The Opium wars continue, countries being forced to open their markets at the point of a gun. Beware of what you ask for; you might just get it. Money brings us down to its own pathetic level. Share the wealth or lose it. Everything is for sale. The shoe fits many feet. The opium you forced them to buy now makes addicts of your sons, in attics and lofts and empty rooms full of dust and webs and Internet intrigues. Conspiracy can bring down empires with just a whisper, a rumor, the power of suggestion. What’s worse, the rotten core or the outside bruises? The battle-ax people are walking wounded from their own self-inflicted traumas, the curse of consciousness, guilt and responsibility, no longer a genetic advantage as hordes gather on the steppes and knock on a battered door.