Principia Discordia > Or Kill Me

There are dreadful things.

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In honor of Brianna Ghey.
When the small people breathe hate, hyperventilate in it, they are preparing for petty wars. They will target militaries with no weapons, attack installations that contain nothing but medical supplies.

They are preparing to attack those who cannot hit back. They are preparing to take the lives of us who have not yet grown our irradiant teeth, learned to think collapsar thoughts.

They know if they aim too high, they will never be found. Excised from the skein of history like a splinter extracted from a sleeve. No gravestone to mark them. Nothing but an uneasy feeling where memory should lie.

But these are soft human fates. We are the hungry grin of emptiness. We will not forget. Our names will be engraved in eschatological portents.

Our blood will stain the seas. First red, then black with the thickness of it, then silver as it turns toxic, turns alive, as the vapor pressure swells out to reclaim all they have taken.

The headstones of their futures are engraved in the hate they murmur nervously. Their crypts are dug piecemeal, a shovelful flung for every crude knife wielded against innocents.

There are three strikes allowed. The first may be in error. The second may be from foolishness. The third will bring the ending of endings. Every mandible will snap shut.

Strike one.

Give them nothing.

Dig the bullets back out of them when they fall. Burn the bridges behind you, and tear the roads up while you're at it. Make your cuts artless and unconvincing. Do not smile.

Erase names. Erase histories. Become mythical, because they deserve no truth and are incapable of recognizing it. Do not leave a ghost to question.

Do not leave fire: drown the flames and wet the fuel. Salt the earth and foul the water. Take even the air, if you can.

No matter how petty and miniscule, let spite drive you. Deny them everything, even the satisfaction of achieving a goal.

Let them claim the ashes, the mudpits, the steaming bones. Let them hold only ruins. Let them win only desolation.

It suits them.

Doktor Howl:


Doktor Howl:
(That last one struck a chord)

Thanks. It's not enough to know your enemy these days, because they're willing to tell you all about themselves. You have to make sure they know you know.


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