Don’t be a steam-shovel.

This happened to me while I was living in Japan. Three times.

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main qimg 5066b06a86b66b8ca0dcde77e5f7361d lq

6:02 AM on August 29, my phone started blaring. In my sleepy stupor, I thought it was my alarm… but it was too early for that… and wait, that sounds like the earthquake alert. I roll over to pick up my phone and see the above message.

I’m not entirely literate in Japanese, so all I can really gather from the message at first is:

ミサイル – mis-sai-ru…. missai-ru… missile. Missile?!
北…からミサイルが…された…です。 – …a missile has… had something done to it… from someplace North?
…な建物や地下に…して下さい。 – Please do something toward some kind of building or underground. Go there?

I’ve moved now from my bed to the toilet with my phone in hand, still staring at the message and trying to wake up. Then it occurs to me that I can put screenshots into the Google Translate app. Cleaning up Google’s brutal translation, it reads:

Missile inbound. Missile inbound. North Korea has fired a missile. Please evacuate to a secure building or go underground.

Only Japan would add “please” to an evacuation alert.

By now I’ve moved to the kitchen and am looking out the window. We were given a list of shelters and safe locations by our school, but I remembered that all of them were at least a couple miles away from my house and all I had was a bike.

How far is the missile? How fast do they go, anyway?
Would it be safer to hole up in my apartment or to try and make it to a shelter?

I start changing my clothes, in case I decided to leave.

Why would they strike Gunma anyway?

…and the most sobering thought…

Would I rather be inside at home when it hits or biking frantically?

I eventually decided to stay in my apartment.

It’s not that I don’t value my life, I do. I just figured that it would take me at least 15 minutes to get to a shelter with the winding roads of Japan and a good chance I’d make a wrong turn or two on my first trip to this place, wherever it was.

How long would it take a missile to sail from North Korea to Japan? At what point was the alert issued? An hour away? 30 minutes? 5?

I return to the toilet, this time putting the lid down and just sat there. It was the center of the apartment, had no windows, and was the safest place I could think of while I started checking News sites and replying to my coworkers’ messages who were in the same state of confusion as I was.

Luckily, I didn’t have to make peace with anyone, as a short time later it was announced that the missile had, in fact, flown over the country’s airspace and landed somewhere in the Pacific.

This happened twice more. By the third time, I rolled my eyes and went back to bed, tired of being woken up just to find that North Korea had been flashing their peacock feathers again.

The Law of Rare Events

Submitted into Contest #174 in response to: Write a story about a brilliant scientist making a startling discovery. view prompt

Terry Wayne Carpenter

This story contains sensitive content

Warning: sexual fetish content.A darkness passes over the quiescent surveillance of drones mining precious metals beneath the ocean floor. What else could be hiding down here? Drones are the only things capable of withstanding the pressure and heat this deep in earth’s crust. The drones and their Spider Captain, of course.Upon first glance, Chester Jones thinks nothing of it, and goes back to thumbing through the photos stored on his phone: Annika… Nata… Anita… Cherise… Only five more days until the transport arrives and he can get out of this pressurized prison.Chester whistles more anxiously than a steaming tea kettle, thumping his restless leg on the floor, fearing he is on the brink of becoming a product of his environment. There is no internet access five miles deep in the sweltering heat of the Izu-Ogasawara Trench.There it is again.“What is that?”He tips the brim of his School of Mines hat back and leans in to study the feed more closely, certain his eyes deceive him. It appears to be the lecherous tentacles of an octopus investigating one of S.P-I.D.R. Captain’s many drones. (Subterranean Poly-Intelligent Drone Regulator)Drones continue to chisel and shape the bore toward the Moho, oblivious to this life that should not, could not, be where it is.The only other life that survives below the subsurface biosphere are tube worms and microbes. Even the tube worms keep their distance from the Moho.Hydrothermal vents gave humanity access to the Mohorovičić discontinuity and its wealth of resources – namely the heat and pressure necessary to create the strongest, lightest alloys known to mankind – but it also gave that same access to the wildlife of the sea.For humanity to conquer space, it needs metal. This metal. But the nearly six thousand species in the sprawling ecosystem are protected by the U.P.I.N. (United Pacific Island Nations) charter, which is why there is a marine biologist aboard every mining ship. Every once in a while, a stray crab or fish falls into the mohole, but immediately dies because of the conditions. This octopus however, is very much alive. Alive and playful.“Hey Ronin, you awake?” Chester says. “You better get down here.”Chester watches the sway of the cephalopod in the currents and hydrothermal plumes along the sides of the mohole. It seems to be increasing in speed around the drones. Nothing in the subduction zone moves that fast.“You better get Pania, too.” Ronin radios back.“I’m not disturbing Pania. You do it.” Chester objects, remembering the last time he interrupted Dr. Pania Kahuhara during one of her many sessions inside the Ersatz.“Just wake her up, Chester.”Pania is stiff and recumbent inside the Ersatz, dreaming the vivid dreams of another world. One of her choosing. Her body sleeps, but her mind is stimulated. Either side of the ersatz divide, whether waking or sleeping, is punctuated at both ends by blinding white light, causing a sensation that you are always waking up into something like reality. It is so real, the pod itself is labeled Ersatz, in order to distinguish which of the two sides is in fact reality.Though it is company policy not to yuck other people’s yum, the awkwardness of interrupting Dr. Kahuhara in the midst of shokushu goukan in the Ersatz, was more than Chester could then and still presently can handle. Something about his Australian bluntness that is usually endearing, but often veers into a flaw of character.“Ahem… Dr. Kahuhara?” Chester squawks over the coms. “I hate to interrupt sushi night, but there’s a situation requiring your attention on the bridge.”Pania opens her eyes in irritation, climbs out of the Ersatz rested, and joins Ronin and Chester, both fixated on a monitor staring at what appears to be nothing.“What are we looking at, boys?”“Wait for it…” Chester points at a grouping of rough hewn stone next to some hydrothermal tunneling. “It’s going to move again.”Chester zooms in as close to the spot as possible, and then Pania sees it, the subtlest of squirms, and an oscillation of the eyes. It is a camouflaged octopus.“That’s… impossible.” She leans in close and studies what she cannot believe. “What’s the depth?”“We’re at about 45 kilometers.”“Bullshit.”“Look.” Chester points to the instruments.“That- there’s no way.” She looks closer. “Can we get it to move? Like really move. I want to know how big it is. I can’t tell.”Drones nearby creep toward the indistinguishable spot, reaching out tooling appendages to delicately rustle the creature.As the drones enter its orbit, the octopus changes color from pallid gray to bright shimmering red, bolting from the wall, vectoring into the center of the shaft and splaying out its tentacles in a pinwheel, expressing its extremities fully in an isotoxal octagram, finally jutting beyond the camera’s reach and into the darkness.“Don’t lose it.” Pania cries. “What good are those drones?”“They’re mining drones, not sentries.” Ronin says, arms folded, brow furrowed.Chester brings up dozens of cameras in a grid on the monitor, surveilling thousands of feet of the plunging tunnel, not one showing movement beyond the hydrothermal effluent migrating toward the surface.“We have to find it again.” Pania says. “We must know how it survives down there.”🐙🐙🐙

“Congratulations gentleman, we’ve just had our first encounter with an unexplainable species of marine life.” Pania addresses the two men in front of a wide video display of the octopus in the midst of its escape, backlit by the distant floodlights of the drones. “Here’s what we know: by size, the creature appears to fit into the Giant Pacific Octopus range, at somewhere between sixteen and twenty feet in diameter; it’s coloration would also suggest Pacific Octopus, the previous maximum depth for a Pacific Giant was 1,500 meters, and hyperthermophiles were thought to be at the physical limits of life just below the seafloor… but our little friend – Kali – was all the way down to 45,000 meters.”

“Grigori,” Chester says.

“What?”

“I saw the critter first, which means I get to name it.” Chester spits a mixture of sunflower seeds and Skoal into a plastic cup. “-and I’m naming it Grigori.”

“It’s just a nickname. We will have to give it an official name at some point, once we know more about its physiology, habits and habitat, and where exactly it fits into the evolutionary tree.” Pania says, returning to her dossier. “What we don’t know about… Grigori, is precisely how he/she got down to this depth, what its food source is, and why we haven’t seen it before now.”

“The Law of Rare Events,” Ronin says. “It’s predictable. A Poisson distribution of binomial random variables predicts this. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You wanna translate that into English for us bogans?” Chester says.

“The more times we travel down into the mohole, the deeper microorganisms go, the deeper large organisms go, and eventually, through that exploration, eventually the rare breakthrough event occurs and one survives. The probability of a breakthrough event is small, but predictably, inevitably it will happen.” Ronin holds his palm out to Chester, flexing his fingers in universal code for ‘gimmie,’ to which Chester obliges with a sprinkling of seeds.

“The questions are then, why and how?” Pania says. “Without answers to those, this isn’t a rare event, it’s an impossible event.

“You have a Law of Impossible Events?” Chester asks.

“I have a theory,” Ronin says. “In organic chemistry, there is something called the Grignard Reaction Mechanism. Basically, organometallics form when magnesium bonds carbon to various metals. These can only occur in a waterless environment. However, my theory is that because of the extremely high temperatures, and extremely high pressure preventing the water from boiling at these depths, and the plethora of amalgams – if a creature started metabolizing magnesium and high volumes of other metals on a regular basis, eventually-”

“The Law of Rare events.” Pania says. “You’d get an organometallic life form. A carbon-based animal with metallic properties. Like organometallic skin. A creature like that could travel to these depths, in these temperatures, under this pressure.”

“Precisely.” Ronin says. “And an octopus would be particularly primed to accomplish this because of its regenerative ability.”

“Holy shit.” Chester looks at the other two. “We’re gonna be famous. We discovered a Robot Octopus. A Robo-pus!

“It’s a working theory.” Ronin says. “We won’t know for sure unless we capture it and do some tests.”

“To that end,” Pania says. “Since we cannot continue mining operations until the creature is located and removed, I propose pulling Spider Captain away from the Moho and use it to force the octopus to the seafloor, where we can then use bait to lure it into captivity. We can flood the cargo hold and put it there.”

“What kind of bait exactly?”

“Well, we’re almost out of supplies, and there is that chuck roast in the freezer-”

“No. No way.” Chester jumps up in protest. “First you try to take my naming rights, now you want to take my meat?”

“It’s the only meat substance we have that won’t dissolve in the conditions near the hydrothermal vents.”

“That’s my celebratory chuck!” Chester says. “For going home. My last meal down here.”

“If we can catch this thing, you can buy all the chuck you can handle.” Ronin says. “Heck, you’ll be able to buy the whole damn cow.”

 

🐙🐙🐙

“This better work,” Chester pouts. “Damn octopus gets sous vide steak, while I’m sitting here, living off of sunflower seeds and crab paste.”

Ronin overrides the S.P-I.D.R. Captain’s internal intelligence and allows Chester to take manual control of the rig. It disengages with its stirring bit glooped in plastic rock at the edge of the Moho. The bit is shaped like an industrial whisk, and sticks straight up into the water bordering the smoldering glow.

Spider Captain thrusts itself upward in slow squirts toward the surface, illuminating the shaft with its broad flood lights, the hollow hum of the magnetohydrodynamic drive at its epicenter.

“Okay, good,” Pania says. “We can see everything.”

Spider Captain picks up drones as it goes, clearing the path to the seafloor. After several kilometers, the silhouette of the elusive octopus emerges.

“There it is,” Pania says, lurched over Chester’s shoulder. “Track it.”

The octopus climbs gradually, keeping steady pace ahead of the ascending Spider Captain.

As soon as the octopus reaches the seafloor, it darts between triangulations of rock, coral, tube worm colonies, and drones strobing lights at it, until it settles on the chuck roast at the mouth of the cargo hold. Spider Captain continues its chase, forcing the creature into the back of the bay, the drop door closing behind them.

 

🐙🐙🐙

The crew sleeps, having captured their prey, which has found a comfortable corner to lay inside its cell. Pania is the last to bed down, deciding to stay up and observe the creature in some semblance of stasis. Her eyelids grow heavy and her thoughts sway between her newfound discovery and the Ersatz. Thoughts of ravishing tentacles in every orifice.

She can’t remember when the dark fantasy started, or if it had always been there. A product of her upbringing, conditioning from living her entire life on the water, always around these creatures, a symbiosis with the sea. She wasn’t the first, certainly not the only one; shokushu goukan has been around for thousands of years, proliferating across the pacific, across the world.

36 hours until the transit submarine arrives. 36 hours until the world will know of their discovery, and all Pania can think about is her libidinous thirst for submission to the cephalopod. Was this why she became a marine biologist? Was this why she was miles deep in the Izu-Bonin arc? Was it fate or had she willed it all into being? The circumstances and the discovery.

I’ll be on every news show and podcast in the world, she thinks. I’ll be famous. Will they know? Will someone hack my Ersatz file? It’s happened before. Celebrities are always being hacked for their Ersatz fantasies.

Dozing off, Pania is startled by loud banging noises coming from the cargo bay. It’s Kali. She’s suctioned to the electrical paneling near the air lock door, piercing through the metal with her beak.

“That’s impossible. That’s T12 Alloy.”

Pania alerts the other two and sets the ship to red alert.

“We’ve got a serious problem.”

Dazed and startled, the two men crash into the observation room.

“She’s trying to break through the door.” Pania points at the monitor. “If she gets through it’ll flood the whole ship.”

“Use spider captain to peel her off the panel.” Ronin shouts commands to Chester, who mans the controls. Robotic limbs swing across the bay, molesting the octopus from behind. It’s only a temporary distraction, and Kali doesn’t stop tearing through the panel, using just two of her tentacles to rip the mechanical arm in half.

Ronin rushes to the airlock, putting on a deep diver suit, grabbing a welding rod he intends to use as a weapon.

“You can’t!” Pania yells. “You can’t kill her.”

“If I don’t, we’re all dead.”

Ronin closes the airlock, which quickly floods with steam and rising water. As soon as the port into the cargo bay opens, he races toward the sieging octopus. Chester flings a battery of repurposed mining appendages from Spider Captain at the creature, to no avail. The Octopus’s skin is too tough to penetrate with standard utensils. Ronin attacks with the welding rod, the bright tip of which catches the octopus’s attention. Tentacles wrap around his leg, flipping him sideways, immobilizing him in the briny water, making it impossible for him to retaliate in his cumbersome suit. Suddenly, his torso is snapped in half from the torque force of the muscular metallic tendrils. Kali enters the airlock unimpeded.

Boiling water erupts into the hallway outside the airlock as Kali enters the ship. Chester and Pania flee the scalding water, heading for port doors slowly closing in emergency. Chester trips on the mouth of the port, and Kali grabs him by the ankle. It is too late for Pania to save him. She watches his red face disappear into the pillows of water, as Kali drags him back into the jaws of death.

Pania rushes to the Ersatz pod, the only possibly safe place on the ship, but it’s only a matter of time before Kali finds her way through the port doors.

Which will get to her first — the transport, now an unassuming rescue ship, or the excited omnipresent monster outside the doors, born from the hellish improbable deep?

Upon seeing Kali drill through the second port door, Pania realizes she has less time than she thought and climbs into the Ersatz.

No time; she’s coming too fast.

Water and steam flood into the compartment as the lid of her coffin slowly closes, the raging tentacles above the glass slowly dissolve into the bright white light of the Ersatz.

When I was posted to Zürich, back in the 1990s, a colleague of mine said: “Switzerland is a wonderful place. Too bad it is inhabited by the Swiss”.

At first I didn’t subscribe with his rather radical views about the country, but after living there for a few months (and having had some run-ins with the natives and their rather peculiar views about people who, in their eyes, “didn’t belong”), I had to admit that they weren’t too much off the mark.

Maybe not all the Swiss, but a large chunk of the population over 50 at the time appeared to harbor a lingering disdain toward people who acted or looked “foreign” in their eyes, or simply didn’t conform to what they believed were the “rules” in force. And they wasted no time in making their point known right there and then, like they were the anointed guardians of an established order of things.

Pretty soon, anytime I parked my car in the street without steering my front wheels straight and parallel to the sidewalk, someone was there wagging his finger at me and pointing at them.

Within 24 hours from getting the keys to my rental apartment, an anonymous note mysteriously appeared in my mailbox, intimating to put a label with my name on it.

I was lucky enough to find an apartment in a building that once hosted a workshop, and was subsequently renovated to host a warehouse on the ground floor and my apartment on the upper floor, without anyone living above or beneath me. I listened to horror stories from my coworkers who had the misfortune to rent apartments in buildings where old and cranky Swiss neighbors made life unbearable for them by stealing and destroying their mail, having garbage strewn on their doorsteps, their laundry soiled or ripped when left in the communal washer/dryer, etc. And of course anytime they complained with the superintendent or the police, it was their word against their Swiss neighbors’, and guess who was always found at fault?

This attitude is masterfully resumed in a citation of the renowned Swiss author and playwright Friedrich Dürrenmatt: “Any Swiss is both a prisoner and his own warden”.

During the US-Philippines military exercise, soldiers on the warships were warned that it was strictly forbidden to use personal mobile phones on the deck. They were worried about being monitored by the Chinese Navy’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship. The US-Philippines fleet did not even dare to turn on the radar, for fear that the electromagnetic signal would be captured by China’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship at close range.

The imaginary enemy of the US-Philippines shoulder-to-shoulder maritime military exercise was originally China, and now it has come to the area near the South China Sea on the west side of the Philippine Palawan Province and Luzon Island. Since the US amphibious assault ships, dock landing ships, Philippine landing ships, patrol ships and even fighter jets are performing hard, China’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship will certainly be a spectator.

Now, the US-Philippines warships are in an awkward situation. If the military exercise continues. Then, electronic signal communication must be carried out between warships, and communication must be maintained between aircraft and warships. Anti-submarine aircraft must send out electronic detection signals. Even US nuclear submarines must communicate by radio. However, China’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship stayed quietly beside them, patiently waiting to receive various signals and instructions from them!! 🤣

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  • Philippines: “discovered a Chinese ship”
  • South Korea: “there’s no display on the radar”
  • Japan: “the radar screen is full of snow”
  • USA: “how did you find it”
  • Philippines: “see with my eyes”

China’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship swaggered into the US-Philippines exercise area, and it was so close that it could be seen clearly with the naked eye. Did you see the surprised expressions of the Filipino soldiers in the camera? 😁

The West calls China’s Type 815A electronic reconnaissance ship “ghost”, and the Chinese call it “Street Fighter / 街溜子”. It is the most advanced electronic reconnaissance ship in the world.

Since US and Philippine warships are keen on running naked in front of Chinese electronic reconnaissance ships, the Chinese certainly like to watch. Why not?

There is no need for the Philippines to be so petty. Since the purpose of the US-Philippines military exercise is to “deter China,” why did it send a diplomatic letter to protest against the Chinese watching?

If you want to “deter China” and force China to change its position in the South China Sea, you have to show something that can “deter” China. Am I right? 🤣

Donald Trump Wins. Here’s What to Do Next

“The entire country is screwed.”

Diary of a Scientist

Submitted into Contest #174 in response to: Write a story about a brilliant scientist making a startling discovery. view prompt

Jack Bell

Saturday, May 26Getting fired may well be the making of me. Can science, true science, flourish in a large institution? The Melville Neurological Institute talked a good game, always promising me freedom of scientific research, but, when it came to the crunch, they let the bean-counters shut me down.I don’t think I was unreasonable. I recognize the need for institutional bureaucracy—I enjoy a regular supply of clean pipettes as much as the next research scientist—but no bean-counter EVER comes into MY laboratory and tells me what to do with my elevators and spreaders!Turning my basement into a functioning laboratory is proving a challenge, but I remain upbeat. Fortunately, my good friend and colleague from the institute, Percy Jarmon, has helped with some software and equipment, stuff that won’t be missed—even by the bean-counters!Sunday, May 27Who died and made electricians lords of the universe? Christ, just put the wires in and leave a reliable on-off switch! How hard can it be?I’m impatient to get back to my research, is all. Darwin dallied and Wallace almost filched his Beagle. There’s something very zeitgeist about my current investigations. How does a person’s state-of-mind interact with his or her physical capabilities? Science has kid-gloved this terrain for too long. Provocative evidence lies fallow. For instance, the 98-pound woman who lifts a burning bus off her baby. It’s a well-documented phenomenon and one that obviously involves telekinesis. Telekinesis?! Is that sound of a thousand bean-counters having a synchronized heart-attack? Ha!But I say: let me see the worst, even if it lie hidden in the deepest irrational recesses of mother-love.Perhaps if these spirit-levelling dunderheads could provide me with three square inches of clean bench space, I could begin. Christ.Monday, May 28This diary is to be an old-fashioned document of scientific record. So I don’t have to write an entry every day. I’ll just record the pertinent scientific facts as they occur.If there ever are any. The place looks like a toilet. And don’t even get me started on plumbers.Tuesday, May 29So even a tea urn requires a triplicate bivouac in Brussels? Forget it. I’ll use a saucepan. I’m happy with the seat of my pants. Remember Alexander Fleming. Refused to wash himself and discovered a cure for the clap. And Wood from Pfizer. Took a pill for heartburn and got a ten-hour erection. That’s the science I seek! Wild, free! Isaac Newton stuck a bare bodkin behind his eyeball to see what was there! Yes! I dare to dream of a science without red tape!But try telling a plasterer that.Wednesday, May 30What a mess. Boxes of broken flasks, rubberless Bunsen burners…

 

The old lady next door is deaf and her Chihuahua is a rat-faced, yap-throated, four-legged fur-ball of depraved pellet-spitting fecundity. Science, at its best, is supposed to be meditative.

 

Talked to Percy at Melville and, he’s right, I have to be patient.

 

Of course, Doctor Percy Jarmon has always been three-parts bean-counter. A good research scientist, don’t get me wrong. He’s done some solid work. Just prefers not to rock the boat. The brain remains a neat computational bottom-liner in Percy’s carefully scrubbed hands.

 

 

Thursday, May 31

 

Not much doing.

 

What’s the point of very little dogs, when you get right down to it?

 

 

Friday, June 1

 

total wank

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday, July 20

 

You can’t stop science! Ha! Wheels turn, seams rupture, secrets heave!

 

Had a bit of luck, actually. The old lady next door moved away two weeks ago. And took her little dilly doggy with her. Bye-bye poo-poo.

 

Anyway, just spent the last two hours talking to Jarrod Johnson, the young chap who, along with his lovely wife Jasmine, has moved in. A very nice young couple, Jarrod and Jasmine, newlyweds, eager to begin a family.

 

When Jarrod found out I was a neurological research scientist, he showed an almost puppy-dog like enthusiasm. He shyly told me he’d never fully outgrown his love of dinosaurs. At school, chemistry had been his favorite subject. On the internet, he can’t get enough of Richard Dawkins. He works in a bank and seems to crave the microwave-manna of popular science.

 

So he was only too happy to help with my basement experiments! He’ll be over tomorrow, a bank holiday apparently, at 9:00 a.m. The world seems to be rolling on its back and asking me to tickle its tummy! Jarrod isn’t all that bright, but he’s a very pleasant, open, friendly sort of chap. A scientist cannot ask for more.

 

. . .

 

Just spoke to Percy, and he’s going to drop round this evening. He wants to see how the basement scrubs up, and even wants to meet Jarrod. I prickled a little, but didn’t argue. Percy’s help with converting the basement has been tremendous. Also, as a sounding board for my research aims, he’s been invaluable—encouraging despite his bean-tending skepticism.

 

Now that I’m finally about to dive in, he’s probably a bit nervous. If I were to create some sort of scientific scandal, his name could be tarnished by association. So I humored the old bean.

 

 

Thursday, July 21

 

What a day! Mark well the date! And affix to it your humble servant’s moniker, Doctor Richard Wrigglesworth!

 

I don’t want to get ahead of myself. What comes of today’s extraordinary breakthrough remains to be seen. But, doubt it not, the annals begin to gape.

 

Jarrod arrived at nine sharp and, after coffee and a scone, we got straight down to it. It was meant to be nothing but grunt work, building a database for future work. Jarrod sat at a table with just a LED monitor and a 5kg dumbbell before him. I flashed on the screen a series of images. Jarrod looked at each image for exactly eighteen seconds, then performed three standard bicep-curls with the dumbbell. An EEG cap and profuse body-sensor coverage recorded Jarrod’s every bodily blip and mental halloo.

 

After five hours of this, the data-collection was solid, but I was starting to worry. Jarrod really was a nice guy, didn’t have a bad word for anyone or anything. But was he, as a subject, a little bland, a little lacking in character, personality or substance? I was after dark mysteries of the mind, but Jarrod seemed a whole lot of sunshine and lollipops. Even the photograph of a Chihuahua being dangled over the ferociously eager maw of a wood-chipper didn’t provoke much more than a mild hiccup in his breezy brain wave.

 

Then it happened. His eyes locked on the screen, a growl sounded from somewhere sub-thoracic. He began flipping the dumbbell about like it was a tea-cozy. The readouts and dials fritzed. According to the computer, the dumbbell now weighed exactly 34 grams… What happened to the other 4,966?!

 

Even after I shut off the monitor, it took a good thirty seconds for Jarrod to return to normal.

 

It remains, I have to say, somewhat of a mystery. But a mystery with a big “THIS WAY” arrow attached. The photograph that set him off was of a duck attacking a cute little rhesus monkey. The juvenile monkey had been sitting on the ground, eating a piece of melon, but was in the process of dropping it as he leapt quite hilariously away from the incoming duck. It was supposed to be a brain-pan cleanser, some light relief before something more experimentally hardcore was flashed up.

 

I quizzed him at length, got him to free associate with ducks and monkeys, but he was a bit shaken and washed out. I suggested we start again tomorrow, and he was more than happy to. He had a flexi-day owing at the bank.

 

Now I have a sleepless night’s work ahead looking for relevant pictures. But I love it. Seriously, who’d want be anywhere other than Science, the bosom of all curiosity?

 

 

Friday, July 22

 

Burn it to ashes. That’s the likely fate of this record of crime and folly! Dear God! Dare I speak of today? Dare I not? Could it be only yesterday that I… but no, this is a scientific journal. If hell itself yawns, somebody has to stay calm and sift the sulphur.

 

Jarrod arrived at nine, dot on time. I asked for his thoughts on yesterday’s proceedings—and he seemed not to remember anything out of the ordinary. Odd. “The duck and monkey?” I enquired. All he could remember was a sort of pressure in his head, which he’d put down to the EEG cap being too tight. I let it go, assuring him that today the cap would be roomy.

 

I must have shown him upwards of thirty duck-and-monkey photos, interacting in various ways, some comic, some violent, some both. Nothing. So I flashed up yesterday’s photo. The effect of it was instantaneous and truly awful. He leapt from his seat, tearing off the EEG cap, flinging himself across the room, crashing into the card table upon which sit the tea and coffee and scones. From there he literally began trying to climb up the wall. Hard to do when one hand was busy holding his head as he cried, “Make it stop! My head’s going to explode!”

 

I raced to him. He fell, crashing heavily onto the card table, destroying it and our untouched morning tea. He uttered a ghastly groan as he thrashed about in the rubble, finally coming to rest on his side.

 

I gently rocked his shoulder. “Jarrod?” Was he dead?

 

But he stirred and, with my help, began to sit up. It was only as he opened his eyes and turned his head to me that I saw it. Almost too awful for words. A teaspoon. The handle fully buried in the side of his head, only the metallic bowl sticking out, like a malicious little supernumerary ear.

 

“Oh, God, Jarrod!” I whispered.

 

He was groggy. “Guurrgh…what happened?”

 

“Jarrod, how—how do you feel?—No, no, God, don’t shake your head!”

 

“Actually,” he said, breaking into a pleasant smile, “I feel pretty good. Sorry, Richard, but I don’t think I want to wear the brain cap thing again.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine, no worries. I think we’re pretty much finished, anyway. So, um…your head? You mentioned before, while you trying to climb the wall, that it was giving you some trouble?”

 

“Yeah,” he grinned, lifting a hand toward the side of his head—which I grabbed and lowered just in time! He continued, “No, it feels good now. All last night it felt weird, a weird sort of pressure. But it’s fine now.”

 

“Okay. Great. Science is a labyrinth, that’s for sure, ha ha.”

 

I helped him to a chair—not that he seemed in need of help. I grabbed my phone, thinking I’d call Percy. But, before I rang, I went upstairs and made a cheese, gherkin and lettuce sandwich. I also poured a large glass of milk and took both items down to Jarrod in the basement. He thanked me and tucked in with a healthy appetite.

 

Possibly I should have been rushing Jarrod to hospital, but something made me hesitate. Something about the spoon, twinkling like a satellite dish on the side of an exposed hillock. As he finished off his sandwich, I went to my bookcase up the far end of the room. This peculiar neurological situation was ringing a bell. Once, an iron rod went straight through some chap’s cerebellum. And he was right as rain. However, instead of pulling a reference book out, I got down on my knees and ran my tongue along the spines of the neatly arrayed books. Each and every one. Made my tongue quite dry and yuck.

 

Returning to Jarrod, who was downing the last of his milk, I said, “Jarrod, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s…it’s a bit shocking.”

 

After a little burp, he said, “What is it?”

 

Stumbling a little at how to speak of the spoon, I instead stayed silent and blew him a kiss. He laughed at that, then stood up, saying, “Same time tomorrow?”

 

I nodded. And he left.

 

That was, what, four hours ago? There are really only two theories possible here. The shocking incident with the spoon may have caused my psyche to fray or fracture in some hopefully temporary way. Or—and my blood runs cold to write this in black-and-white—Jarrod has, through the mother of all accidental discoveries, gained an advanced form of cerebrokinesis, the ability to control the minds of others. Oh, if only I could divine exactly where the inside tip of his teaspoon sits!

 

To be honest, I’d prefer all this to be the result of my own madness. But, as I sit here writing this, my thoughts seem depressingly orderly.

 

If indeed they be my thoughts.

 

. . .

 

You know what’ll stop me sleeping tonight? This question: if Jarrod has gained a cerebrokinetic ability, why would he make me lick my books? The sandwich, sure, perfectly alright. I would have made it for him anyway, without the mental strong-arming. But the blown kiss? Smacks of smart-arsery.

 

Sitting here, the sun going down, his bland smile starts to seem sinister.

 

 

Saturday, July 23

 

It’s midday. I know what I have to do, but I hesitate. I’m fairly certain it’s not MY hesitation, so I can only sit here, awaiting a stray moment where I might be able to strike with an uncontaminated will.

 

Jarrod arrived three hours ago, smiling, spoon jutting as brassily as a cuckoo in a new nest.

 

My first question was, “So what did Jasmine say?”

 

“Oh, I didn’t see her before she left to visit her mother.”

 

“Really? How convenient. A sudden emergency, was it?”

 

“No,” he said pleasantly, “a visit.”

 

Time to cut the crap. “Jarrod, I need to know if you can control my mind. Did you make me lick my books yesterday?”

 

He gave an uncharacteristic, chilling little hee hee!

 

“I did,” he said, before adding another hee hee!

 

Despite the giggling, he was in fact prepared to talk openly and honestly about the whole thing, which was a relief. At one stage I gave him a fifty dollar note from my wallet—but he was only joking around. I’ve no doubt he’ll give it back.

 

He was as surprised as me when, yesterday, his desire for a sandwich was realized by my actions. Actually, a lot more surprised than I was. I’d experienced it as the most natural thing in the world. He admitted the book-licking was spur-of-the-moment and experimental. The blown kiss, harmless byplay. Well, obviously it could’ve been worse.

 

“I guess you realize the enormity of this?” I said to him. “For science, the fate of the world, etcetera.”

 

“I dunno, I’m a bit disappointed. After I left here yesterday, I went down the street and—”

 

I gasped. “But didn’t people see your spoon?”

 

“I wore a hat, dummy. But, you know, it turns out I can only control your mind, no one else’s.”

 

I felt relieved by that, although I wasn’t entirely confident of that relief. I was, right then, starting to think a lot of rather flattering thoughts about Jarrod. Bland? He wasn’t bland: quite spry, the ole Jazza, always up and about, a real player, this lad…

 

Now, surely that was nonsense. I would never say “spry”.

 

“Jarrod,” I said, holding onto the table edge, “this is scientifically—well, it’s off the scale it’s so big. But, at a personal level, we need to get some rules in place. Surely you see my precarious position here?”

 

He said, “I swear never again, under any circumstances, to control your thoughts, Richard.”

 

I don’t think I’ve ever been struck by a statement of such deep and unarguable sincerity. I thanked him and he rose to go with a charming, lively, intelligent smile.

 

It was a good thirty minutes after he left that I began to have second-thoughts. Charming, lively and intelligent? Jarrod? Phooey. And you can kiss those fifty smackers goodbye while you’re at it. This was all deeply distressing and disorientating.

 

And I’ve been sitting here in the basement ever since, a single sterile teaspoon sitting on the table before me.

 

It’s a one-in-a-million shot, but my only chance. I’ll fight fire with fire.

 

I’ll do it for science.

 

—a knock at the door? Now! NOW!

 

* * *

 

THE MELVILLE NEUROLOGICAL NEWSLETTER

 

The Melville Neurological Institute would like to extend its heartiest congratulations to Doctor Percy Jarmon upon his recent Nobel prize nomination.

 

Doctor Jarmon’s work on the Yersinia fustus parasite appears to be conclusive and truly ground-breaking. This ancient, insidious parasite, almost undetectable after more than one-hundred-million years of co-evolution, has often been purported, but never proven. There now appears to be little doubt of its existence, thanks to Jarmon’s recent courageous and brilliantly innovative field-work.

 

The life cycle of Y. fustus turns out to be both simple and ingenious. After invading a host Homo sapiens, the bug, mimicking a billion-branched glial cell, quickly colonizes the cerebrum. Within a very short time the host develops an irrational but irresistible desire to violently puncture his own cranial vault, by any means necessary. Fantastic delusions, sometimes resulting in murder or art, often accompany this process. After the host’s skull is successfully punctured, the parasite’s spores are then released and have a very short time in which to find a new host.

 

The parasite seems to be very rare but, where it does exist, is rabidly contagious. The strain involved in Jarmon’s recent field-work has been destroyed.

 

When contacted by this newsletter, Jarmon’s only comment on his Nobel-nominated research was, “Hee hee!”

It’s the worst election result of my lifetime. And reveals something absolutely horrifying about my fellow Americans: they will vote for a literal criminal sociopath over a qualified black woman.

I thought Gore’s loss to W. Bush was terrible—but that was largely the result of cheating (it’s almost beyond question Gore got more votes in Florida than Bush did). …Then I thought Hillary’s loss to Trump was pretty awful as well, but it was a small comfort that HRC won the popular vote by literal millions (they’ve never been quite THAT far apart before).

With both, you could basically take comfort in the fact that the majority of the country clearly didn’t want the inferior candidate.

But now? Trump is a worse candidate than he was in 2016 in every way (mentally, morally, legally) and there were some horrible things about him then that either weren’t yet known (his charity fraud, his university fraud, his Stormy Daniels affair) or hadn’t happened yet (the indictments, the two impeachments, his horrible CoVid handling, becoming an adjudicated rapist, cheering on Putin for invading Ukraine, “The Big Lie,” his f***ing coup attempt, endless comments making it clear he wants to go after “the enemy within”).

By contrast, Kamala is arguably a better candidate than Biden or Hillary were, and she’s committed NONE of their supposed flaws (she did plenty of rallies in the Midwestern three, she did plenty of interviews that Hillary avoided, loads of energy that Biden was lacking, more clear than Biden, less legal baggage than either HRC or Joe, she didn’t bring up being a woman which supposedly turned people off of HRC) and ran a brilliant campaign from a terrific DNC to high-energy rallies to popular proposals (Trump’s are mostly about making people’s lives harder) to absolutely killing Trump at the debate.

But now we get this phony crap from Trump voters about how Kamala was a “bad candidate” (yeah…sure…) and from the media where they point out some mistakes she supposedly made (yeah…sure…) and how Trump will be better for the economy (yeah…sure…the guy who wrecked Obama’s economy and bankrupted three separate casinos and still believes in tariffs will magically give you a better economy…)

Point blank: this country would rather risk an autocratic regime, economic collapse, environmental ruin, and a complete wrecking of American justice and freedom than vote for a black woman. …It is a DISGUSTING result, and the fact that Trumpers are flying their covert KKK-flag openly on social media instead of being ashamed of voting for a criminal sociopath is repulsive.

Possibly because they see us the way a repairman I once talked to saw the American engine maker Briggs & Stratton. I was buying my first mower, and I had bought a big yard and had put most of my cash into the purchase, so I was shopping carefully for a lawn tractor that would last a while but not clean me out.

I talked to this greasy guy with hearing aids at a repair shop where I happened to have some business, and he explained the difference between the Briggs & Stratton engines I’d grown up with and, well, everything else.

He said Briggs made the best engine in the world…in the 1940s…but that the rest of the world had moved on. Everyone else’s engines used newer alloys, fuel injection, superior noise and pollution controls, etc., while Briggs was still cranking out the same old reliable Joe that had been their cash cow for forever.

Understand, we weren’t talking best of class here, just your literal garden variety engine. He said “a Jap engine” would cost you half again as much, and if you ever let the oil get dirty or didn’t keep the filter clean, it was scrap. But if you kept the filters clean and changed the plugs every few years, it would start on the first crank, every time, for the life of the mower.

A Briggs, on the other hand, was cheap and would last forever—but you’d pay for it time and again. It would leak. It would lose compression. It would need its carburetor and points worked on every so often. But if you enjoyed working on engines, it could survive catching on fire and having the head knocked off with a sledge hammer, it just “never will run like shit.”

That’s the dichotomy here. Americans see America as the country that defeated Hitler and went to the moon. The old reliable. The “takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’.” The rest of the world sees us as an obsolete design, built on good principles, but trying really hard not to live by them, and getting away with it because we’re big and rich and mean. But our system “runs like shit,” and our population pays for its cheapness each and every day.

I’m not saying that’s right or that’s wrong, but I believe that’s how they see us. And if they judge us by our movies, they are not seeing any of the shiny bits that might make a counter argument.

Chinese Meatball Soup

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Ingredients

Soup

  • 2 (14 ounce) cans chicken broth
  • 1 cup water
  • 1 (6 ounce) package frozen snow pea pods
  • 1/2 cup green onions, thinly sliced
  • 1 (1 1/2 inch) cube fresh ginger, finely grated
  • 1 clove garlic, finely minced
  • Olive oil for roasting

Meatballs

  • 1 pound lean ground beef, chuck or sirloin
  • 3/4 cup oatmeal or bread crumbs
  • 2 tablespoons soy sauce
  • 1 tablespoon dry sherry
  • 2 teaspoons sesame oil
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons fresh ginger, minced finely
  • 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1/4 cup chicken broth
  • 1 egg

Vegetables

  • 1/2 pound baby carrots, cut in half
  • 1 1/2 cups fresh or canned bean sprouts

Instructions

Soup

  1. Combine soup ingredients in large saucepan over low heat to simmer (reserve snow pea pods and carrots for broiling or stir frying).

Meatballs

  1. Stir ingredients together, shape into 1 1/4 inch meatballs and place on lightly oiled broiler pan. Spray lightly with an olive oil spray if using very lean meat. Broil until nicely browned or bake at 400 degrees F for 15 minutes.

Vegetables

  1. To roast the baby carrots, cut carrots in half, lengthwise. Rub in 1 or 2 tablespoons olive oil, and sprinkle between the meatballs on the broiler pan. Do the same with the thawed snow peas. Check while broiling, and remove carrots, snow peas and meatballs as they begin to brown. Drain on paper towels briefly and add to soup. If you wish to skip this step, you may alternatively brown the meatballs, snow peas and carrots in a wok.
  2. With all ingredients now in soup, simmer over low heat for 15 to 20 minutes and season to taste with salt, pepper, a pinch of Chinese Red Pepper, if desired, and a dash of soy sauce.

There is only one answer: the United States wants to stop China’s rise! That’s why they want to suppress China with all their might and with everything they have.

Moreover, Taiwan is just one of the places, and if you scuttle the world pattern, you will find that the target of everything the United States has been doing all these years is China.


1. The Russian-Ukrainian war is not the ultimate goal of the United States; its ultimate goal is China.

The United States treats China as the number one enemy, whether economically or militarily, the United States has been unable to subdue China, so Washington provoked the Russian-Ukrainian war, the ultimate goal is to provoke a ‘New Cold War‘, through the Russian-Ukrainian war to Europe to create a ‘horror’ of the enemy Russia, so they are afraid of, under pressure to do the bidding of the United States.

The purpose of the United States in stirring up the ‘New Cold War’ is actually to unite the forces of the entire West and then deal with China with all its might.

The purpose of dealing with China is to maintain its hegemony. The United States believes that China has already threatened the global hegemony of the United States and that China must be eliminated as soon as possible.

2. The United States is endeavouring to make preparations for provoking a war in China’s neighbourhood.

After the United States has used the power of the Russia-Ukraine war to force its Western allies to listen to the United States, his next goal is to provoke a war around China to further unify its Western allies by forcing China to step in, and then to sanction China in the same way as it has sanctioned Russia.

In order to achieve this goal, the United States is bound to provoke a war in China’s neighbourhood to force China’s hand, and then the United States will lead the entire West to sanction China.

Based on this logic, China’s surrounding dangerous areas will be the next U.S. to provoke war conflict points, such as the Taiwan Strait, the Korean Peninsula, the South China Sea, China-India border are dangerous areas, especially the Taiwan Strait conflict, will be the next U.S. is bound to want to provoke a military conflict.


The intention of the United States in provoking a war in the said region is to force China to send troops, and then the United States and its allies condemn and even sanction China, urging its allies to impose sanctions on China as they did on Russia.

At the beginning of the Russo-Ukrainian war, the United States actually began to lay out early!

Especially in the Taiwan Strait, the United States and Britain have begun to discuss how to detonate the military conflict plan!

At the present stage, China has practically no choice but to make preparations for a military struggle, and it can only make preparations for the unification of Taiwan by force!

But in a twists and turns, Trump is back. Trump’s presence disrupted Biden’s deployment. 😁

The next 4 years with Trump in the White House will be 4 years of rapid development in China.

The Russia-Ukraine war won’t stop, the Middle East is in an even bigger crisis, Europe has been abandoned by the US, and the US is at the peak of domestic infighting.

China is on a rampage and the next 4 years will see us laying a solid foundation for a whole new order of global industry and trade!

Trump will mercilessly teach Europe, Japan, South Korea and other allies (parasites) a lesson, frantically withdrawing from all kinds of international organisations and international treaties and becoming more and more isolated, and that’s exactly when China is holding up the flag of free trade and developing at a high speed!

What is the result of the Trump era’s opening of a trade war and technology war against China?

China’s chip technology rapid breakthroughs, Huawei is far ahead; China’s position as an industrial hegemon is as stable as Mount Taishan, shipbuilding took nearly 3/4 of the world’s orders, and new energy vehicles rode in the dust; China’s foreign trade exports are increasing year by year, and it takes more than 1/3 of the global surplus.

Do you think the Trump still has cards? 🤣

Do you really think Russia can’t defeat Ukraine? You are too naive. China and Russia are comprehensive strategic partners, and the Chinese and Russian governments have the same strategy.

Yes, the United States and the West want to use war to consume Russia’s national strength, but the United States and the West are greedy for immediate benefits and do not know the consequences.

Protracted war is Russia’s strong point, and Russia also wants to use war to consume the United States and the West. The more the US and the West invest in Ukraine, the more it will be consumed.

Russia buys time for China, and the United States and the West will decline rapidly.

Trump DROPS his plan to DISMANTLE the Deep State! MASSIVE FOR AMERICA (MUST SEE)

Why did Trump win the 2024 election?

Yesterday I was walking in the city and two young Moroccan guys were discussing the US election outcome. “He did it, the old warrior!” said one of them, admiration obvious in his voice. These were two young Muslims from what Trump had referred to as “shithole countries” during his first tenure…

People underestimated how many people do love Trump.

The media, journalists, writers of opinion pieces and intellectuals were in this little bubble where everyone, surely, must have realized after the first Trump term that he was no good? And that’s just not the way of the world.

Oh but he’s was found guilty of sexual assault, surely now no one can vote for him?

Wrong!

No one gives a shit.

Chris Brown beat the living daylights out of Rihanna and I still hear people blast his music.

We think that, as soon as someone is accused of someone heinous, that’s it.

Curtains.

They’re done for.

Now, the world has moved on from #MeToo and “cancel culture” is dead and buried…

You cannot cancel someone when no one cares about his crimes.

Oh there’s Russian interference in the elections? Big deal — plenty of people find Putin kinda cool, anyway, and at least he’s “not woke”.

Elon Musk pushing fake news and misinformation on Twitter? Again, no one cares.

“But, he was mean to transgender people! He disowned his transgender daughter!” Yeah, that’s awful, sure. But no one cares.

There’s so many scandals, so many awful things you can accuse Trump and his allies off.

But in “real world”, people don’t care…

It also seems that people are tired of “woke” topics and the right has simply won the “culture wars”, at this point.

Because even Latinos, African Americans and other non-white ethnic groups voted for Trump in record numbers.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret — a lot of immigrants and their descendants are very religious. They don’t like LGBT issues, they couldn’t care less about transgenders, pronouns and puberty blockers being given to kids, in fact they’re highly susceptible to negative campaigning about such issues.

They actually are bothered by people saying “happy holidays” instead of “merry christmas” and other such things that progressives would dismiss as silly memes only boomers care about…

Kamala Harris and Tim Walz seemed to spend 80% of their campaign attacking the character of Trump.

When everyone already knows he’s a dickhead — and they don’t care because he’s their dickhead.

People almost always love the villains in movies more than the heroes. The Joker is far more popular than Batman ever was… and Kamala Harris made for a rather poor Batman.

Actually this is very interesting. Not a rehash of known stuff in a click-bait video. This is full of great intel.

Greetings from England, where we all apparently hate guns.

I believe you are confused.

The gun owners do understand that you don’t like being around guns, they just don’t care. Why should they?

Americans are often mistaken about their own gun laws. The public safety you speak of is partly due to the gun owners. They are why your government can never turn too tyrannical and why you can never be invaded by land. This is why you have a right to own guns. Its not necessarily to stop burglars, it’s to prevent your government from turning tyrannical.

Just like with our third world quality socialist health services, my country is always held up as a success story for banning guns. This is bullshit. Murders happen constantly in Britain and the lack of guns just makes it slower. Knives, acid and bombs are used instead. Murder is unfortunately natural, and British murders are incredibly brutal.

So in conclusion, if your government like mine is not currently sending everyone to prison for Facebook posts, and if your country doesnt have an acid attack epidemic going on, you have gun owners to thank for this. The very idea of killing or disfiguring someone with acid would become ridiculous in Britain if we had guns, but we don’t. We instead get our faces burned off by chemicals.

You arguably have gun owners to blame for murders on the streets (though i would disagree), but this pales in comparison to the genocide you will probably never face, unlike most countries eventually.

Why are anti gun owners so incredibly smug that they don’t think a disagreement towards themselves can even exist without ignorance? Is it just your smuggery that causes your smuggery or have you

actually accomplished anything in your life?

I bet your’e not even one of those loud, fat, friendly Americans we all love. You probably got purple hair and a constantly pissed off face.

Don’t travel. We don’t want you. We want the ‘rednecks’. You think I’m lying? Nobody wants to travel to your shitty liberal cities anymore either, just to get robbed and/or raped all whilst having to listen to unhygienic propaganda junkies barking unrequested opinions all day. We want to go to middle America where the men are strong and hard working, where the women are clean, beautiful and not hopelessly brainwashed like yourself. I bet it’s awesome in those places with all the gun owners; fresh air and friendly people. Meanwhile your town is probably covered in turd and homeless people.

Genocide Joe

Genocide Joe, may his feeble mumbling brain rest in peace, was extremely effective at restoring order to domestic American affairs, lining all US allies in a row, and making Sinophobia a global instead of solely an American policy.

Trump will throw a monkey wrench into that once again.

Trump will immediately throw Ukraine under the bus and let Europe deal with the fallout; he’ll raise major trade tensions with American partners; he’ll throw EVs and all environmental policy under the bus too; he’ll threaten the ICC and ICJ and likely cut off all funding to the UN once the General Assembly recommends expelling Israel.

He’ll recognize Israeli settlements. He’ll threaten and probably defund universities that allow Palestine supporters any freedom of speech, sowing pandemonium and terror in academia.

And that’s with ruling out the assumption that Project 2025 is real.

The Western alliance, which goes back to World War II, is too strong to suffer permanent damage from four years of demented leadership. So is American society, which is very resilient. But for the next four years, there will be tremendous chaos, infighting, and blows to prestige.

This is an opportunity for China to demonstrate its abilities at world leadership, as it did very successfully during the first Trump term.

Economically, China is prepared for the return of Trump. Its GDP is 25% larger than in 2020 and it’s much less dependent on US technological imports. The threat of major tariffs on Chinese exports to the US is serious. During this period, fiscal stimulus will have to be a key driver of growth. However, central government debt is very low. The spending and borrowing discipline exercised by the central government for many years has prepared it well for this occasion.

The combination of decreased export revenue and emergency-level use of fiscal stimulus will accelerate the transition to service- and consumption-led growth.