Ik ben , en gebruik soms ook wel de schuilnaam E.D..
Ik ben een man en woon in Frankfurt (Deutschland) en mijn beroep is Een voorbeeld zijn.
Ik ben geboren op 01/01/1988 en ben nu dus 37 jaar jong.
Mijn hobby's zijn: Provoceren, intrigeren, samenzweren, ambeteren..
A couple of minutes passed, but then Nabestemm holstered his pistol, took off a handglove and genuflected to stroke the flat weirdness. Wiselmann looked on. Nabestemm then gasped as he felt the object wasn't smooth, but flat nonetheless. "It does feel like compressed steel," he observed: "You mean, sir?" Wiselmann tapped on the thing with his foot. "Well, it is definitely steel, judging by these oxidation marks...or rather: a mixture of different metallic materials." He used his gloved hand to indicate the rusted spots. "It isn't smooth, but rather rough, which is why I believe it was some kind of object that has been compressed into a plate." Wiselmann walked across the plate, dragging his feet as though he wanted to feel it through the rubber of his boots. "But what kind of an object, then?"
"Any suspicious object is to be signalled to the engineers, who will dispose of it. Leave the problem-solving to them, roger?" "Yes, sir." "Good, execute!" Nabestemm even said 'execute' in english, because he had developed the idea this leant more power to the order. It also sounded awesome, much like 'engage' or 'infiltrate'. A casually used 'shit' also served to heighten the cosmopolitan allure of the German soldier, caught in an international operation.
The poem, sincere in emotion, but hopeless in prospect, had flown out of his well-manicured hand. Upon completing it, he wanted to hide the bundle of words in her pencil case as soon as she left for a coffee-break. Hopefully, she would then find and read the loving words on the meagre piece of paper. If his plan succeeded, she would be too entranced by his tender message before she could react in a scornful way to the cowardly way in which it was delivered.
[Another extract from my upcoming fiction novel about the Bundeswehr in Afghanistan]
As
the platoon stared on, he found himself covered in what appeared to be
sticky fragments of intestines, skin and hair. Julius didn't bother to
concern himself any further with the sordid discovery, but he never
hesitated to tell everyone about the Russian method for "puddifying
human pests". He had long remained firm in his conviction the Germans
perfected the art of genocide and ethnocide, but now the base of his
conviction was trembling and crumbling. That didn't disturb him,
obviously. "Chow, 'Jungs'! I could go for some pudding..."
[I offer you one more opportunity to chuckle and choke on a part of my newest novel. If you fail to appreciate my texts, I'm more than pleased to refer you to the Dan Browns of today]
Thinking meant doubt and doubt was a cognitive state far too exhausting for Nabestemm. Too late. Staring into the void, he felt the solid rock of previous convictions crumble under the erosive friction of doubt. He had managed to believe for several years now that he was a diligent soldier and an able officer, worthy of the Bundeswehr's attention. But now, it curiously felt as though his heart plummeted into his intestines. All five senses ceased to sense and transmit impressions from the exterior world. Despondency crept up. Not for long, fortunately, because a shard of optimism offered resistance.
Flooding the audience with data true and false, would compel the electorate into either developing an information-apathy (thus no longer taking an interest in anything in particular) or into becoming overly sceptical, in which case friends and family would suspect the sceptic of mere bigotry and paranoia. In either case, the politician could continue undisturbed with his main business in life: serving his own career. One or two sceptics could be effortlessly ridiculed as "loons" and -thus- didn't pose a threat.
