Hating the Hateful – A Vicious Cycle of Hate

vicious cycle of hate

As the upcoming elections have ramped up the hyperbole of our cultural dialogues, hate seems to be flying in all directions. Donald Trump, who is likely just using hate speech to get elected, has nonetheless created a situation through his troublesome rhetoric. His spoken racism, nationalism and xenophobia have stirred the pot of human emotions into a frenzy. Where the hateful sediment had been sinking to the bottom of our society for quite some time, it has been freshly stirred up and is making its rounds through the entire social strata again.

It would be tiresome to explain here why these hateful ideologies are wrong. Even bigots know at some level that their hatred is wrong, both intellectually and emotionally. This is why they usually hide it. What worries me is not the traditional small-minded prejudice of rural simpletons or organized hate groups. They are a known commodity that have mostly been tamed through disenfranchisement. What bothers me is the growing amounts of hate directed at these people by socially liberal people who consider their own hatred superior and justified.

A rabid and militant anti-hate movement is spreading across the country. Its flames are fanned by unrecognized irony and unexamined hypocrisies. It is itself a hate group, wearing a halo, while using the same notions of purity espoused by every hate group before it. It is comprised of people who consider themselves to be compassionate, understanding and accepting of others, yet who make threats of violence against their ideological opponents. Fighting hate with hate is not just unreasonable, it is creating a vicious cycle.

Most peoples latent racism is only dangerous in the sense that it breeds apathy for social issues. It mostly lies dormant where it can do no real harm. But when the rhetoric on race reaches the level of public screaming match, these folks often feel forced to pick a side. And unfortunately, this often leads them into a genuine deliberate racism they were not capable of before. Racism had become mostly taboo. Its death was predicated on the fact that even where it existed, it feared show its face. But when hates collide, and genuine racists come out of the woodwork, folks feel more emboldened to act on their own latent tendencies. The ironic hatred against bigots has given them a greater voice, and helps them to unite. Hate on hate breeds more hate.

To be clear, most of this hate of hate is happening to those who identify with liberal politics. These are the champions of equality. Yet in the last several years we have seen their camp ridden with a powerful prejudice in the form of Islamophobia. The talking heads of mainstream liberal politics like Bill Maher have gone out of their way to stir up hatred and xenophobia against Islam. And while this was all mostly tolerated by liberals, even if begrudgingly, the same folks are now coming out of their silent corners to attack the same hatred and xenophobia in their political opponents. And so we can see that the Us-vs-Them seems to have more bearing on this effect than does genuine concern about hatred. Yet that sort of thinking is precisely what every form of bigotry ever has been predicated upon. You cannot reserve your intolerance for hatred until the other team has the ball, and still be taken seriously as an advocate for tolerance.

Tolerance is a key concept. It is where the haters of haters have failed and fallen victim to the same instinctual urges of all bigots. The inability to tolerate bigots and to try to understand them has led to this. Yet that is precisely what we need. Hating the hateful just reinforces their hate, while validating and justifying hatred itself as an acceptable reaction to other kinds of people. Nobody became a racist, xenophobic nationalist in a vacuum. Nobody was born that way. That hatred has a genesis, and by looking for it we might be able to root it out in the individuals harboring it. First you must be compassionate enough to realize that hate is a painful burden to carry, and seek not to fight it, but to heal it.

Some people learned hate from their families. Some picked it up through negative experiences. Others have absorbed it through cultural dialogues. When we refuse or fail to understand a persons hatred, we are powerless to help them rid themselves of it, and understanding is not possible without some amount of acceptance. We must accept that the path to hatred was a meaningful experience to the individual. That is where we begin to tackle intolerance and wipe out hate. Dislodging hate will not happen through battles, but through therapeutic means. So if you really want to end hatred, do not adopt its techniques. Find someone who is full of hate. Listen to them. Accept them and try to understand them. And when doing so has earned you their trust and respect, take the opportunity to guide them using reason and compassion away from their own toxic hatreds.

This is how we conquer hatred, not with a bang, but with friendly conversations. It will not be a quick or easy process. Nothing worthwhile ever is. But it will be worthwhile. Let us expel hatred from the pool of humanity gently, without stirring the remaining parts back up in the process. Hate against hate is not just self-righteous hypocrisy, it is a producer of newer and ever-growing amounts of hatred. To stop the vicious cycle we must tame our response to hate and not be led by the same emotional/reactionary momentum that hate itself is predicated upon. Hate cannot destroy hate, only peaceful resolution through acceptance, tolerance, understanding and therapeutic removal can ever lead our species into harmony.

Welcome to the Idiocracy – The Growing Ignorance of Intelligence


Human beings possess a great number of virtuous characteristics. Much of what makes us unique individuals are the infinite possible combinations and degrees of these virtues (and flaws). Most of the time we are able to recognize the virtues of others and honor them. We generally have no problem appreciating virtues in others that we do not possess ourselves. Yet today there is one virtue that our culture makes a great show of proclaiming the most virtuous of all virtues, while at the same time largely failing to recognize and appreciate it. In fact, those who possess it often become the subject of scorn. That virtue is intelligence.

If I said that I was good at sports or could draw or play the piano well, nobody would accuse me of being an intolerable egomaniac or narcissist. However, if I were to make any claim to, or even insinuate intellectual prowess, I would be derided and despised by people at all levels of the intellectual spectrum. I am intelligent. I worked incredibly hard to get that way for little more reward than the despair entailed by being intelligent in an unappreciative and apathetic society. Just as athletes endure the physical pain of training and artists and musicians endure the emotional pain of bare expression even while practicing, I have put a lot of painful effort into rising above the average intellectual standards of this time and place in history.  This is not to say that I am one of the most intelligent people in the world (definitely not) or that it makes me a better overall human being. It is simply a recognition of a virtue I have achieved through a great amount of conscious effort over many years. Yet it is a certainty that this very writing will create the kind of backlash against me that I specifically discuss as being a major problem for our species.

As a writer for CopBlock.org I am regularly subject to attacks against my intelligence. Ignorance can be found in no greater abundance than where it pools up around authoritarianism. These attacks happen in place of a rational rebuttal of the things which I wrote. This alone is often a potent clue as to the intellectual capacity of the commenter, but their intelligence comes into even greater question when you examine the vocabulary, conceptual over-simplicity and logical fallacies that their responses consist of. Even worse is that they judge my intellect (rather than my ideas) not on its own merits, but on the sole basis that I disagree with their opinions and worldview. The wider the intelligence gap between myself and the commenter, the more voraciously vicious and resistant to reason they become.

That some people have a lower capacity for intellectual pursuits is not itself problematic. What is troublesome is the inability for people to recognize intellects greater than their own, and for them to center their attack based on their ignorance of intelligence. I would not expect people to agree with another’s opinions or worldviews based solely on a judgement of their intelligence. Yet when people fail to consider new information and ideas due to an underlying prejudice against those who disagree with them, which they falsely equate with intellectual inferiority, they create a feedback loop of circular reasoning that reinforces and strengthens their ignorance. This is the most surefire way to obtain and maintain a state of stupidity. When you ignore or deny everyone who might be able to teach you something new or how to see things differently, you create yourself a trap in which your evolution and growth are stunted completely. And this is now occurring at an  exponential and alarming rate.

This growing pattern has created a hostile and dangerous trend in our society. An increase in the sum of human intelligence does not require everybody to rise above average. History is full of individuals whose singular efforts were able to bring new knowledge and its resulting applications to all of humanity. All that was required of humanity was to recognize, respect and trust those geniuses and their ideas. The dependence on a tiny fraction of individuals to recognize and solve the worlds problems and questions has worked tremendously well in moving our species ever ahead. Yet as the trend of denying and even despising superior individual intelligence has rendered useless a resource that our species has always relied upon most for progress and clarity.

As intelligence itself becomes a less acknowledged and respected trait, it faces extinction. Devaluing it, or instead valuing a false symbolic replacement, means that it will decrease as a selection trait for breeding partners, which leads us down an evolutionary path to self destruction. When we fail to respect and honor intelligence we remove the motivation for individuals to seek it out and attain it through hard work. Finally, it diminishes any examples of intelligence which could inspire future individuals and become a basis for their own explorations. We are quite literally creating the perfect evolutionary conditions by which the virtue of human intelligence could become extinct.

It becomes necessary to ask how we got to this point. While public education, mainstream media and the other tools of the oligarchy are obvious targets, I suspect a far more insidious threat has recently become a massive part of our collective consciousness. The problem I am discussing is our increasing tendency to replace substance with symbols. Like the Scarecrow who can only recognize his own intelligence after the Wizard of Oz gives him a diploma, we have come to identify symbols for intelligence as being intelligence itself. The top down bureaucracy of modern society has created an ideology which reframes intelligence as a commodity. It has become the consumption and acquisition of these symbols that we equate with intelligence. Our lauding of intelligence as the ultimate virtue serves only to pay lip service a concept that has been rendered meaningless in the semiotic confusion surrounding it. We have redefined intelligence in accordance with our widespread vapid consumerism, or at least, have allowed it to be redefined thusly for us by those who profit from that ideology.

No where is this symbol over substance problem more apparent than on the internet, especially in social media and comments sections. The internet has acquired a wealth of symbolic baggage that replaces or attempts to dismiss critical thinking, rational argumentation and the cogent expression of complex ideas. It has become a veritable battleground of compulsive reductivism, where every aspect of human experience is distilled down into a MEME. And when we are not busy oversimplifying complex ideas in image forms, we use a limited vocabulary of buzzwords in place of a rational response. Rather than consider somebody’s thoughts and ideas, we dismiss them as being BUTTHURT and then walk away as though victorious. Since emotional states are subjective individual phenomena, they cannot be measured externally by those not directly experiencing them. So it is logically meaningless to make conjecture about another person’s emotional states for the purpose of attributing the products of their intellect to them.

The internet has created an entire language and method for dismissing those we disagree with for the very worst and most misguided reasons. And since the frequency of this behavior increases all of the time, we are spending ever increasing amounts of time and effort contributing to our own dumbing down. We become ever more proficient at practicing our ignorance with great efficiency, thereby alienating ourselves from and destroying the intelligence needed to save us from this self-perpetuating cycle. Unfortunately, these behaviors are now transcending the internet and becoming part of our in-person interactions and penetrating the entire fabric of our culture.

The fictional world of Mike Judge’s prophetic film ‘Idiocracy’ is increasingly becoming our reality. Ignorance and symbolic impostors of intellect are celebrated, reinforced and rewarded, while genuine intelligence becomes more and more alien and unrecognizable. Many people can no longer even recognize the authentic substance, let alone exercise healthy ways of reacting to it. If Einstein were alive today it is not unthinkable that his genius would be met with the assessment that his ‘shit’s fucked up and he talks like a fag.’ This momentum is creating a real-life Idiocracy that, if unchecked, could lead to the destruction of our entire species and planet. In the modern world, an Idiocracy could not exist long. We rely on intelligence for things as basic as maintaining nuclear power plants which would, without the attention of intelligent humans, create an existential risk of massive proportions. We could very literally self-destruct from our own de-evolution into willful ignorance and prideful stupidity.

Despite the fact that I just went into great detail explaining the grave danger of the rising ignorance of intelligence, I am certain to be subjected to the very behaviors I just warned against. People will still take the opportunity to prove my point by responding in the very ways I have rationally deconstructed for them. Like children at arcade without quarters, they will insist they are winning when they have failed to understand even the most basic facts about the game. Their pointless button-pushing and joystick movements will come in the form of responding with memes or the old ‘yer just butthurt’ and their victory statement will be the frustrated child’s cry of “Nuhn uhn, YER STOOPID!”

And yet I must seriously consider that to be the case. If I were really all that smart I might attempt to destroy the very fabric of the universe and spare us further shame and misery, instead of making feeble attempts to help our species rise above its own ignorance and the doom it entails. Maybe all those super villains had it right.

Justice Is A Clumsy Sword

justice is a clumsy sword

“You like that, dontcha? You like it when I punch you in the ass. Giggle, bitch, giggle. That’s right.” Howard was Mona’s favorite client. He liked his sadism mixed with an element of the absurd. “Am I your sexy, silly, nasty queen, Howard?”

Howard mumbled through the ball gag. His reply was muffled beyond understanding, but the look on his face said that he was in heaven. And pain. Even though these one-hour sessions cost him a days pay, he could not imagine living without the joy and subsequent tranquility that they brought to his life. Mona poured hot wax over his nipples while flicking his testicles.

“You want Mistress Mona to fart in Howie Wowies face, dontcha bitch. That’s right, maybe ill just press my ass right up against your face so you can get a good smell. You like that? Maybe I’ll just leave your face snuggled right up in there until just before you pass out. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll piss on your chin.”

Mona was a big girl. She wasn’t obese, but she carried a solid girth on her almost six foot tall body. Most of the clients she had were men of a smaller stature, who liked being abused by Amazon-like women. She moved a small ladder over to the torture wheel, which Howard was shackled tightly to. “That’s right, giggle you little bitch, Mistress Mona gonna blow shit whispers right up your crooked, ugly nose.” She reached the top of the ladder and began to position herself as she had promised. Just when any mystery the scent of her anus may have held began to fade from Howard’s curiosity, the ladder broke, sending Mona falling heavily to the floor.

The room was filled with screams. The screams excited Howard, and he ejaculated immediately. The semen landed in Mona’s eye, causing the screams to do the impossible and raise several degrees in both pitch and volume. He thought all of this was a planned part of the session. If he weren’t blindfolded he would have seen that Mona’s leg had been broken severely during an accidental tumble.

“You fucking prick, you motherfucking prick. Nobody cums on Mistress Mona’s face.” She began to struggle as if to lash out at Howard, but the damaged limb and the accompanying pain made it impossible for her to move. There was still a half an hour before the session was over, and an hour before a new client would slip discreetly into her apartment, and hopefully rescue the mangled Mistress and the minister whom she had so thoroughly tied up. “You piece of shit, halfwit holy roller. This is your last session. LAST SESSION!”

Just as scheduled, Orson arrived for his appointment with Mona, and stood waiting in the reception area. Even there, closed off from the torture chamber, he could hear the distress in the mistress’s voice while she heaved harsher than usual insults and profanities at whatever client she was currently in session with. She had never spoken to him this way, and he was sure that he would not like it if she did. Either the current client must be a real sick fuck, he thought, or there was something very wrong going on. He tapped a bell on the counter several times, as loud as he possibly could.

Suddenly the hate stricken dialogue came to an end, and a short silence ensued. It did not last long, and was replaced by several high-pitched shrieks. “HELP!” came the manic cry, “Please Fucking Help!” Orson did not immediately make his way to the torture chamber. First he assessed the plausible scenarios that he might discover, and the possible consequences to his own person they might constitute.

After what seemed like an eternity of wailing her pleas to the visitor, Mona heard the voice of Orson come from the reception area. “What’s going on in there?” the squeaky effeminate voice attempted to bellow. “I broke my god damn leg, help me for fucks sake, please!” Another brief pause, then, “Is there anybody in there with you?” It pays to be cautious, he justified to himself. “Just some asshole Priest I got all tied up. Now quit asking me stupid fucking questions and get your ass in here and help me,” She begged with utter desperation. “Please.” Using the ‘P’ word with clients was not something Mona was accustomed to.

Dense was not an adjective appropriate in describing Orson. The use of the ‘P’ word by the mistress three times in so many breaths alerted him to the serious nature of her situation. When he came to the door to the torture chamber, he opened it slowly, half of his brain trying to assess the contents of this room, and half on standby for instantaneous flight. Finally something caught his eye, the priest. Underneath the eye mask and the ball gag was a face that would be forever etched into his memory. Father Howard Foster, the priest from the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, which he had attended as a child. Orson had not seen the mans actual face in fifteen years, but the ghost if it had haunted him in his dreams almost every night since then.

Despite the feeling of hatred for Father Foster, and the pity for Mistress Mona, Orson found himself laughing out loud. “What in the hell are you laughing at, get over here and help me you insensitive fairy,” Mona pleaded, adding a taunt just to remind this motherfucker who was the mistress in this house! When his laughter subsided, he attempted to affect a serious expression somewhat convincingly, and then he spoke to her. “I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and freed her of her various contortions, and gently propped her up comfortably upon some throw pillows taken from a black leather chaise lounge. As he did this, Mona related the gruesome details of the absurd scenario.

Orson only caught bits and pieces of this conversation; his mind was busy going over other possibilities. That wicked abomination affixed to Mona’s wheel of torture, had himself been the instrument of Orson’s own torture. Since the priest first forced sodomy on Orson when he was eight, until he ran away from home to escape Father Foster when he was thirteen, this man had ruined his entire life. This holy man turned child molester had stolen his innocence and left him feeling cold and dead towards the world. He had made him meek and paranoid and deprived him of any sexual identity. And here this man was, right in front of him fifteen years later, tied up and helpless. It was as though the universe had finally thrown Orson a bone, and that bone was the blind, blunt hammer of justice.

Orson went over to the priest and removed the ball gag, and then returned and knelt down, whispering to Mona, “I know that you are in a lot of pain right now, and I promise that I will help you, I do. But first there’s something else that I have to do.” “What? What else could you possibly have to do at a time like this? Please, Mona begs of you, help me!”

“Reverend Foster, what a surprise,” Orson’s voice trembled with rage and his words peppered the priests eardrums like acid. “It certainly has been a long time.”

“Who are you? What do you want? Why don’t you help her? Please, just untie me, so I can leave before anybody else gets here. Please, untie me!” The priests voice stammered dizzily, and the sound of his voice threatened to freeze the very blood in Orson’s heart.

“Oh I don’t think so, Father Foster. I don’t think you will be going anywhere anytime soon. I think me and you are going to have some fun, just like the good old times, Father.” Orson walked over to the priest and grabbed his flaccid member, gently squeezing and stroking it sensually. “Does that help, do you remember me now?” he prodded.

“No, who are you, why are you doing this to me. Please just untie me!”

What the fuck is going on? What are you doing to him, fuck him, just help me. Call a god damn ambulance all fucking ready, for Christ’s sake!” Mona screamed indignantly.

“Sorry Mona, not just yet, but soon.” Orson said sympathetically. As quickly as the icy hatred had melted away, it returned. “You don’t remember me? Well, isn’t that something. Because I remember you, Father. Every day and night since I was eight I have remembered who you are and what you did to me. Is this starting to ring a bell, father? Now do you remember who I am?”

“Adrian, is that…no, you couldn’t be Adrian. Matthew, is it, or, no…Christopher? Oh Dear God please help me! Who are you?”

“Its me Father, your little tit-mouse. Or did you have more than one of those too, you depraved fuck.” It had never occurred to Orson that he wasn’t the only child the priest had ever taken advantage of. Learning of it steeled his resolve for vengeance. His primal instincts begged for him to kill this monster, but his remaining cognitive facilities suggested that something more symbolic might be appropriate for this opportunity.

“Orson? Oh God, Orson! I am so sorry. Please untie me and we can talk about this, I promise, I never meant to hurt you. What do you want? Money? I can get you money. Oh please God, help me!” The priest was sobbing pathetically, now. The pitiful sound brought new waves of rage swelling up in Orson.

“I wouldn’t bother begging your God, Father. Don’t you remember when I used to try that? It didn’t help. Your God doesn’t exist, Father, you taught me that. More or less.” Orson removed the eye mask and spat in the priest’s eye. “Now lets see if I can repay the favor.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Help me!”

“No, please no!”

“Leave him alone, cant you see I need a fucking doctor you asshole! PLEASE!”

“Why are you doing that? Please stop, oh dear God…why?”

Orson took the priests penis into his mouth and began to work it slowly, and masterfully. When he started, the thing was completely limp; but despite the protests emanating from Howard, the warm wet mouth brought his cock to life. At this rate his vengeance would be swift, exacting it right before the moment of the priests release. He still remembered how the mans toes would begin tapping right before ejaculation. He would wait for this sign and then he would know when it was just the right time.

“This is seriously fucked up, Orson. How can you suck dick at a time like this? Holy mother of fuck, knock that shit off and help me! Help me you twisted prick!” Mona had a vague idea of what was happening but didn’t care. After the priest had came in her eye, she too, had wanted to make him suffer. But not now. It was too fucking obvious. She gave in to her pain, desperation and rage and began sobbing.

Meanwhile, the priest began issuing little grunts of pleasure, in between pleas to a God he knew damned well he didn’t believe in. That was the outcome of an education in theology via the seminary. One didn’t need to believe in God, to preach about him, no more than one had to believe in Santa Claus to celebrate Christmas. And wasn’t it the churches policy of celibacy that had driven him into compromising relations with young men? “Oh God,” he yelled, and his toes began the tell tale signs of tapping.

Orson noticed this and waited just a few more seconds before biting down with all of his might, and severing the member of the priest entirely. He immediately spat out the ragged protuberance, and rose up to spit the remaining blood into the priests face. After the ecstasy of catharsis faded from his mind, he noticed the Priest wasn’t screaming as he had expected. Neither was he thrashing about as might be anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Orson, you killed him. You killed him! Please don’t hurt me, please, help me. Help.” Her cries fell back to uncontrollable sobs.

Orson sat there stunned, unable to respond to his surroundings. This catatonic trance lasted several minutes, and then as if nothing had happened he walked out of the chamber to the reception area and dialed 9-11.

“Where are you going, please help me. Help me. Why won’t you come back here and help me? Where are you going?” Her appeals went on this way, all the while Orson spoke to the 911 operator in a frank monotone voice, relaying brief details of the situation. When he was done, he didn’t return to the torture chamber. He exited the Mistress’s and ran to his car. He didn’t know what he would do, but his first move would be to get as far from here as soon as possible.

In his frenzied attempt to start the old Chrysler, he accidentally pumped the accelerator frantically, causing the engines firing chambers to become flooded with fuel. The car would not start, and panic ensued. He made several more attempts to start the vehicle, but all of his efforts were fruitless. At this point he broke down in sobs not unlike the ones that had been issued from the mistress and the priests moments ago. Fits of dread alternated with bouts of resignation. Both thoughts made him bash his head against the steering wheel until finally he opened up a small wound causing blood to drip irritatingly into his eyes. After about ten minutes or so, he heard the far off cry of sirens. The sound sent an alarm running up and down his spine, and he tried the ignition once again. This time, the car turned over and started as if nothing had happened. After he wiped the blood from his eye, he put the car into drive and laid into the accelerator with utter abandon.

He managed to get about three blocks away before he got to a busy intersection. Unaware of his surroundings due to the paralyzing affect of fear on his psyche, he did not notice that the stoplight he was heading towards was red. He made it half way across the street before his automobile was struck on the passenger side by a speeding ambulance. The shift of the momentum sent him into a spin, and a moment later he was struck by another fast moving vehicle, this time directly on the drivers side of his automobile.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that. Hurry, get on the radio and call another ambulance. Strike that, call several more ambulances and about a dozen back up patrols. This is going to be a long night.” Police Lieutenant Mickelson stepped out of the car and shook his head under the light of a full moon. “A long night, indeed!”

It had been a quiet night so far. Lieutenant Mickelson and rookie patrol officer Laura Juarez had only been on patrol for two hours, but had yet to even make so much as a traffic stop. This ran contrary to the fact that there was a perfectly full moon. It was a simple fact in law enforcement, a full moon brought out the nuttiest of the lot. The last time there had been a full moon he had arrested a man for drunkenness and public urination, who claimed to be a vampire, who would eat his soul if he didn’t set him free at once. As it turned out, the man was a high school janitor who had just been fired, and had spent the past three days swaying to the gentle sounds of heroin and scotch.

Immediately following that debacle he and Officer Juarez were called to assist in a vehicle pursuit. The driver of the offending vehicle was a seventeen-year-old boy, who ended a thirty-five minute chase by sticking the business end of a twenty two-caliber pistol into his mouth and pulling the trigger. Authorities were still unable to determine if the gun wound from the small caliber pistol had actually killed him, or if it was the fiery chaos the ensued when his car collided with a concrete structure that supported an overpass.

At the end of his shift Lieutenant Mickelson was informed that the ‘vampire’ had later confessed to a gruesome murder, and claimed that he had drank the victims blood to obtain super-powers. Until a body could be found and psychologists could examine the ‘vampire’ in a sober state, nothing could be verified, and all details surrounding this case were to be kept completely under the strictest of confidences.

This was what the last full moon had been like, and it hadn’t been much stranger than any before it. Sure, there were a few that stood out over the years, but as a rule every full moon brought out the wholesale insanity of the supposedly ‘complex’ human mind. But tonight had started out slow, and that could only mean one thing, that by the end of it, it would be a very long night. That is what Lieutenant Mickelson was thinking when the call came in. It was the call that he had dreaded most ever getting, because it would expose him, and perhaps ruin him. The address he had been asked to respond to was one Miss Mistress Mona, bondage queen and humiliator extraordinaire, of whom he was a weekly client. He looked over at his partner and wondered if she noticed the horror and panic that was welling up inside of him.

Reflexively, and because he didn’t know what else to do, he just turned on the sirens and began speeding towards the scene. But the dread just kept building up inside of him the entire way. Only the horrible hope that Mona would be too fucked up or dead to recognize and address him calmed him even the slightest. Now only blocks from the house he was about to burst with the weight of it all, when a horrible accident that would take precedence over the call to Mistress Mona’s, happened right in front of him.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that.”

Orson O’Hara lay in a coma dying in a hospital bed. He was sure he was dying because he could feel the world around him shrinking. All he ever was, had ever been and would ever be was slowly spiraling into a funnel of the final nothingness. As he approached that final pinpoint of his existence, he felt a comfort he could not remember ever knowing, and then this last thought slipped into the eternal void.

Father Howard Foster was in critical condition. The stroke that had accompanied the severing of his penis should have killed him. Despite the fact that he had survived this, it was an even more amazing feat that he should survive after the slow response time by emergency vehicles, which had partaken in another emergency along the way. The doctors gave him a better than fifty percent chance of surviving, even though he was still unresponsive after twenty-four hours. Much of this was due to the Fathers reluctance to face what this nightmare had exposed. Surely Mona would have given all of the details uncovered in this mess to authorities who would investigate the depravities he had delighted in all of these years. Death was what Father Foster wanted so badly, and though he reached towards it and tried to pull himself in, life was not willing to let go of him.

When he finally reconciled himself to his continuing existence, he decided he would confess everything, instead of dragging this ugliness out any further than it needed to be. Forty-seven hours after the stroke, Father Foster gained consciousness, and was ‘on his way to a full recovery’. When he awoke he did not immediately reveal himself, he decided it would be best to wait until he was in better health. Nobody seemed to mention anything about any of it to him. Everyone just went about being concerned for him, and helping to bring the poor Father up to speed on the tragic events. None of these included a mention of Orson. It had been assumed that Mona accidentally cut off the Fathers Penis when she had fallen off the ladder. Authorities had completely botched the investigation, and Mona didn’t seem to remember anything. He learned of Orson’s death only because of how it related to the emergency vehicles delayed reaction time.

Somewhere during this he decided that maybe he wouldn’t reveal himself right away after getting better either. Maybe he would wait until this whole thing blew past him. He felt like a new man, and without that awful cock of his bidding him to become a monster, perhaps he could get a new start. If Mona didn’t say anything, then neither would he. Of course they’d figured out about his thing with Mona, and sure he could probably never return to the church, but with Mona silent and Orson dead the other thing would never have to come up again.

It was so clear to him that the instrument of his own evil had been that wretched insatiable prick of his, that without it he was perfectly free from the monster he was forced to feed all of his life. An assumption is a shaky structure upon which to build ones revelations. With the force of all of his might he managed to move a hand to his groin to feel the freeing absence of his penis, but when he finally got there his hand was met by a mangled stump of meat, reattached through the miracle of modern medicine. A pathetic muffled scream was issued from his throat and continued to ring in his ears throughout the rest of his life.

Mona stood back on her crutches admiring the new sign. ‘Mistress Mona’s Fortune Parlor’, underneath that it said, ‘Tarot, Palms, Crystals and Channeling’. After that horrible night, Mona was done with sadism. While in the hospital she had already decided to move on to her real interest, her psychic abilities. She knew it wouldn’t pay as well, but she had already amassed a tidy savings while in the beating business. She spent her days in recovery brushing up on her skills with the tarot deck, her palmistry skills and reading the subtle details of the future in a crystal ball. Never had she actually channeled an entity from another realm, but she was confident that if given the opportunity, she was unlikely to fail.

While reading her own astrological charts one day she came to realize that the terrible nights events had occurred not only under a full moon, but also with mercury in retrograde, as well. That night Mona had a dream that the universe would become a just place if only she were to build the proper temple. She set about doing just that, but for whatever reason the temple was to be built entirely out of cards. On an altar lay a tarot deck, from which the cards were to be drawn from and the temple built around. Whenever a card was taken from the deck it was immediately replenished, and no matter how many times she drew a new card it was always the same one, the ace of swords. Mona built and rebuilt the temple countless times, but whenever that last card was put into place, the temple would collapse back into the pile of cards from which it had been drawn.