Author Archives: God

Bar Fly

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The bartender could see him coming from across the street, and had his double whiskey on the rocks ready for him by the time he sat down. He was old, and moving pretty slow these days, but he was still self sufficient enough to make it to the bar on his own. He would sit in the same corner of the bar at the same time every day. He would drink two double whiskeys on the rocks while he read from a book with a faded photo to mark his spot.

He would read through the first drink, then put the book down and chat with the bartender through the second. If the conversation was interesting enough, he would have a third, but never a fourth. Once he was done, he would drop too much cash underneath his empty glass and wave at the bartender with a simple “See ya tomorrow”.

The photo in his book was always the same. Faded and sun bleached, two young kids arm in arm and smiling. He handled the photo with the habitual yet burdened reverence of a cross borne for decades. He didn’t own a phone, there was no one left to call him anymore.

The books he read were always fiction. Non-fiction books were just as fictitious, he argued, at least fiction books were honest about it. Plus, fiction books wrapped up their stories into nice bows, with no loose ends or nagging open issues. Non-fiction just made him mad, the world was always the same story over and over again. Just… loss and sorrow repeated.

His doctor told him he needed to stop drinking. He just smiled and told the doctor that he was more likely to die with a drink in his hand. On that, both he and the doctor agreed. Truth is, he didn’t care, and didn’t even really know why he went to the doctor anymore. Just someone to talk to, he supposed.

One Wednesday afternoon, his book was down on the bar and he was chatting with the bartender, when the door opened behind him and he heard the sound of heals clicking on the floor coming up. “Hi, Bobby,” she said behind him.

His eyes closed for a minute as he relived decades of memories from a lifetime ago, then turned around. She was decades his younger but no longer young. She wore a red dress, a sun hat and large sunglasses with lipstick that matched the dress. She looked good, but none of that hid the grey hairs streaking through her blonde mane, or the wrinkles around her mouth from too many years smiling. “Hey, darlin’,” he said with the warm, sad reservation of someone glad to see you at a funeral, “been a while.”

“A long while,” she smiled and hugged him. The bartender gave her a nod and she pointed at a bottle of wine behind him. He dropped the glass and politely found something to clean on the other side of the bar.

“What brings you to my corner?” he asked, scared of the answer.

“Ben,” she said, knowing his fear, not wanting to hurt him but having no choice in the matter. His eyes closed and breath shuttered for a moment, “I found him,” she finished.

For the first time in 28 years, he dropped his glass of whiskey.

 

The Kingdom

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The Georgian Kingdom of The Far Reach (colloquially known as “The Kingdom”) is a human kingdom located in the Far Reach region of outer human space, which borders modern Pelagia, the human Republic of Gall, and some uncharted regions. The Georgians were the first humans to come into contact with the Pelagians, and bore the brunt of the early conflict with them. It was Georgian colonial defense forces that suffered the first losses against the Pelagian Royal Vanguard, and it was the Kingdom that first petitioned Earth to dispatch Human Alliance forces to defend its borders.

The Kingdom is one of only a very few remaining monarchies in human space, and by far the largest. It is traditionally ruled by the Portian royal family, whose lineage can be traced to the earliest days of Georgian colonization. Rochard Portian became the first Georgian King when he lead his forces to victory against the Earth Alliance and established independence for Georgia.

Rochard’s grandson, King Rochard II, then greatly expanded the Kingdom’s territory when he went to war with the neighboring Republic of Gall.  Taken almost completely by surprise, it took some time for Gall to mount an effective response. By the time the Galls were able to mount an effective defense, Rochard II had more than doubled the size of the Kingdom. Rochard II then established peace with Gall before the war became too bogged down. In some ways this has been the only criticism of Rochard II from the Georgian perspective, with many considering that a lost opportunity to completely defeat and take over the Galls. As a result of Rochard II’s restraint, Gallian-Georgian relations since then have been a centuries long story of rivalry and war.

The other main source of Georgian territorial expansion has been the exploration and colonization of unknown space. Georgian explorers (sometimes referred to as “charters”) have become legendary for their courage and tenacity for exploring the unknown reaches of space, an undertaking many believe to be among the most dangerous of human endeavors. It was this lust for territorial expansion that ultimately brought the Georgians into contact with the Pelagians, the first human contact with a new sentient alien species in over three centuries.

The rapid and relentless expansion by the Kingdom has lead to a variety of societal issues as well as rapid economic expansion. While the Kingdom has most certainly benefited economically from the rapid influx of goods from new colonies (especially the inner Georgion worlds), it has also struggled to deal with the societal issues that come along with rapid expansion. Georgian colonists have become accustomed to the freedom and independence that comes with colonial life, and have begun to identify less and less with the Georgian nation and lose respect the authority of the monarchy. As a result, Kingdom forces have been dispatched more and more often to quell independence uprisings from colonies all over Kingdom space.

Preacher

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It was to a land of dark people he was sent… to baptize peoples perverse and steeped in darkness.                                                                      – Hymns of St. Ephrem The Syrian

Jim was a man of faith. He hadn’t always been so, he had come to his faith fairly late in life, but now it was such a deep part of his identity it was sometimes difficult to remember what he was like without it. Now, he was so comfortable with his faith that, while he did not push his faith upon others, people could just see it in his demeanor. That, and the priest robes he wore were kind of a giveaway.

He was in his twelfth year as a priest, and still loved it, despite his differences with the church hierarchy. He had been approached on multiple occasions for promotion up the ranks of the church, but had refused every one. He was far too interested in the field work of a preacher, preferring to dedicate himself to helping individuals in his life as opposed to helping the Church.

It was with this in mind that he had joined the crew of the Poor Dick (well, that and his assignment from the Levites). He had approached Captain Deborah Read with an offer to join her crew. At first she was reluctant (“I don’t plan on any of my crew dying, preacher, so no need for a priest,” she had arrogantly stated). But then she found out that not only was he a decent cook (he found her passed out at a bar two days later, took her home and made her an omelette), but he also had a working knowledge of medical first aid (he patched up a gash on her head she couldn’t remember getting). She didn’t have a doctor among the crew, and given the dangerous missions undertaken by the Dick, having someone on board who could dress wounds, remove bullets and set broken bones was necessary.

At first the crew treated him with a certain degree of suspicion. Christianity wasn’t the ubiquitous religion it had once been, and few believed in the Christian God anymore, let alone carry enough faith to preach the Gospel to others. Fewer still, were the number of Christians among the crew of the Dick. This was not Jim’s first rodeo, however, and he knew how to approach the situation. Being assigned as the ships cook was perfect for him, for there was no better way to ease suspicious minds than by making them good food. All it took was a few meals and suddenly the crew joked and chatted with the Preacher like he was one of them.

Even then Jim remained patient. He had been doing this a long time and knew that, paradoxically, the quickest way for a preacher to alienate the people around him was to begin preaching. Instead, Jim spoke not at all about his faith, offering no sermons or prayers, choosing instead to simply wear his priest’s cassock every day and in full view of the crew (admittedly sometimes underneath a cooking apron). With time, he knew that curiosity would get the better of them and eventually, one by one, they would come to him with questions. That is when the real work would begin.

The Strategic Pirate Deb

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“We’re not pirates!” insisted Deb to her crew, “We are patriots fighting for the freedom of our people. We have to keep our focus on fighting the enemy, hindering their support structure, harassing their forces to keep their focus away from our boys back home.”

“Yeah, sure, grand, so long as we get paid,” said Tyler simply. Much of the crew nodded in agreement (assholes).

“The colonies will pay you all as soon as we get back home, I promise, I just need to be able to show them that we are actually fighting the Kingdom. And the best way to be able to show that is to attack the Drake while she’s in port for repairs. Capture her if we can, destroy her if we must,” Deb was pleading now. This conversation had been going on for an hour at this point and by the look of things she wasn’t convincing anybody. They had left port the day before and this was the first meeting with her crew for this voyage, she needed to get everybody on the same page or she would lose them all at the next stop. The first meeting was always a little chippy, as crew members tried to establish themselves in the political pecking order. It annoyed Deb to no end (fucking useless politics).

“Don’t lie to us Deb, paycheck from the colonies ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on. We make money on this trip by taking money,” said Doc, who was not a Doc but everyone called him that anyway, “And there’s no money in attacking one military ship in port. We need to be hitting convoys and filling that big beautiful cargo bay over there.” (short sighted piece of shit)

“I understand the need, Doc, and not to worry, with the lanes we’ll be patrolling, there’ll be plenty of opportunities to fill our belly with rich cargo. All I’m saying is that, in the long run, there is more to gain by hitting the military targets. If the colonies see that we are having success hitting the Kingdom where it hurts, then they’ll start sending more ships under our command. Pretty soon we won’t be patrolling out here all by our dangerous lonesome, we’ll be sailing with a whole squadron of ships, taking on rich targets like military convoys and ports of call,” Deb’s eyes twinkled at the image she was painting. Her crews’ eyes, however, did not.

“We’re not here to stroke your ego, Deb,” someone called from the back, resulting in more than a few snickers.

“Oh no, Patty, I’m sure you’re all far too busy stroking your own… egos,” retorted Deb bringing genuine laughter this time. Once the laughter began to die down, Deb relented and proposed her other idea (I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this), “Look, I can see that simple gains are more important to you all right now, so why don’t we compromise. If I can get that cargo bay at least half full, will you all be willing to begin going after military targets?”

There was some silence at the proposal, with some quiet grunts of reluctant approval, “Make it three quarters full and you have a deal,” yelled Tyler.

“No, Tyler, half. We will need the space for the loot we take from the military targets. Ammo, small arms, armor, medical supplies. Say what you want about the Colonies’ payroll, but they will pay for these kinds of supplies cash on delivery,” Deb could see she had them, so she was standing firm now.

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Sally chimed in for the first time (kiss-ass). Nonetheless, there were a lot of silent nods of agreement and looking around.

“Alright, to that end, I have a first target in mind. The port of Coventry,” the crew looked at each other, clearly no one had ever heard of it, “it’s a tiny little port on one of Epsilon 2’s moons,” Deb explained.

“That’s in the heart of Kingdom space,” said one of the crew, incredulous.

“Technically, yes, which makes it a great symbolic attack against the Kingdom. And at the same time it’s on the opposite side of Kingdom space from the War with the Colonies, so that area won’t be heavily patrolled. In the mean time, it is also one of the first stops in Kingdom space for ships coming in from Pelagia, so there are usually a bunch of merchant ships stopping in there. It’s also a cheap spot for repair work, so a lot of inner Kingdom merchant companies will send their smaller ships there for basic repairs. I say we go in, rob the store houses, plunder the docked Pelagian ships, and sabotage the Kingdom ships there for repairs.”

“Pelagian ships mean spices. I know people in the colonies that’ll pay good money for that,” offered Doc, clearly intrigued.

“Port like that must have some defenses,” replied Tyler, still cautious.

“Aye,” replied Deb with a smile, “There’s a defense grid that can tear us apart. But I know of a maintenance terminal where we can hack in and shut it down.”

“How do you know so much about this place?” asked the preacher, speaking from the back for the first time.

Deb’s smile disappeared (I was hoping no one would ask me that), “… I grew up there.”

 

Space Ballistics Update

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Okay, so I talked to a physicist friend of mine and did some basic research and it turns out I was even more right about ballistics in space than I thought. I was operating under the assumption that a kinetic weapon would need to launch a massive projectile, even at high speeds, in order to achieve the force necessary to kill its target (hence the “death Buick” moniker). And while the mass of the projectile does make a difference in a number of factors, it turns out that even an object as small as a baseball launched at roughly 90% the speed of light would produce a thermonuclear explosion large enough to level a city.

Essentially, once the death baseball comes into contact with matter (even gaseous matter like an atmosphere) the matter in front of the baseball is so compressed that it actually fuses together and begins a fusion reaction. Exactly how big of a reaction will occur depends on the size and speed of the projectile (the smaller the object, the greater the necessary velocity).

This augmentation of the paradigm I presented means a couple of things. First, it would mean that these weapons could not be fired from in the atmosphere, as it would just touch off a nuclear explosion at the firing point instead of at the target location.

Second, it actually makes more sense that militaries employing this technology would choose smaller objects at higher speeds. For one, higher speeds mean easier aiming at greater distances. For another, smaller objects are easier to load. I am now envisioning thermonuclear machine guns, spraying death baseballs all over an opposing planet or ship.

This actually speeds up the paradigm of stray death baseballs beginning to hit unintended targets since there will likely be far more projectiles being launched.

The Tired Pirate Deb

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Deb walked back to the spaceport from the Den of Bens (shudder). She preferred to walk home whenever she woke up hungover (it’s only a walk of shame if you feel shame). It helped her sober up and clear her head, and she always felt better when she got back to the ship (still tired as shit, though).

She found the Poor Dick in one of the docking bays and walked slowly up the ramp into the cargo bay of her ship, still feeling pretty ragged even though her head had cleared considerably (nothing a good nap won’t fix). She found Tyler and Rozelle playing poker on one of the crates. Rozelle had his back to her, his long dreadlocks hiding his thick neck but not his massive shoulders. Tyler was opposite Rozelle and facing the entrance. His skinny frame perked up as he noticed Deb’s slow approach. “Oi Cap! How was your night? Where’s your shirt?” he chipped to her through a mild Australian accent.

Deb shuffled up to her crew, hands in her jacket pocket. “If I knew that, I would be wearing it, Ty,” she said as if still in bed trying to sleep (idiot). She shuffled past them towards her quarters.

“Must’ve been a good night, then,” Tyler said with a rye smile as he turned back to his cards.

“Sally’s back there waiting for you. She seemed pretty pissed,” Rozelle told her without looking up from his cards.

Deb’s feet hesitated for a moment at the warning, but then continued their prisoner’s shuffle toward bed. “Thanks, Roz,” she mumbled.

Deb walked into her quarters and was greeted by a very stern Sally, dressed and showered, sitting on Deb’s bed with the stern look of an angry mother. Deb looked at her through half closed eyes, then sat down at her desk and began taking off her boots. For what seemed like forever, Sally said nothing, just staring daggers into Deb (I’m too tired to deal with a lecture). “Well, I hope you had fun, Deborah,” Sally began.

“At this point, you would know better than I.” (I don’t need a mother, least of all one that wants to fuck me)

“Oh, no I would not. I was back here by midnight, like you promised you would be,” Sally said, letting her anger seep through.

“I recall you promising me that you would make sure I got home safe if I got drunk. I got drunk.”

“Yeah, and then you shot me, Deborah! With a bullet. From a gun.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been on the other side of the door,” said Deb simply, taking her jacket off.

“I was knocking to see if you were in there. I went to the bathroom and you were on the couch, I came back and you were gone, a boot on the couch and your shirt on the floor.”

“Gah! It was on the floor! I knew I should have looked there,” said Deb, dropping her arms from her unbuttoned fly and throwing her head back in frustration (Ben did say I threw it behind me, I should have figured that out).

“This isn’t a joke, Deb, I had to tell the hospital I got caught in the crossfire of one of the gang battles over in the combat zone. They made me give a statement and everything.”

“I’m sure you were very convincing,” said Deb as she crawled into bed.

Sally sighed out of frustration. She knew that it was useless trying to argue when Deb was like this. Rather than trying to continue the argument she tabled it for later and instead turned around on the bed and starting spooning with Deb.

“Sal, get outta here,” said Deb with practiced annoyance, “we’ve talked about this, I’m not a lesbian.”

“I’m pretty sure that girl last night would have some interesting thoughts on the issue,” said Sally, annoyed at having to explain a simple hug from opposite sides of the sheets.

“I have no memory of any of that. If a tree falls in the woods and I don’t remember cutting it down, then I’m definitely not a lumberjack,” mumbled Deb.

Sally frowned, “I… don’t know what that means, but whatever. You are easily the most in-the-closet lesbian I know. You sleep with women. You never hang out with dudes. You named your ship The Poor Dick for crying out loud, could you hate men any more?”

“It’s an historical reference!”

“Whatever, you treat every man you meet like a total dick.”

“Yes, real, flesh and blood dicks, that I fuck. Ergo, ipso facto, e pluribus unum, not a lesbian. Now, go away and let me sleep off this hangover.”

Sally sighed and stood up, “Alright, but sooner or later you are going to realize that all that flesh and blood dick you’ve been fucking isn’t worth it, and then you’re going to come to me all, ‘wow, Sally you were right all along, I like vaginas and tits’ and I’m gonna be all, ‘see, I told you, now let’s go back to my place.’ And you’re going to be like ‘Alright,’ and I’m gonna be like, ‘Cool.'”

Deb was snoring.

 

 

The Hungover Pirate Deb

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Deb came back to consciousness reluctantly. Very reluctantly. She had tried hard the night before to make sure that she wouldn’t have to deal with consciousness the next day, but alas, just one more failure.

She began to move, also reluctantly, and only partially underneath the sheets. She became vaguely aware that she was naked, but was too concerned with the massive headache that seemed to be permeating her entire body. Where was she?

She opened her eyes (reluctantly) sat up (reluctantly) and looked around (painfully). The unfamiliar room was small but not prohibitively so. Clothing was everywhere, too much of it to all have been removed from bodies last night. There was an old dirty couch across the room from the bed and an old dirty dresser on the other side, next to a closed door with… what looked like a fresh bullet hole in it (mildly concerning, but sure).

Unconscious on the floor was a mostly naked young man that Deb didn’t recognize. Unconscious on the couch was a completely naked young woman drooling on her pillow. Deb didn’t recall meeting either of them, but she just shook her head, rolled her eyes (whatever) and once again rubbed her head.

She began the long and confusing process of finding her clothes. She found her gun belt first (somehow she always finds that first). The belt was missing one gun, however (the good one, too). She immediately gave up on her clothes and started looking for the gun. Tossing clothes, pushing over naked, grumbling bodies, she eventually found it behind the couch, clearly thrown there and missing one round (I guess that explains the door).

She found her pants and one boot in the room. Through bleary eyes, she opened the newly ventilated door to a short hallway that lead to a larger room that included a small galley-style kitchen and a living room with a couple couches. There were two clothed men sleeping on the couches and a man in pajama bottoms in the kitchen cooking something that probably would smell good if it didn’t make Deb wanna vomit (fucking whiskey). “Good morning,” said the cook through raised eyebrows, “want some breakfast?”

“No,” croaked Deb, “where’s my shirt and boot?”

“Well I think your boot may be that one over on the couch under Tom, and as I recall, you took your shirt off, threw it somewhere and said ‘fuck it, let’s get weird’,” replied the cook with no small amount of amused judgement.

Deb stared at the cook through a pouting, hungover frown for a moment (You are way too coherent right now. I kinda want to shoot you). Then she suddenly gave up on the frown and muttered, “Actually that sounds about right.”

She walked over to the couch, grabbed her boot from underneath the feet of Tom, then pushed Tom off the couch and starting rifling through the cushions. Tom landed with a thud and demanded an angry, sleepy “What the fuck?”

She didn’t find her shirt, but she found her jacket crumpled into the corner of the couch cushions. “This’ll work,” she said, putting the jacket on and moving to the door (I’ve got other shirts).

She reached the door, paused, turned around and said with a shrug, “Thanks for the… roof over my head, Ben.”

“Ben? Who’s Ben?” asked the cook.

Deb opened the door, “You are.”

“Uh, no I’m not.”

Deb stopped in the middle of the doorway and gave a short exasperated sigh to herself (Why are you making me explain?), “Yes, you are. You’re Ben, and he’s Ben, all you dicks are Ben. And Ben can go fuck himself.”

The door slammed behind her a little harder than she had intended.

Space Ballistics, Part II

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Part of the difficulty of the future of space warfare using kinetic projectiles is that they don’t stop, or slow down. If a gunner misses the intended target, that shot will continue on ad infinitum. That projectile will travel on at its incredible speed, like an angel of death lost in the void, waiting to meet a victim. Imagine you are a simple freighter, carrying futuristic goods of simple, yet important nature to your fellow living beings across the universe. By all indications the route you are taking should be a safe one, until your ship is obliterated by a bullet shaped Buick travelling at light speed. The bullet had been intended for a warship during a battle that had occurred long ago and far away, but no matter, you were still in its path and therefore you must die.

Now, given the distances between star systems, a projectile launched at even light speed (a velocity I already mentioned is highly unlikely to be achieved even in the distant future) it would still take years to reach even the next star system, let alone the next inhabited system. And that is, of course, provided the bullet just so happened to be fired in the exact direction of a star system, and not straight off into the black nothingness of space. Therefore, mathematically speaking, the likelihood of said futuristic bullet even hitting a planet of any significance to the future space fairing denizens of the universe is unbelievably small. Smaller still the likelihood of hitting a moving ship.

Ah, but math is a fickle bitch, especially in matters of life and death, because on a long enough timeline, anything that can happen, will happen. True, the likelihood of Bullet Number 1 hitting the space freighter USS Some Ship is, indeed, infinitesimal. However, no war was ever won by a single bullet (especially one that missed the intended target), and no war ever proved to be the last. Probability is cumulative so long as the chance continues to be taken, and eventually the arithmetic begins to add up. As more and more wars are fought, and more planets colonized, and more trade routes established, and more freighters take to those shipping lanes, soon the dynamic begins to change. Soon the probability the any bullet will hit any ship or any inhabited planet becomes really rather high.

Of course, one random freighter getting obliterated by a stray shot from a hundred years ago won’t change much. After all, it’s just a freak accident. Until Math rears her ugly head again, and reminds us that time is infinite, and our model is cumulative. Likelihood continues to increase until it is no longer a freak accident and is now a rare occurrence. And then likelihood continues to increase until it is no longer a rare occurrence and is now an emergent problem. From emergent problem it becomes a known issue, and from known issue it becomes an epidemic. Soon it is a daily occurrence for someone somewhere to have to deal with the impact of a death Buick from a thousand years ago launched at some unknown enemy in some unknown battle during a war long forgotten between peoples that probably no longer exist.

From a societal perspective this would launch a campaign to change warfare. The people of the future would likely treat solid ballistics much like we treat landmines today. Claiming them to be irresponsible and dangerous, they would push for weapons like lasers that inherently dissipate over distance. But results would come slowly, because by the time the problem became big enough to require action, there would already be tens of thousands of years worth of death Buicks flying around the galaxy, just looking for some poor colony to crater.

And thus the wheel of peoples’ lack of forethought causing the future deaths of their innocents would continue to turn. Much as it always has, just with a different face each time.

Evil in the Mirror

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There are those among us that speak of evil. They speak about evil as if there is some big, global conspiracy of evil-doers that plot to reverse the course of history and drive our world into a tirade of chaos, destruction, and death. In this world, it is only the actions of the many, in small, every day moments of good, that can reverse their diabolical schemes of mass sin and deceipt. It is our daily choice to simplify our lives, narrow our views, and take comfort in our righteousness that make us superior, that make us favored in the world, that make us good.

This salvation that is offered to us, this path to divinity that is shown to us, is most often espoused by those who sit in comfortable chairs. Whether they be sitting in front of a camera, behind a confessional, or in lofty offices in capital cities, our greatest warriors against evil and deception most often refuse to confront the evil that lies on their doorstep. These righteous men stare in horror at the stain on the floor while ignoring the death around them.

Despite their rantings and ravings about the nothingness of global evils, there are those of us that have stared evil in the face, and seen only a mirror. In my life I have many lofty goals and accomplishments of which I can be proud. I have worked hard to improve the lives of those around me. I have not always accomplished the goals I have set for myself, but I have always done what I felt was best for the greater good. And yet, while I commit myself to this lofty plain of selfless acts and noble devotions, I have chosen to neglect and ignore the small, every day acts of selfishness and greed. In the long run, most of these daily acts have little or no individual effect on the greater good. I have not ruined anyone’s life, I have not caused insurmountable sorrow, nor have I even failed to help those I loved who were in need. And yet, I have, without a question, commited evils.

These evils are not the global evils that threaten the very fabric of our society so vehemently feared by the men in comfortable chairs. They are smaller acts, simpler, and face to face. They are small, selfish acts that accomplish little more than the “expanding of my horizons,” or other attempts to understand the evil acts of those around me by committing identical acts. Harm? What harm is done? This is a question I can not possibly answer, and any attempt to do so accomplishes little more than driving me deeper into fear and loathing of myself and my capabilities.

These acts will not cause kings to fall, or governments to go to war, but they could, and perhaps do, affect the people I see on a daily basis. Small acts that change my world like a veil over my eyes. I provide myself with meaningless justifications that accomplish little more than my own peace of mind. And yet it is this peace of mind that allows me to commit these acts again, and again, and again.

Who am I? What am I capable of? These are questions that are as horrific as they are irrelevant. I am simply that which I have already been, and I am simply capable of that which I have already done. This statement elicits in me both pride and sorrow, for I have found my limits, and I have crushed them like sticks before the flood, and left little more than destructive tendencies in my path.

Evil? What do men in comfortable chairs know of evil? True warriors against evil fight no one but themselves. My greatest sorrow in this terrible quest for understanding is that I have learned from it little more than fear of myself. My greatest accomplishment is that I no longer fear the capabilities of others, for there is no greater evil than that which I have already committed.

God (Me)

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I get it, it’s arrogant to call myself God. It’s also true, at least for this universe. No one else is creating anything in this universe, so as far as this universe is concerned, I am God. I won’t take pride in that fact until there is something to be proud of. Right now this universe is too sparse to mean anything, so I will just have to be happy with the arrogance that I can actually call myself God in this space.

I also understand that no one likes a lazy God. The Creator of the Universe should be attentive, smart, capable and most of all driven. Imagine if God was just too lazy to put together gravity, or light. A broken universe is meaningless and boring.

Having said that, I wonder if it ever occurred to anyone that the Creator of their universe might also just have shit to do besides sit around and work on their little universe. Is it just possible that the Creator of Heaven and Earth might also have a J-O-B that takes away from His ability to constantly give a shit about your silly little lives?

Or maybe, you know, it’s 1:30 in the morning and God is just fucking tired. I’ll create the sun and the stars in the morning.