Anonymous

This is a work in progress. I really never cared much for censoring the truth.

“The future of planet Earth grows bleaker with every day, every hour and every minute, and no one in their right mind give two s***s about it, much less one. As the fate of the world dims into the putrid wastes, following suit to the death of Mars, the average Joe is more concerned about which celebrity is screwing around with whom or what, deeply sympathetic to the temporary obsessions of the next cheap plastic gadget, in lust with his pornographic violence, under the jingling spell of the next GMO-laden snack treat. We prove our commitment to patriotism with video games and double bacon cheeseburgers, express ourselves with thundering blasts from our talkative guns and raving temptations of easy, demented sex. F**k condoms, we need more people to share this wondrous plane of existence with. We need to f**k like rabbits to produce our next generations of weapon fodder and sex toys, we need our slave labor and land developers and oil tycoons to function as a society. We need to know which child is a terrorist so we can blow him or her to bloody pieces and say that we've saved our God-given heritage of television values. We need to rape the women and slaughter the men in the proud name of these United States and the world as a whole. Corruption is a national treasure.

“Misery loves company.”

-Anonymous

He was reading from a ratty old copy of Adbusters with a grim smile frozen upon his unshaven face. He was half sitting, half leaning against an old, rusting Dumpster in a forgotten alleyway, and the first thing he thinks is simply, It ain't Fahrenheit 451, but it's the next best thing. That's where the source of the humor lies, isn't it? Bradbury had predicted a future dystopia in which books are seized and destroyed by the government to keep the populace under submission. He wondered what the poor b*****d would've thought when he saw that the populace itself was responsible for the damnation of literature, masters of their own shackles and chains. May God, or whatever religious importance of God that's actually left, rest his soul.

He almost blurted out in a heavy spasm of laughter. He actually had to drop the magazine carcass to cover his torn-lipped mouth with both hands, lest some lurker decided to come on over to slice open his throat, or worse. But goddamn, he could crack himself up, sometimes.

Except for the rabid squeaking of a nearby rat orgy and the distant roar of a Hummer, all was still and silent. The shrouded piles of molding debris littering the dank little street barely twitched with the soft, polluted wind. There were no faint echos of a human's rhythmic footsteps stalking ever closer, even now as the time grows ripe for their active sport of rape, murder and pillage. The odd, shining reflection coming off the countless liquor bottles and used hypodermic needles did not betray the presence of the large, billowing population of ghosts wandering at this dark, merciless hour. Far beyond the Scotch tape sliver of the sickly night sky, the merciless searchlights of a Predator drone passed stealthily above the arc sodium taint, almost as nonexistent as the stars.

By then, he managed to control himself, just enough to where his brawling laughter dimmed down to mere hiccups. One of the vile little vermin actually stood up to look at the sulking, pulsating human figure with it's black vagrant eyes before returning it's greedy gaze back into the squirming mass of orgasmic rodents and spewed trash. His stomach hurt so much from the sudden laughing fit, from thinking something as downright bizarre as the notion that God would actually gave a s**t about others, it actually overpowered his previous pain from hunger and sleep deprivation for a few precious moments. Thankfully the putrid odor of wet garbage, rotting corpses and stale piss was enough of a smelling salt to return his waning mind on full alert, stifling his fatal urge to express his thoughts out loud.

Somewhere in the vile darkness, an indiscriminate figure was walking past the dank little alleyway, muttering ghoulish obscenities to itself as it picked at the sores which littered it's arms and face. It passed by without incident, for now.

Realizing that death or worse was indeed narrowly avoided, he quietly picked up the tattered remains of his magazine and flipped through it's dirty, grim-coated pages. He glimpsed upon articles discussing the nonchalant attitude towards the perpetual wars in the Middle East, paragraphs describing the details of torture to human and animal alike, entire pages dedicated to the atrocities that major corporations have committed time and again who roam free to steal the world's resources and freedoms from under the feet of the cattle-like masses.

He was especially interested in how little anyone cared, if at all.

S**t, he actually knew people who cared more about how sexually-appealing a little girl was in a beauty pageant than how many little girls had been brutally raped and murdered by soldiers out in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq, and they were considered normal men by this society. He knew people who would, and indeed had, done horrible things to the world, to complete strangers, to by-standing creatures, even to their own supposed “loved ones”, all because they were blindly, willingly obedient to faceless masters who rewarded them with green paper.

S**t, man...he himself was one of those people, back in that horrible mess that composed his life's past. He served in the desert, for Christ's sake. He saw firsthand the monstrous cruelty that made Full Metal Jacket look like a ridiculous kid's cartoon. He was witness to the unspeakable atrocities committed by Blackwater, or Xe, or whatever the hell they were called now in Baghdad and Kabul and Fallujah (Not the stupid Star Wars planet, he thought bitterly). He even knew many of the sadistic devils by a first name basis, such as Sargent Robert Bales, who had decided to go into a village one spring day in March 2012 to brutally murder 16 Afghan civilians, all of them women and children; he was taken out of the war-torn nation by the U.S. Government so that he didn't have to be charged with cold-blooded murder, while his wife got her fifteen minutes of fame on national television.

Ah, the good life of being a veteran, he thought coldly.

Even in his deteriorating civilian life after the pointless massacres, he still witnessed the natural born evil of mankind everywhere he looked. For one example, there was never going to be a proper clean-up or even the acknowledgment taken for all the disastrous oil spills which permanently destroyed countless acres of ocean and tundra or any other section of the world; all one had to do was look into the internal political structure of British Petroleum or Exxon Mobile or Shell or countless other tyrants of crude who are rewarded for violating their own mother and sucking out her blood like so many malaria-infested mosquitoes. They play the powers of world leaders like their own personal poker chips, spreading the gospel of fossil fuels as the beloved god of greed and gluttony, brushing away the results of their direct influence of global climate change and having everyone willingly believe it to be as part of the natural order as their dependency for yet more oil and natural gas. No one thinks to remember the Valdez or the Deepwater Horizon or the corporate takeover of the U.N. government, and even then, with full knowledge at hand, no one cares anyway.