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A Coming Storm
The Checkered Demon On Chancre Farmers

The New Madrid fault could slip a bit any day now, dropping the bridges from St Louis to Vicksburg. Maybe diverting the rivers a bit, slowing down the mail and stuff like that. Or maybe Yellowstone will go all Krakatoa and bury everybody Mt St Helen might miss in ash and lava.

They'll have to hurry though. Mean ol' Koreans are even now aiming capable launch systems our way, itching to engage in some atomic plinking with us. And as though our plate weren't already dribbling a bit, a double serving of mutant, drug-addled white male teens in black overcoats sitting next to your darling in class drawing skulls and daggers. A razor in his shoe, just sitting there ticking.

It's enough to get you down, this endless stream of crap that must be dealt with right away, while all you're trying to do is survive the truly rude.

If only life could be like some movies I like. Well, life isn't like that. Life is either more wonderful or horrific (with infinite variants) than any tale humans could dream up. It might just be so-so. So-so can be good enough though, considering the options. Admission is free, but once you're in you notice there's only one exit. Your parents are a crap-shoot, a whim of the gods if you can even think of such a thing. As long as they don't fuck you, starve you, murder you outright or train you to be a slave you're ahead of the curve. If you've got both of them still together, get used to your edge and use it. You'll need it for the coming storm.

The confusion comes from the chancre people. The people who, once you see and hear them, make you aware of the fatal cultural disease that we suffer from: Societal Syphilis. Ultra policemen on trial for treason is presented as a sidebar, since a 20 year CNN producer, now a " concerned " Mom, has done a communist organizer thing with her local kids to march on various capitals. Riding there in brand new busses, being coached by chancre farmers on how to make their victim status pay, the new cadres are being trained.

Old men see a coming storm and get on a satellite, look at the tracks and drink whiskey while speculating over snowfall and driving conditions. Colonels see a storm and call up a Captain, telling him to get his guys ready to practice night insertions. Chancre people see a storm and worry if the t shirts and signs will arrive on time for the main attraction, and will it be clear for video and Antifa / BLM comfort.

The malice of man is nothing compared to the malice of nature, the important place; where we live. The planet that drove our ancestors crazy with the lightening bolts, the floods and wild fires mixed in with plague, earthquakes and famine. No wonder they began to talk to the gods. Clutching a spear in ambush for a deer? Yeah. A little prayer to the deer god. The first thing this homicidal monkey tries is to talk his way out. It's a hard-wire job, and therefore must be under control. It's our secret weapon, this talking, along with the knowledge we die and a brain we don't know how to drive.

So in the dawn I mutter to the gods I encounter beneath my breath and listen. Praying to live to see the chancre people fall. I'd buy a TV for that...


Books by James LaFond

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