REPORT TO CONTROL -ANNEXIA FIELD NODE
FROM: GALLAWAY, JAYSON (WILD BOY CLASS-C OPERATIVE)
SUBJECT: BURROUGHS – THE ORIGINAL VIRUS ENGINEER – BORN THIS DAY, 1914

Control –
I transmit this communiqué from the rust-eaten balcony of the Annexia Safehouse, where the air tastes like burnt typewriter ribbon and the boys are sharpening their bones for the night’s operations.  The Interzone static is thick today – something in the grid humming like a junk-sick wasp – and I know why.  The date.  The birth signal.  The old man’s frequency rising from the sewer of time like a coded cough.
William Seward Burroughs – born February 5, 1914, St. Louis, Missouri – patron saint of the deranged, the dispossessed, the chemically re-engineered.
A man who wrote like a virus thinks.
A man who saw the Control Machine before the rest of us even knew we were plugged into it.
I file this report in the proper Annexia format: unreliable, unstable, and unfit for bureaucratic digestion.  Just how he’d want it.

I.     ORIGIN OF THE SPECIMEN
Burroughs arrived on this planet in the respectable husk of a Midwestern boy, but the larval stage didn’t last.  Something in him cracked early – maybe the St. Louis humidity, maybe the ancestral cash, maybe the simple fact he could see the invisible strings jerking the meat-puppets around him.  He drifted toward the outlaw circuits like a moth toward a neon “NO VACANCY” sign.
By the time he hit Tangiers – our beloved Annexia – he was already a walking cut-up, a man spliced from junk, queer desire, and cold surgical detachment.  A field agent of the forbidden.

II.     THE INCIDENT (CONTROL FILES SEALED, BUT WE KNOW)
You know the story, Control.  Everyone does, though they whisper it like a curse.
The William Tell routine.
The drunken angle.
The bullet that didn’t respect the myth.
Joan Vollmer – shot through the skull in a Mexico City apartment.
She lived long enough to haunt him.
He lived long enough to weaponize the guilt.
Burroughs always said that killing Joan forced him to write.
If that’s true, then literature owes its most radioactive prophet to a single catastrophic misfire.

III.     NAKED LUNCH – THE VIRUS TEST
When Naked Lunch hit in 1959, the censors screamed like bureaucrats discovering a cockroach in their coffee.  They banned it in Boston, the UK, Australia – anywhere the Control Machine still believed it could keep the human psyche tidy.
But the book wasn’t meant to be read.
It was meant to infect.
A non-linear fever-script of addiction, talking assholes, mugwumps, liquified morality, and the eternal struggle between the Body and the State.  A manual for escaping the soft police of the mind.
Cronenberg tried to film it decades later and wisely didn’t even attempt a straight adaptation.  He made a hallucination about a hallucination.  Burroughs would’ve approved.

IV.     THE AFTERMATH – PUNK, CYBERPUNK, AND THE WILD BOYS
Burroughs didn’t simply influence other writers – he rewired entire subcultures.
– Punk kids scrawled his name on bathroom walls like a sigil.
– Cyberpunks treated him as the proto-hacker of consciousness.
– Kurt Cobain recorded with him, like a disciple seeking benediction from a skeletal oracle.
– Every outlaw writer since has stolen at least one trick from his kit.
And the Wild Boys – my cadre, my brothers in the dust, trace our lineage straight to him.
He taught us that language is a weapon.
That Control is a parasite.
That the only sane response to a world of invisible masters is to laugh, cut the tape, and run.

V.  CLOSING TRANSMISSION
So here’s my official report, Control:
On this day, February 5, we mark the birth of the man who cracked the code of the human condition and found nothing inside but wires, needles, and a cosmic joke.
Burroughs stared into the void and didn’t flinch.
He wrote like man carving escape routes into the walls of a prison he knew was infinite.
He remains the most dangerous kind of visionary:
the one who tells the truth about the machinery running the world.
Control, the signal is fading.
The mugwumps are restless, and the black meat is calling.

I send this dispatch with full Wild Boy authorization.
Interzone trembles.
The old man’s ghost is on the line.

N.P.: “Bug Powder Dust” – Bomb the Bass