So fuck you! You puny little anaars and rockets, struggling to achieve some kind of respectability. I spit upon you. You are weak. You are only concerned about wishy-washy stuff. You make bright lights, but no noise. No noise? What kind of patriot are you?

Life is struggle. Life is bleak. Life is war. We have no space in our box of crackers for those unwilling to join in the struggle. And I am not alone. I am one of millions. We will win. The revolution will succeed. I have many worthy allies - the atom bomb, the rocket bomb, the humble apat-bar. Striped Bijli, RDX, Mr India, King of Kango, the Bullet….who can prevail against us?

I say this to you phuska phatakaas. I know it is not your fault that you are like this. You are made because there are still people who will buy you. This is the real problem, the bourgeoisie, the class enemy. We must struggle against those who would prefer pretty, superficial displays over a deafening blast.

I am power. Lay me out on your street, and I will rain your vengeance upon those who would attempt to cross your house. Rule your neighbourhood. Ten of me will make you king. A hundred - emperor. Are you the kind of person who shrinks from the responsibility of power? Be a man.