Borderline

Sometimes, when you look at your darkness that is your life, you see patches light. These are the good people that exist in the murky fog, the swirling mist, the darkness.

If you are clever, you will throw yourself onto their mercy. Tell them dark secrets, hoping for salvation, and expecting a short, horrible end to your rather grimy existance. You can play with their cats, all the while expecting a lightning bolt from the diety that favors them, and not you.

When you crawl out, drunk and stoned, perhaps tempted by glue or other unpleasant organic solvents, you ask yourself what can I do to climb up to their refined plane of existance. You do not want to live with people who are sinners, who fart, who have personality disorders, who smell of fish or acetone.

If you listen to the good people, it is hard. You must renouce your crafty vices. Your painted whores, the scented strumpets, the temptations that got you in Hell in the first place. Abandon all of them for the one thing that is going to carry you out of the life of shit that you call home. Crawl like the worm you are, into the realm of sunlight and fresh rain.

It is not so nice to abandon the vices of the familar Babylon that you inhabit: the whores, the whiskey, the cheap entertainments of the arena and the jousting field.

As I crawl upward, encouraged by the boot of the loving diety that does such things, I can only say that I serve ruthlessly the forces that have been unleashed. Today, they are the four horsemen of the apocalypse. One of them is Irish. He drinks single malt scotch. You other sinners should be filled with fear;I am.

I, fenris badwulf, wrote this.