

Information and anonymity, all at a touch. The internet has been kind to the shamblers. The debonair mummies continue their eternal existence. There is no grand plan of world domination. Civic planning, excavation rights, gambling, prostitution, black market trade - all these belong to the Kingdom, and they offer access to it for the right price. They cannot see their own puppet holes or the desiccated hands jammed inside.

Politicians and law enforcement think they rule society. Their dance stays the same - financial acumen and preternatural terror - a hidden empire - a seedy dominion. Time passes, first in centuries, then in millennia. Wealthy once more, they hide from the living, and form a decadent underworld. They gather their funerary treasures, and the forbidden relics of other tombs. Why should they lower their standard of living in this afterlife? Their mouths decay into smiles. But they find one another, and these men of pragmatism accept their cadaverous existence. They stumble from their tombs like emerging cicadas who find they have no wings. Their souls rebuild - spirits ever-living, flesh ever-dead. Time passes, first in years, then in decades. Something goes wonderfully wrong.Ī bizarre accident - the spark of life hibernates within their mummified husks. These men of affluence obsess over immortality and afterlife access. In the before - they are all rich men - merchants, nobles, and priests - living fine lives in the golden age of the land of Pharaohs. What is time? We stand outside - everything has happened - everything is happening - into the past - the connecting frequency is the clink of coins. Initiate internal scan - dry bodies contain eternal souls. These embalmed princes pursue the one sanctity left in this world: money. Their chests are hollow, but their ribcages pound with lust and debauchery. Hidden, fearless, outside the bounds of any faction - no rules save what they create. In the deep shade, they tickle the strings - kingpins of Egypt's criminal underbelly. There are levels of panache the breathing never achieve. The dapper dead strut the streets of modern Cairo in Armani suits. At least, that's the name he would give you.

He shambles away with such undying style. With perfect suavity, he adjusts a silk tie and tips his hat. He smells oddly sweet - honey and the wilted flowers of an absentee lover. A tongue like a dried date waxes eloquently into the receiver, setting the pieces, playing the game.
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The hand that deftly holds the smartphone is skeletal with rot, skin like old tea leaves.

TRANSMIT - initiate Ka signal - RECEIVE - initiate Ba syntax - IT KEEPS GOING AND GOING AND GOING - initiate the Going-Forth-By-Day lexicon - THREE CAN KEEP A SECRET, IF ALL OF THEM ARE DEAD - the necrotic prerogative - WITNESS - The Kingdom.
