Roach-Busters
23-03-2005, 01:47
RB City, the Pest Control Company of Roach-Busters
Generalissimo J.L. was beginning to discover that imperialism was like a drug. It had a very stimulating, pleasing, euphoric effect, yet was dangerously, almost incurably, addicting. The larger his empire grew, the greater his desire for more lands to conquer became. His insatiable appetite for domination continued to expand, until it robbed him of sleep. Many a night he spent tossing and turning, mumbling the names of countries under his breath that he planned to conquer, subjugate, and annex. He could concentrate on little else. Virtually every thought that pervaded was one pertaining to his imperialistic ambitions and desires. Whether it was in the shower, at the dinner table, or out in the fields whipping Shooban slaves, it was always the same: he could think about nothing else but conquering.
Most of the world is under the heel of some foreign power or another, he thought, stroking his scrupulously-trimmed mustache. Few lands remain undominated...a condition I plan to remedy.
Unfolding a ragged, wrinkled, faded, dust-covered map of the world, he peered over it as if it were a contract: slowly, cautiously, deliberately, taking in every detail.
When he stumbled across it, and it almost literally jumped out at him, like a ravenous tiger from the bushes.
Angola.
Quickly, he mentally profiled the country. Fairly large, once belonged to Portugal, geologically rich, and was among the world's poorest countries, with rampant famine and poverty. His diagnosis: ripe for domination.
Without wasting a second, he ran to the phone and dialed up the number of the Department of War.
Generalissimo J.L. was beginning to discover that imperialism was like a drug. It had a very stimulating, pleasing, euphoric effect, yet was dangerously, almost incurably, addicting. The larger his empire grew, the greater his desire for more lands to conquer became. His insatiable appetite for domination continued to expand, until it robbed him of sleep. Many a night he spent tossing and turning, mumbling the names of countries under his breath that he planned to conquer, subjugate, and annex. He could concentrate on little else. Virtually every thought that pervaded was one pertaining to his imperialistic ambitions and desires. Whether it was in the shower, at the dinner table, or out in the fields whipping Shooban slaves, it was always the same: he could think about nothing else but conquering.
Most of the world is under the heel of some foreign power or another, he thought, stroking his scrupulously-trimmed mustache. Few lands remain undominated...a condition I plan to remedy.
Unfolding a ragged, wrinkled, faded, dust-covered map of the world, he peered over it as if it were a contract: slowly, cautiously, deliberately, taking in every detail.
When he stumbled across it, and it almost literally jumped out at him, like a ravenous tiger from the bushes.
Angola.
Quickly, he mentally profiled the country. Fairly large, once belonged to Portugal, geologically rich, and was among the world's poorest countries, with rampant famine and poverty. His diagnosis: ripe for domination.
Without wasting a second, he ran to the phone and dialed up the number of the Department of War.