The Death of the Curate…
In which the Narrator straight up mercs a member of the clergy. Thankfully it only takes twelve minutes. Possibly the shortest chapter in our grand how-could-you-be-doing-unto-me-what-i’ve-been-doing-to-lots-and-lots-of-others1 tour, there is a swiftness to the Curate’s demise that doesn’t feel anti-climatic, nor does it glorify the act, either.
And really, you’re kind of glad he’s gone. Especially if you’re giving him a voice. There’s also a touch of humor with a Martian messing with a door handle.
Empire! It’s about Empire! And it’s effect on others! Maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t be doing Empire! Are you the guy with the Heat Ray and penchant for bloodsucking, or are you the guy hiding for days in rubble without food and water? Are you on the Imperial Star Destroyer or is your home now looking like bits of Alderaan floating about in space? J.F.C, how many iterations of this BS are we going to allow to keep happening over and over and over again? I don’t fking know, but now there’s psychotics making AI powered Studio Ghibli memes as if it was some sort of flex and I just can’t. My brains are bubbling from acoustic weapons brought to silent protests. The United States needs to be sanctioned from the rest of the world, and locked behind a laser shield until we’re properly parboiled and decide to be decent simply because it’s the right goddam thing to do. Weak-chinned-bully-bullshit. Just so fucking stupid. More next week, I’m sure. Ugh. Jeebus H Klystron, I just can’t wait. Fuck.
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