Blast of hot air lifts an array of government paychecks over militarized dunes, a sea of ancient brine burning competitive sarcomas into the feverish air of attache cases strolling zombic toward bottlenecked boardrooms where spreadsheets guide missiles through nightmares of gilded dreams.

The Seven Deadly Sins fabricated on an assembly line: Lust fits snugly into its slot. Pride's glued. Gluttony's screwed. Anger's arc welded, a thick coat of Envy sprayed on. Greed is polished to a mirror. Sloth takes a long break from the body of the beast whose shadow kills without launching its way toward heaven, arching to face its hell.

Matador casts his body into a snorting bull market, inertial data flows from insider tips, teeth clenched into snorting revenge his light suit pressed, the red of his cape is the burn of man and machine pawing blank checks of collective fate.

What would you say, if you knew the world was about to end,
who would you phone?

I'd dial the Chamber of Commerce and say:
"I'm open for business, wait for the tone."