The proverbial battleships align themselves along the nightsky, prying their way through the darkness, noticing nothing of the change that binds them. Myriad of spectres fix their eyes on you while they stand on te horizon, waiting for the battledrum to herald in a new wat of living. With the moribund sounding of the bell the clock begins his overtime.

Everybody rolls the disc of war with their fingers crossed, their fingers fumbling with the trigger of a gun that may very well fail and backfire with fatal consequences . The Gods have already forsaken this outlandish hotspot - everybody knows the roll was fatal, everybody knows the good guys lost. "Now men, get ready to fight for your freedom! Our benevolent sun looks upon us, we shall not let a shadow push us off the road! We shall not let the unseen enemy fool us into blindsness! We shall harness our vision and bring redemption to those deceased whose elevated ways are still thwarted by the putrid sickness that blocks the Holy wato to Heaven! Some of you may die, but you will be remembered as martyrs...martyrs, of course, for the freedom that I will provide.

Like children pretending with toy guns, they lost the game. They believed they would die twice for their country, but they would only die for themselves. Like misguidance, like ideology askes, like Machiavelli meets Christmas.