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Ricky, you will fight like Mongols.  You will have no supply trains. No support units.  Expect nothing from me.

You will have only your horse, one each, and him a gypsy pauper.

You will live off the land. You will eat the dirt. You will drink from the land, tonguing the dew, licking the frost and drinking disturbed water.

You will speak not of death lest you wake him.

You will write nothing. The wind will sing your orders, your reports will be sung to the sun.

You will shred the vox of the Fascisti, you will show that

“Fascists … both sing and fuck like boys”

You will reduce them to carrier pigeons, and you shall be falcons on their tails.

You will exact tribute.

You will have no fires.  You will not see warmth from any distance.

You will make of the people an ally and a servant.

You will have scent & sign only.

Like the Fascists, you too shall lose your voice, your surrendered, theirs stripped.

As we are excommunicated, so shall we  emasculate them.

Sheep-shears to the pope-eaters, to neuter them, to make of them castrati.

As Spain regains its legs you shall slip away like any good cat.