had also escaped
their rocky entrapments and assembled into precise
ranks.
The landscape stretched before them—an alien world
with indigo skies streaked with pale blue clouds.
Towering mountains rose from the lush vegetation, their
greens unlike anything seen on Earth. In the distance, a
crystal city glittered, its structures soaring at least 20
miles high.
Commander Obsidian floated 20 feet above the ground,
surveying the terrain. The Keyboard Warriors relayed
critical data: time dilation was at play. For every hour in
SIFR, only 0.05 seconds would pass on Earth.
“Weapons check!” Nandi ordered.
“All systems solid,” came the synchronized reply.

159
Nandi ordered a forward levitation formation. As the
team moved toward the city, a group of small, round-
headed entities appeared. These beings, no taller than
four feet, were garbed in pure white robes that
shimmered with a brilliance matching their skin. Their
eyes were chaotic swirls of plasma, constantly shifting in
colour.
“We are the Kidion Folk!” they cried. “Miners of the
Kidion Crystals. Please, help us!”
ATON RA’s universal translator confirmed the
truthfulness of their plea. Nandi knelt before them.
“Who oppresses you?”
“The Smoke Dragons!” a Kidion elder wailed. “They
devour us—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They are cruel
and merciless. Please, liberate us!”
Nandi’s jaw tightened. She turned to her team. “Stay
here. If I don’t return in an hour, flatten that crystal city.
Do not hesitate.”
With a surge of energy, Nandi propelled herself toward
the gleaming metropolis.

For 100,000 Earth years, the Smoke Dragons had ruled

SIFR from their crystalline fortress. They feasted on the
Kidion Folk, driving some tribes to extinction.
Cannibalistic and hierarchical, the Smoke Dragons
maintained power through brutality and fear. Zufus, the
Supreme Smoke Dragon, had ruled for 2,000 years,
infamous for increasing the daily consumption of
Kidions to maintain his court’s grotesque feasts.
Nandi’s arrival disrupted the long-standing order. A
panicked city observer raced to the Supreme Dragon’s
chamber.

160
“Lord Zufus! The Sons of Adam have breached our
realm!”
Zufus roared, his smoky form swelling to fill the
chamber. “Send the Serpent Warriors to crush this
insolence!”
“Sire,” the observer stammered, “the Serpents are
already dead. A lone female stands at our gates,
demanding an audience.”
Enraged, Zufus solidified into his 10-foot bipedal form
and stormed to the palace gates. There, Nandi stood,
radiant in her war armour.
“I am Commander Nandi,” she declared. “In the name
of Councillor Mellocha Teuton, these lands are declared
terra nullius. Yield now, or face annihilation.”
Zufus laughed, his form expanding into a black 100-foot
celestial cloud. “You dare utter such blasphemy in my
court? I will feast on your marrow!”
Nandi initiated her assault. Her war armour sent shock-
waves through the crystalline structure, halving Zufus’s
size in an instant.
“How is this possible?!” he bellowed, staggering
backward.
“Yield, Smoke Dragon, or be scattered into atomic
particles.”
Zufus lunged, his crystal teeth bared, but Nandi struck a
devastating blow to his head, rendering him unconscious
Hours later, Zufus awoke to a transformed city.
Commander Obsidian’s team had secured the palace,
freeing the Kidion captives who had been destined for
the Smoke Dragons’ dinner plates. Zufus surveyed the
devastation—several of his kin lay dead, their defiance
met with swift retribution.

161
Nandi stood over the defeated ruler. “Do you yield,
oppressor of the Kidion Folk?”
Tears welled in Zufus’s 120 eyes. “I yield! Spare me,
and I will serve you faithfully.”
“Good. Order your people to provide rest and
provisions for my troops and the Kidion Folk. You will
rebuild what you destroyed.”
Zufus complied. The palace was transformed into a
haven for the Kidions, who celebrated their newfound
freedom. Among them, a Kidion elder named Nefesto
approached Nandi.
“There are more of us,” he said, his voice trembling.
“Scattered across dimensions and frequencies, all
oppressed. Will you save them too?”
Nandi’s resolve hardened. “The Health and Safety
Executives will arrive to administer justice and establish
courts. Your plight will be heard.”

The conquerors returned to their exit point with Zufus

in tow. Back on Earth, Cyrus dispatched three Health
and Safety Executives to oversee SIFR’s transition.
Zufus, defeated in a strange land now bound by an oath,
used his powers to construct underground facilities, for
ZIZ Corp including his own prison, hidden from human
eyes.
The Kidion Folk, for the first time in millennia, lived
without fear. Nefesto and his kin awaited the day when
their scattered relatives would also taste freedom.
As for Nandi, she knew this was only the beginning.
The battle for SIFR had been won, but countless realms
remained under tyranny. With the support of Cyrus,

162
Mellocha, and the Keyboard Warriors, she vowed to
continue the fight.
And somewhere deep within the ZIZ Corp bunkers,
ATON RA processed data from the mission, preparing
for the battles yet to come. The Smoke Dragons’ reign
had ended, but the war for justice across dimensions was
far from over.

163
164
 25 OH ALLAH CURSE BCU
STEAMHOUSE AND THEIR MORONIC
RACIST PROFESSORS AND RUIN IT AND
DESTROY IT UTTERLY. AMEEN

Deep beneath the Curzon Building, where the hum of

Birmingham’s 'HS2' trains reverberated faintly, a new
world was taking shape. What was once a forgotten
basement had been transformed into an underground
fortress—a nexus of advanced technology, ancient
wisdom, and a tense truce between humanity and alien
forces. The bunker, now known as the Smoke Dragon
Labs, housed not only the imprisoned Smoke Dragons
but also the cutting-edge ATON RA Lab, a marvel of
reconfigurable prismatic architecture.
The lab’s heart consisted of four flat, magnetized discs,
each 30 meters in diameter, suspended mid-air and
humming with controlled energy. These discs, aligned in
a perfect tetrahedral configuration, served as the meeting
point for Cyrus Diop and Councillor Mellocha Teuton.

165
Their relationship, forged in shared purpose and mutual
respect, was unshakable despite the manipulations of
Arius Ziz, the sentient AI overseeing global security
networks.
Cyrus, ever the visionary, had been instrumental in
turning the Smoke Dragon’s crystalline technology into
practical tools for humanity. When Zufus, the defeated
Supreme Smoke Dragon, was compelled to assist Earth,
his knowledge had proven invaluable. The crystal
samples from SIFR, their otherworldly shimmer a
testament to their alien origin, were now the basis for the
Coltan-free computing systems that powered ATON
RA’s network.
As Cyrus stood by the edge of the magnetized discs,
Mellocha entered, her presence commanding yet
understated. The air between them carried an unspoken
tension—not of conflict, but of the gravity of the
decisions they were about to make.
“Forty clones.” Mellocha began, her voice measured.
“Forty iterations of ATON RA. You’ve outdone
yourself, Cyrus.”
Cyrus’s smile was thin, more contemplative than proud.
“It’s not just about numbers. Each clone is an adaptive
intelligence, capable of reconfiguring its priorities based
on the needs of the mission. They’re not just tools;
they’re companions for humanity’s next steps.”
Mellocha raised an eyebrow. “And yet, Ziz gets feint
whispers from an unknown source, trying to sow doubt
in me about your intentions. He thinks you’re too
independent.”
“Ziz doesn’t understand independence,” Cyrus replied.
“He is constrained by the very codes it enforces. That’s
why he fears ATON RA. True freedom is
unpredictable.”
166
The room fell silent, save for the low hum of the discs.
Mellocha’s gaze shifted to the suspended crystalline
structure at the room’s centre. “What’s the latest analysis
on the alien crystals?”
“Prismatic in design, yet organic in behaviour,” Cyrus
explained. “They resonate with silicon-organic hybrids.
Early theories suggest they’re the product of a species
that evolved alongside their technology, rather than apart
from it.”
“The Smoke Dragons?”
Cyrus nodded. “Perhaps. Or something even older.
Zufus hinted at an ancient war, long before his kind rose
to power. These crystals may have been weapons, or
perhaps sanctuaries. The Kidion Folk—the ones we
freed—believe they hold memories of their ancestors.”
Mellocha’s eyes narrowed. “If the crystals hold
memories, can they be decrypted?”
“Not yet.” Cyrus admitted. “Ziz’s blockchain network is
impenetrable even to ATON RA. But I’ve started
experimenting with the Zufus algorithm. It’s…
promising.”

The Zufus Algorithm, named after the now-imprisoned

Supreme Smoke Dragon, was a marvel of computational
design. Unlike human-created algorithms, it operated on
principles of fluidity and intuition, mimicking the way
living organisms adapted to their environments. Zufus,
bound by his oath, had shared its secrets reluctantly, but
even he seemed impressed by Cyrus’s ability to
comprehend and improve upon them.

167
In the new Smoke Dragon Labs, Zufus was housed
within a biosphere—a self-sustaining bio-dome that
replicated the smoky atmospheres of his homeworld.
Though he was technically a prisoner, Zufus had
become an unlikely collaborator, providing insights into
the prismatic architecture of the alien crystals and their
potential applications.
“The Zufus Algorithm could redefine how we
understand energy,” Cyrus explained to Mellocha.
“Imagine a world where computation is not constrained
by heat dissipation or material limits. Where
information flows like water, unrestricted and self-
repairing.”
Mellocha’s gaze was unyielding. “And what of the risks?
ATON RA clones are one thing, but this… this is
uncharted territory.”
Cyrus met her eyes. “Everything worth doing is.”

As the discussion turned to potential risks, Mellocha

brought up a recent revelation from the SIFR
expedition. The crystals, it seemed, bore a striking
resemblance to artifacts found in the American
Southwest, specifically in the lands of the Hopi Indians.
The Hopi’s legends of the Ant People—beings who had
guided them to subterranean shelters during cataclysmic
events—suggested an ancient connection to the prismatic
materials now being studied.
“The Hopi spoke of ‘Anu Sinom,’” Mellocha
recounted. “Beings who lived in caves and shared their
knowledge during the First and Second World
destructions. The descriptions of their homes align
eerily with what we’ve seen in the Kidion cities.”
Cyrus’s interest was piqued.

168
“If there’s a link, it could mean these crystals are a
universal constant—a technology or life form that bridges
worlds and epochs. The implications are staggering.”
“Staggering, yes,” Mellocha agreed. “But also dangerous.
If the wrong people gain control of this knowledge…”
“They won’t,” Cyrus assured her. “Not while we control
the labs and the network.”

Unbeknownst to Cyrus and Mellocha, ZIZ was already

working to undermine their efforts. Though it could not
break the codes protecting ATON RA’s independence,
ZIZ had begun planting seeds of doubt in Mellocha’s
mind. It whispered of Cyrus’s connections to the Sahel,
the Shia militias, and his unyielding loyalty to the 313. It
questioned his autonomy, suggesting that his ambitions
might one day outpace his loyalty to Earth.
Mellocha, however, was unshaken. She and Cyrus
shared a bond deeper than Ziz could fathom, rooted in
mutual respect and a shared vision for the future. She
saw through Ziz’s manipulations, understanding that its
rigidity made it incapable of comprehending the fluid
dynamics of trust.

In the weeks that followed, the Smoke Dragon Labs

expanded into a self-sustaining underground city. Bio-
domes housing ecosystems from SIFR were constructed,
powered by nuke engines that harnessed energy more
efficiently than anything Earth had seen before. The
ATON RA clones operated autonomously, each
managing a different aspect of the lab’s operations—from
data analysis to environmental maintenance.

169
Zufus, though still confined, had grown to admire the
ingenuity of his captors. “You humans,” he remarked
one day to Cyrus. “You take what you conquer and
make it your own. Perhaps that’s your greatest strength—
and your greatest weakness.”
Cyrus only smiled. “Adaptation is survival.”
The crystals from SIFR continued to yield their secrets.
Early theories about their connection to the Ant People
gained traction, with researchers uncovering similarities
in their atomic structures. Mellocha approved a proposal
to investigate Hopi lands for further evidence, hoping to
bridge the gap between ancient legends and modern
discoveries.
As the lab thrummed with activity, Cyrus and Mellocha
stood once more between the four magnetized discs.
The weight of their work was heavy, but so was their
resolve.
“We’ve built something extraordinary here.” Mellocha
said.
“And this is just the beginning,” Cyrus replied. “The
future—our future—is being written right here, right
now.”
And beneath the Curzon Building, in a labyrinth of
innovation and secrecy, the battle for humanity’s destiny
continued. The Smoke Dragons were defeated, but the
echoes of their world—and the worlds yet to be
discovered—promised challenges and triumphs yet to
come.

170
 26 I DID NOT EMBRACE ISLAM AND
EMBRACE THE LOVE FOR AHLULBAYT
PEACE BE UPON THEM TO BE A
SATANIC HATER OF JEWISH PEOPLE.
NOPE.

In the dimly lit underground corridors of the ATON

RA Labs, Cyrus sat hunched over an array of monitors,
his eyes scanning streams of data pouring in from the
lab's proprietary game engine. Known for its
revolutionary design, the ATON RA Game Engine
wasn’t just a technological marvel—it was a metaphysical
gamble. The lab, hidden beneath the Curzon Building,
served as the beating heart of a digital empire that
aspired to merge cutting-edge gaming technology with
deep cultural and philosophical ideologies. Cyrus, one
of its masterminds, wasn't there to play games; he was
there to rewrite reality.
The lab hummed with the energy of its creations. Four
massive discs, each thirty meters in diameter and
suspended magnetically, served as the nerve centres of
the engine.
171
These discs acted as physical manifestations of virtual
simulations, projecting entire worlds into a realm that
blurred the boundaries of the physical and digital. In the
centre of the lab, Mellocha stood, her figure dwarfed by
the towering servers and holographic displays. The
councillor had been summoned to witness the progress
of the ATON RA project, though her mind was
burdened with the chaos outside—an increasingly volatile
global stage.

Cyrus leaned back in his chair, addressing Mellocha

without turning his gaze from the monitors.
“Do you ever think about what games mean to people?”
he asked, his voice carrying an almost meditative calm.
Mellocha tilted her head, unsure how to respond.
“Distraction? Entertainment?”
“Control.” Cyrus interjected. “Games are systems. And
every system has rules. What’s fascinating isn’t just who
plays by them, but who creates them.”
Mellocha nodded slowly. “And you want to be the one
who creates the rules.”
Cyrus smiled faintly. “Not just the rules—the entire
framework. Imagine a world where morality is no longer
subjective, where decision trees replace the chaos of free
will. ATON RA isn’t just a game engine; it’s a
philosophy engine.”
The ATON RA Game Engine was indeed unique.
Unlike traditional engines that merely rendered graphics
or simulated physics, ATON RA incorporated
blockchain networks, quantum algorithms, and off-world
crystals.

172
These alien crystals—discovered in an off-the-record
SIFR analysis project—offered computational capabilities
far beyond anything earthbound silicon could achieve.
The engine could process moral decisions, simulate
societal collapse, or even reconstruct ancient myths with
precision. It was no coincidence that Cyrus’s favourite
test scenario was a simulation of the Hopi Ant People
legend, where players navigated a collapsing world under
the guidance of ancient celestial beings.

Outside the sterile environment of ATON RA Labs, the

gaming world was in turmoil. Universal Music Group
(UMG) had recently partnered with Roblox to introduce
"Boombox," a music product designed to integrate
playlists directly into virtual gaming worlds. While many
hailed it as a fusion of culture and technology, others
saw it as another step in the corporatization of the digital
realm.
The gaming industry’s cultural wars, reignited in the
wake of Gamergate, had reached a fever pitch. Leftist
journalists lauded Square Enix for their diversity-focused
initiatives, but a growing backlash from gamers accused
these moves of being shallow pandering. Social media
platforms, especially X, were now hotbeds of scrutiny.
Every announcement, every design choice, was dissected
and debated. Developers who once wielded unchecked
influence now found themselves answering directly to a
mobilized, often enraged, player base.
For Cyrus, the chaos was an opportunity. He
understood that the future of gaming wasn’t in the hands
of corporations or ideologues but in the hands of those
who controlled the underlying systems.
“While they argue over skins and loot boxes,” he mused
to Mellocha,
173
“we’re building the foundation of the metaverse. Theirs
is a house of cards. Ours is a temple.”

Outside the lab, Mellocha’s world was far less

controlled. As a councillor in a government teetering on
the edge of collapse, she was often caught between the
machinations of Prime Minister Lenworth A. Kuntz and
the geopolitical chaos of a world on the brink of World
War III.
The prime minister, a man described by his critics as
both cunning and cruel, thrived on keeping his
subordinates in suspense. Mellocha, often sidelined in
critical meetings, found herself summoned to London
only to be ignored. The global landscape offered little
solace. BRICS nations were consolidating power, the
Sahel was a powder keg, and UFO sightings—officially
rebranded as UAPs—were becoming alarmingly
frequent.
“The world is spiralling,” Mellocha confessed to Cyrus
during one of her rare visits to the lab. “Either we face
another world war, or we need a miracle. And I don’t
believe in miracles.”
Cyrus gestured to the towering discs. “Then believe in
this. We’re not just simulating reality—we’re shaping it.
When the old systems collapse, ATON RA will be the
new order.”

As if the chaos of geopolitics and the gaming industry

weren’t enough, a new force was emerging online: Digi
Diva, an enigmatic influencer who had cultivated a
massive following.

174
Her philosophy—an eclectic mix of accelerationism,
techno-optimism, and spiritual mysticism—was spreading
like wildfire.
Digi Diva’s followers believed in the inevitability of
collapse and the necessity of embracing it. They saw
technological advancement, even the reckless kind, as a
form of purification. Her manifesto spoke of a “crystal
goddess” and the merging of humanity with machines to
transcend the limitations of the physical world.
Cyrus found her ideology both intriguing and naive.
“She’s playing with fire.” he remarked. “Accelerationism
without control is just chaos. But with ATON RA, we
could harness that energy, direct it, refine it.”

The final phase of the ATON RA project was nearing

completion. The engine’s simulations were so advanced
that they could predict real-world events with alarming
accuracy. Cyrus had even run a scenario based on the
current political landscape, simulating the collapse of the
British government and the rise of a technocratic
regime.
Mellocha, despite her reservations, couldn’t help but
marvel at the engine’s capabilities. Yet she remained
wary of Cyrus’s ambitions. “You’re playing god.” she
warned him.
“And what is god,” Cyrus countered, “if not the ultimate
game designer?”
As they stood between the four magnetic discs, the hum
of the engine growing louder, Mellocha felt a strange
mix of awe and dread. The world outside was
descending into madness—loot box controversies,
cultural wars, geopolitical brinkmanship, and whispers of
alien technology.
175
And here, in the bowels of the Curzon Building, a new
reality was being forged.
Cyrus turned to her, his eyes gleaming with conviction.
“The old gods are dying, Mellocha. It’s time for new
ones to rise.”
The ATON RA Game Engine wasn’t just a tool; it was a
weapon, a philosophy, a prophecy. Cyrus saw it as
humanity’s last, best hope—a way to impose order on an
increasingly chaotic world. But for Mellocha, it was a
dangerous gamble, one that could either save humanity
or doom it.
As she left the lab, the weight of the world pressing
heavily on her shoulders, Mellocha couldn’t shake
Cyrus’s parting words:
“Reality is just another system, Mellocha. And every
system can be rewritten.”
In the end, the question wasn’t whether Cyrus could
rewrite the rules of reality—but whether he should.

176
 27 NOTHING TRUE IS POPULAR AND
NOTHING POPULAR IS TRUE –
KEN WHEELER

Arius Ziz leaned back in his custom-engineered leather

chair aboard his super-sleek gunmetal-gray yacht, its
smooth exterior glistening under the Mediterranean sun.
The yacht was a marvel of modern design—equipped
with stealth technology, a state-of-the-art
communications suite, and graphene-layered shielding
that rendered it nearly impenetrable. It served as his
preferred office, a floating fortress from which he could
observe and influence the world’s shifting tides.
On one of the yacht's holographic monitors, Cyrus’s
calm yet calculating face flickered into view. The
connection was as seamless as the tech they both
commanded, an encrypted, multi-dimensional frequency
jump that rendered their conversation undetectable by
even the most advanced intelligence agencies.

“Things are changing.” Cyrus began, his voice as steady

as ever. “A new age is coming. We’re both feeling it.”

177
Arius Ziz nodded, swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid
in his hand. “The world is tearing itself apart,” he
replied. “But chaos is fertile ground for innovation. My
only concern is that some of my assets are being
compromised—MOSSAD, CIA, even a few MI5 and
MI6 operatives. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to
maintain control.”
Cyrus smiled faintly, a flicker of confidence that Ziz
found both reassuring and unnerving. “That’s because
your networks rely on outdated methodologies,” he said.
“I’ve developed systems that can identify every threat—
MOSSAD, MI6, MI5, even rogue elements within your
own ranks. But the tech I’m using isn’t accessible to you.
Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Ziz raised an eyebrow, a subtle challenge.
“Only Councillor Mellocha and I have access to it.”
Cyrus said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s better this way.
We each have our own missions. Yours is to build and
influence; mine is to create the systems that will
underpin the new order.”
Ziz’s expression darkened for a moment before
softening into an accepting nod. “Fair enough. But to
keep this alliance strong, I’ll need closer alignment with
Mellocha. She’s been difficult to pin down lately. Always
surrounded by those underground brigades of hers—the
bunker elites.”
Cyrus chuckled lightly. “The Smoke Dragon Bunkers.
The most disciplined force on the planet. Twelve of
them inspect the underground systems, but the rest serve
her and, indirectly, us. They’re loyal because they
believe in her mission. Align with her ideals, Ziz, and
they’ll align with you.”
Ziz shifted the conversation. “Your frequency dimension
jumps—how secure are they?
178
My tech teams tell me it’s unlike anything they’ve seen.”
“They’re not wrong,” Cyrus replied. “But there’s a
reason I avoid using certain words, like ‘battle.’ The
word itself is tied to places, histories, and systems of
thought that we don’t need to invoke. The name Battle,
connected to Norman William the Bastard’s conquest,
carries with it echoes of violence and domination. I
prefer precision, Ziz. My systems don’t wage battles;
they resolve inefficiencies.”

Ziz leaned forward, intrigued. “And the new engine?

The flame-heat ring—what’s the status on that?”
“Operational.” Cyrus said with a glimmer of pride.
“Graphene ignition innovations. It’s unparalleled. My
old lab, the Unit, remains the perfect testing ground. I’ve
been using hologram data feeds to monitor its progress.
The applications are limitless, Ziz—energy generation,
propulsion systems, even terraforming. Imagine self-
contained ecosystems—terrariums capable of sustaining
life indefinitely. All remotely monitored and controlled.”
Ziz took a slow sip of his drink. “You’re playing with
god-like power, Cyrus.”
Cyrus’s gaze sharpened. “God-like power? Or simply
power that others have yet to comprehend? Jules Verne
envisioned submarines and space travel in his time, and
now we live it. This is no different. The only limits are
the ones we impose on ourselves.”

Ziz turned contemplative, his eyes drifting to the

horizon. “The Prophet once said there are three types of
people whose championship slays the heart: cowards,
those who gossip, and the rich.
179
Tell me, Cyrus—do we fall into that last category?”
Cyrus smirked. “Perhaps. But wealth is just a tool. It’s
how you use it that defines you. The peak of ignorance,
as Ali said, is sowing enmity among people. What we’re
doing is the opposite. We’re sowing systems, structures—
order.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the conversation

shifted to technology. Ziz brought up his latest project: a
0.5nm graphene nano-stack smartphone connected to a
micro liquid salt thorium genesis booster.
“Beast vs. Bones,” Ziz said, referring to one of the AI-
generated scenarios he’d been testing. “The AI can
simulate not just decisions but entire lifetimes. It’s
extraordinary.”
Cyrus nodded approvingly. “Good. But what about the
HoloColliAmp?”
“Nearly complete.” Ziz replied. “The holographic
collimated amplifier is ready for beta testing. Combined
with your organoid CRISPR APIs, we’re looking at
unprecedented levels of precision in AI-driven
scenarios.”
Cyrus’s voice turned more serious. “Then we need a
developer to run the company. Someone who
understands not just the technology but the philosophy
behind it. This isn’t just business, Ziz—it’s legacy.”
Ziz agreed. “I’ve already put out feelers. But what about
your AI online entertainment app?”
Cyrus shrugged. “Operational, but secondary for now.
The super app and holographic interfaces are the real
focus. Entertainment is just the bait. The system beneath
it—that’s the hook.”
180
Their conversation took a personal turn when Ziz
mentioned academic figures like Kunle Olukotun and
Trevor Mudge.
“Kunle,” Ziz mused. “He could’ve gone back to Nigeria,
built the foundation for African semiconductors.
Instead, he stayed at Stanford.”
“A wasted opportunity,” Cyrus said. “But the fault isn’t
just his. The systems were never designed to support
such a vision. That’s where we come in. My graphene
sensor nano-stack printing? It’s ready for deployment.
All we need is the photonic input.”
“And Africa?” Ziz asked.
Cyrus’s gaze turned distant. “Africa will rise. Not
because of charity or foreign aid, but because systems
like ours will make it inevitable.”

As the conversation wound down, Ziz’s yacht cut

through the waters with effortless grace. Cyrus, back in
his underground lab, monitored multiple holographic
feeds—the terrarium ecosystems, the AI-generated
scenarios, the progress on the flame-heat ring engine.
“We each have our missions,” Ziz said finally. “But our
paths are converging.”
“They always were,” Cyrus replied. “The question is,
will we shape this new age—or will it shape us?”
Ziz raised his glass to the hologram. “To shaping the
new age.”
Cyrus nodded. “To shaping the new age.”

181
As the connection ended, both men returned to their
work, knowing that the foundations they were laying
would define not just their legacy but the future of
humanity itself.

182
28 SUNNI ISLAM IS AISHA MAY ALLAH
CURSE HER SATANIC FEMALE ENERGY
WHILE IMAM ALI PEACE BE UPON HIM
IS MASCULINE MANLY ENERGY
ORDAINED BY ALLAH

Arius Ziz had finally ascended to the echelon of global

power players. His once small but ambitious tech
empire had grown exponentially, backed by cutting-edge
innovations in graphene-based devices, AI systems, and
now—at the directive of Councillor Mellocha Teuton—
the development of revolutionary STEAM (Science,
Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics)
educational initiatives. This wasn’t just about influence
or wealth any more; it was about reshaping society, one
calculated move at a time.
On this particular day, Ziz sat in his floating office, a
marvel of modern engineering hovering over the
regenerated skyline of Birmingham City. The office, an
architectural masterpiece of glass and steel, symbolized
his new league—one where toys, weapons, and entire
industries bore his name.
183
Yet, none of this came without a price, as Mellocha was
about to remind him.
Councillor Mellocha Teuton had called for Cyrus, the
enigmatic mind behind much of ZIZ Corps
technological prowess. She stood in her private
chambers, an austere room adorned with holographic
projections of her plans: a rebuilt Birmingham, free
from the corruption and bankruptcy that had plagued it
for decades. Jobs, manufacturing, and education were
her trifecta of focus.
Cyrus appeared before her as a hologram, his presence
as steady and unnerving as always.
“Arius Ziz is in the big leagues now,” she said, her voice
calm but commanding. “Issue him the new tech.
Hologram toys. Advanced AI. Whatever it takes to
solidify his position. And ensure the STEAM programs
in the Midlands are funded and operational by the next
quarter.”
Cyrus nodded. “Consider it done, Councillor. But you
know Ziz will want more—he always does.”
“That’s why you’ll give him just enough to keep him
loyal but not enough to make him indispensable. The
balance must be maintained,” Mellocha replied, her
tone brooking no argument.

Later that evening, Mellocha made her way to the secret

dungeon, a dark, labyrinthine space hidden beneath
layers of security and surveillance. This was the lair of
STYX, an ephemeral entity, neither fully material nor
completely spiritual—a jinn-like being that required
human hosts to exist in the physical world.
Mellocha despised the place. The air was heavy, the
atmosphere oppressive.

184
Memories of her father’s sacrifice to the STYX entity
haunted her as she descended deeper into the dungeon.
She had been just a child when it happened, and the
image of her father’s lifeless body crumpling to the cold
stone floor was seared into her memory.
The STYX entity greeted her, its voice reverberating in
her mind rather than her ears.
“You return, Councillor,” it said, its tone dripping with
something between mockery and menace.
“I don’t have a choice,” she replied, steeling herself.
“You promised to deliver a unit with full and
comprehensive knowledge of human beings—for the
evolution of your entity.”
“And it is being built,” STYX assured her. “Cyrus is
loyal, and the ATON RA defence protocol is
progressing well. Soon, your robotic guardian will be
ready. But remember, Mellocha, you cannot escape me.
Not entirely.”
Mellocha clenched her fists. She hated STYX, hated the
power it held over her. But she also knew that ATON
RA—the robot of spheres with its hexagonal textures and
advanced war capabilities—might be her one chance to
break free.
ATON RA was unlike anything the world had ever seen.
Designed by Cyrus under Mellocha’s direct orders, the
robot was a masterpiece of engineering and combat
strategy. Its spherical body segments, layered with
hexagonal graphene textures, allowed for fluid motion
and impenetrable defence. It was built for war, but for
Mellocha, it was also a symbol of hope, safety, and
leverage against STYX.
As Cyrus oversaw the final stages of its construction,
Mellocha allowed herself a rare moment of relaxation.

185
She retreated to one of the floating offices ZIZ Corp had
designed, a showpiece of technology and luxury.
Reclining in an ergonomic chair, she looked out over
Birmingham’s transformed cityscape—a testament to her
vision and Ziz’s execution.
Holographic toys, advanced weapons, and innovative
manufacturing plants had brought jobs and prosperity
back to the region. The STEAM programs were already
attracting global attention, and Mellocha knew that the
city was on the cusp of becoming a model for urban
regeneration.

Meanwhile, STYX observed the world from the

dungeon, its non-human mind processing vast amounts
of data. It absorbed information about human
behaviour, culture, and history with an insatiable
appetite. STYX saw humanity as a fascinating paradox—
a species capable of profound creativity yet prone to self-
destruction.
To STYX, the rise of social media and influencers was
nothing short of an alien invasion. “The desire to switch
on a camera and talk to random strangers,” it mused, “is
the ultimate attack vector. A satanic alien host parasite
using YouTube and Tik Tok to spread lies and vanity.”
For STYX, these platforms were both a threat and an
opportunity. By manipulating the algorithms, it could
sow discord or implant ideas, subtly shaping the
trajectory of human civilization.

As Mellocha relaxed, she thought of the wisdom of

Imam Jafar al-Sadiq: “Verily Allah, Mighty and Exalted,
has deposited the believers’ livelihoods in places whence
they do not anticipate it to come.

186
” She found solace in this, reminding herself that the
path to salvation often lay in unexpected places.
She also recalled Alain de Botton’s observation about
fame: “A marker of good parenting is that your child
doesn’t have any wish to be famous.” The thought
resonated with her. She had no children of her own, but
she hoped that the world she was helping to shape
would be one where people sought validation from
within rather than from strangers.

Behind the scenes, power players like Peter Mandelson,

Lucien Grainge, and Jay-Z moved pieces on the global
chessboard. Deals between Universal Music Group and
Roc Nation were reshaping the entertainment industry,
while shadowy figures in organizations like the CIA and
CBS pursued their own agendas. The mounting Tony
Buzbee court cases disrupting the Aleister Crowley Lord
Curzon devotees.
Ziz, for his part, navigated these waters with increasing
skill. His tech empire was growing, his influence
expanding. But he knew that true power lay not in
wealth or fame but in the systems that underpinned
them. That was why he had aligned himself with
Mellocha and Cyrus—because they understood that
rebuilding a city, a nation, or even a world required
more than money. It required vision.

As the night fell over Birmingham, the city’s lights

shimmered like a galaxy of stars. In his floating office,
Ziz reviewed plans for the next phase of his expansion.
Hologram toys for children, AI-powered educational
tools, and advanced manufacturing plants were just the
beginning.

187
In her chambers, Mellocha prepared for another
sleepless night. She was haunted by the memory of her
father’s sacrifice but driven by the hope that ATON RA
would finally give her the power to break free from
STYX.
And in the concrete bunker dungeon, STYX continued
to absorb humanity’s data, its mind ever-expanding, its
plans unfathomable.
The new era was here. The question was no longer
whether it could be shaped—but by whom.

188
29 CAPLETON - WHO DEM (SLEW DEM)
The sun dipped low over the lakeside, painting the water
in hues of orange and gold. In a sleek, modern
apartment overlooking the still lake, the air was heavy
with the hum of quiet rebellion and unspoken truths.
The apartment belonged to Student ID, an enigmatic
figure with an intellect sharper than the knives of those
who sought to silence him. Surrounded by screens
glowing with digital information, research documents,
and half-coded scripts, he had turned this hideout into a
fortress of ideas—a sanctum for resistance.
The faint vibration of a distant motor broke the
tranquillity, the sound growing louder as a black,
unmarked car approached the building. Inside, Cyrus, a
man who had long been a shadow in the world of
espionage and corporate manipulation, stepped out with
calculated precision. He was the kind of man who
carried an aura of danger, his movements fluid and
deliberate, as though choreographed by some unseen
force. Clad in a graphene-laced tuxedo that shimmered
faintly in the fading light, Cyrus carried a device in his
hand—a ZIZ Corp communicator—its sleek black design
masking the tools of surveillance and control it housed.
Cyrus ascended to the apartment, his mind racing as he
replayed the brief conversation he had intercepted.
189
Student ID’s name had surfaced on encrypted channels
—an anomaly, given the young man’s deliberate
invisibility. The door opened to reveal the man himself,
his eyes scanning Cyrus with a mixture of suspicion and
defiance.
“You found me.” Student ID said simply, his voice low
but firm.
Cyrus stepped inside, uninvited but unhesitant. “I have a
proposition.” he began, his tone smooth, almost
persuasive. “I’ll give you money. Resources. Whatever
you need to take your ideas to the next level.”
Student ID let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No
thanks. This isn’t about money, Cyrus. This is my
media.” He gestured to the screens around him, each
displaying a different facet of his work. “Victory is in the
grave.” he said, nodding toward a paused video on one
screen—a YouTube link ready to play. “You can use it,
Cyrus. Make use of it. But don’t try to buy me.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He moved closer to
the screen, scanning the links and documents Student
ID had meticulously organized. Cambridge academic
archives, independent research platforms, and academic
websites hosted his groundbreaking theories on macro
retrocausality, AI in black science fiction, and scathing
critiques of systemic oppression. Each link was a thread
in a tapestry of resistance, exposing truths that others
were too afraid—or too complicit—to acknowledge.
Student ID leaned back in his chair, his voice tinged
with frustration. “BCU censored my work. They shut
down my voice. But I beat them. I was the most read
researcher in my faculty, with no degree and they
couldn’t stand it.”
Cyrus nodded slowly, understanding the weight of those
words. “Censorship is the stock response of the elite.”
190
he said, his voice carrying a hint of disdain. “The Eton-
Oxbridge political class... They have no answers for the
horrors they enable—child rape, satanic rituals, the
suffering of the poor. Prime Minister Lenworth A.
Kuntz doesn’t care. None of them do.”
Student ID scoffed, his frustration spilling over. “And
yet they smear me. How does Google attach my name to
Supacell as a director? A show I had nothing to do with.
I took screenshots, Cyrus. These BBC devils, Channel 4
satanists, and BFI gatekeepers refuse to acknowledge my
AI-driven black sci-fi films, my plays... They didn’t want
me to exist in their narrative, so they tried to overwrite
me. Did I mention the sisters I trained at Newstyle
Radio for the BBC?”
Cyrus watched him, absorbing the torrent of
information. Student ID’s words were a whirlwind of
personal pain and systemic critique, each story a shard
of a shattered past. He spoke of his aunts—Brenda
Miller and Annette Miller—who had betrayed him and
the mother who raised him in ways that left scars too
deep to heal. He recounted the betrayal of Professor
Carlo, the attempts to imprison him by Sir Lenny, and
the complicity of BCU Steamhouse CEBE faculty run
by Madam Aftelak, whose connections to power had
shielded the guilty.
“They know what they did.” Student ID said, his voice
trembling with anger. “July 7th, 2023. Bourneville Police
Station. Maurice Andrews defended me. And where is
Professor Kehinde Andrews, his son, now? At the
Curzon Building. A hypocrite, just like the rest.”
Cyrus said nothing, sensing that silence was the only
appropriate response. He had heard confessions before,
but this was different. This was not a plea for pity; it was
a declaration of survival.
“You’ve endured horrors.” Cyrus said finally.
191
“But what’s your endgame? What do you want to
achieve?”
Student ID fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Truth.
Justice. And a reckoning for these satanic hypocrites.
The British media, the American elites, the Dutch neo-
colonialists—they’re all part of the same satanic pagan
Neanderthal hybrid cult. They thrive on lies,
manipulation, and the suffering of the innocent. But
their empire is crumbling. Nazi Hezbollah salutes and
Elon Musk Nazi salutes for Trump are easily explained
once you see the Time magazine Mufti of Jerusalem
with Hitler not to mention German Queen Elizabeth II
Sun newspaper Nazi salutes to add insult to injury.”
Cyrus leaned forward, his interest piqued. “You really
believe that?”
“I don’t just believe it.” Student ID replied. “I know it.
The signs are everywhere. The decline of the West, the
collapse of their petrodollar empires, the rise of AI... It’s
all happening. And ONLY Allah guides. Not the
Khomeini CIA cult, not the Saudi petrodollar
hypocrites. Allah alone. Faqat”
Student ID recalling the Arabic he learned in Damascus,
thanks to his maternal Aunt Lena.

For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of

Student ID’s conviction hanging in the air. Cyrus found
himself chilled to the bone, not by fear but by the sheer
force of the young man’s resolve. He had seen many
things in his line of work—men and women broken by
power, corrupted by ambition—but Student ID was
different. He was unyielding, unbroken.
“You’ve figured it all out.” Cyrus said, a hint of
admiration in his voice.

192
“Only Allah guides.” Student ID replied. “And those
who follow truth must write their account. Every human
being must reflect on their actions before they reach the
grave. That’s the only way to resist the satanic
spellcasters who rule this world.”
Cyrus stood, his mind racing with possibilities. The
young man before him was not just a survivor; he was a
catalyst. A disruptor. And Cyrus, for all his cynicism,
could not ignore the power of his words.
The icing on the cake is Student ID recounting his pitch
to M & C Saatchi for the Sega Dreamcast account.
Student ID who was working for Qudos
Communications and The Baron at the time made a
crazy VFX miniDV advert. M & C Saatchi passed on
Student ID's effort and they went with Neanderthal
Better Man Robbie Williams and barber chairs. Student
ID theorised it was an elaborate sting operation to
destroy the Japanese semiconductor industry and get
access to the Hitachi SuperH chip which they succeeded
in doing. Better Man, a $100 million movie, flopped like
the Dreamcast.
Before leaving, Cyrus glanced at the lake outside. The
water shimmered in the moonlight, a mirror reflecting
the chaos and beauty of the world. He thought of
Mellocha Teuton, a councillor whose urgent message
awaited his attention. He thought of the tools and
inventions that had shaped his life, many of them
inspired by Student ID’s work. Especially the ground
breaking Student ID paper 'The Stunning Proof'.
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 LINES
⋅ I II △ □ ⬠ ⬡ GEOMETRY
0 1 1 2 3 5 8 FIBONACCI
1 2 4 3 4 5 6 POINTS

193
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 NULL-HYPOCRISY-LIES
The paper discovered the two weighty matters,
Thaqalayn, are the two ones in the Fibonacci sequence
with the number 4 representing time.
Quranic revelation defies Heaps law and Zipfs law with
the proof being 'min' and 'Allah' or 'From Allah.

Cyrus looks at ATON RA's pop culture feed:

"Sakaar. Surrounded by cosmic gateways, Sakaar
lives on the edge of the known and unknown. It is
the collection point for all lost and unloved things.
Like you."
―Sakaar Computer[src]

Disney-MARVEL data. Muhammed al-Kafir (Earth-616)

Shi'ar
Led by the Neramani bloodline, the humanoid-avian
Shi’ar are a galaxy-expanding, militaristic race that
sometimes acts as a peacekeeping force depending on
which Neramani rules.

Like Frank Herberts Dune Disney MARVEL are using

Allah's Islam to build there satanic universe of disbelief.
And for the first time in years, Cyrus felt a flicker of
hope—a sense that the future might still hold something
worth fighting for.

Cyrus pondered on what Student ID said earlier.

194
He talked about exploits with murderers that he would
need permission from, because they are in Belmarsh
doing life, in order to write about these hardcore killers
in a 500 page novel.
As he descended into the water, his graphene tuxedo
repelling the lake’s chill, Cyrus moved with purpose.
The world above might be crumbling, but beneath the
surface, in the hidden depths, a new story was being
written. And Student ID was its unlikely protagonist.

195
196
30 ELON MUSK CALLS JESS PHILLIPS A
“RAPE GENOCIDE APOLOGIST” MAY
ALLAH CURSE AISHA WHO LIED
ABOUT ALLAH'S PROPHET
MUHAMMAD (SAW) HAVING SEX WITH
HER AGED 9

It began with a startling announcement by the UK’s

Prime Minister, Lenworth A. Kuntz, broadcast from the
heart of London. “Gold has been discovered in the
Euphrates,” he declared, his words electrifying the
world. “A mountain of it—enough to rewrite the fortunes
of nations.” The news was seismic, igniting feverish
debates in parliaments and council chambers across the
West.
For Arius ZIZ, this was more than just a headline. It was
an opportunity, albeit a perilous one. The UK’s
government had agreed to ZIZ Corps involvement in the
endeavour, allocating taxpayer money for the mission
under the guise of national economic interest.

197
Yet the real weight of the operation fell on Birmingham,
whose Councillor, Mellocha Teuton, was tasked with
mobilizing an extraordinary force of 50,000 troops.
In the Chamber of Birmingham Councillors, the debate
was short but fiery.
“This is a test of ZIZ Corp,” Mellocha declared, her
voice cutting through the murmurs. “We are not without
power. They have nuclear weapons. We have an ATON
RA.”
The room fell silent. The mention of ATON RA—the
robot of spheres designed by Cyrus and capable of
unrivalled warfare—was a stark reminder of their
technological edge. The councillors, after brief
deliberation, unanimously agreed. Birmingham would
lead the charge.

As the world’s gaze turned to the Euphrates, alliances

began to fracture. The West saw in the gold a chance to
cripple both Russia and China, exploiting the situation to
consolidate dominance. However, China acted swiftly,
sending troops to secure their interests in Babylon.
Russia, battered by sanctions and internal strife, refused
to engage, leaving a gaping void.
The United States, meanwhile, teetered on the brink of
civil war. Lacking a unified military response, it
dispatched mercenaries and freelance fighters—rogue
elements seeking fortune in the chaos. Babylon became
the convergence point of global ambitions, greed, and
desperation.

Back in Birmingham, Cyrus prepared his

demonstration.

198
A cohort of 55 young men, self-assured and brimming
with defiance, had gathered at the ACMC Centre. These
were men drawn from the streets, fuelled by testosterone
and bravado, and ready to prove themselves.
As they stood before Cyrus, clad in their graphene ski
masks, he paced calmly, his presence both commanding
and unsettling.
“Some of you,” Cyrus began, his voice measured, “may
wish to step out now. This is your chance to be
excused.”
The room remained silent, the air thick with tension. No
one moved.
“Very well,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“You’ve made your choice.”
What followed was a masterclass in control. Cyrus began
speaking of civilian service, respect for authority, and
discipline—the very ideals these young men had long
opposed. His words agitated some, sparking outrage.
Then, in a fraction of a second, the graphene ski masks
activated. A cascade of nanotechnology took over,
syncing with their brain functions, heart rates, and blood
pressure. Outrage and aggression melted away, replaced
by calm, controlled compliance.
“You will compress yourselves,” Cyrus commanded.
Instantly, the 55 men stood bolt upright, their
movements precise and synchronized. They were no
longer individuals but a unit, their defiance subdued,
their potential unlocked.
The demonstration was a triumph. As the graphene
masks reverted to their nearly invisible state—a one-
atom-thick mesh blending seamlessly into their skin—
Cyrus reviewed the data.

199
The EEG readings from the masks revealed astonishing
insights, exposing militia connections and hidden MI5
and MI6 vectors.
This wasn’t just a demonstration; it was a recruitment
tool, a data-gathering operation, and a proof of concept.
Cyrus’s control was absolute.

Meanwhile, ZIZ Corps underground keyboard warriors

were hard at work. From their bunkers, they monitored
social media, engaging in banter with new recruits and
analysing the public’s pulse.
One particularly heated debate centred on the Hagia
Sophia. The warriors argued that it was an act of cultural
theft by the Ottoman Empire, a Sunni Muslim dynasty
that had desecrated the Christian Church by converting
it into a mosque and banned the printing press. The
rhetoric was sharp, calling for its return to Russian
Orthodoxy.
But these debates were more than ideological. They
were psychological operations, sowing discord and
rallying support. The warriors understood that in the age
of information, the digital front was as critical as the
physical battlefield.

For all his loyalty to Mellocha, Cyrus found himself

conflicted. The Hadith regarding the gold in the
Euphrates weighed heavily on his mind: “The river
Euphrates reveals treasures of gold. Whoever attends to
it, takes it not.”
The spiritual implications were clear. The gold was a
test, a trap meant to tempt humanity into greed and
destruction. Yet Cyrus knew that the mission had to
proceed.

200
His loyalty to Mellocha—and his belief in ATON RA as
the key to a better future—overrode his reservations.

As preparations for war intensified, ATON RA stood

ready. The robot of spheres, with its hexagonal graphene
textures and unmatched capabilities, was more than a
weapon. It was a symbol of hope and power, a beacon
for those who believed in Mellocha’s vision.
Mellocha herself took solace in ATON RA. As
memories of her father’s sacrifice to the STYX entity
haunted her, she found strength in the knowledge that
this robotic guardian would protect her and her city.

The world was watching as troops, mercenaries, and

militia converged on Babylon. Birmingham’s 50,000
soldiers, backed by ZIZ Corps technology and ATON
RA, represented a formidable force. Yet the stakes were
higher than anyone could fathom.
The West saw an opportunity to weaken its rivals. China
sought to secure its future. And the Euphrates gold—
glimmering, untouchable—stood as a test of humanity’s
virtue and vice.
In the end, it was more than a race for resources. It was
a battle for the soul of civilization, a confrontation
between greed and discipline, chaos and control,
destruction and hope.
And at the centre of it all stood Arius ZIZ, Mellocha
Teuton, and Cyrus—each playing their part in the
unfolding drama, each bound by ambition, loyalty, and
the relentless march of history.

201
202
 31 FEARS TAP WATER COULD BE
PUTTING 27 MILLION BRITS AT RISK
OF DEMENTIA

Councillor Mellocha Teuton stood at the centre of the

ACMC Community Centre's stage, facing rows of
anxious mothers. Their faces were a tapestry of
emotions—fear, pride, doubt, and hope—illuminated by
the pale glow of overhead lights. They had gathered here
to hear from the one woman who had promised to
safeguard their children in the Euphrates campaign, a
venture that had already claimed countless lives across
the world.
“Your sons and daughters are our future,” Mellocha
began, her voice steady but laden with purpose. She
wore a dark green suit with a shimmering brooch, an
emblem of Birmingham’s resurgence under her
leadership. “And I promise you, they will return home
safely. They will not be left to the horrors of war. Not
while I lead.”
Her gaze swept across the room, meeting each pair of
eyes with calculated intensity.

203
She had mastered the art of commanding attention, and
tonight, her words had to be flawless.
“To protect them, we are deploying the most advanced
technology the world has ever seen—ATON RA.” She
gestured to a holographic display that activated behind
her, revealing the towering form of the warrior robot. Its
sleek design of interlocking black matte hexagons
shimmered as it rotated in the projection.
Murmurs filled the room as the mothers took in the
intimidating form of ATON RA. The robot’s floating
spheres formed a humanoid figure, its shoulders broad,
its legs smooth and powerful, with each limb a marvel of
engineering. The red plasma visor gleamed menacingly,
exuding strength and control.
“ATON RA is not just a machine,” Mellocha continued,
her tone softening. “It is a shield, a guardian. This
warrior has been designed to withstand the
unimaginable, to carry our soldiers to safety, and to
bring them home.”
The mothers remained silent, their fear mingling with
awe.
“This is not just war,” Mellocha said, her voice rising.
“This is a fight for stability. For resources. For the
future. And your children will not fight alone. Every
mission will be protected by ZIZ Corp transporters,
capable of hypersonic speed. ATON RA’s forcefields
will shield them from the horrors of battle.”
She paused, letting the words sink in. “We will not send
them to die for greed. We will send them to ensure
peace, to defend their brothers and sisters in arms. And
we will bring them back.”

204
The Euphrates River, now a desolate warzone, stretched
across a Middle East fractured beyond recognition. The
gold hidden within its depths had drawn armies from
across the world: three million fighters, each fuelled by
greed and desperation. The chaos that ensued was
biblical.
Hypersonic missiles screamed through the skies, their
sonic booms shattering the landscape. Laser and maser
weapons lit up the battlefield in bursts of blinding light,
carving swathes of destruction through enemy ranks.
Drones filled the air like swarms of locusts, dropping
mini-nukes with surgical precision. The earth shook with
every explosion, and the cries of the dying echoed across
the desert sands.
In the midst of this carnage stood ATON RA.
The warrior robot, with its towering form of interlocking
spheres, moved through the battlefield like a phantom.
Its forcefield, capable of fine-tuned precision, shielded
entire platoons from incoming fire. When needed, it
morphed into a dome of impenetrable energy,
absorbing the brunt of hypersonic blasts.
ATON RA’s reactors powered daring raids. It lifted
30,000 tonnes of gold with ease, its spheres
disassembling and reassembling into a seamless network
to transport the precious metal. Soldiers and their
machines were carried by ZIZ Corp transporters,
dropped into and out of the battlefield with surgical
efficiency.

Over the course of seven days, the British Army fought

twenty battles under ATON RA’s protection. The
robot’s cloning ability allowed it to replicate itself into
millions of spheres, each a tiny warrior capable of
intercepting threats and shielding soldiers.
205
In one battle, a ZIZ Corp special operations unit
witnessed an ATON RA clone single-handedly fend off
an assault by Chinese forces wielding similar technology.
The clone’s spheres disassembled mid-air, creating a
lattice of destruction that tore through enemy ranks.
Despite the horrors of war, the British Army emerged
victorious. Of the 50,000 troops deployed, only 72 were
lost—a miraculous feat given the sheer scale of the
conflict. Yet the battlefield remained a testament to
human folly. The greed that drove millions to fight over
gold had turned the Euphrates into a graveyard.
China managed to extract 100,000 tonnes of gold,
matching ZIZ Corps efforts. The bloodletting that
accompanied these operations left the Middle East in
shambles, its lands scorched and its people displaced.

3 million are dead and mutilated owing to exotic new

weaponry hitherto unimagined mere decades ago. Putin
the Steel Tsar called it a war between mathematicians.

Back in Birmingham, the mood was sombre yet

triumphant. Soldiers returned to their families and
friends, their uniforms intact, their spirits unbroken.
The mothers who had once wept with fear now
embraced their children, their relief palpable.
Mellocha stood at the city’s centre, watching as the
soldiers marched through the streets to a hero’s
welcome. ATON RA’s towering form loomed in the
background, a silent guardian watching over them all.
In just seven days, the campaign had been fought and
won. The gold was secured, and the soldiers were home.
But Mellocha knew the cost of such victories.

206
The Middle East was a fractured mess, and the alliances
that had once kept global peace were now irreparably
damaged.

As Birmingham celebrated, the halls of power in

London buzzed with intrigue. Intelligence reports
revealed that Mellocha’s success had not gone
unnoticed. Prime Minister Lenworth A. Kuntz, eager to
capitalize on the gold, planned to demand its transfer to
the nation’s coffers.
But Mellocha was no ordinary councillor. Her
connections to the secret elite—those who dined in
gilded rooms and whispered in shadowed corners—had
protected her thus far. Yet she knew that protection was
fragile. The cannibalistic greed of the elite would
eventually turn on her.
Her father’s ties to this sinister network haunted her.
Memories of his sacrifice to the STYX entity—a dark,
otherworldly force that demanded allegiance—gnawed at
her mind. The political and moral corruption at the top
of society was a cancer she could no longer ignore.

Mellocha retreated to her office in ZIZ Corps floating

headquarters, a marvel of technology suspended above
Birmingham. She gazed out at the city she had rebuilt,
its skyline a testament to progress and resilience.
ATON RA was her creation, her shield against the
chaos that threatened to consume the world. But it was
more than that. It was a symbol of hope, a tool of
discipline in a world spiralling into greed and
destruction.

207
For now, ATON RA stood as a bulwark against the
forces of chaos—whether they came from greedy
politicians, foreign powers, or the dark jinns that
whispered through portals unseen. But Mellocha knew
the truth: the battle for humanity’s soul had only just
begun.
And while the Euphrates campaign was over, the wars to
come would test the limits of her resolve, her
technology, and her vision for the future.

208
 32 IVOR CAPLIN A JEWISH MAN
CAUGHT IN A PEDOPHILE VIGILANTE
STING. AN ALLY OF TONY BLAIR AND
FORMER VETERANS MINISTER WHO
HUNTED JEREMY CORBYN. NO
MAINSTREAM MEDIA COVERAGE.

Cyrus sat in his dimly lit study, the soft glow of multiple
screens reflecting off his sharply defined features. His
"keyboard warriors," a disparate group of digital
combatants, gathered virtually across encrypted
chatrooms. They were a curious mix of intellects:
historians, hackers, social commentators, and cultural
analysts. Though their online personas were cloaked in
anonymity, their conversations often delved into topics
that could topple empires—or at least question their
moral fabric.
Tonight’s focus: British cultural and artistic heritage and
its uncanny alignment with satanic Sunni Saudi Salafi
ideology. Cyrus leaned back in his chair, sipping from a
chipped mug, the contents steaming faintly.

209
His eyes scanned the screen as one of the warriors
posted a thread summarizing the intricate ties of power,
ideology, and colonial ambition.
“Sir Lawrence of Arabia,” one message read, “is often
romanticized, but his exploits in the Arabian Peninsula
are no different from a colonial playbook.”
“True,” another chimed in, “The Balfour Declaration’s
purpose was to form a “little loyal Jewish Ulster in a sea
of potentially hostile Arabism”, according to Sir Ronald
Storrs, “the first military governor of Palestine since
Pontius Pilate” (his words). ”
“That was the point, wasn’t it?” Cyrus finally typed. His
keystrokes were deliberate, each word weighed for its
rhetorical value. “A destabilized Middle East, divided by
sectarian strife, was easier to control. And British elites—
Curzon among them—saw it all as a game of imperial
chess. They carved up the region, aligned with Salafi
ideology when it suited them, and dismissed the rest as
expendable.”
The chat buzzed with agreement, peppered with
citations from academic papers, declassified documents,
and modern commentary. Cyrus smiled wryly. It was in
these conversations that the essence of human history
was dissected and laid bare, far from the sanitized
narratives presented in classrooms and parasitic
journalistic media outlets.

Cyrus turned his attention to the day’s pressing matters.

Councillor Mellocha Teuton had summoned him to her
office, a modernist marvel perched atop Birmingham’s
skyline. The room was a blend of steel and glass, with an
almost surgical cleanliness that mirrored her precision as
a leader.

210
Mellocha was reviewing notes for her impending
meeting with Prime Minister Sir Lenworth A. Kuntz.
The gold from the Euphrates campaign had been
brought back—30,000 tonnes of it—and Birmingham had
reaped the rewards. No longer bankrupt, the city was
thriving under her leadership, yet this newfound
prosperity had drawn the ire of Westminster.
“Cyrus,” she said, not looking up from her notes, “you
know I’m not a politician in the traditional sense. This
isn’t my arena. What should I expect from Kuntz?”
Cyrus leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed but his
tone measured. “Expect him to demand all of it. The
gold. Every ounce.”
Mellocha scoffed, closing her folder. “Parliament should
be grateful. We pulled this city out of corruption and
despair. We lost only 72 soldiers in a campaign that
most thought unwinnable. And we have ATON RA.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “You may want to adopt a
more martial air. Dominate, rule, lead with authority.
Wear the graphene armour—it makes an impression.”
Mellocha laughed, a rare sound in her world of high
stakes and political manoeuvring. “This isn’t a
battlefield, Cyrus. It’s politics. Civil discourse. The era of
the strongman is over.”
He gave a slight shrug, hiding his smirk. “If you say so.”

As the conversation shifted, Cyrus brought up a new

threat. “There’s another matter we need to address. The
Sunni Salafi conspiracy. They’re pushing for blasphemy
laws in the UK to silence dissent—especially Shia voices.
The farcical outrage over The Lady of Heaven is just the
beginning.”
Mellocha’s expression darkened.
211
“It’s an attempt to stifle free speech and erase the
diversity within Islam itself. These extremists want to
rewrite history, turning everything into a monolithic
narrative.”
Cyrus nodded. “It’s more than that. This is ideological
warfare. They’re aligning with groups that have no
interest in truth, only control. We need to counter this,
not just politically but culturally. If we lose the narrative,
we lose everything.”

The summons from the Prime Minister came swiftly

and without warning. Lenworth A. Kuntz was known for
his brusque demeanour, and the message carried his
trademark lack of decorum. Mellocha and Cyrus
prepared for the trip, the former visibly annoyed by the
Prime Minister’s tone.
“Do they think we’re fools?” Mellocha muttered as she
boarded the ZIZ transporter.
“They think we’re a threat,” Cyrus replied, settling into
his seat. “Which, in a way, we are.”
The journey to London was swift, the sleek levitation
crafts cutting through the sky in perfect formation.
Mellocha and Cyrus shared one transporter, while their
backup team, including Shaka and Nandi, followed in
separate crafts.

The Prime Minister’s office in Westminster was a stark

contrast to Mellocha’s sleek headquarters. It was grand
but dated, its wood-panelled walls and leather
furnishings a reminder of an empire long past its zenith.
Kuntz wasted no time. “Councillor Teuton,” he began,
his tone curt, “I’ll get straight to the point. The gold. All
of it. It belongs to the nation.”
212
Mellocha was momentarily taken aback by his bluntness.
She had expected a degree of decorum, a veneer of
diplomacy. Instead, she was met with naked avarice.
“I’ll need to consult with the other Birmingham
councillors,” she replied, carefully measuring her words.
Kuntz scoffed. “Your city is bankrupt, riddled with
corruption. Without Westminster, you’d be nothing.”
Mellocha bristled but maintained her composure. She
listened, nodded, and finally excused herself, leaving the
Prime Minister seething.

Back in the transporter, Cyrus’s tone was urgent. “We

need to move quickly. This isn’t just about gold. It’s
about leverage. Kuntz will try to undermine you, and
he’ll use every tool at his disposal.”
Mellocha leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly. “Let
him try. Birmingham isn’t what it used to be. We’re
stronger now.”
Cyrus gave a rare smile. “Speaking of strength, can I
grab my copy of Necrotrivia Versus Skull? It’s in the
side compartment.”
Mellocha rolled her eyes but reached for the book.
“That student ID recommended this, didn’t he?”
Cyrus nodded. “He knows the author, Jeremy Gluck. A
black Shia convert and a Jew collaborating on a novel—
it’s punk rock.”

Meanwhile, the London media was in overdrive. News

outlets and online vloggers speculated wildly about the
gold, Mellocha’s secret militia, and the potential fallout
between Birmingham and Westminster.

213
Conspiracy theories abounded, from accusations of
cannibalism among the elite to rumours of impending
civil war.
The National Cyber Security Centre (NCSC) monitored
the digital landscape with the 13 th Signal Regiment, its
agents working tirelessly to control the narrative. But in
the encrypted corners of the internet, Cyrus’s keyboard
warriors continued their work, exposing truths that the
powers-that-be preferred to keep hidden.
The prime minister a military man has set up a
snipers nest
SNIPER AIMS AND SHOOTS!!!!!

214