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Why does man hate man? A treatise on mistreatment. On the nature of ill will. On the origin of malice. On Dancer, on Prancer. To wither and die, or burn in glorious cephalopodan fury. Glory is earned through the application of hatred - precision acrimony delivered with unerring accuracy; or great lumbering strokes of unbridled bile, swaying wide of the mark yet never off-target. A gush of hot gore, a rush of blood from the head. The triumph of new waters dowsed, the baptism with lead-wrought unctions. Ywis, þat swich ycleaved be o þy moudre's bousom. A thorn in the sentence, a thorn in the side. A tower, reaching to the heavens, yclepped Babel. From its fall sprung the differences between man and man, and within those cracks, wedges were driven. The driven rain, the howling wind. A long and winding road. Nothing to be done! I wait for my own Godot, and find him wanting. No time like the present, to waste in idleness and idolatry. You're the duke - you're a number one! A number? I AM NOT A NUMBER! I AM A FREE MAN! Free your mind and the rest will follow - kill the body and the head will die? Dye the carpets red, I am king crimson for this moment. A momentuous occasion, lunch of ham and eggs! My sauce? Pure woad. Find the source of woe, and shake its hand. Greet the sun with a snarl, and break each butterfly upon its own wheel. Sieze the day, and savage it.
EXTERMINATE ALL THE BRUTES
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