NationStates Jolt Archive

The prime-time television advertisement, paid for with millions in good but untraceable hard cash, looks absolutely nothing like something any modern marketing firm would come out with. The video has that slightly grainy and overcolorized Polaroid quality that exemplified the mass ad campaigns of the 1970s--more particularly, with the style of film used for outdoors shots, and what an outdoors shot it is--a view of the beautiful South Pacific, the green-white seafoam on the gently cresting waves, the buff tan of sandbars gently rising from beneath the waves. A perfectly gorgeous spot in the middle of nowhere--too bad the foreground, slightly askew, is the deck of some old, battered ship that looks to be a supertanker from the large-diameter pipes on her deck, the rust draining down like shadows from rivets. The camera is centered on a man that looks to be in his mid-thirties with slightly greasy black hair curling over his forehead and wearing huge black plastic sunglasses that completely obscure his eyes. A half-burning stub of a cigarette hangs from his lips, and he wears a navy blue suit with wide white pinstripes, the mixture of its cut and material with its atrocious appearance managing to both look excessively rich yet utterly tasteless.

"Have you got a problem, baby?" the man asks with a smarmy voice like that of some nightclub owner. The tip of the cigarette dances in his lips as he balances it with expert precision, speaking out of the opposite side of his mouth. "Hey, we all do. Got someone peeking into your finances? Happens in this crazy world. Got to make some exchanges, y'know, conduct a little bizness without anyone looking too closely? Got some problematic goods what need to go to new good homes? Need to clean up your finances a bit?"

He smiles broadly and snaps his fingers, eyebrows indicating a wink behind his sunglasses while he makes a tzik sound with his tongue. "I'm yer man, then. Il Sultano of Moneylaunderingstan. Me and my boys here in the South Pacific can help you out with these dilemmas and let you get back to yer good bizness like the good God-fearin' honest biznessmen or private citizens what you are."

'Il Sultano' steps off quickly to the left, and the image bump-cuts to what is obviously the inside of the ship... but filled with information technology technicians and accountants, desks with adding machines and broad ledgers bumping up anachronistically against the best servers money can buy, connection LEDs flashing green and yellow. He steps on from the right side of the screen, closer to the camera now in the confines of the ship lit by yellow incandescent bulbs. "What I got here in Moneylaunderingstan is a clean, well-run operation that can solve your money problems, find a potential buyer, or even keep around that sensitive information what you don't want others to see. We're even an independent country recognized by the United Nations, so we make a great getaway when you need to... get away from it all.

"Passports?" He holds up a few small artificial-leather bound booklets with gold-leaf-looking seals. "We got Moneylaunderingstan passports, visas, citizenships, and certificates of any kind you please--look into the benefits of dual citizenship; we don't mind who or where you are! Our experts are around to help you, baby. Got some, y'know, sensitive data that you don't want the wife or kids to see--y'know, no need to weigh 'em down with bizness, right?" He gently slaps one of the server towers. "We got us here some secure servers with no content restrictions. That's right. We're all about all that freedom of information and speech and stuff, and we don't have any copyright, trademark, or patent laws in Moneylaunderingstan."

Stepping back off screen, he and the viewer are teleported back on deck. "So, baby, if you think you can use our services, give me a ring." An international number appears on the screen. "Don't worry, we cover the charges if it turns out you want us to help. That or check out our website." The phone number is joined by a suprisingly short URL with its own country code. "We've got plenty of information and examples of pleased customers there. Look us up--we're in the South Pacific.

"Moneylaunderingstan--we make problematic things disappear!" Il Sultano grins and the commercial cuts.

http://www.actdumb.com/img/03c-xluigi-xvercotti-0120-0150.jpg
Il Sultano Bonsignore "Piranha" Venditti

<OOC> Ask questions, do "bizness," or whatever. I specialize in all the seedier things in life, which appear to be underrepresented.

I can see that, maybe, all you people out there need a bit more information about the Sultanate. Hey, thas' cool. I got my bookie over here to work with me on this here factbook for everybody.

Geography
Location: South Pacific
Area: approximately 0.405 sq km
Area - comparative: About that of 74 American Football fields
Land boundaries: None
Coastline: Approximately 3.3 kilometers
Maritime claims - territorial sea: 1,000 meters
Climate: Artificial
Terrain: Lots of pipes on deck, conn towers have been converted to office buildings, sleeping accomodations and servers fill retrofitted wet cargo holds
Elevation extremes:
-lowest point: Pacific Ocean 0 m
-highest point: Crow's Nest 34 m
Natural resources: none
Land use:
-arable land: 3.0% (hydroponics)
-permanent crops: 2.96% (food and gardens)
-other: 97.00% (2001)
Irrigated land: 0.01215
Natural hazards: rusty nails and sharp edges, shoddy construction of lower decks
Environment - current issues: oil pollution, rust
Environment - international agreements: none
Geography - note: wholly artificial

People
Population:
- registered citizens: Approx. 2.3 billion (estimate)
- in-country citizens: Approx. 5-10 thousand (estimate) [Moneylaunderingstan Proper], 600 million (estimate) [Economicdisasterstan], 500 million (estimate) [Thaimedownam]
Age structure: not our problem
Median age: not our problem
Population growth rate: 2.14% sales rate
Birth rate: N/A, citizenship (and thus population) not related to birth
Death rate: 1.56% (accidents, carried-out threats, confrontations with international authorities in nations of birth)
Net migration rate: +0.58%
Sex ratio: not our problem
Infant mortality rate: not our problem
Life expectancy: not our problem
Total fertility rate: not our problem
Major infectious diseases: tetanus (it counts as infectious here, dammit)

Nationality
noun: Moneylaunderingstani
adjective: Moneylaunderingstani
Ethnic groups: not our problem
Religions: not our problem, but we prefer Roman Catholicism
Languages: Money (business preferred in either English or Sicilian dialects of Italian)
Literacy: not our problem

Government
Country name:
-conventional long form: Sultanate of Moneylaunderingstan
-conventional short form: Moneylaunderingstan
Government type: autocratic kleptocracy
Capital: Moneylaunderingstan Proper
Administrative divisions: 3 provinces (Moneylaunderingstan Proper, Economicdisasterstan, Thaimedownam), innumerable Communities of Citizens Abroad (CCA)
Independence: 7 June 1996 (christening)
National holiday: Il Sultano's birthday, 7 October
Constitution: scribbled on Il Sultano's desk blotter
Legal system: Il Sultano's boys
Suffrage: wot?
Executive branch:
-chief of state: Il Sultano Bonsignore "Piranha" VENDITTI (since 7 June 1996); note - Il Sultano runs the place
-head of government: Il Sultano Bonsignore "Piranha" VENDITTI (since 7 June 1996); note - Il Sultano runs the place
-cabinet: Il Sultano's enforcer (The Enforcer) and his bookie (The Bookie)
Legislative branch: Il Sultano. 'Nuff said.
Judicial branch: The Enforcer's boys
Diplomatic representation in <country>: the high-class but bad-reputation "gentleman's bar" in the capital's red-light district... you know the one.
Flag description: a white plus sign on a red background... for now.

Economy
Economy - overview: Moneylaunderingstan mostly profits off of "processing funds" and storing "sensitive material" for overseas customers, although it does have a thriving trade in "agressive money acqusition projects," "military protection treaties," and "buyer-seller match arrangement." Taxes do not exist as the government works hard for its funds, and is a right fine and proper God-fearing honest business.
GDP: the books are kinda messy... but estimates put it around 1.52 to 2.02 trillion dollars
<a long bit of Gross Domestic Product information ensues, none of it making any sense whatsoever>
Currency (code): nonsequential dollar (NS$)
Exchange rates: nonsequential dollar per dollar = 1

Communications and Information Technology
Connectivity - overview: pretty damn good, considering it's just a bunch of derelict tankers in the middle of nowhere. Satellite feeds galore, all well-encrypted and capable of a surprising amount of bandwidth. (Yeah--whatever The Bookie just said. --Il Sultano)
Computer users: 1 out of 400
Computers per capita: 10 (including servers)
Internet service providers: 148
ARIN-associated lookup services: broken
Telephones: like a telemarketing firm, baby

Military
Military branches: The Enforcer's Boys, Il Sultano's Boys, Diplomatic Security Forces
Size, per branch:
-The Enforcer's Boys: about a thousand or so, here and there.
-Il Sultano's Boys: something like... uh... 120 last time I checked?
-Diplomatic Security Forces: five to twenty at every Moneylaunderingstani-associated embassy and consulate. They are security forces. Not the petty thugs setting up protection rackets and pushing around yer marks--er--citizens. That's not us.
Hopefully that answers some of yer questions, baby. Yeah. Call us--we've got the skills and the experience to solve your business troubles today.

http://www.actdumb.com/img/03c-xluigi-xvercotti-0120-0150.jpg
Il Sultano Bonsignore "Piranha" Venditti

Out in the South Pacific, a benevolent dictator sits in his modest villa overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The thatched-hut home is airy and open, not at all what one would expect from someone who rose to power through force and bloodshed. Raoul Milagros sits in his rocking-chair with his lap-top computer, his T.V. blaring on in the background.

Nothing on the news to see. Tropical storms are coming in a week. Better get the people aware of this. What's this? The commercial from Moneylaunderingstan is different enough from the regular droning rubbish that's usually on to garner the Dictator's attention.

He dials up his cell phone. "Marcos, that problem of the Glazed Ham Coast? I think we have a solution to it. Lissen, I want you to get in touch with......"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Il Sultano Bonsignore "Piranha" Venditti,

It has come to my boss's attention that you have a knack for making problems go *poof*. As such, we have a proposition you may be interested in.

It's storm season here, and it seems that someone has been using our waters for a toxic dump site. Now we have all manner of nasty stuff all over one of our more popular beaches, which is ruining the tourism. If you or one of your representatives could meet with El Presidente Raoul Asunscion Milagros, we could discuss what can be done, and for what price. Is this agreeable?

Minister Marcos Santoro
Republic of Sammich Islands
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Written in an unproffessional script with a pen far too finely crafted for the fingers that hold it:
Dear Minister Marcos Santoro,

Toxic waste... uncommon but we can still probably arrange something. I'll send The Bookie around to assess and all that with your El Presidente.

Looking forward to doing business with you,

Il Sultano

"Yes, that's right. Shift some of the staff to the summer palace at the Bay of Rye.......I KNOW it's always summer here! Stop arguing these foolish points!.....Good, good. And get my fishing sailer ready......good. Ciao." With that, Raoul hangs up the retro-style faux-rotary phone and looks over to his minister, Marcos.

"I'm going to leave it to your hands in dealing with this 'Bookie' of Il Sultano's. You'll have run of the Summer Compund during this time." Marcos nods his head. "Thank you, Presidente Milagros. I'll assign a guard detail to secure the grounds. You never know when those sneaky voles will show up."

Raoul clenches his fist at that. Voles. Their word for the small bands of rebels that insist on making things difficult for the Presidente. When someone rises to power through a coup, there's always some group of this or that that just refuse to be happy and go along with the program. "Do that. But just chase them off. I don't need the news getting wind of any more ...... 'atrocities'. Madre de Dios, thos epeople...... why can't they just find their niche in my plan and work with it? Always complaining and moaning about 'More freedom and more food'."

Marcos laughs a bit. "Some people just aren't happy, no matter what you do. The cost of being a democratic nation. I'll go and send a lwire out to Il Sultano, and get the summer compound reaqdy for guests." Marcos stands and walks out as the presidente waves his hand in the air, now seething about the small group of disheveled but vocal people that seem to dog his steps.
-------------------------------------
Il Sultano

We're prepared to receive your Bookie as an honored guest at the Summer Compound at the Bay of Rye. A small airfield is close by, and I am instructing air traffic control to expect his arrival. We'll have security here handled, and hope that this problem will meet with a speedy and satisfying end for everyone involved.

With high regards,
Minister Marcos Santoro

[Okay, cool, Sammich. Just make a new thread somewheres and I'll send The Bookie right to it.]

Another advertisement starts circulating around, this time targeted more towards industrial owners via industry cyclicals.

Labor Troubles?

Come talk to the Sultanate of Moneylaunderingstan. Due to a government realignment and rationalization in the nation of Economicdisasterstan, its business, its markets, and its workforce are now open to the world under Moneylaunderingstan's liberal economic policies. For no more than a small (one to five percent) percentage of the net worth of any products made using Economicdisasterstani labor, you can have access to the wide-open labor markets of the region. Besides the off-the-top "cut" for access, there are no restrictive or socialist taxes on your business, and the restrictive legislation common in Western labor markets is completely unknown here. You can run your labor and your business as you see fit.

Compare the costs of transitioning your production to Economicdisasterstan to your current Western operations. The average Economicdisasterstani works for fractions of a percent of the government-mandated minimum Western wages, another bit of bureaucratic meddling Moneylaunderingstani avoid. Western regulatory agencies increase the cost of any production facility and perform costly inspections, more things we simply don't do because we believe it's your right to run your business as you see fit. There are no unions in Economicdisasterstan, so you need not fear work slowdowns or stoppages just because a few people want some benefits they really don't need. Finally, taxes in Western nations can make up ten to twenty percent of your business's costs and the majority of your own personal costs. Moneylaunderingstan will only take five percent at most of the worth of any products made in its territories in a small right-to-utilization tax, and will never tax your personal wealth.

Call or write Il Sultano in Moneylaunderingstan Proper in the South Pacific about moving your workforce to Economicdisasterstan today!

Following the debacle with the Gorgons in Martian Orbit, the Aztecs had certainly caught the eye of some people in the corporate world of Pilon. It was impressive to say the least, and they made sure contact information for these Aztec was maintained throughout the years since.

In a boardroom within one of PPC's administrative buildings several midrange accountants, in charge of a special division within the company that had slowly stockpiled a bit of money every year, met to discuss options.

"It would seem that the higher ups want a message to be sent. Something that will let people know that investing in Neo-Dallas is an unwise investment."

"Well a sizable amount of money was just forwarded to the Allanean government by some Roanian company... it would be a shame if that investment went up in flames."

"Right... I think that will do, write a letter to MLstan, we'll need to push some funds through their nation, hire one of the courier companies to deliver a message to the Aztecs, informing them of the specifics so they can set up the details with MLstan."

"Sounds good."


A short letter was written, unsigned, in computer generated text, using paper purchased from Sunset.

Il Sultano,

We have need of your services. A considerable sum of money needs to be untraceable, and used to hire a specific Mercenary, in this case the Snake Caste of Aztecs, for a job that we would prefer to have no ties directly linked back to us. We are sending a separate letter with the necessary contact information on it so you can set things up with them.

In a third letter, we will provide the specifics for the targets we want destroyed. Please let us know via the same couriers, any additional information you might require.

The second letter contained contact information for the Snake Caste

The third letter contained detailed information on the location of a number of assets within Neo-Dallas, specifically their MAGLEV lines and a number of additional facilities recently purchased by a Roanian company called Elysium Development Corporation.

Bonsignore looks over the three envelopes on his desk, opened, spread out, and flattened with a vague sense of order to it, then arches his hand over his brow and sighs eloquently. "Well, this is less smooth than P12 sandpaper, ya know?"

"Dey tol' us wha' deyr God-fearin' bizness act'lly is?" The Enforcer says dully, not out of any sort of mental lack, simply out of disbelief.

"'Tell us what it is?' Not in so many words, Enforcer, but even Giuseppe the Fingercounter could add this one up." Giuseppe is a good guy, and everyone on Il Sultano's Moneylaunderingstan Proper payroll loves him, but he has an extremely severe case of number dyslexia and is thus completely unable to do written maths. "First letter starts out fine, then hits the word 'mercenary' and spirals down from there like a prize fighter takin' a fall. Get this. They not only want to hire 'mercenaries' to hit 'targets' they want 'destroyed,' they gave us the list of targets and the mercenaries involved. This completely, completely kills our plaus'ble deniability, you know." Venditti sighs. "But the money's good. Real good."

The Enforcer shrugs. "It wouldn' be tha firs' time someones coul' pin somepin on us. Coul' we pass it up tha line?"

"That's the worse thing, Enforcer. We can." The weasily man nicknamed Piranha for his 'God-fearing business' acumen tosses the courier receipt to The Enforcer. "This is just professionally offensive, y'know? It's like they want us to actually make the deal, rather than just get interested parties together and talking on the down low. And that's not how we run, baby." Running his hands through his slick hair, Venditti sighs forcefully and folds his arms, throwing himself back into his massive thickly stuffed calfskin leather executive chair. "But the money is good. Real good. Except..."

The Enforcer looks at the slip in his hands in disbelief. "Dey din' send it."

"No. They didn't. So I'm supposed to put my balls on the block to arrange something like this? Heh heh, Piranha didn't become Il Sultano so he could get pinned to some minor boss's job, no fuckin' way." He shakes his head.

"So what's we gonna do?"

"We'll take their money, make it clean as Mother Mary's bedsheets, and arrange for them to meet their mercenaries like we always do. Then we're going to file this... this... paper trail"--he says with a sneer, looking about ready to spit--"so if people come asking questions we can just hand this over for a marginal fee. What we do do is burn the fucking target list. This is why I bribe couriers, Enforcer, never ever sign the receipt. That's for chumps."

The Enforcer blinks. "We're gonna sell out a cussomer?"

"When the customer's this fucking... indiscreet, fuck yes, we're going to fucking sell him out," Piranha mutters with far less excitement than his verbiage suggests, instead sounding rather put out. "We run a bizness, and that bizness ain't getting our balls in a twist for any amount of money. We're honest when we say we ain't got customer info past a PIN, but these fuckers had to go and ruin our system for us, hmmm?"

"We coul' jus' no' take tha job, Bon."

"I'm of nine-tenths a mind not to, y'know. But if they send that money, we'll fix the meeting like we always do, wash their money like we always do, then lean back and if the policia show, play the good citizen of the world. I may have to call in some favors on this one." He grumbles some more. "Well, I'd best get to writin', no?"

Hey baby,

Yeah, we can de-history some assets for you and set up a meeting between you and parties interested in doing what you need. A secure place to do business is available in Thaimedownam, and we'll send the address to you and your friends once you send the money. Unfortunately, due to market forces outside our control, our retainer's gone from ten to twenty percent on this job. Send us the payment plus twenty percent, and we'll make sure your business partners get their justly deserved rewards with a clean slate of ownership, as if it were fresh out of the mint.

Always good doing business,

Your pal


This is, of course, sent by the same courier sent to MLS. Notably, the courier slip on the letter does not have a return address on it, nor a signature. "Must've slipped my mind" and a professional frown is all the courier has to say about it.

The Accountants cringed as they read the letter.

It wasn't unexpected, and certainly not beyond their capabilities.

"20%... mmm... Damn them... well we'll take note of this and find alternate suppliers for any future dealings we have.

Send a rep to meet them, give him one of the black cred-sticks... once verification is sent it can transfer the money to them."

"Uh, shouldn't we at least negotiate the price a little?"

"Of course we're gonna do that, thats part of what our representative will be tasked to do. I'm sure considering the volume of the payment and the potential for future business might get them to consider a lower cut."



Several hours later a low level employee retained by the company for just this type of work was dispatched to Thaimedownam to meet with Il Sultano. Once a price could be agreed upon he was authorized to transfer the money.

When the representative arrives in Thaimedownam, he discovers a red-light district that covers approximately the land area of Indochina, Malaysia, and the Phillippines. The instant he steps off the plane he is immediately assaulted by the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of every form of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll ever imagined by humanity being offered open for sale, often with try-before-you-buy sampling schemes. Enough women (and men, and children) of the night to populate Germany during a locally hosted World Cup immediately descend upon the fresh blood, drawn by the scent of his sweet sweet foreign currency.

There's a problem, though. Very few of them speak English outside of very basic dirty talk, and none of them have any idea who Il Sultano is. Neither do the public authorities, which mostly consist of federalized condom distribution stands and police stations consisting mostly of truncheoned thugs ignoring most everything except those people roughhousing the girls (or boys) because they've had a bit too much to drink. The red-eyed civil servants at the local government building for Thaimedownam not only can't find Moneylaunderingstan on a map, they have never heard of it, and about three out of a hundred can tell you that the phrase "Il Sultano" is Italian. Or maybe Spanish. One of those decadent inferior Western phonetic languages.

---

"Still no mon'y, Bon." The Enforcer folds his arms, which for some reason brings up the visualization of steel nuclear fallout shelter doors closing.

"No, no money." Piranha sighs. "I guess I'll actually have to call them." Picking up the mohogany-handled platinum phone off of its Siberian tiger-skull cradle, he puts it to his ear. "Yeah, Bookie. You know the..." he sighs "...Pilonese account? Run a reverse phone number lookup off the..."--another sigh--"...address and hook me up with the sender, will ya?"

---

The audible click of international trunk lines connecting and relays closing, and then a voice smooth as gastropod slime, with just a hint of Sicilian accent to his English. "Heeeeeyyyy, baby, what's happening. Just sitting here in the office looking over your records and seeing, well, we haven't recieved the payment yet. Can't do bizness without money, y'know. So, what's the holdup?"

The rep, while perfectly comfortable with the idea of selling sex and partaking in dangerous or harmful drugs for recreational purposes was somewhat disgusted by the seediness of this place. He wasn't sure if the child prostitutes, the blatant disregard for human rights, or the utter depravity of the city was the worst aspect of the city.

Via the Nodelink he explained the situation to his superiors after arrival.

Didn't take long for an old style Phone link to be received in the Node.

"Heeeeeyyyy, baby, what's happening. Just sitting here in the office looking over your records and seeing, well, we haven't recieved the payment yet. Can't do bizness without money, y'know. So, what's the holdup?"


"Hey! It appears theres a bit of a misunderstanding here. We sent a man (Gives description) who has the money for you, but he seems to be having trouble finding your place. He arrived at $place at $time and has been wandering around trying to find you since then."

"Hey, that's great. Too bad I'm here sitting in my office in the South Pacific because I never sent out $place and $time because I never got the money. Which, you know, in that letter, the meeting stuff was contingent on the money." He smiles through the phone, and he sounds happy enough. It's all a silly little thing, a joke, an 'oops' moment. No big deal.

These people are fucking retards.

"Hope he's not carrying any of that money in cash because, well, Thaimedownam is a rough place, last time I heard." Retards. "It doesn't matter, there's more than a few places down that way where he can transfer the money. Just look for the places with the white plus signs on red backgrounds in the windows. Cards, neon lights, little flags, that sort of thing. Those are our embassies, don'tchya know. Anyway, yeah. Other than a miscommunication" retards "what's the holdup?"

"one moment please"

The necessary information was forwarded to the Rep who sought out the embassy and authorized transfer to Il Sultano.

"You should be receiving payment momentarily."

Thaimedownam

The nearest 'embassy' is, like around forty percent of the urban usage of Thaimedownam, a brothel. This brothel is special, though, as it also functions as a bar, a gentleman's club (for those only interested in visual stimulation at the moment), and an internet cafe. Oddly enough, the computers look quite advanced, if somewhat, ah, used, and despite the fact that they're clearly only being used to access various forms of fetishistic pornography they seem to be running completely clean of any malware. Rather oddly shocking, should the Pilonese representative be of an information technology mind. The place smells of opium and hash, inducing a contact buzz within thirty seconds, and an armored box in the corner advertises itself to be a "pharmaceutical vending machine" with such products being displayed as dime bags of various materials ranging from ground brown and green granular stuff to more greyish stuff all the way to very fine white powder. Syringes, small pill boxes, and tabs are also in evidence.

When the Pilonese asks about the embassy, the barkeeper, fluent in English and maybe seven other major languages, nods and guides the man to a room in back, remarkably clean given the antechamber and also astoundingly antiseptic. Going from a crackhouse to a doctor's office has to be quite the experience when it comes to cognitive dissonance. In this very clean, very tidy office there sits a very clean, very tidy white man with Brylcreme'd hair, birth control glasses, and a cardigan vest. "Ah, very good sir, you've been expected." He indicates an empty wooden chair with one hand. "Shall we begin?"

Long Distance Phone Call

There is a long pause from the Moneylaunderingstani side of things. "Right, transfer of payment. You're not going to try and argue the twenty percent thing? Also, I've got a question, 'cuz it was never mentioned in the, ahem, documentation. How much are we talking about here?"

The Rep takes note to spend some downtime in this area after his business is concluded. There were certain... carnal pleasures available here that he could partake in that would most assuredly not be allowed in Pilon. He had some downtime coming to him, wouldn't hurt to spend some of it here, he'd have to buy some new instruments before he began though... human life was cheap here, unlike in Pilon, and he felt as though he could get away with whatever he wanted here.

Let the Pilonese call him what they will... by damn he would enjoy his time here, even if it killed him.

"Right, transfer of payment. You're not going to try and argue the twenty percent thing? Also, I've got a question, 'cuz it was never mentioned in the, ahem, documentation. How much are we talking about here?"

"Well actually that was the reason we sent a representative to talk to you. We were hoping that in the interest of future relations between ourselves that you might be willing to go with something around 12%

Considering the Sum we're talking about is 52 Trillion Pis, and we foresee a long and profitable relationship in the future, I believe that would be a more acceptable price for your services.

My representative is authorized to negotiate on our behalf, feel free to work out the details with him."



The Rep smiled and walked into the Office. "My name is Kyaikkami Bassein. I must say, quite the setup you have here, after our business is concluded I think I will spend some time here for a bit, enjoy myself."

Long Distance Phone Call

The first thing Mama Venditti ever taught her little Bonsignore was to never immediately accept the counteroffer.

Fifty-two trillion Pis is a hundred and eleven trillion international trading dollars, more or less, and twelve percent of that is around thirteen trillion. Bonsignore does this math in his head, crosses himself, and prays for forgiveness from his mother. "Twelve percent, eh? Yes, I think we can manage that, given the bulk of the transaction." His voice is as calm, steady, and cool as ever. "I'll let The Bookie know the new numbers."

Venditti flashes hand signals as old as Mediterranean trade itself towards the Enforcer. Five-two-slash-zero-twelve-slash-one-two-percent. The Enforcer repeats them back, pauses, then repeats again. Zero-twelve? Piranha nods spasmodically.

---

Thaimedownam

The black plastic phone on the desk rings; the accountant-come-ambassador picks it up, listens for a moment, says "yes, very good," then returns the handset to its cradle. "Sir, the deal has been authorized at fifty-eight point two four trillion Pis. This consists of the fifty-two trillion Pi exchange and the six point two four trillion Pi retainer for services rendered." Opening the side drawer of his desk, he retrieves a credstick reader well outside of his tech level and places it in front of the representative. "If you would be so kind as to transfer the funds, we would be much obliged."

He had thought about grafting a bit from the transaction, but not one this big. Il Sultano is worse than Minnie the Moocher when it comes to counting the nickels and dimes on anything with this many zeroes on it.

Kyaikkami handed the cred stick to Venditti after transmitting the authorization code for the transfer of fifty-eight point two four trillion Pis.

Thaimedownam

The accountant, who certainly is nothing like Piranha--looks far too nice and proper and overall not a shark that would sell his own grandmother into slavery if he couldn't make more out of renting her out--accepts the credstick with a nod, puts it into the reader, waits for the ping, reads the display, then returns the credstick. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir."

The phone rings again; the accountant picks it up, nods, says "very well" then puts the receiver back on the cradle. "I am to tell you that the meeting is set in the Psah Thmei marketplace in Phnom Penh under the central dome, GPS coordinates: eleven degrees, thirty-four minutes, ten point fourty-seven seconds north; hundred-four degrees, fifty-five minutes, 15.68 seconds east. Meeting time is at fifteen-thirty local time one week from today. Your associates are being informed of the same, and your business partners will be informed by our own courier service no later than six hours from this point. How much of an advance would you like us to pay them in order to convince them that the meeting is indeed legitimate business?"

---

Moneylaunderingstan

Pis to dollars, dollars to drachmas, drachmas to dinars, dinars to shekels, shekels to lira, lira to euros, euros to sovereigns, sovereigns to stock in a shell company, stock in that shell company to stock in another equally fictitious company, stock to yen, yen to precious metals, precious metals to Menelmacari Credits, half of those credits into Shell Casings, half of those Shell Casings into rubles, half of those rubles into marks, and all of these end states put to banks in several hundred nations for freshly printed authorized currency... digital, in this case, given the sheer amount.

All inside the rusted hulks that make up Moneylaunderingstan Proper.

The money's clean now; all that remains to be done is to have the cut taken off the top and the rest distributed as the customer desires.

Kyaikkami took advantage of the downtime before the next meeting, experimenting with the various services available to him in the area. He tried a few of the more pleasurable substance available to him, and paid a bit extra to get some leeway with some of the women available to him. He was sure they would fully heal from their wounds in time.

He took the day before the meeting to sober up and travel to the specified coordinates, arriving approximately 15 minutes before the specified time for the meeting.

Tlacaelel hated this place, ever since The Quetzecal fleet had gone into hiding, members of the snake caste had been sent out under deep cover, and he had been sent to this festering backwater, still he had a part to play in the Gods games, and he was determined to do it justice.

Tlacaelel looked like any slightly down in the pockets working guy, just struggling from day to day to make ends meet and quietly going about his desperate little life. In reality the so called delivery job meant he could travel far and wide, keeping an eye on things. The message for him to contact the fleet was a pre-arranged misspelling in a delivery order coming in from out of country, and he had picked it up gratefully.

"Ah, finally" he thought, "I can make contact and get out of this hell hole of filth" while simultaneously waving away a street hawker trying to sell him some vague plastic crap I hope your skull is a more worthwhile offering to the Gods Tlacaelel thought to himself as the street seller scurried back into whatever alley she crawled from in the magnificent city of Thaimedownam.

He had found the Pilonese diplomat a good few days before the meet, a fairly easy going chap it seemed, and after a few surreptitious concealed pictures were taken a clarification of identity came back in a matter of hours.

So after a general scout around the meet site to make sure there was nothing untowards, well more untowards, Tlacaelel had come a cross a group of gangbangers smoking a pungent substance, and none of them appeared to be over thirteen years of age, and after a smile and nod, he was about his business, mentally wishing there skins to adorn the priests of the Moon Goddess.

This was what he was here for, and a smile crossed his face, after the meet, he would have been seen, and therefore no longer any use here.. he would finally be able to leave..

“I wonder” he thought to himself as he nimbly dodged a pair of ladies of the evening, “What the Pilonese would make of our condition to only take payment in gold and precious stones?”

Allmost with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, Tlacaelel headed towards the figure at the meet point, of course he was still acting like one of the many bums around the place, and it wasn't till he met the Pilonese Representative that he stood up straighter and lit a cigarette, emblazoned with the golden outline of an Aztec snake.

"So, whats the problem?"

Kyaikkami didn't know what to expect. The datafiles on these Aztec were slim at best, other than a well documented attack on the Aumani Gorgon.

He arrived at the designated point and waited, until one of the local street bums, or more accurately, someone who appeared to be a street Bum, gave him the sign that he was the contact he was seeking.

Kyaikkami bore a look he hadn't worn for quite some time, the recent days had definitely given him access to pleasures usually denied him in Pilon. His Psychiatrist back home had him classified with all kinds of interesting "mental disorders" but he refused to take the prescribed medications, and why should he, Psychiatrists were full of shit anyways, all he needed was a little time in a place like this and he'd be satisfied for a while.

The Aztec spoke. "So, whats the problem?"

He thought for a moment before replying in a harsh whisper.

"I have some... coordinates that need to be wiped clean. They are mostly infrastructure in Haven, on Earth I believe."

He handed him a copy of the specified targets.

"You have received your payment already I would assume, when can we expect to see results?"

Saidune Kaus sat in his minimalist styled office on the sixtieth floor of the Uvsta Biotechnology Firm Headquarters in the Corporate Autonomous Territory of Amkarethz Holdings, the only autonomous territory in the Grand Kingdom. Uvsta Biotechnology Firm was an subsidiary of Uvsta Biotech, which in turn was owned by Amkarethz Holdings. Uvsta Biotech was an megacorporation in its own right, but each of its subsidiaries was a fairly large corporation. Uvsta Biotechnology Firm was perhaps the smallest.

The headquarters of Uvsta Biotechnology Firm was a modern minimalist construction on the well landscaped "Uvsta Biotech Corporate Campus" inside the megacity of Raplonis. The "corporate campus" was like an large well landscaped park covering 3 miles, with a series of modern minimalist buildings scattered throughout in the style of a campus. It was home to the headquarters building for Uvsta Biotechnology Firm, the massive Uvsta Biotech World Headquarters, World Headquarters of Uvsta Pharmaceuticals and Uvsta Pharmacies. They were all modern minimalist glass metal skyscrapers looking much alike, and mostly nondescript. The campus security was high being the nature of the work of Uvsta Biotech, and so secure entrances were all around on the level that government offices uses. There were gates, and checkpoints at all roads entering the campus. Over 20,000 people worked on the campus, and so there were several dining areas with various cafes, and even retail stores.

Saidune's office was very minimalist and glossy white. Glossy white walls, ceiling, and floor with recessed lighting. It gave a very sterile appearance, but that was just how he liked it. The only artwork was various medals seemingly suspended in clear glass boxes. It looked like something futuristic. He sat at his desk, glancing over his data terminal.

Saidune was the Director of Department 66, which was really the department of Uvsta Biotech that dealt with special security, corporate secrets, and corporate espionage. Their job included killing anything that may or may not have been in the labs of Uvsta Biotech Firm and escaped, isolating and covering up outbreaks that might result from bio-warfare experiments, etc.

His secretary came into the office, "This was just delivered by a secure corporate courier." The envelope was a plain white envelope.

He looked over the file. It was unusual to receive hardcopy memos, and he raised an eyebrow. The secret internal hardcopy memo indicated that Subject 88 needed moved to a secret location, preferably out of the country. Saidune had never seen such security protocols related to a corporate project before. Subject 88, whatever the item, or it was did not even appear in any corporate database, even the secure ones. Uvsta Biotech had its own private network for its various corporations as many of Aerion's megacorporations did. Only the most secret projects in the corporation were ever only recorded in hardcopy.
Even he did not know what Subject 88 was, it was something, he did know it appeared that his men would pick up a titanium pressure sealed box from the Sukon laboratory, an ultra-secret corporate laboratory in the mountains of the Corporate Autonomous Territory. Unfortunately though the land was a corporate autonomous territory, the water was not, and to get it out of the country by air or water would require smuggling it past the Royal legal authorities. A few bribes here and there was what was typical, but he did not want to take too many risks. Perhaps best to make it look like someone else other than his team was leaving the country.



He had just watched the advertisement from Moneylaunderingstan, and knew this was the perfect opportunity he was looking for. The funding that he would be granted for this mission was insane for one project, more than he had ever seen before for a mission, and so he decided that part of this funding would go to Moneylaunderingstan to insure they did their job well.

He would use an assumed name and identity for these communications, one of which Department 99 utilized for such purposes which they obtained through bribed government officials. He sent a secure encrypted transmission through Uvsta Biotech's secure corporate communications satellite, which would ecrypt it and transmit it to Moneylaunderingstan with the unecryption keys separate. Unless the transmission was traced by very advanced technology and the satellite hacked on its most outerlayer which would require an expect hacker the national or corporate origins or even the fact that it was a transmission from a corporation period may not be indicated (Which you may have)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
SECURED TRANSMISSION
I have an secured package that needs to be stored somewhere outside of this country. This is an extremely valuable asset, and is incased in an sealed titanium container. We need this smuggled out of the Grand Kingdom of Aerion. We are able to take care of bribing the appropriate authorities, if you will pick up the package from our men at Raplonis International Airport with a cargo plane. Because we highly value this asset, and the security of this asset we will pay 10 million dollars for its safekeeping in one of your secured facilities.

Sincerely,
Zeus Osuara
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The transmission was sent, through a secured communications satellite.

Well, okay, so the words "smuggled" and "bribed" were used. Mildly problematic. But as the communication was encrypted seven days from Sunday and bounced off a satellite not used by the public (according to The Bookie; he says these things are obvious to anyone who can read handshake protocol timestamps and that this didn't have one in the international database is somewhat telling, and Il Sultano generally trusts The Bookie in such things), probably not that big a deal. Nice and digital too, which means 'easily lost' without any of the nastiness of paper and the like. Paper's not bad, of course, when one takes care to make it untraceable, but then sending it by courier... still gives Il Sultano the creeps.

"Secure facility" would have to mean either somewhere in the converted holds of Moneylaunderingstan Proper, or some warehouse in the middle of the god-forsaken desert in Economicdisasterstan. Given that the words "titanium" and "sealed" were involved, maybe it'd be best to keep it at arm's distance. Besides, flights went through Economicdisasterstan all the time, most of them simply passing through. Stop by Aerion, pick up the goods, land in Economicdisasterstan, offload, onload something going somewhere else, take back off. Easy enough. Il Sultano tells The Bookie to arrange something with the flight schedules to that effect.

Bouncing back through the same satellite, assuming it has the ability to receive as well as send if the handshake protocol directions are reversed (i.e. receive from Y then send to X when the initial message was received from X and sent to Y), is a short enough response. If not... well... they'd have to wing it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
SECURED TRANSMISSION
Tomorrow, World Air Freight Number 27, 21:00. Look for the flag.

Sincerely,
Your Friends
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Therefore, the next day at eleven at night, a battered bare-aluminum with green trim DC-8-71F belonging to World Air Freight, tail number 27, and registered as operating out of Economicdisasterstan lands at Raplonis International Airport and taxis to an out-of-the-way rented maintenance hangar. Given that the thugs playing security aren't allowed to smoke, they play cards instead; meanwhile, a neatly prim-and-proper man in a businesslike but not very expensive suit waits for someone to show up.

Given that Raplonis International Airport was in the Corporate Autonomous Territory of Amkarethz Holdings in Aerion, Amkarethz being an owner of Uvsta Biotech, there was probably not too much worry though all the security precautions were necessary even here because of corporate spies, Royal Intelligence spies, and other groups that might be interested in what Uvsta Biotechnology Firm was doing.

Two unmarked white vans and an fairly nondescript black Aerionian Motor Works <AMX> luxury coupe pulled up outside of the warehouse. This was actually not an unusual scene at the airport, many wealthy and corporate elite traveled through Raplonis International Airport, and often came to pick up special shipments such as luxury items or even exotic animals from time to time. The men that stepped out of the vehicle were perhaps a bit more rare.

One man wearing an European cut black pinstripe suit with an yellow tie stepped out of the luxury coupe, and a man with an simple black suit wearing black sunglasses followed him.

The back of the vans opened, and out came 4 men wearing the same black suits with dark sunglasses from the side, and from the back of one of the vans 5 men wearing black jumpsuits and sunglasses.

The lead man in pinstripe suit as it were wore an subtle cologne, and had on some more designer looking black sunglasses than the "standard issue" sunglasses of the other men. He had black hair, and the typical Eastern Aerionian features (Arabic and Native American looking with Italian facial features).

He stepped toward the warehouse, and waited with the suited men. The men in black jumpsuits looked as if they were prepping something in the back of one of the vans.

The Contact smiles his news anchormanly smile and adjusts his tie. He doesn't really see the point of wearing dark sunglasses in the middle of the night; that sort of thing is suspicious. Still, that isn't exactly his problem; he smooths back his black hair with a flick of a comb and blinks his brown eyes, both nowhere near their natural color. Temporary stage dye and noncorrective contact lenses are useful for that sort of thing. His job is simple, and it concerns the one in the pinstripe suit.

"Sir," he says with an educated accent and a polite smile, extending a hand in customary greeting, "should you have the agreed upon amount we have the agreed upon route and schedule. Once all is stowed safely aboard I will tell you the identification number you will use to access your account. Please understand that it is our policy not to collect information on our clients and so for all extents and purposes that identification number will be you to our system, no matter who holds it. Is this agreeable?"

His set of thugs, and he himself, take no overt notice of anything going on around the van or even look as if they should be anywhere else. The thugs are a physical security detail, doing what a physical security detail does--be bored. He is a contact, doing what he should be doing--contacting. The aircrew are still aboard the air freighter, preparing to take on cargo. Everyone is acting exactly as they would were they doing nothing but simple honest God-fearing business.

Which, of course, is all they're doing.

The man in the pinstripe suit nodded solemnly. Perhaps they wore sunglasses to hide their identities, even their facial profile that could be detected without them and were not so worried about looking suspicious as such a thing was common of private security forces in day, and at night in Aerion.

He nodded, "Yes, this is acceptable." Of course the man in the suit was Saidune Kaus, handlign the matter personally under the name Zeus Osuara. He seemed very cool, calm, and collected as men in the profession of espionage or organized crime often were.

The men in the black jumpsuits began unloading the large titanium container off one of the white vans, they wore gloves and steam was coming off of it as if it had been very cold or was very cold. The titanium box was a little bigger than coffin sized, square, with handles on the sides. An digital keypad covered in glass was on the front.

No one even raises an eyebrow. Cards continue to fall on the table, cigarettes continue to be smoked, noses continue to be rubbed. The only obvious response to the emergence of the metal cryogenic not-a-coffin is that the portside cargo door in the front of the DC-8 opens up, the aircrew ready the loader platform, and The Contact asks breezily "Are there any special needs concerning storage, such as temperature, we should be made aware of?"

While the aircrew get the transporter ready, they don't accept the cargo. At least, not until The Contact gives the signal, and he's not going to do that until he gets the money. Cash, then carry.

Over in New York, the Moneylaunderingstani commercial is watched with some interest. "And these guys are in charge over there now?"

"Yes, ma'am. The whole of Southeast Asia, pretty much, except for the Cocentrican territories in the Spratlies and Paracels."

"Well, then, I suppose it behooves us to keep fairly good relations. They could even come in handy at some point. Still... think of the enviornment over there." This is accompanied by a small shudder.

"Perhaps we could work that angle. The concerned, helpful neighbors that don't care what you do inside the house but are willing to mow your lawn or shovel your driveway."

"...Perhaps."

[Sent Via D-Net]
[To: Bonsignore Venditti, Il Sultano of Moneylaunderingstan]
[From: Sakura Akanimara, President of the United Solaris Federation of Tiburon]
[Subject: Neighborliness]
[Classification: Classified]

Il Sultano Venditti,

Greetings from the nation next door. Considering that you're the new (relatively) guys in charge in Southeast Asia, and subsequently our new neighbors, we figured that we'd do the neighborly thing and help you guys out when you needed it- specifically, we're concerned about the enviornmental situation in Thaimedownam and Moneylaunderingstan proper, and we'd like to help out. For free, even. Don't worry, we're not interested in changing internal structure... just think of us as the friendly neighbors next door who are willing to help when it's needed.

Sincerely,
President Sakura Akanimara,
The United Solaris Federation of Tiburon

The pinstripe suited man glanced over at the titanium box, almost with a look of fear that he quickly hid. He looked at the Contact, "Your payment will be wired, where should I have it wired to? This will make it less traceable." To those who knew Aerionian currency, most was electronic. Bills were used for ceremonial reasons or by the wealthy, but were very easy to recognize because of their limited number.

Deal in Aerion

The Contact nods with an easy smile. "All right then, I'll give you your account number now." He pulls a small spiral-bound notepad from inside his jacket pocket, flips a few pages, then coughs before leaning forward conspiratorially and dropping his voice so only Mister Pinstripe could hear. "Fifteen stroke one stroke 9 stroke seven four six one two one eight." He tears the page out of the notepad and puts it into Mister Pinstripe's palm. "I would recommend destroying this once you've committed the number to memory. That's the only written copy; our electronic copy is only associated to our interactions and contract."

Leaning back, he once again smiles like he's about to relate the human interest news. "Simply transfer the money to that account number and we'll be able to do business."

Free Stuff From Tiburon? Sweet.

"Dey's worried 'bout the ec'logy o' Munylaund'rinstan Prop'r?" The Enforcer raises one scarred brow. "Wot dey gonna do, slap on a new coa' o' paint? Russolium, m'ybe?"

Il Sultano shrugs. "Eh, whatever, they'll be doing it for free and all those corrupt bastards in Thaimedownam will be charging 'em to do anything, and being politely corrupt they'll send the cut to me. I've got no argument."

Hey baby,

Hey, that's great to see we got such wonderful neighbors. If the environmental situation worries you so bad, I'm not gonna keep you from doing what you have to. We each got our own respective businesses to keep to, after all. I'll send a note down to the Thaimedown authorities so they don't try to take every penny you've got, although there's probably no getting through their customs expedition fees and their various checkpoint taxes. I wouldn't recommend taking advantage of any of the local services without a looksee and probably a bloodtest, and you may wanna wear a mask because rumor has it the clap's gone airborne over there. Still, you can always be certain of quality, clean business at any of our Moneylaunderingstani embassies. Just look for the white plus signs on red.

Thanks for all the good-natured concern,

Il Sultano

Tlacaelel looked at the folder and data files containing the targets and took them, but he did not open them here, that was not for him.

"We Aztecs are nothing but clean."

At the Pilons mention of time, the Snake Caste Warrior looked up, a gleam in his eyes.

"Well that would depend on the targets, and how 'clean' you want them."

A forefinger tapped his chin, handily activating the micro white noise generator there.

"What I mean is, how obvious do you want us to raze them to the ground, are you making a statement? or is this to be done quitely?"

Kyaikkami felt a chill run down his spine as the white noise generator was activated. Luckily it only interfered with a portion of the bandwidth the Nodelink ran on.

"The reason I asked is actually because the situation has become more complex than it was originally. It seems at the moment Allanea has been taken over by the Ctan. Due to this we will need to wait until the occupying fleet leaves and Allanea before the strikes commence.

We would also prefer stealth over some kind of blatant attack if that can be managed, the less likely that things are traced back to you the better."

The pinstriped suited man nodded, punching something up on his dataphone, a combination pocket PC, cellphone, portable television, and everything rolled into one. He nodded, reviewing the data as he glanced at the slip of paper and punched in somethinge lse. He then looked up, "The money is wired." He stated simply.

Akanimara forwards the message to the appropriate areas in civilian and military command. Somewhere in New York, the commander in chief for the Army's Medical Corps reads the message and breaks down into tears. He knows that he'll ultimately be in command of the medical aspect, and the clap's gone airborne.

Meanwhile, the director of the Enviornmental Protection Agency smiles inside as she reads the message. She's making the world a greener place.

Slowly but surely, Tiburonese forces are cleared into Thaimedownam by (bribed) Thaimedownamese officials. They're wearing full combat gear (http://home.att.net/~skylabhanger/rgm79n6.jpg) without the weaponry- said gear is the most certain way to make sure that no airborne diseases affect the cleanup squads, although it does give the peculiar impression of astronauts doing enviornmental cleanup in rice paddies. Said forces are somewhat... distressed by the existence of fairly aggressive underage hermaphroditic prostitutes, but that's Thaimedownam for you.

God-fearing Honest Business

After staring off into space for a while, The Contact feels a buzz from the inside left breast pocket of his suit. Pulling out his cell phone, he politely excuses himself as he flips it open and puts it to his ear. There is no conversation, just a quick nod on his part before closing the phone and returning it to his pocket. "Most excellent. Payment has been received and we are now ready to accept your package. We will let you know over previous channels when your package has arrived; you can request later updates through our online system using your PIN."

With a snap of his fingers his aircrew get to work, efficiently but not enthusiastically helping get the large object onto the loader and up into the plane. They're salaried cargomasters, they get paid either way. It's just a normal God-fearing business, loading cargo onto planes. At least this one isn't labeled as "HUMAN ORGANS" like the last refridgerated cargo they had to carry was.

Thaimedownam Is Not A Very Nice Place

Call up any decent intelligence agency with a tendency to make factbooks public to the world and you'd see blurbs like this in relation to Thaimedownam:
Major Infectious Diseases:
degree of risk: very high
food or waterborne diseases: bacterial and protozoal diarrhea, hepatitis A and E, and typhoid fever
vectorborne diseases: dengue fever, malaria, Japanese encephalitis, chikungunya, and plague are high risks (there are persistent rumors that chlamidya and AIDS have gone airborne)
animal contact disease: rabies, lyme disease (imported), West Nile virus (imported)
water contact disease: leptospirosis, various cyanobacterial illnesses
note: highly pathogenic H5N1 avian influenza has been identified among birds in this country
Environment - current issues:
unexploded ordnance; logging and slash-and-burn agricultural practices contribute to deforestation and soil degradation; water pollution from industrial wastes, sewage, organis sources, and overfishing threaten marine life populations; groundwater contamination limits potable water supply; growing urban industrialization and population migration are rapidly degrading environment in major urban centers; air pollution in urban areas, general countryside from vehicle emissions; smoke and haze from forest fires; soil erosion; wildlife populations threatened by illegal hunting; most of the population does not have access to potable water; illegal logging activities throughout the country and strip mining for gems have resulted in habitat loss and declining biodiversity (in particular, destruction of mangrove swamps threatens natural fisheries); declining fish stocks because of illegal fishing and overfishing; industrial pollution of air, soil, and water; inadequate sanitation and water treatment contribute to disease; coral reef degradation
That's quite the list, and it still doesn't quite get across the fact that not only are the up-armored health officials wading through rice paddies while being chased by prostitutes of every size, shape, age, and non-lethal genetic malady but they're wading through rice paddies dotted with the still-smoking husks of jet bombers and helicopters from the last war by proxy and sprinkled liberally with bombs and missiles from at least three different generational eras sticking out haphazardly from the mud. It would be a military historian's wet dream perhaps to see some of these things (pigeon bombs, dog skeletons with anti-tank mines crudely strapped to them, dead bats with incendiary pills hooked to them) but generally, they don't go so well with the oil leaking from aforementioned aircraft and tanks (can't forget the turretless shells of tanks) which occasionally randomly hit some sort of heat source and burn down another few hundred acres of rainforest, the carbon-rich black smoke adding to the perpetual haze over the entire country.

Charles Dickens probably didn't have it this bad in the heart of London.

The cities are nearly new-moon pitch black no matter what time of the day, or the month, it is and lit more by the neon signs that show only vaguely abstracted acts of promiscuity that would make Queen Victoria spontaneously combust and perhaps turn the Maquis de Sade a little green than the actual streetlights. Graffitti appears on everything, in layer after layer so that buildings are now a few inches thicker now than they were when they were first built and discarded cans of half-full CFC-bearing aerosol cans have a tendency to randomly explode, usually from the radiative heat of some sign showing three women and two men doing something that, while not physically impossible, certainly defies any definition of reason or decency, especially when advertized in a kaleideoscope of eye-searing neon colors.

Estimated time to the armor suits being coated in graffitti by offended prostitutes, despite the best efforts of the wearers: approximately fifty-two seconds.

The pinstripe suited man nodded, "And do keep it in a secured location. Let us know if there are any problems, though the unit is fairly self-contained." He glanced around, suddenly growing a little nervous. He was a bit paranoid of corporate spies, government spies, and other things in his line of work.
"We may be interested in making a purchase from the black market, but they may be discussed further through those secure channels." He stated.

"A secured location was of course part of the agreement." At the mention of the black market, The Contact cants his head slightly and smiles. "Not entirely sure what you're talking about, but we're always open to some honest God-fearing business." Glancing idly over his shoulder, The Contact sees the DC-8's cargo door close before sliding his gaze and easy smile back to the pinstriped man. "It seems like our business here is done. Is there anything else we can do for you before we leave on our regularly scheduled flight?"