To Breathe Without Sanction
When reality turned to shattered glass, the last man came from his cave and ran for president on a platform of rocks.
Sweet darkness oozed. Good folks bowed to the television and gave thanks. They too loved someone to suffer. After all, their dreams soured when they rolled from bed and their coffee got damn well thieved by immigrants.
Happens this way. All the time. All the old boss bullies from history knew it. Like Man From Cave, they sprinkled hate on ordinary words to give them spice. No more Taco Tuesday. Hallelujah. And the people dropped their children in flame.
Think about it. No, better not.
That pains the excuses.
Have another round of spit.
Last Man Cave waved a flag. A glorious day for the republic. It had teetered on the cusp of tolerance for too long. Time to open the armories, clean up the mess. Bigots are people, too.
Once election season killed all the quaint norms, the smaller bosses scrabbled from their investment houses to attend the grand party, a festival of circumstance and exact timing. They wanted entrance to the new promised land.
Soon everyone was rounding up every one else who didn’t have the right color hat, or who used the wrong verbs when they spoke of Israel. It’s nothing new, though. Grab a shovel, dig up Joe Stalin and ask.
Martin The Reporter wasn’t having it. He had been raised on country music and could not let discordant shrills who occupied the new cabinet tell everyone what to fear. He attended an assembly of questions without answers determined to squeeze some accountability from those present.
What do you want? asked President Cave.
Martin tapped his notebook with a pen. Why are you killing Jews? he asked.
Never happened, said Cave.
There’s two dead ones right next to you, said Martin.
Not funny, said Last Man Cave President. Next.
Time and place jump. Jane Fairfield, Martin’s editor, called him into her office. She had been assigned to her post by a committee of assassins who promised her freedom from their hit lists if she would just stick to the script.
Martin?
Yes?
Jane sighed. Time to smoke the air, make it impossible to breathe without sanction. That’s what they wanted from on high, the lords and disciples of the new tall Christ. They wanted benign obedience and a willingness to leave unorthodox thoughts caged in their cells. It was time to remake the world in the image of darkness again, both necessity and beautiful distraction. Everyone should have a farm or a factory to break their life upon.
Martin.
Yes?
We’ve been through this, repeated the same tyrannical power pattern over and over and with the same result, she said.
Martin could easily be forgiven if he thought Jane was talking about the new waves of keen dedication to intolerance that were sweeping the cities clear of old men with big noses and anyone else who still held ideals. He could be forgiven for his naiveté if forgiveness hadn’t been bacon burned at the stake. Still, whatever his level of sophistication or innocence, Jane was talking about Martin himself – and how it simply wouldn’t do that he cast doubt on the propaganda.
Another time jump. Sorry for the confusion, but someone tried to kill Last Man President with a lead pipe and all the panic hotlines were ringing black and blue into the night. Everyone cried out for vengeance disguised as justice. The Great Speaker himself flogged his propensity for fairness to death in front of the cameras to show his loyalty. No time for ethics, grease the nooses, ask each literal person to sacrifice their future to the machinery of President Man Cave, and embrace the mud stains of broken clocks and laws. If anyone could bring peace in a tumultuous time, it would need to come with a price of dark clubs and cracked bones. Drag old tatty Jesus down and ask him. He beat the crap from infidels in the temple, they say. Ask anyone who started a revolution. It’s all the same. One atrocity deserves another. Eyes in payment for eyes. It’s both future and present. See it. Grip it. Watch cops swear eternal allegiance on their gunbelts while each banker bows down. Watch preachers cast their morals out like demons.
Oh, the horror was plain good fun. Everyone threw a fit, ran into the street to baptize their sins. Nothing was real any more. Each fire hydrant rained dogs. Each time someone whispered a doubt, shots rang from rooftops. Three hundred souls alone in a single plaza bled down into the cobbles. Helicopters hurled spotlights amid the tear gas and grenades. Confusion became clarity. Criminals ran packed. Outlaws tore beards from their motorcycled faces in great angry patches of black hair. Why, it was dress rehearsal for the end of days they blab about in the bible, a canker upon the nation, and the last thing many saw before they wept to death. God dropped his pants. There was little left to do. Exit roads were blocked and gas stations empty. Mothers ran with children in baskets. Brothers called out for brother, but silence answered.
Silence.
In the end that’s what people heard when they asked to be pardoned for the error of their ways. Please. It wasn’t their fault they were raised on Cheerios. They only wanted a little taste of revenge in their lives. They couldn’t possibly blame their own choices. No. That way lay woo-woo for gurus who had long fled to South America. Inception was never easy, they knew. Yet the stories would repeat and repeat until all the bones limped home. Repeat until consensus or absolution. Or until a careless judge of destruction issued a final ruling.
Still, it made no difference in the weeks that followed. Newborns dropped into hospital pans as usual and old ways into the grave. And when after a valiant fight President Cave died from his blows, a great ocean of blubber flooded the land. Holy water boiled. Flags flew to Cancun for the summer. Even his elite cadre of attendant snipers cried. But only for a while. Then they got busy, polished their press releases. No time to mourn mistakes. No time to learn from the past. They knew that for history to survive the beating it had coming that death must mold a saint from the wicked. As must blame become blasphemy.
— (to) (reach) (therefore) (the) (end) (therefore)
is to say thanks for reading Dynamic Creed. Glad you made it. Now, if you would like to push some motivation my way, you may buy me a coffee. Been writing a lot, but sending more out to contests and mags. Thanks again. much appreciated. Victor David.
Incredible work, Victor. You balance grace and brutality like really no one else I know. Work like this is really important right now. I think art is the only thing which will get us through it this period, this time we are in now. Thank you for being a part of it. It's inspiring, encouraging and comforting to read your work. I know this will sound strange, but for me this piece is like some cozy blanket in a winter storm. Everyone else is losing their minds out in the blizzard, but I am at home in bed, comforted by the wild tales told by another soul who also sees things in a way that is quite similar to my own view. Bravo.
"She had been assigned to her post by a committee of assassins who promised her freedom from their hit lists if she would just stick to the script." Good God.