What might flood a man’s thoughts as he witnessed a convivial execution? How would one’s psyche come to grips with a harrowing orgasm? What parts of the brain would shiver and convulse in response to learning of a person’s eye being gouged from its socket by the tender, calloused hands of a bloodthirsty saint? Adjectives used in unexpected ways cause momentary ruptures in our synapses, shredding expectations into tight, excruciating ribbons that squeeze the softness out of what might otherwise be gentle thoughts resting comfortably on observations.
Have I sufficiently set the stage? Have you prepared yourself for what may come next? No, I doubt you have. For you have no inkling of the schemes I am hatching other than the clues I’ve offered up; those clues may well be red herrings, false flags, smoke screens, or bait of the bait-and-switch variety. Writers, or demons claiming other another brand name or insignia, lie under the acceptable pretense of entertainment.
The stage I set is an ephemeral drape, a curtain so thin as to flail in a gentle breath exhaled ten feet from the veil. I’ve lied to you; I’ve led you on with the objective of making you angry with me, the bastard you trusted to offer you a legitimate reason to keep reading. Instead, I lured you toward a precipice beyond which a flood of lies awaits you. And what of the harrowing orgasm? Yes, what of it? What of it, indeed. You were manipulated. Not because an objective required it, but only because the opportunity to manipulate was so tempting and so unmistakably visible.