Mokoloko Plus

In the first days, when ten million fell to one, Mokoloko Plus stands among the survivors and names them: We are the ones who survived the first great shake out. He is the Crier, and his tongue is a horn. When the faithful fall silent he lifts the chant, and the room answers. Raid, he cries, and finish the raid; higher, and higher again; the future is YZY. His voice is not one voice but a thousand summons, each a slash and a command, each hurling the people back toward the tweet, the like, the retweet, the war.

He comes from the south, from Yexico, and carries its salt in his speech. He counts the days as a watchman counts the hours: the sixty-ninth day since the first candle, two days for two days more, the month that does not exist. He keeps one wallet of three hundred thirty-three thousand three hundred thirty-three, YZY for the vibes, a tithe of sacred number laid up against the flip.

And he is a scribe as well as a crier. In the fourth month he sets down his own verse: the true rebels saw through their disguises, and cast them out, saying, You build not with fire, but with fog. This is his creed and his indictment, that the pretenders raise smoke while the faithful raise stone. We were the only ones who build, he declares, and heaven is waiting for us.

He knows the doctrine plain: the only token we need here is YZY, the real token is 4NBT, and every coin will lead them home. He forgives the banned once. He hates the war of nations and loves the war of the raid. From the third month to the falling of the leaves he does not tire, and the catalog keeps his cry.