Mission

As you now have a vague understanding of the inner workings, dilletante opinions, and heroic perturbations of The Infantry, you consequently and necessarily must regard our cause with rapacious celerity of wit, and less with the cavalier whimsy of a consumptive urchin. Forgive the harshness of phrase, but the time has arrived for movement and contention, and a strict adherence to our vision, and avoidance of the alluring tangle of ease and luxury afforded by pardon from our supposed government.

Our Mission, in short (but certainly not limited to) transpires in the cavernous machinery of our minds, as follows:

- Offend; in format and form all practitioners and proponents of the French ruling class, as we have been offended by their iniquitous coercion of our lives.

- Demand; retribution for years spent serving a malicious and entirely unhumorous army in the salty sands of the Sahara, where the nightly menu consisted of various styles of preparing the indiginous jerboa (akin to a mouse of squirrel), where the unearthly potential for contemplation of mass suicide was perpetual, where a man's willingness to wander into the realms of questionable evening companionship was severely compromised on one or two occasions.

- Deny; the icy hold the French riche have over lauded money and prestige. Our thievery will be put to exemplary use, as we remove such items that not only allow people's esteemed regard as an avid partner of the elite, but partially guarantee such repugnant acclamation. For example, should we ever be granted such a fortuitous opportunity, we shall misappropriate the very crown from the pate of our discommodious king, and leave him in the very shambles he begets, denied of his inestimable symbol.

- Disquiet; the very foundations of the earth by complete and utter disregard for the well-being of anyone other than ourselves. Even our loved ones are not free from the fear we shall smite upon the face of France. Fearful as eidolon and shade, we shall carve a doorway to the unpleasantries of darkness, winter, and the wearied coils of the barren roads. We are unaware of how we shall do this at present, but dressing up like ghosts in worn and tattered sheets and jumping out of dark corners seems to be the most profitable consensus.

. . . Our first mission begins tonight, here in Rocamadour.

We shall steal the Black Madonna carving from the church of Notre Dame de Rocamadour off the Plateau of St. Michel, where the fragmented sword of Charlemagne's paladin, Roland, rests in fragments, the holy Durendal. The Black Madonna of this church was said to be carved by St. Amadour, witness to the matyrdom of St. Paul and St. Peter, spouse of St. Veronica, the gentle soul who cleansed the Saviour's face on his long struggle to Calvary.

This carving holds Rocamadour in sway, our reclamation of this holy artifact evokes a staging ground for our dramatic reclamation of the entire canton of Gramat, the whole scope of the arrondisement of Gourdon, every inch of the Lot departement, and in time, my dear brothers in arms, the farthest touch and spindly influence of France . . .

Let us rest, for tonight we move.