posted on Aug, 7 2019 @ 10:10 AM
The Slow Gun
No one knows who fired the fired the last shot, but the first is a matter of public record, stretching back to the dawn of writing itself.
Brother on brother. The first hate crime. Snowballing down the mountain of time and picking up momentum along the way.
Every child ripped from its mothers breast. Every son sent off a child to do the ripping and coming back different.
We warped ourselves on purpose because we believed it was the shortest road to the top of the chain. The tower of Babel, Babylon. Bubbleonia rising.
The seed of hatred codified and made into law; a skeleton to hang your hopes and dreams on, only to curse it later with your thoughts and prayers.
The bullet is still leaving the chamber. The low and distant thunder isn't a sound, really. It's more like a warning. The bullet that kills the last
man on Earth has already been fired.
It was fired 100,000 years ago.
It has been inbound ever since. Picking up speed as it falls down through the ages, seeking its target, gaining momentum. The kill shot. Silver coins
falling over wide and pain-stricken eyes. Blood and gravity, intermixed and intertwined like a hate #@!% on a bender with a side order of spite.
Everything and everyone touched in the aftermath of that first shot, twisted, dismembered, dying. Separation anxiety and bloody, throbbing original
Picking up speed. Mopping up the final cries of every last man, woman or child, conceived in the absolution of pure, unadulterated violence. The only
force in the universe strong enough to make the galaxies hang together in the sky.
All gone, or going. Slipping over the edge of an event horizon. Blending together until the howling becomes hot, white light.
The first shot. The kill shot. The big bang.
It is coming still for the very last man. It has already left the gun.
The blood and vscera is on the floor.
Tread softly and keep ducking until you can't.