Glossed with sweat, my body gently heaved in time with the quickened-though-disturbingly-natural pace of my breathing. As I surveyed my work, knocking a few limbs farther back into the brush, a contented smirk wormed its way across my face.
“Easier’n I thought,” I scoffed.
And it was. Invigorating, too.
Initially, my movements were constrictively precise – a quality borne of my usual line of work that I’d have to shrug off. But after a single demonstrative stroke by my superior, it was if I was born for the job. And how beautiful it all was! Free-flowing, rhythmic strokes easily freed limbs and chunks of their flesh, many of which fell at my feet like complimentary roses thrown before a ballet dancer. A few chunks careened into my chest and arms, but I didn’t mind. On the contrary! – my body hungered for further exhibitions of my utter dominance – continued acclaim for my beautiful performance.
It was all despicably good. I was like a child with his first Red Ryder BB gun, but instead, I wielded a common motorized hedge cutter. It purred like a dream as its blade tore seamlessly through the damned before me – unless I cut against the grain. Then, it roared like finely tuned American muscle. Either way, my ears were treated to a symphony of delightful deconstruction.
I glanced over at my superior to admire his strokes. (Mmmm, how electric must be the rush of doing this with a sling blade!) I thought. The light pull of resistance stemming from manually cleaving through the wretched creatures… I relished the power and knew no equal ecstasy.
Job done, I lusted for more, but knew it best not to overindulge my first time. As we headed back, I proudly wore the splattered badges of my conquest, not daring to wipe off any of it.
Pleasure aside, it was back to business. Once inside, I made my way back to my quarters, where the little lady gave me a glass of my favorite on the rocks, knowing well enough to leave the bottle right next to it. After washing down the delectable decadence, I turned on the computer to check my inbox for the rest of the day’s schedule. 9:54am – finished “hedging the weeds.”
Before I could access the mail server, an article on my home page caught my eye: “US-NKorean Nuke Race: Armoring up or evening the playing field?”
“Heh,” I scoffed. “That’s an easy one: depends on what soil you’re on.”
There’s a fine line between ready and not; man enough and not. Surprisingly, it was my superior who believed me adept, as the only pittance of trust in anyone he’d shown since I wound up here was placed in me; as evinced by his entreating me to both the mission and that devastating instrument with which I carried it out – flawlessly, I might add.
Heh, but he didn’t see what I did.
Peering into the workings of my heart – well, where it’s supposed to be – I know better.
They say it takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong – when he’s just not up to assume full responsibility for the task at hand. Guess I’m still growing. Heh, fuck it – no blood lost, right? Well, none of mine.
I wrote this after assisting my father edge up the forest line behind our house. While engaged, I did seriously assess the exhilaration of destruction. It being a while since my last father-son landscaping activity, I’d forgotten how dangerously powerful machines can be. Initially, I feared my strokes would end up taking a chunk out of my leg. As I familiarized myself with the weight and pull of the machine, my form grew more confident. Soon, I was unnecessarily eradicating all traces of trunks already virtually unnoticeable. I would grant no branch or stem amnesty.
I admit I went mad with power, like a kid in a candy store with a questionably assigned credit card. Realizing this, I began to fear continued indulgence and what it might do to my otherwise mild-mannered temperament.
But that was nothing.
What really shook me was the acknowledgment that, too often, this struggle pervades the conscious minds of men, inducing them to become slaves to the perverse – the carnal, and (perhaps) primal – without even knowing. Worse still, is when we willingly submit to the allure of power without even batting an eye.
Before you say “that’s not me,” think for a second. You tell your dog to “sit” and you forcibly make him comply. Or you simply hit it for taking its time to comply. Nothing, right? Some may disagree. But I won’t. However, I will once your hits grow progressively stronger, or if your body temperature rises with your increasing anger. Or you twist your mouth in perturbed insistence you be feared/followed. Now replace “dog” with “child,” or “video game,” or even “hair.”
We’re obsessed with control. I once read a quote holding anger is our response to lack of control. We’ve a high need for control in this existence where we’re each only about 0.000[0’s near ad infinitum]1% of the whole picture. We’re each (hopefully) fully aware that the world will keep spinning just the same with us gone. Other galaxies’ comets won’t adjust their orbital patterns one bit on account of any one of us being happy, sad, or angry. Yet when we feel we’re losing control in an existence where we’ve already a miniscule amount, we freak. We cling to any we can assume. And very often, we are only assuming it.
Owning a gun is a controversial issue regarding self-defense. Many feel safer having one. It gives them a sense of control and power in case of emergency. However, many feel it does the same even when there isn’t an emergency. So what happens would innocents at home, seeking control via firearm, clash with those employing firearms to ensure control and power in the form of wealth? A showdown ensues where the victor is the one with either the most gun or situational control. Thus, the struggle for power and control continues, possibly more intensely than ever before.
Nuclear arms = same theme, drastically more frightening/destructive plot. One side arms itself to protect against another party doing the same. Fear = response to lack of control. Fear drives one nation’s leaders to do what they criticize another nation’s leaders for doing. Each side calls itself righteous, obviously either blind to the quest for control’s hold over them, or embracing it and riding the wave of control’s high. And who’s going to argue when it’s said to be done in the name of the nation – of reducing fear and keeping control in the hands of “just?” Interestingly enough, only certain people are justified in dubbing others as “just.” Guess who they are. I’ll give you a hint: those already in control of your opinion and nation. Justification of the “just” is just another exercise of their control.
Now think: if those people whose fingers are already bound tight around the trigger of the gun holding the apocalyptic bullet are blind to the pull of control and dominance, or they willingly indulge themselves on it, that means they’re likely to share the same mindset as my fictitious narrator: they know they’re holding a loaded gun – aimed at us all – and not even willing to put down the gun. They either don’t know their trigger fingers are twitching, or love the thrill of staring down oblivion and knowing its onset is under their command.
It’s scary. It’s sick. It’s happening.
Query: when the heat is on, do you have what it takes – not only to realize your lust for power/control, but – to cast off its shackles, giving the situational reins to someone (then) more capable?
Something to think about.
