Travis was sitting in Cassandra's, nursing on a Fuzzy Navel. The whole bar was taking a lenient view of the alcoholic homeless Vietnam Vet impostor in the corner. He was too far gone to fear the consequences, and belted out a hymn of his own creation at the top of his alcoholic lungs. The refrain was not poetic, but he used it as a rhythmic theme, varying delivery for effect.
...It's ALLLL a cons-spiracy... Nothing is wrong!
He began all over again:
The message from the NSA for the CIA is...
Nothing is wrong.
It's unencrypted...
Nothing is wrong.
...for those who can't decode it...
Nothing is wrong.
In three part harmony...
Nothing is wrong.
He paused for effect;
It's ALLLL a cons--spiracy... Nothing is wrong.
The Government's contract isn't up for another four years...
Nothing is wrong.
Apathy and Negligence are bureaucratic virtues...
Nothing is wrong.
They indemnify and make them deniable...
Noth-ing is wrong.
It's ALLLL a cons--spiracy... Nothing is wrong.
They've controlled the spin...
Nothing is wrong.
They've suppressed the story...
Nothing is wrong.
Communication of potential threats is what TERRORIZES...
(his voice rose temporarily to crescendo...)
Noth-ing is wroooong.
It's ALLLL a cons--spiracy... N-o-t-h-i-n-g i-s w-r-o-n-g.
He finished with a flourish to applause. His audience had been supportive for a moment, but further efforts were drowned out by enthusiastic application of more applause, and he subsided. Travis marveled at his articulation. Pretty good for a drunk. Now he had it running in his head.
It's all a Conspiracy; Nothing is wrong.
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