French Zombie Police Apocalypse (A True Story)

The blackness is total, deep, endless and absolute. I've been thrust into the soul of French justice - that is, the dark soul of a doomed Jacobin, absent of light. Hate and anger permeate the walls. Terror is her idol. The guards her holy worshippers. A religion of Pilate's madmen and godless Judas judges. Bitter twisted roots come to choke the life, and once that is gone, choke some more until you are nothing but a twisted bitter root, a child of their insanity.

Officer reporting for duty, sir.
I promise to enforce all laws!

I was scooped up by the zombie French cops. French police are notorious as some of the worst thugs in the world. If they really hated thugs they'd arrest themselves. But they'd have to be human to realize that. Once a man agrees to absent himself of thought it's just a matter of time before he turns zombie - badge or no badge. The zombie knows not what it does, thinking/hoping/deluding itself such willful ignorance will save it come judgement day. But even though they act in the name of law and order, it is chaos and destruction they sow like the agents of evil they are.

"Must...arrest...for...pot..."

Their blank eyes told me no human was left to whom I could appeal. Manchurian candidates of the lost, gathering more souls to feed the endless appetite of the furnaces of hell. Only by fresh souls can the monster keep its beating heart alive. Desperate and focused only on its needs, beastly service gives direction to the zombie cops whose lives ache in purposeless despair. Having a direction gives them the illusion of salvation. What does reality mean to a zombie anyway?

The guards never speak, deaf and dumb with their lobotomized souls. They found out centuries ago that to speak only condemns them. So they had to choose: give up their ways or slice off their souls. These monsters of menace serve Satan in the Holy Roman church - what better place for cover? They speak falsely of justice, that it emanates from God. But God is absent all justice of Man. Be ye doomed or saved by the systems of men, know that God had nothing to do with it, neither thank Him nor curse Her.

Feed me more souls!

The voiceless guard monsters of Manson speak only through the wailing of the mentally flailed prisoners as the sanity seeps slowly from their minds. Humanity is the enemy of men, their bloody deeds preach. No society is a villain in its own eyes and maintaining the facade is done at any price, regardless of the lives consumed, proud of the lives consumed upon its altar of lascivious lies. French patrons stroll in the sunshine, sipping wine on a Sunday afternoon as their minions practice the tortures of the hated Nazis of whom they fought and lost.

Who dares shine the mirror? Who dare reflect the face of a prisoners kept 24/7 in a lightless cell of his own shit? Who wants to see such a face reflected in the glass of wine lifted to toast the laughing party? Who wishes to see beyond the facade and be labeled traitor and troublemaker? Who is the patriot who stands up for justice? Who will stop the rot spreading from within? Who realizes insanity and blind obedience can never be justified in the eyes of God and truth.

The guards, the warden, the cops, the judges and the rest of the criminals think they are safe or something. But when judgement day comes the fate for betraying their humanity will be clear and irreversible. Only then will they realize that God's law supersedes man's law in complete and utter finality. That no man can hand his thinking over to another. That no man has the right not to question. That inhumanity can never have a place in a world of humans.

Were I to tell them to clean me up, treat me as a person and bring me into the light, their bent minds would perceive those words as the height of insane behavior. These are dead men walking.

Let's give all this up in the name of pretended justice

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"There was no light switch. There was no light in the cell. There was, in fact, nothing in the cell but a bucket. No bed, no toilet, no wash basin, no drain, nothing. Just the bucket. The cell was not a cell, actually, it was a hole, a raised dungeon perhaps five feet wide, five feet high and five feet deep, with a ceiling and door of steel and a floor and walls of stone.

"The bucket was my latrine. I was not given any toilet paper, nor was the bucket removed after use. I soon adapted to the stench, but after a few days the bucket overflowed and I had to move around and sleep in my own fecal matter. I was too numbed, in body and spirit, to be revolted.

"Lice and other insects small enough to gain admittance to the fetid cell nested in my body hair and feasted on my flesh. I developed sores from my scratching and these became infected from contact with the always present filth. My body soon became a mass of scabs, a living petri dish for the culture of myriad forms of bacteria. In the cramped confines of the hole, shrouded in blackness, I lost my sense of balance and fell often as I attempted to move about, stretch myself or perform simple exercises, nicking or bruising myself against the rough walls or the hard floor and further adding to my wounds."

When the door finally opened:

"I was appalled and sickened as I looked around. The walls were moist and crusted with slimy mold. The ceiling, too, glistened with moisture. The floor was filthy with excrement, and the bucket, unemptied for some time, teemed with maggots. The odious worms were also slithering around the floor."