Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Being Saved Means [War Criminals] Never Have To Say They're Sorry

All alone
At the end of the night,
Twisted dreams
Fade into fright...


He sits in a castle-prison, the strings of power ripped from his clutching hands, his day in the sun passed. The Thousand Year Reich failed yet again to materialize for a madman's dashed hopes, leaving a trail of destruction for his time and times to come. But the ghosts of evening come calling now and no army can he summon to fight this terror. The ghosts of Soldiers Past and Families Present and Babies Future wail into his ears from a place no press release can reach. How shattering to realize he's back where it all began: the drunkard's dilemma - both hating himself and failing himself.

And so he grabs the musty, stale crutch out of his closet and voicelessly slumps into the cripple's pose. No longer can the daylight vampire feed upon the lives of others, laughing as he watched unsuspecting villagers drink from the well he poisoned in the night. He'd been their leader and god to hold above all criticism and like needy children, they could not bear the thought of their god destroyed. He knew this and loathed their patheticness as he loathed his own. "I poison you and you worms revere me. Pardon me while I smirk as you die!" But such joyous times are gone now with the wind.


Looking back, it's all to obvious a disaster. The little boy blowing frogs to bits with firecrackers was a soul destined never to be loved. Love became his enemy and he raged enviously on the sidelines of life as gods flowered while he decayed. There would be many drugs in this boy's life but none would surpass approval. As failures mounted, his suburban nightmare engulfed him in choking despair, invariably cutting him off from approval's relief. His abuse incarnated with drink and drugs, lost in the vague hazy hope of drowning his sorrows and drowning himself.

"One of the heads of the beast seemed to have a fatal wound,
but the fatal wound had been healed.
The whole world was astonished and followed the beast."

- Revelation 13:3

Vultures spotted this prize specimen of rancid soul though, and licked their beaks at the thought of finding one so dumb, a Loser Who Would Believe Anything. They would parade him around in silver boots and fancy lies, knowing this illusion many would buy. Preachers of profit proposed to save him from his living hell with secret rituals that promised a lifetime of undeserved praise and worldly reward. "You're saved now!" officially proclaimed the ordained witches. "In God's eyes you are holy. No longer must you worry about right and wrong." Nor did he.


At the height of the Mayan empire, the emperor would engage in ritualistic masochism in order to divine a vision for the path the empire should follow. The answer was always the same: war. As the Loser gained confidence in his treachery, war lust besieged him also. War legalized the rape and pillage his burning heart desired. Innocents would be slaughtered and lives ripped to pieces - just as he'd done to his - and a populace of Popes would cheer the beast of war with three of every four.

For a short, glorious time, the nightmare dream came true. The Competent Man was the new bad guy - he's not one of the people! Lying was good for the country and only its enemies spoke truth. Cowards were heroes, saving themselves while ordering the deaths of true heroes. He'd made the world a perfect place for such as he and his ilk - he'd made the world his frog.



But those times are never to return. Secretly he was crushed to return to his smelly old crutch but he knew with every fiber of his being that never again must he face a sober moment. The unthinkablity of having been wrong along, of being a butcher and not a savior, that his future lay not in heaven but in hell - these thoughts made his old crutch of emotional drunkenness palatable. The final days for the [anti-Christ 43rd President] will be in his prison of denied conscience, trapped by worldly goods in a snake pit of poisonous lies slithering across his body and biting his writhing flesh, too scared to ever leave, too scared to ever breathe - his death to be not grieved.

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