Karma goes to the airport.

And so we proceed away from the city through suburbia.

Ahh! The burbs. There is Crescent View. Seabury Parade. Grove Park. Sunset View. Golden Ridge. Oak Lawn. Lake View. Hillside View. Socially homogeneous. Wouldn’t you say?

Karma picks up the car’s handheld radio speaker and says.

I’m Karma Love Kid and I couldn't give a rat’s arse about your number of likes and your Fakebook followers. I don’t give a fiddle about your fancy designer label footwear. I don’t give a sack of wet socks about your dumb ass device that is smarter than you. I don’t give a dog’s bollocks about where you get your retail therapy nor where you park your insufferable SUV.

I don’t give a flying fuck of a duck about your far flung holidays for no reason but to say you were there. I don’t give a hoot about your higher education nor your yearly net income that should qualify you to scoop dog poop from the street.

I don’t give a toss about your derivatives, stocks, shares and bonds. I don’t give a wet fart about your property folio that will sink into the sea like most of the south of Italy when the next seismic shift comes.

I don’t flipping give a hootenanny about your default on your mortgage and how you now face closure. Welcome to what homelessness really means.

I don’t frigging care about how you waste your time sorting out your recycled rubbish into the green bin, the yellow bin and the blue bin. Just toss your useless corpse into them when the binmen come around. I don’t fecking care a jot about your hopeless pension plan that will never materialise because your state revenue cannot collect to pay you. I don’t give a tinker’s curse about your short term gain in the present with no long term plan for the future because you don’t have one to freaking look forward to.

I don’t give a Kardashion fuck about your trout faced liposuction, to care enough to save you from your demise that you created. I don’t give a fig about the next virulent zombie virus coming out of the permafrost in Siberia because the Russians want to drill for more oil. You deserve it for what you have done. I couldn’t give a monkeys ass about you. YouFeckinEffinBlindinEejit!

Karma hands the mike to Purple.

What should I say?

Whatever comes into your pretty furry head?

Just make it up?

Of course. It’s what you do best.

Purple makes a sound bordering on something between a hiss and a snarling growl.

Wake up suburbia! Come out of your mock tudor, doric pillared porticoes into your tarmacadamed SUV filled driveways. Your twin car park sized garage full of junk with a second fridge the size of a car, stockpiled with tons of pickles, plant-based coffee creamers, oat-based prebiotic pea protein slushies, iced lattes and peanut butter shakes.

Wake up from your self induced dream of futile acquisitions, your quilted bathroom toilet tissue scented with camel cashmere droppings to wipe your hairy ass. You and your hand held electronic bagel slicer that your wife cannot use with her claw like stuck on nails.

You and your milk chocolate covered popcorn popping machine for your blubber faced offspring that float in your outdoor inflated swimming pool like obese baby seals.

Your badly trimmed beard full of bits of avocado and craft beer. Come out in your hairy legged shorts socks and sandals.

We know that you're a software front end back end arse end developer. We know where you work! We are coming to get you! When are you not at work!

It’s Monday morning and the mental effort required to dispel the crushing fact that you have to look forward to more than 60 hours of pure drudgery is inescapable.

We know that you write complex algorithms for traders and brokers for Storgan Manley Bank, who play with them on the stock market but you have no clue nor interest in what they really do with these numbers.

You are not even a little cog on a wheel who is ignorant of the giant machine that is making trillions from squeezing the natural resources out of the earth.

You are more like a speck of dust on a pin head sitting there in your sandals and khaki shorts sipping your latte when the suited bastards may as well be on the top floor rolling children’s skulls back and forth to each other, hooting and high fiving, fist bumping and venting neanderthal grunts, shouting out vacuous corporate slogans.

Some of these words below can actually be heard by the suited vampiric sociopaths in the corporate hushed carpeted elevator, lispingly whispered around the lavish buffet counter.

Gritted through spotless dentured teeth down the cellphone.

What happens here, stays here. Capitalism means we are all better off. It’s a trickle down economy.

Because you’re worth it. Our global consumer will change capitalism - for the better.

Impossible is nothing. Free markets reduce poverty.

Everywhere I want to be. Profit is essential. It is moral.

The only way is up. Free trade is good for the environment.

And when these suited vampiric narcissistic sociopaths, occasionally breeze through your open plan office, you don’t get to see them up close but you can see that they all have the same haircuts and conceited expressions, same pointy shoes that make you wonder if they really have toes.

What you really don’t see is that you are part of the problem too, with your dedicated melon scooper that would be more practical to use as a lobotomising medical instrument on parts of your brain that send you on merciless shopping sprees.

Your chrome plated selfie sticks, your instagrammable vegan fillet steak and your GM free, bio nettle baby food, your sustainable rainforest robbed decking that surrounds your semi detached fake villa, your faux ceramic eucalyptus oil burner (no Koalas were injured sourcing this product) and your portable designer subwoofers.

What are you waiting for?

You don’t need to pack. Forget your suitcase and your passport. Forget the bills, the job and the medical insurance. Forget the mortgage and the pension plan. Forget the house. It’s been devalued. You are in negative equity. Come with us.

Leave right now. It’s the only thing left for you to do.

So, let’s not get stuck on where we’re going. Think of it like this. What are you looking for?

This is the question.

Next time you peruse the revolving bookstand in the airport waiting for your flight. Ask yourself.

What do you want? Where are you going and why?

Purple opens up the glove compartment in the car and reaches in to find a copy of the first edition of the very same staggering work of genius in your hands. It says here on the back cover.

Blurbalicious.

A book good enough to read in the elevator of a burning building or in the backseat of a hijacked car or a derailed speeding train.

A book for homeless lovers in cardboard boxes under motorways who ride trains to stay warm.

A book that makes you throw your mobile phone at your boss and go drinking with winos in a graveyard after a funeral.

A book to read by a pool full of piranhas in Ibiza.

A book to impale journalists with - they give the lie.

The kind of book that opens like a surgeon’s scalpel.

The kind of book that could get you locked up.

A pocket book grenade. Every page a shard of shrapnel that exposes this millennium of lies.

Explosive.

This author writes with dead men’s fingers, spooky action up close.

The very terror of life itself.

Breathe it in and enjoy the abyss at arm’s length.

Worth immolating oneself for. Splendid.

Every suicide bomber’s time killer.

Bound to be read in airports all over the world by top hijackers of every denomination.

Thrilling.

A book written better than a third movie sequel.

The special effects just couldn’t be done.

Xi runs through hoops of fire with a drumbeat in your head.

An earthquake dancing up your spine.

That fills you full of dread and I couldn't care less.

I’m going to wake you up to your life that is a walking sleep.

I’ll make you think…. before you speak.