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Hafsah Mijinyawa
concept, stories, layout & design and all the crazy shit
Benedict Cumberbatch and Michelle Rodriguez for their
unwitting assistance portraying some people who dont exist
special thanks
See more over at
behance.net/wetcloud
DI SCLAI MER: Except for the photo on page 9, none of the photography used in this fctional publication belong to me.
Their rights belong to their respective authors and owners.
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This is a manifesto from the end of the world.
It is the last rite & testament of Cannibal Humanity.
It is the bile vomited into the universes drainage sink.
It is a cosmic cry for help.
Welcome to the anarchy times.
a n d , mo s t i mp o r t a n t l y , i t i s f a ke
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INTERVIEW WITH THE TERRORIST
A hot dry sun is rising over Tatouine, Morrocco. A youth hanging out of the window
of a passing car shouts out at me, his shining brown face smiling, his teeth straight
and white. It occurs to me that it is the frst time I have seen a friendly face since I
disembarked from the plane that brought me here.
T
he plainclothes bodyguards hired to protect me from this regions
more unsavory characters were distinctly unamiable company, and
were satisfed with doing little more than squatting besides me in
the jeep, smoking large, pungent cigars. The dusty black jeep bounces to a
stop next to a somewhat rusty and rickety looking tent. A plume of smoke
rising from an opening in the cloth roof and the deep rich scent of strong
Arabic coffee heralds the strange meeting that I am about to have with one
of the most mysterious and secretive charac-
ters in the world.
When I enter the tent, a wiry man is sit-
ting among several throw pillows working on
an boxy looking laptop rigged to some kind
of networking setup. One of the machines
nearby is repetitively beeping out a polyphon-
ic chirp, which I detect to be the tune of Daisy,
Daisy. As I enter, the man turns and looks at me
over his shoulder. His face is young at frst
glance, but beyond the youthfulness, a stark,
tempered sadness is present in his dark eyes.
His hair is a dusty blonde and his Irish white
skin has been tanned a burnt sort of brown
from the blazing Mediterranean sun. He is
wearing a leather jacket over a traditional white jalabiya, the dress of desert
men, and a black and white checkered scarf is wrapped about his neck. He
greets me in a quiet, proper English accented voice and offers me a cup of
Arabic coffee. It is strong and incredibly sugary, but refreshing. Im actualy
quite an English stereotype, He laughs, tea drinking and biscuits and all
that. I remember being partial to darker teas in my youth, he recalls, swirl-
ing a toothpick around the bottom of the tiny glass, but my travels have
compelled me to develop a somewhat crippling caffeine addiction. Ive had
hundreds of types of roasts. I have to say the traditional Moroccan blends
are my favorite.
He appears to expect my frst question, as the sides of his mouth curl
into a grin. Im afraid I cant tell you my real name since I myself dont know
what it is. The name I go by now is Henry. He
doesnt tell me his chosen last name for se-
curity purposes. He informs me that hes a bit
pressed for time as he is moving out the next
day. It had come to his attention that there
was a situation in the States that needed his
attention. Another one like himself, he said,
was under scrutiny for some, he emphasiz-
es alleged, act of terror. I ask him if he is
speaking of James Fawkes, otherwise known
to Western media as the Marriott Hotel Flyer,
so named for his impossible feat of survival
leaping from the 30th story of a Marriott hotel
during his escape from federal agents. Henry
quietly sips his coffee, nodding. Mr. Fawkes
is not currently aware, but he and I share a mutual interest. When the time
comes, it will be him that youll want to speak with, and not me. He grins.
When I ask him what it is that has driven him to become one of the most
mysterious and wanted men on the face of the Earth, he stares at me very
hard. Do you really want to know?

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several fake passports, a Glock and a little vial of a chemical com-
pound that forensics discovered to be Sarin Gas. His name was Eric
Trudeau, a thirty-seven year old liberal arts major employed as a manager
at a BP gas station. Co-workers and former friends remembered Eric as
polite, unselfsh, quiet. His sudden departure from his job managing the
gas station waxed peculiar to those who knew him as a homebody. He
purchased a ticket from Brooklyn, Michigan, left the family home where
he had resided since his teenage years, and set course for Los Angeles.
It was in the expensive new sea-side chateau he had been living in
for two weeks that his body was found. Drunken partiers on the riveria
insisted on seeing a UPS driver casually leaving the complex tucking a
gun into his uniform, but there was no evidence of any such scheduled
delivery, or surveillance footage of it. The only evidence was a card found
in Erics wallet. A simple white card with a black magnet strip bearing the
address: Evelyn Hollingsworth, 1151 N. Amsterdam St, The Company.
NOW HIRING
PRIVATE CITIZEN CONTRACTING COMPANY.
LOTS OF BENEFITS & TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY
He was carrying over
$12,000 in foreign currency,
The Company got around.
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Across the country in Pasadena, Florida, Bob Kennedy, the victim
of a recent forclosure was discovered in his kitchen, impaled on a
butter knife. A white Company card was found inside a bookshelf
in his house. Over the border in Manitoba, a widow who had aban-
doned her two stepchildren at her mothers house for, according to her
mother, a trip to Hawaii, was found with a bullet hole neatly centered
between her eyes. A Company card was still clutched in her hands.
In Ann Arbor, Michigan, a college student passing out brochures con-
taining slick advertising collateral for summer internships with a vague
Company was detained for questioning, but provided expressed igno-
rance on the identity of who had hired him to pass out the brochures.
Detective Kyle Griffth, who has been investigating the case
since early this year, is baffed, but determined to sort out the story.
Theres defnitely something strange going on and you can trace
it pretty easily back to this, so far, fctional Hollingsworth charac-
ter. I can tell you for sure that the address listed on those cards does
not exist anywhere in the United States or the world. Its fake. It goes
to a black hole. At least, to my knowledge, perhaps the people on
the receiving ends of these cards have a different story to tell.
Det. Griffth shows us his miniscule collection of data on the 1151
address. Sometimes, it is a warehouse. Sometimes the basement of a bar.
Sometimes a room in a multi-purpose offce building. Det. Griffth suspects
it is a rotating location, existing whereever someone happens to be given
the address. I have a shelf-ful of data on thisscattered reports of ordinary
people dropping clean off the map or being kidnapped and even killed. And
nothing can be tracked down, theres no traces of anything, its as if noth-
ing happened to them at alland yet, something did. Something terrible.
Random occurrences? Government extradition? Is it a coincidence
that prior to the incidents, every victim had been in some kind of person-
al turmoil? One victim had gotten hit with a foreclosure; another had just
lost a fortune due to bankruptcy; a war widow saddled with medical bills
she couldnt afford. And then out of thin air: Money. Business class air-
line tickets abroad. Expensive hotels booked under their names. Private
luxury dwellings in quiet parts of town. Where was the money coming
from? Who were these people working for? And what were they doing?
t h e y w o n t l e t
y o u l e a v e
GLO
BAL N
ET
WO
RK?

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And just who is Evelyn Hollingsworth?
A Ieova fortitudo mea a quo timebo
From Jehovah my strength from which I will fear
Deus faveat - Divere foveat
Let God favour - Let him nurture in many ways
Vive ut vivas
Live that you may live
Vi virtute virens
Flourishing in strength and virtue
Per hostes per hastas
Through enemies, through spears
Labora ut in aeternam vivas
Labor that you may live forever
- B a t t l e p r a y e r o f L e g i o n 1 0 5
t h
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L
ed Zepplins Immigrant Song rages from a chrome and black
trimmed record player. Sitting cross legged on the bed, a young
woman with a mop of jet black hair pulled into a ponytail trums her
fngers to the beat as she stares out of the open window in our hotel room.
Her eyes are an extremely light hazel, speckled around the rims. Immediate-
ly striking. When she looks at you, she appears to look past you, or at some
point very far away. She is in her late twenties. But her eyes are those of a
much older woman. Full of memories.
fratres in armis
AN INVESTIGATION INTO UNDERGROUND ARMS SMUGGLING
How soft your felds so green, can whisper tales of gore, of how we
calmed the tides of war, we are your overlooords! She grins broadly. Fuckin
A! Classic shit. Theyre not dead, yknow! Shit like this makes you immortal.
This is one of the few times I have seen her completely at ease. Happy.
This song reminds me of my old life. She says, half-smiling. I always envi-
sion myself on the swing set in my old hood. I used to do all kinds of shit on
that thing. She grins a little, remembering. Almost broke my fucking neck
once, trying to do fying backfips.
Caroline, or Carly as her compatriots call her, is, like the majority of the
men and women rolling across the dubious rolls and hills of the vast Nevada
tundra in dark, clunky looking all-terrain vehicles, a gun runner. She laughs
with distinct derision when she is asked how she likes her job. Oh yeah, its
fuckin A, brother! No life like it!
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Carly and her fellow runners, Jay-Jay, Dobermann, Rose and
K-Train (the crews rendition on her original Catraine), pass a joint
around the room, engaging in expletive laced conversation about the latest
hit of the day. Jay-Jay is twenty two, bright eyed and excitable, gesticulating
wildly: We grabbed some pussy in this moth(er)fuckin peice of shit Chevy
about 60 mi(les) west of here. Dude had like a bajillion shells stuffed inside his
tires. The crew break into snickers. It was o(b)viously hot. Dum-muthafucka
prolly jacked it from some fuckin tourists. K-Train shrugs. He ripped the wheels
and we ripped him. Sheeeiiiit happens! She drawls for effect.
Mr. Steele, a gunsmith living on the outskirts of Vermont, seems reluctant to tell
me anything, even as he stands surrounded by crates and racks flled with weapons.
LOTS of weapons. It is, after all, a shop hes running. But this shop does have the
political advantage of being legal. So why is he so uptight?
Most gunrunners, like Carly, pictured
here, are former soldiers between
the ages of 18 and 32 years old.
Once successfully inducted into
this particular line of business,
their average life-spans are often
considerably shortened.
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Mr. Steele is consistently hesitant to talk, and does not
mention any of his employees by name. Its well known to
people in his profession that smugglers are often in the most
innocent of trades, such as gunsmithing. Ive got a lot of kids
working heresome of them out of the corps for whatev-
er reason. Nobody elsell hire them, so I will because theyre
good at something. Good at fxing guns, that is. Like a young
ex-leuitenant who wanted to remain anonymous. She main-
tained that she wasnt in the gun running business, but was
willing to explain how she ended up working in Mr. Steeles
shop.
My convoys jeep went over a landmine. My CO got his
leg stuck under the jeep and burned hisself pretty bad. I shat-
tered my fngers, toe bones. Dislocated some organs. Zapped
some of my nerves, lost some feeling. Docs said Id never walk
again. She proudly bounces her legs up and down and later,
demonstrates some jump-rope moves for us. When she walks
though, its with a slight, tilting swagger, designed to hide a
limp. Basically, I was useless as far as the military was con-
cerned. And the legion didnt offer work risids for folks in my
condition. I was in a bad way for a time therethen I met Mr.
Steele. He gave me a job.
She smiles. For a second, she is a different person. I fx
guns now. Gotta love that.
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