The Ogress of Progress visits me in a dream. Offers to buy my house for the promise of unlimited licks at her O-ring.

I decline the privilege.

She tells it to the Marines.

A company that night kick down my door. Bomb the carpet. One of their special agents sprays me green. They are fogging the rooms, when out the backdoor I flee.

Bump into a pack of other refugees, who show me how, with fingers and nails, to dig a hole in the shadow of the Ogress.

That morning, I creep from my hole to the library, to get the news.

Read online they will soon shoot us to the moon. Conquer next Mars; to use as a jump-off to reach Titan; there to have all the gas they want; on the way tighten our nuts, bolt our butts to swivel chairs, screw the brain and pack our wombs with wet cement. So their children – spewed from a musk elongating through the Gates of a Billionfold – will still not see what it all meant.