The second Mass has convinced itself that Charleston is the promised land. A candy-coated Zion where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies.
And, I think I’m gonna puke.
Elvis will be there. Barney the dinosaur will be handing out lolly pops and Bob Marley will be singing ‘Three Little Birds’. Completely oblivious to the fact that those ‘three little birds pitch by door step’ have had their f*cking heads blown off.
Ahh. The ability for the human race to so completely delude itself never ceases to amaze me. Even Captain Weaver has been huffing the Mason glue and I fear, that once this particular piece of rational thinking is lost, it’ll be the end of all of us. I’m not saying we won’t find anything in Charleston. That’s not the point. It’s the fact that these people still can’t see the forrest through the trees. Or, to be more blunt, the pile of the severed heads through the jiffy pop forrest.
There is a cloud on the horizon. And it’s a dark one. I can feel it coming. Sanctuary is not a mile away. It’s decades. And even then, it may only exist for one man. The last one.
And, a day after that… a single shot will ring out. And that will be the end of it all.
But till then, real decisions will need to be made. Sacrifices that these people have not even begun to fathom. The forfeit of your only child… in exchange for the two newborns across the street.
And that is where our esteemed professor had best go back to school. The man has forgotten his own history lessons. Both he and Weaver had better pull their heads out of Tony Robbins ‘glass… half filled’.
And start reading up on Winston Churchill.
November 14th, 1940.