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Smoking Man

David has cast his net with skill and pulled in a fat bounty of
lurkers.  For some, the thought of bigger fish, observing silently from
just outside the circle of light, floating through a darkened mist
unwitnessed, unheard, weighs heavily upon them.  So where are the the
smoking men, chuckling to themselves, quiet and throaty, in dark
windowless rooms?  Sipping cold, stained mugs of coffee in the deep
recesses of unknown facilities, judging us with passing and ambiguous
interest.  Manipulating the threads of our enterprise, as a boy
redirects the unwavering purposefulness of marching ants along a blade
of grass.  The puppet-master, the illuminatus mirabilis, for whom our
whole culture is but a toy among many, eventually to be discarded.  
These are the lurkers we fear, yet cannot face.  Show thyself!