Informant38

Ω{It's hard. You want to say well it can't be that bad, it won't get much worse, and every sign along the way points straight down. There's a kind of filter on power on now, to qualify you have to be non-human, not that merely being non-human is enough, it's a special kind of non-human, and it's hard to describe, for me anyway, because I stay as far away as I can get from people like that, and vice versa. Their dog-boys, I'm familiar with them, the little soldiers of the new order, but that's not where it's coming from, it's coming from the elect, the privileged, I've heard the casual mentions their secondary children make as I've lurched through the universities and grocery stores this last decade. Everybody thinks there's too many people, most everybody has a real good idea where to start weeding out the undesirables, it used to be niggers, now it's trailer trash and terrorists. That the creation of the societal machinery necessary to better the landscape�not the race�see it's different now, it's not racial, it's performance based�that the machinery to do that might just keep humming along until we're all gone hasn't ocurred to any of these ken and barbie puppets. That's what it is, when I think of Frist it's Ken, not just the imputed values and personal vapidity of a ten year old girl's fantasies, but the plastic reality, the actual being of Ken. And droids, Bundy droids. I'm sorry but that's what comes up. I think of Bill Frist and I think of Ken dolls and Ted Bundy. I think Bundy was a little sicker emotionally, but Frist is just gettting warmed up here, and his body count promises to make Mr. Bundy's look like a bad car wreck compared to World War 2. It's always like this, though, because it hasn't happened yet and the speculation's so ugly, so bizarre and unpleasant to think about, but that is what it looks like to me, piles and piles of the left behind, starved out, caught by the tide, the wind, plague-driven outside the castle walls, scorned by the well-fed slaves and ignored by the masters, the real images golden in their minds, the elect, the spared, the 'passed over' taking the numb hand of God and pointing its loose finger at the enemy, calling down lightning from out of the sky and putting it there. I know the other worlds wait for our passing, but something about this seems final to me, something about this one is for keeps in a way I can't get a clear perspective for, I think I stay maybe, or they do, or one of us, one side or the other, imagine the immortal Hasid, the immortal Bush twins, because it is immortality that's at stake, that's why mortality's taken on this new weight, because to be alive when the Gift is bestowed is to gain eternal life here, and they're two hops, a skip, and a patent claim jump away from it, nice guys don't finish last on that one, they don't finish at all.
So that's mostly vent and steam yes but it does point that way, the belt-tightening, the cruelty as policy, the hard voices of the masters in their public role as stern fathers, hard choices have to be made, who lives and who dies being pretty hard for the dying but not so bad for the privileged still-breathing, harder choices being how much of your soul to pare away the next time the devil comes around for his due. Ken got the gift of animation, he gets to be real, though the world itself had to get so plastic to accomodate his two-dimensional being it's almost a comic book now, and unlike the children's tales of animated dolls and puppets there's no moral here, other than you have to see it coming and you have to fight it with everything you have and even that sometimes isn't enough and one of the dirtiest tricks I've ever seen is raising an entire generation of kids to think of themselves as vital and necessary to the existence of the universe and then letting them slowly wake up to exactly how temporary and fragile and absolutely unnecessary their lives really are, and then in the midst of that abyssal terror and pain, offering them a way out that requires only that they give up everything that makes them human, the bargain that they relinquish their part in that as yet unbroken chain of struggling everymen who rose and fell like individual stalks of grain, delivering their essence, their children, their whole being encapsulated held in the tiny package of the seed, gone into the new turning of that old old wheel the cycle of time and its seasons, warm summer, and cold hard winter, and the little bit of thrilling anticipation as the one becomes the other and we take our places with the rest who have come and gone before us.
Men like Bill Frist and his true employers will turn that whole thing upside down to their own benefit, banking on the wonder cure for mortal living, reading visionary reports of the weeks ahead from lab rats with prophetic mutations, and going home to their families for Thanksgiving as though there are no ghosts screaming at the wings of their private jets, their campaign buses, their limousines, outside in the sleet, the meaningless numbers of the unnecessary suffering their blind greed causes, ghosts from the time ahead come back to haunt the present because there was nowhere to go, after.}