The Preacher

One day, as I was passing through Lebanon, I came across a crowd at Swine Corners. On the NW corner, standing on a little bandwagon, stood a rather plainly dressed man. He sported a black ribbon tie, starched white shirt, black cut-away morning coat and black trousers. I assume he wore black boots, for the heads of his listeners obscured my vision. Those gathered about him in amphitheatre fashion wore checked cotton shirts and jeans or bib overalls and browned boots.

I asked one of the gathered, “Who’s that speaking?”

He looked me up and down and turned back to his listening. “That’s the preacher, Brother Ron Berptoast.”

“What’s he talking about?”

“He’s impartin’ his vision.”

“What did he envision? God?”

The man turned full around and looked unwaveringly into my face. “We don’t cotton to no ridicule in these here parts. Brother Berptoast is serious business.” And he turned away again.

I decided I would step back and observe the goings-on from the opposite corner. There was a wooden bench there and my legs ached, felt rubbery. I looked up at the sky—glaring blue. I sat, hoping a breeze would come along. My shirt was already wet and salt stained at the pits.

“And it behooved me to pass along my vision, my puissance, my revelation to you, my fellow men.” He fetched his handkerchief from his coat breast pocket and touched his mouth with it. “I say to you. . .I was stranded at the entrance to the chapel when it came upon me. Descended upon me in a bright steel blue flash like the lightning that Paul in the desert saw before his vision. I was blinded, mindless and senseless, to all but the picture put into me from above. I was touched, I say. Touched by the Holiest of Holies.” He dabbed at his upper lip with his sparkling white hanky. The ring on his little finger gleamed too. “And I am here to tell it to you all, that you, too, might know.” He paused. His voice lowered in register. “It was late in the evening. In the gloaming when the world is more than it is. A chariot appeared to me. Before me. A chariot! In this here day and age. There was no one around. It was a dark chariot. Drawn by eight milk white steeds. Driven by a tall dark stranger with fire in his eyes. Flashing from his dark black eyes. A slightly askew smile on his thin lips. I was awed. I trembled with fear and trepidation. A complexion darker—I say, darker than any man I have ever seen stared out at me from an atmosphere so hot and suffocating that I knew he was a being from another realm. And following this chariot was a host, a multitude of dark liveries mounted on dark steeds that stood a full 21 hands high. I trembled in my bones. My shoes became loose on my feet. My hair stood on end to rival the silky flowing mass of the charioteer’s black locks.” Brother Berptoast mopped his brow. “Appreciating my fear and over-awedness, he spoke to me. He spoke to me the words that make my appearance before you a reality. A necessity.” Pause. “He said, step upon my chariot, human, and I shall show you wonders beyond all calculation. And do you know? Do you know my crazed feet carried me up upon that dark chariot and stood joyous as a baby’s first steps next that raven stranger. Why in my fear and trembling had I done such a thing? Lord, lord, lord, there was a power here I did not understand. A power greater than myself. There was naught I could do but follow.” Brother Ron raised his hanky high and then pointed it directly at his audience. “I had no power to refuse! And before I was aware, I found I was in the chariot proceeding through the thick sulfurous air at a speed I dare not calculate. Onward we went. Onward and upward. Onward with the rapidity and ease of the wind until we stopped before a door in the High Street of Climax. Nary a word spoke my deep, dark companion. There was a crowd of people in the street. But no notice did they take of my caliginous caravan with its extraordinary equipage. Was I then invisible? It would have been difficult to miss the entourage and chariot from which I alighted—for I knew this was the place. The place I should get off. The place that was intended for me. Yet no one saw!” Brother Berptoast jabbed the air with each insistent word. I shifted my position. “The house at which we sopped appeared to be a shop. I do not know what kind of shop. I could see no sign. I also do not remember ever having seen a shop in this place before. When the dark stranger ushered me in, I was confronted by a vast half-ruined palace. Far in excess of what that common little shop door could have realized. I was in awe of the space. The high ceilings disappeared into the vague sky—if sky it was, for my eyes could not see so high. Intricate yet heavy columns evenly spaced about like a cathedral. Huge pillars of marble. And windows. . .windows of cut glass and pointed gothic arches from which no light emanated. But dark flashes of lightning rose up behind them illuminating the walls of intricately woven stone that went on and on. . .” Brother Berptoast let his hand and his gaze move on and on. I crossed my legs. “Room after room my mysterious mentor led me, pausing only to urge my befuddled feet onward. What did these rooms look like? I no longer remember but they were numberless. Numberless as the rooms in God’s mansion. But. . .I do remember that last room. That room was more cave-like than the rest. Its walls less finished. Yet with all the dancing shadows from the firelight, great bleeding torches, I could not be sure. The tall dark stranger stopped. And gestured. And there before me sat a senate of ghosts debating on the progress of the plague.  Yes! That same plague that ravishes our land today! And around the edges of this grand cavern, illuminated by garish bouts of twisted lightning, I saw gibbering and chattering skeletons running about. Running lasciviously after each other. Playing leap-frog. I shrank into myself. I did not belong here. My legs trembled and became rooted to the spot as my will strove to drive me onward. Escape! Escape! My inner voice roared at me. But I could not move. . .until the man bid me proceed beyond these squabbling ghosts into a wild, uncultivated plot of ground out of which rose up a black rock as smooth as—there is nothing so smooth.” I took a drink of water. Brother Berptoast wiped around his face, his eyes round and filled with wonder. “Down the walls of this cavern oozed and drooled water. A water that sparkled a yellow-green. This is my water, the darksome man said, pointing with a long finger. A very long finger with a very long blue-black fingernail. Vin invitae! He laughed. His lips pulled back to reveal long white fang-like teeth, the incisors creasing his lower lips. A grimace from out of which blew the mirthless laugher and a stench that only the brimstone of hell could produce. My knees went weak. I stepped back, reaching out to catch my balance. Don’t touch! he shouted at me. His voice rang off the walls. I covered my ears.” Brother Berptoast covered his ears. “The ringing bugged my eyes out.” Brother Ron did so. “I could not tolerate the tintinnabulation. I thought my mind would come squeezing out my ears. My nose. My open gaping mouth.” Brother Berptoast paused, filling the silence with his grimacing. I looked up at the sky and was immediately blinded. When I returned to Brother Berptoast’s bathos, he was a gyrating ghost in a tarnished halo. As he turned blue, he sucked in a great gasping breath and raised his hands to the sky. “Never in the world had I heard such a concatenation. I tried to plead my cause to the Lord. . .the bleating risibility ceased. I was enveloped in silence, silence that took my breath away. I looked at my Cimmerian companion—I didn’t want to! Lord help me, I did not want to! And yet I could not but look at him.” Brother Berptoast looked, handkerchief at his mouth. “His finger shot out, pointing to the ground. My gaze followed.” He followed his own trembling finger. “And. . .Lord help me! It was no longer stone but earth! The Earth. The ground beneath your feet. And that poison sucked itself into that earth. My earth. I saw it sinking into the world and polluting all the life therein. All the life upon it. And its noxious fumes rose up like highway heat mirage and choked the life out of the birds and the bees and they fell to the putrid earth and were consumed. And I saw this venomous liquid insinuate itself into the very wells and springs of the city making the water unfit to drink. By the Lord above I was struck dumb. . .the people were drinking of this polluted water. They knew not what they did. And they paid the price. I saw their walking corpses green and pus-filled bursting their humanity and falling empty to the ground.” I took a drink. “After seeing all this, the Stygian stranger showed me into yet a further room. What a marvelous, glorious chamber it was! Gilt and gold everywhere. My eyes were struck dumb from the brilliance. Piles. Piles and piles. Pile upon pile of rubies and pearls and sapphires and diamonds rose up before me. The floor was strewn with semi-precious stones. Once again his finger shot out, pointing at each and every stack of gems. These, he breathed, these are all yours, wealth beyond imagination. . .if you but do two things. I looked up into his imposing, hypnotic eyes. You must kneel to me and worship me. And you must go about the land and smear this pestiferous salve on all the doors I tell you.” Brother Ron Berptoast paused. He let the power of the moment seep into his by now bewitched spectators and I shifted my position. The preacher began again in a soft voice. “I knew then that this black spectre was Satan. And somehow. . .somehow the Lord gave me strength to refuse this primordial bribe.” Preacher Ron’s voice rent the air and I leaned forward. “Lightning flashed from his eyes! A gurgling, growling roar rose up out of him! He scowled down at me. His fingers clawed the air. And a loud clap of thunder burst over his head!” Brother Berptoast thundered, hands furiously tearing at the air. His listeners jumped. I sat up straight, grasping my water bottle. And then the preacher settled himself, wiping the spit from about his lips. Dabbing at his eyes. “And then. . .and then I found myself standing on the steps of the chapel. Alone.”

I took to following Preacher Ron Berptoast as he toured the country. He repeated his vision day after day. Without variation. Word for word. And all the populace became firm believers in his truth—that the scourge upon the land was due to the devil. As everyone wished to root out the devil, people searched high and low for his mysterious house. The police became involved. The Reserves. The military. Yet the demon of the pestilence could not be found. Nor the hall of ghosts. Nor the poisonous fountain. But the minds of the people were so imbued with Brother Berptoast’s idea that scores of witnesses, half-crazed by disease, came forward to swear that they too had seen the diabolical stranger, heard his chariot clattering down the street at the head of eight milk white steeds and a teeming dark multitude of liveries, dancing skeletons and arguing ghosts. Some even heard the thunder of his accursed laughter. And they’d point out this house or that, this person or that.

Then one day, Brother Ron Berptoast stepped up on his little bandwagon and told of another vision he had had.

When the Stone Man Nods His Head

It was a long journey and I stopped to rest. My legs ached from hanging loosely down from the saddle blanket. My ass from the donkey’s backbone. My lower back from the animal’s steady plodding sway. My hat shaded me but sweat oozed out around the brim and coursed down my face, collecting in my moustache and beard. I halted the donkey and slid off. I shambled to the edge of the road hoping the bow in my legs would straighten up. The dusty air was no better at the side of the road but I perched atop a rock anyway. My donkey lumbered off to graze near-by, content to be free of my lead. I tried to clear the dust from before me. I sneezed. This was not the first time. I decided that resting here, in such tainted air, was not such a good idea. But where was the surcease? I led my reluctant ass back to the roadway, mounted and continued my journey.

Not too much farther along, I came upon another traveller. I stopped. He sat on the side of the road. On a stone. His staff lay at his feet, covered with the detritus of his travels and collecting more. I saw no pack beside him. He was travelling light. He rocked and moaned as if asking pity of the relentless gods. Clutched in one hand, the veins standing out against his dusky skin, was a little pouch. A medicine or herb bag. Perhaps a magic charm lay within, for he occasionally shook it.

“Is that medicine in the bag?”

“Yes. Here. Take it.”

“I don’t need it but it might do you some good. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing can help me. I’ve lost my way and don’t know where I am.”

“Well, then, come along with me. We shall be two.”

“No. I can’t.”

“I don’t understand. We must find you–”

“Where are you going?”

“Down the road. To my destination”

“Where is your destination?”

“At the end of my journey. And yours?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“I see.”

“A sword blade cuts things but eyes do not see themselves.”

“Then what can you tell me?”

“I can tell you why this road is so dusty.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. I can.”

I thought about this for a moment. This powdered air was a bit unnatural. There was no wind. As he didn’t seem inclined to continue, I thought I might humor him and dismounted, taking a seat beside him.

“Why is this road so dusty, then?”

“Do you really want to know or are you humoring me?”

“Yes. I have sat beside you.”

“I see that. Are you sure you don’t want this medicine? It’s good medicine. No explanation needed.”

“I have no disease.”

“Well then. . .I’ll begin my story. It isn’t a long story. As stories go.”

“I have plenty of time.”

“Are you some kind of holy man?”

“No. I wouldn’t say so.”

“Ah. . .a wise man!”

“I wouldn’t call myself that.”

“It’s what others think and say about you that makes you what you are.”

“So wise men and fools live together.”

“Yes! That’s it. And they travel down this road. But that’s not where the dust comes from. That is from the digging of Jeppe. You don’t now Jeppe. You’re not from these parts. This dust is because Jeppe became obsessed with digging. So much so that people avoided him. And this road. One day he found a tiny gold nugget beside the road. A little farther on he spied another. Jeppe was a fool. He did not look up to see that there was a rich merchant ahead of him with a hole in his saddlebag. Jeppe ran home to get some digging utensils. His wife caught him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ ‘I’m digging for gold.’ ‘You put those tools back before I beat some sense into you.’ ‘Oh woman of little faith! What do you think this is?’ He thrust the gold nuggets in her face. She took them from him. As was her wont. She took everything from him lest it slip through his fingers. Jeppe scampered off to his digging.

“Jeppe dug pits all along the roadside. He dug furiously. There was no gold. Never had been. Jeppe, though, could not see that, immersed in his cloud as he was. Once he had dug up one side of the road, he started on the other. The clouds of dust he raised became thicker. So thick he could not see where he was going. Or what he was doing. Travellers began taking other roads than this to avoid the dust and discomfort. The way was longer but what could they do? They raised the prices on their goods to make up for lost time. Around town, it began to be asked, ‘When will the fellow who plays with dirt ever be done?’

“Well, one day Jeppe struck his gold. ‘Eureka!’ he cried. ‘I’ve done it!’ By this time he had dug himself out near the lake. You’ll see the place a little farther on. There’s a marker there. He had covered that lake with dust. The townsmen said that at night the frogs could be heard coughing and choking in Jeppe’s dust. People couldn’t eat fish any more. They died from lack of oxygen.

“Jeppe saw his little vein of gold and shouted. Thinking one more thrust would unearth more gold, he jabbed at the sparkling metal. His shovel clanged. Sparks flew. Dust and debris were tossed up around him. Jeppe screamed, grabbing at his face. He twisted and shouted and writhed about until he fell into the lake and drowned. Jeppe hit gold alright. And then he blinded himself with a shard of the precious metal.”

The man became silent. He still rocked back and forth. He still held the bag of medicine out and up, an offering. I waited for more but as no more seemed to be forthcoming, I spoke up.

“So that’s why this road is so dusty?”

“It is.”

“That’s very interesting.”

“You must take the medicine.”

“I have no need of it.”

“You will. It is medicine. It will cure you. If you go along this road.”

“Let me tell you a story.”

“Eh? You have a story?”

“Yes. I’ve travelled a bit.”

“Ah. Have you? Well, then. I’ll hear your story.”

“In a far off land there was a doctor. He was a very good doctor. People liked him. One day a strange epidemic came into his town. It crippled children and killed adults. It threatened to sweep through the district, leaving a decimated ruin of a world behind. Luckily, however, this good doctor stumbled onto a cure for the disease. Instantly he became famous. For the epidemic was not just in his district. It was throughout the land.

“As the ravaging disease was taken under control, more and more uses were found for his medicine. His fame grew as did the stories about him. But his practice at home suffered. He fell under the spell of Super Doc. His diagnosing became superficial, always ending with a treatment of his curative. There were deaths and defections. This doctor had stopped paying attention to people.

“This went on for some time until he had lost all his old patients. He then turned to treating out-of-towners who wanted a personal infusion of his magical curative. The doctor, coming to believe that it could cure anything, was more than happy to oblige. Until he gave his medicine to a young girl who promptly died. When questioned about this, it was found that the doctor had not diagnosed the girl but simply given her the miracle cure as a matter of course. The girl was his daughter.”

“So. . .you will take this medicine?”

“I’m not sick.”

“You will be when you get to the other side of this dust.”

“Hmm. . .since you are staying here in the middle of this dirty fog, I should think you will need it more than me.”

With that, I gathered up the halter rope of my donkey and set out on my journey again. The man had been right. The dust did get worse. But once past the lake, the air suddenly cleared. I took a deep breath. I felt this was the first I had breathed in weeks. I sat down to rest and clear my lungs. I sat back and looked at the clouds and thought about the meaning of life. Interesting that there were as many meanings to life as there were people. Everyone was ready to fight for the preeminence of his meaning. How silly this was. There is a saying, all voices are the master’s voice, all forms are the master’s form. Still, there are those that think one voice is many voices. If it’s all one, why does anyone fight over it? Why does anyone try to change others’ minds? There is no miracle cure for life.

I took a deep breath and rose. I could not stay here forever, lost in the ramblings of an aging man. A common man on a journey of no particular importance. I gathered up my donkey’s lead and led him down the road into the sunset, happy to walk at a time like this.

Locater Nun

        Locater Nun. AKA the Plainclothes Nun. She was out and about. Again. She wasn’t often still. She had a calling. It was her duty. Her job she sometimes thought. But. She consoled herself. The way was never easy. So. She cultivated perseverance. It was perhaps her most admirable quality. She persisted. No matter what. She did not give up. Stayed the course. Loyal. To herself. To her ideals. To the end.

As I say. Admirable. Perhaps. After all. The message must get out. An inspired message. Divinely inspired. Luckily she had a habit otherwise people would label her insane. But she did not believe in histrionics. Not like those who threw themselves to the floor. Speaking in strange tongues. Eating carpets. Fists and feet flailing. No sir. Not her. Not Locater Nun. No such antics for her. Her agenda was different. Her agenda was open and forthright. Above board.

Locater Nun was after hypocrisy. Sanctimony. She ferreted it out. But. Let us lay this to rest. For the moment. We’ll pick it up later. Like a Puritan it will always be with us.

Now. A little about Locater Nun. Herself. The soul of the woman. Which wasn’t as simple as some said. Simon. Put your mouth where your hands are. Put your feet in your mouth. Heh-heh.

You see. Some say she is of the establishment. That is. She has the corporate mindset. Because. She’s a fine specimen of the Institution of God. Godliness. She succumbs. She knows her place. Has accepted her hooded state. She has been habituated. Even though she’s a plainclothes nun. An undercover agent. As such. The saying goes. She can only think what she’s been programmed to think. A robot for God. And. Of course. It is true. When you are inside the castle you cannot see beyond the walls. And. Again. Those who have been affected by the thought police don’t know they’ve been effected by the thought police. But they think everyone else has been. Oh well. You know. When you’re right you’re right. And if you’re right you’re not left. Behind.

But this is being harsh. There is more to Locater Nun. Though for some there is only one. One thing. One to her.

You see what you want to see. Mirror mirror. Etc. Etc.

No. Locater Nun believed she was the Charioteer of God. She had a good soul. She. Herself. And. She took seriously. Literally. The dictum. “Go forth and stand upon the outside of heaven.” Even here Locator Nun had her detractors. They said. Concrete thinking is a sign of mental instability. There are always naysayers. Let us be kind. Love your enemy. Otherwise how will you know what he or she is thinking?

The Charioteer of God. Locater Nun. Knows true knowledge. Abides there. In colorless formless intangible essence. Visible only to mind. The pilot of the soul. As they say. I am therefore I have thoughts without a thinker which demand a mind to think about them. Yes. Locater Nun was mindful of this. And so it was. That. Being nurtured upon pure knowledge she rejoiced at beholding Reality. Halleluiah! And she gazed upon Truth. And she was replenished. She was glad. Knowledge in absolute. Existence in absolute. Justice and temperance. In absolution. And. Beholding true Existence. She. Locater Nun. Passes down into the interior of heaven and says. Nay. I cannot accept ambrosia and nectar until all reality is saved. That is. All mankind.

What devotion. What dedication. Benevolence. Beneficence. Compassion is the greatest love. Let there be light!

Locater Nun’s avowed job. Her chosen path. Her raison d’etre. Is to save other souls. To bring them enlightenment. By confronting them with reality. With the error of their ways. They are troubled. She believes. By uncontrollable steeds. Unruly Houyhnhnm. This is because these people are not strong enough. And so they are carried round and down. Plunging. Lunging. Treading on each other. Everyone striving to be number one. To be on the top. Falling. Espying. Failing again. Confusion. Perspiration. Extreme effort. They become lamed. Clip-winged fallen angels. Fruitless toil. And. Disillusioned. They imbibe opinion. Even though there is pasturage. Unable to follow. Unable to behold Truth. Ill-happed. They slip and slide into forgetfulness. And vice. Aiya! What to do? What to do!

Enter Locater Nun. Come to show them the error of their ways. Determined, Diligent. Demanding.

None. She vowed. None would escape her revelatory zeal. It was as if she were on a witch hunt. Only as if. You understand.

Hypocrisy. Sanctimony. She came after them.

She kept a little black book. And in that book she noted who was naughty and who was nice. Who got their stockings filled. And who got their blocks of coal.

“There is no profit in a man’s life,” she began, “if his body and mind are in an evil plight. You must rid yourselves of these lurid sex stories from anonymous assistant crudite girls who work on arts and crafts service tables at this or that carnival of animals hoping, hoping for that big break only to uncover nonexistent penumbras of delight to airhead anti-humanists.”

So went Locator Nun’s hysterical anti-humanitarian rants. She traversed the land. In seven league boots even. Maintaining. In appropriate self-righteous tones. After all. She was saved. God’s charioteer. Here to bring the fallen back to the proper way. The enlightened way. Yes. She maintained that the few anti-humanists were perverting the rest of humanity. And they had to be stopped. In their tracks. Before they led the goodly humanists over the abyss. They. The anti-humanists. Were traitors. To all of humanity. Humanism. The people who really cared.

But. Of course. They didn’t know it. The anti-humanists. So. It was time the error of their ways was smashed unceremoniously in their repugnant faces. Locater Nun called them what they were. She called a spade a spade. She wasted no flowery rhetoric. Judgment was coming. Judgment would be swift. And final.

Taking a deep breath Locator Nun lowered her already worldly standards to speak in language that these traitors to humanity and humanism could understand. Traitors needed to have their anti-humanitarian ways thrust unceremoniously into their lurid disgusting pig-eyed little faces. Locator Nun was bringing home the bacon. Plopping it unceremoniously in their back yards.

And so. These are the kinds of things she said. Distilled. You understand. She’d been at this for oh so many years. Spurred on by her sense of mission. Her horses were becoming restless.

“Anti-humanists could never persuade humanists to follow their insane ideas. Infanticide. Sexual perversion. Adoption. Trigger finger tampering. Mixing and matching. Abolishing punishment finalities. Opportunity knocking. And yet. Anti-humanitarians wage a vicious campaign. Of vilification. And. Therefore. Of course. Craven moderately humanist humanists would be expected to follow.”

Yes. She said, “We face moral choices. Between good and evil. Every day. Every day. Day in and day out. Everyman’s everychoice everyday. If we make excuses for evil soon we cease being able to distinguish evil from good at all. With each choice we make. Large or small. We therefore take a step closer to the Devil. And so. Yes. They have made excuses for evil for so long they cannot recognize evil any more. The closest thing to it. Evil. In their vocabulary someone who wears fur. Yet many anti-humanists wear beards!” She would need to take a deep breath here. Sucking back the excess saliva that had accumulated on her rosy lips. Natural. No lipstick. You understand.

“Hiding their true selves. Behind their masks of fur. They are become amoral appeasers and foreign suck-ups whose faces are no stranger to confusion or befuddlement. Look at their beards for the love of God!”

It was all so self-evident. You know.

“God’s charioteer is come to Earth to meet out the punishment they deserve. The anti-humanists. You see. Anti-humanists simply can’t grasp the problem. Their specialty is hysterical overreaction. The truth is not their forte. What is the problem?” Another sage pause. “It is so self-evident! It need not be stated. They. They use words like decent and solid to describe their two-faced weasel hypocrisy.” And here. Locater Nun leaned forward over whatever podium she happened to be standing behind. For emphasis. “You don’t have to enter the No Spin Zone to see the disconnect.”

You’d think this would be enough. But no. There’s more.

“They talk about simulating belief in something. Anti-humanists believe in crazy God crap. They hoodwink others into believing they should believe in the crazy God crap too. It’s part of the casual contempt anti-humanists have for the views of normal people. Righteous people. The yous and mes of the world. Everymans. Hypocrisy! Hypocrisy I tell you. Hypocrisy is the sin that inflames them. And they say the humanists are the hypocrites.”

Take a deep breath. To calm her audience down. To calm herself down. Then begin again. Her diatribe. Hmm. To whom is she talking?

“Inasmuch as anti-humanitarians have no morals they sit back and criticize other people for failing to meet the standards they renounce. It’s an intriguing strategy.”

But Locater Nun. You understand. Has been deferential. She. In the face of this concatenation. Yes. She resisted the persistent. Illiterate urge. By others. You understand. To call anti-humanists traitors. At first. With a great deal of charity. And a willing suspension of disbelief. She conceded that many anti-humanists were merely fatuous fools fomenting at the mouth. Village idiots. But. Alas. The time came. It could not be put off. After all. And Locater Nun did some straight talking. Then. At that time. From then on.

Often in meandering mind-numbing prose. Like. The anti-humanists have turned a savage fascist nation into a peace-loving democracy overnight.

“Totalitarian monsters. Bloody tyrants. Fascists.”

The enlightened often talk in paradoxes.

The ends justify the means. But only if the end is to slander anti-humanists.

“Anti-humanists are fanatical liars. Hobgoblinists. They engage in myth-making. Rewriting history. Blackening reputations. They are on a horrid campaign of horrendous lies and disinformation. Anti-humanists are noise machines.”

They were matched by the canting of one. Locater Nun.

“Anti-humanists are incapable of feeling hate for the enemy. Anti-humanists unabashedly invoke lies in order to shield their ongoing traitorous behavior. They wear masks. Look at their bears for Christ’s sake.”

There was the word. She had sealed fate. Traitorous bastards. Sullying  out-from-unders. Pantywaists. Gutless wonders. Chicken livereds. Self-aggrandizers.

Locater Nun the plethora tongued.

“Anti-humanists become highly histrionically indignant when I question their patriotism. To life. Social terrors. Terrorists. They prattle on and on about the right to dissent being the true mark of humanitarianism when of course they are wrong. It is God.”

And the Papal treasury. Aka the World Bank.

“Those who cannot stay focused on fighting the enemy are objectively pro-terrorist. They too are traitors. The innocent are guilty. Traitors do that to you.”

So. Mind your P’s and Q’s. Or. Locater Nun’s come to get you.

Some said she sounded like a woman quarrelling with her husband. In conceit of her happiness.

Being a self-righteous charioteer of God. Locater Nun obeyed the laws of man. Roman laws. Derivative laws. Empirical because of the empire. Perpetuated down through time. Ad absurdum. The only way to go. And so. It was. Traitors should be shot. Would be shot. Put to death. Finis. It’s the law. Human. Humanitarian. It saves lives. In the end. You just gotta cut it off at the source. Baby. Anyway. No penalty which the law inflicts is designed for evil. Always makes him who suffers either better or not so much more worse. As he would have been. But. If any unmentionable be found guilty let the judge deem him uncurable. Remembering. After receiving such an excellent education and training from youth upward. The rogue has not abstained from the greatest of crimes. Which is being led to godlessness. Insolence. Injustice. Exile and death are too good. They must be disgraced as well. No criminal shall go unpunished.

The law is right. The law is good. Whoever enslaves the laws. Uses violence. Stirs up sedition. Wanting to change the state. This person is the greatest criminal of all. Worse than a god-defier. Already the worst. Yea I say unto you. Even cowards are as bad as traitors.

Kill. Kill. Kill. Clean out the trash. The detritus of humanity. So humanity might live. Amen.

Some said that she should beware. Lest from imitation she become what she imitates.

And so it came to pass. 10,000,000 people. Traitors all. They were put to death. It was the only humane way. Contamination had to be resourced out. When people cannot see the error of their ways. They must be made to see the error of their ways. They must be made to accept responsibility for their actions. So. All 10,000,000 traitors were executed in the humanist fashion of the day. That they might climb aboard the chariot of God. And meet him. And know absolute truth. It is the way of the world.

 Locator Nun sat back. Crossed her legs. Sighed. Took out a cigarette. She puffed and puffed. Lots of smoke. Screening her from the heavens above. Life was not always so sweet. Or clean. But when you have a job to do. A duty. A calling. You must remain loyal. To the cause. Whatever.

But. You know. Now. Locater Nun’s without a job. A duty. A calling. All’s quiet on the Western front.

And she’s misplaced her chariot.

[Locator Nun = anagram of Ann Coulter; metaphors are from Plato]