Synapses splice this scene. Fuck this shutter down, steel bases. The Junkmeister at the controls, in the house, in the place to be. Shredding these walls like they weren’t copacetic, crushing this hall without the aid of anaesthetic. Let the hells of hipperty ring, freedom got an AK. On the wing, on the scream, the windscreen blown out – is that friendly-fire? Reread those positions, grandmaster. The Junkster spies artillery on the downward flank, he greets the dervs with a barrage of halogen strobe and frosts the suckers. We have the technology to trace all elements with laser-accuracy, set the pin-spot to the mirror-ball and let the wheel of destiny dispose of each man according to his lights. The doors are open, come out blazing my jollies.
We have no control over the following inserts. Truss meek ill me, the Junker knows what he sees. A container-truck of crack black firepower. Burned, bouncing and burning, faces them down. Perforated, he bites the wax. Blat Blat Blat. Line up the Blues with the Green and hit the canisters. Dry-ice this shot-down scene. The Junkster’s feeling jake.