The Killing Art(s)

Narrated 'claim' of eco-capitalism vigilantism drawing both anarchy-and-love for a prince-of-direction.

A fun adaptation of Killing Zoe (Roger Avary). 

DISCLAIMER: This work of fanfiction offers no ties to the referenced film (of inspiration) and all images/references used herein comprise purely a 'personal' expression for social creativity/arts (for 'open' interpretation). 

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Let me tell you a tale of eco-capitalism guerrilla-warfare requiring incomplete-distances to bureaucracy-readings for a special Earthling-prince 'ninja-thief' (me!), a man from Algiers, educated at Dartmouth, and moved onto a vigilantism-veil for language-arts and Selfie-toast (hmmm).

I took blood-diamonds from a New England bank-box (Ion-company) also holding some media-company art-sketch of street-value, replacing it with a charcoal replica-sketch for street-insurance comment/chat for drawing (Interpol-relation?) examination-eye (wow). This was almost perfect, since I took a teller (Ezzy) with me who'd become my wife (an art-teacher now).

MANAGER: This guy was dressed like a terrorist and had an antique (gun)!
INTERVIEW: No chance of rival-company insurance (prepaid?) street-theater.

MANAGER: We'd like to remain-blind in this examination-eye journal-IQ, friend.

INTERVIEW: Good (bureaucracy-readings in Hell).

The odd-twist of my story ain't that I'm versed in Frantz Fanon and Adam Smith for fortune/capitalism 'thinking' for veiling ninja-thievery with vigilantism-language/flares, but it's what I 'transformed' into during the (rumored) blood-diamond swap of the company-box (Ion) in New England (hmmm). I found myself transformed into a heretic, and it made my shy to advance a courtship-agenda for my (now-wife) Ezzy (hmmm). Needless to say, I had to infiltrate the vault as a street-theater artist (with 'toy' prop, acid-gun) for media-insurance presentation in social-media Jabberwockies leading to Super Bowl Facebook like.

EZZY: What a beautiful toy, friend.

ME: After my 'deed' is acquired for this shore-bank, you're my wife, teller.

EZZY: Sounds like a 'flare' for some toast for arrogance, for a theatrical-man!

ME: It is, and I won't kill a soul, teller Ezzy.

I made toast of the micro-miracle following some exchange/commission handshakes at a local diamond-store (Ion-company) with a world-exchange 'reflection' culinary-treat soft/zesty (Indian) luchi-bread thanksgiving-diner plate chat(s), but I lied to Ezzy. I had the Houdini-skill(s) to evade any anarchy, but I had to spray the lone-guardsman (Leo) once-inside the vault-area to his feet (acid!) when he (firstly) refused to 'become' my insurance-warfare messenger with left hand note, "Prepaid box-burn and art-appraisal for (rumored) conflict-zone gem extraction(s) book."

EZZY: Happy-Thanksgiving, darling.

ME: Not a Matt Stafford (Rams Super Bowl) fan, Ezzy (hmmm).

EZZY: It's a Detroit-city QB-treasure (signed).

ME: Thanx.

That's my height-tale. It's one of moved Romanticism, drawing a first-blood account of the hard Realism of eco-capitalism 'badness' for Earthling sovereignty (arguably!). Perchance I've become that prince of language-arts I intended to be (at Dartmouth!).

"Doing well is the result of doing good. That's what capitalism is all about" (Ralph Waldo Emerson). 

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"Money is everything" (Ecclesiastes)