The Dirty War

Otherwise known as 'A Cell Is Born'.
International bright young thugs like to keep afloat by networking.
They network in the sense of being able to seek out kindred minds, the sort of minds that form alliances.
The reason that they form these alliances is to try and establish Deadly Dull control over their immediate social environment. Not having any sense of safety themselves, they prefer to believe that, together, they can trash the safety zone of any other person, hopefully removing that person's ability to perceive the very crimes they commit against him.

If a girl is beautiful, they will know that they have no chance; but if they actually rape her, it may be possible to convince her that she is the recipient of an overwhelming passion.

Having read the Fountainhead, and perhaps inspired by Cyrano De Bergerac's artifice, they will see a particularly fine woman as a challenge, someone that they can acquire for the group by the means of creating a single hero - one that has been practising on prostitutes - who consummates the fictional 'love' while guarded against intrusion by any number of his allies.
The woman will then be passed around the group until they finally tire of her and send her to make money on the streets, or maybe just give her an overdose.

Strangely, her original suitors will find themselves locked out, rejected, unlucky or just plain given the bum's rush.

Groups such as these are commonplace.

What is not generally known though, is that these groups pervade all levels of society, from the lowest travelling trash(not Gypsies particularly-they would slit throats if anybody tried)to the highest party apparachniks in governments, local or otherwise.

Another game variation that these people like, is the abuse of good people to disabuse them of their propensity to see the truth.
They want to blind us.
And if we see - and act - we will find that the groups mesh like a gearbox, and virtually the entire public face of societies will become an engine, an engine of our destruction.

The more we stand up to them, the worse the storm gets, until we either get killed (as a warning), or we are driven to the shelter of an insane asylum.
Which they like, since when we are there the real lunatics can rest.

Of course we can try to outlast them; real society has limits of stomach, conscience and time; they have to get on with their lives eventually, and so the gears stop turning.

But they still remain, and the man who sees will ever remain their enemy.
'I Just Had To Let It Go'.
That was Lennon's suicide note.
Once in, in forever.

Me?
I've never been interested in games. Except Wargames. And to me, 'Games Without Frontiers, War Without Tears' is a very honest song.
And these games are frequently just that; an attempt to manipulate our perceptions so that we are operated on by what we believe to be the truth as if by some kind of grotesque, non-corporeal scalpel, cutting away our consciences, destroying our convictions and leaving us forever vulnerable to the machinations (and borrowed implications of threat) that these creatures use to spice up their sold-out, jaded 'lifestyles'.

The trick, once we have witnessed the very worst sort of game, is not to confuse implicators with violators.

Oh, and by the way, the reason they want to take our guns away is because they want us to be vulnerable to the thugs. Thugs use muscle.