As the year wound down to a close, they gathered around the table and raised their glasses filled with blood. Cheering for their cluster bombs and Tomahawks, for drones and AK-47:s, for armoured trucks and uniforms. They cheered for bank-accounts that didn’t smell of corpses rotting in the streets.
They had been expanding into civil service and to the jihadists.The weapon merchants don’t discriminate against the needs, Two-thousand-fourteen would be a year of joy for just a few, and they were gathered here,
The generals had gone off to bed in company of trafficked escort-girls, and jihadists had been given virgins as a foretaste of their martyrdom. The marketing of armory was simply based on “make ‘em pay”.
“A cheer for retributions growing, and for the price you’ve paid in souls” — the cloaked man in the corner spoke. “You’ve done well, and let us hope for years of war to come”. A whiff of sulphur permeated the board-room air, and it was not from the new-year fireworks.
I have not joined in finish that story. Barbara W Beacham invites us to share stories on the same picture with the first sentence giving. This is my attempt.