Never underestimate the power of a fanatic.



Transcriber's Note:


The following text has been transcribed from authentic documents.

All the events related herein have been investigated, and have been subsequently

proven to be factual before a deliberate and skeptical body of erudite judges. Of particular

interest is the import of the testimony of the author, which this transcriber, and said panel

of judges, believe to be none other than Shaw, The Great Destroyer.


Bearing the author's identity in mind, then, the brief passage that follows

must read as a shocking excerpt of sheer, homicidal lunacy. Never before the

discovery and transcription of these documents has posterity been so privileged

with such an unadulterated, firsthand view into the motivations and intentions

of so successful a villain.


What follows is undoubtedly and irrefutably a biographical narrative

that relates and describes the inspiration and divination of Shaw's bloody

environmental pogrom, which pogrom left the Earth in a state of ruin, and which poised

humanity on the brink of extinction. What follows is a first person diatribe, which

was obviously intended to allow us the reader, the posterity of the author's ruinous

heritage, a divine insight into the madman's designs, but which can only serve

to horrify, dismay, and disgust us.


As a boy, I often dreamed of flowers at night while I slept. Which was strange, because I had never really seen a flower. I mean, I had seen pictures of flowers in the occasional faded text or tech manual, c-art and the like, you know, but I had never seen a REAL flower. I had never touched one. I had certainly never smelled one, though I knew, at least, that flowers were alleged to have a wonderful odor.

Nonetheless, I often slept and dreamed of flowers as a boy. Fields of flowers. Fields that stretched as far as my dream-senses could 'see' or imagine.

In these dreams, I wallowed in a sea of hues and drowned in oceans of soft petals. I was a happy otter at play in a vivid surf, and skipped from painted hilltop to hilltop with a raucous abandon, my feet flying as fluidly and with as much speed as any set of aquatic limbs ever swam. Always forward, in the beginning, would I run, careless of my footfalls, mindless of my direction. Heedless of my destructive wake.

I had no thought for the impact of my passage through that beauteous realm, in the beginning. I did not pause to consider the wastes of my labors. It was enough that I should wade the bright waters of those endless meadows in a blind, stumbling rush, enough that I should conquer new, virgin regions of crimson and gold, of violet and fuchsia, of turquoise and winter white all at once. It was enough that every ragged breath was a heaven of delight, an intoxicating plunge into the depths of olfactory oblivion. It was enough to feel the warmth of the rich soil between my toes and the crisp whip-snap of the stalks as they whispered past my churning legs. In the beginning, the mere experience of my raptured journey was enough to overwhelm me, to cast all other thoughts out of my head altogether.

In my dreams, in the beginning, I ran and ran and ran, until my dreamer's lungs were seared from breathing, until my muscles burned and my bones ached, until my feet were raw and tender, until I could run no longer. I ran until I collapsed, which failure, of itself, was a separate voyage into ecstasy.

For the flowers were there, in my dreamland, to save me, to cushion my fall. The flowers were there to lay me down softly, as a babe settled gently by a loving mother into a comforting bed. The flowers were there to wrap me round, a warm blanket, and to dangle over my eyes to shade the sun from my dilated pupils with rainbow arcs of refracted light. The flowers were there to feed my soul in its wretched exhaustion, to assuage the pain of my waking self where my sleeping self was all numbness and stunned joy. The flowers were there. In the beginning. In my dreams.

Almost, as I lay there sleeping within my slumber, almost I could hear those bright heads singing of my presence as worshipers might raise up hymnals in the presence of God. Almost, I could hear them laughing for the bliss of my touch.

And at that moment, that precise moment in my dreams, I was transformed. The world, my dream-world, was transformed. As casually and effortlessly as a breeze that has changed directions, the world turned. For at that moment, that exact, exquisitely acute moment in my dreams, I realized that the flowers were not singing, at all. With a start, with a pang of horror and infinite regret, I realized that the flowers were not laughing, but crying. Weeping. Wailing. The flowers were raging at my abuses in a carnal protest of anger and hatred.

I realized in a sudden gush that the flowers were not there to comfort or aid me or to cushion my falls. The flowers had not raised up their brilliant heads into a rolling sea of pigment that I should have the pleasure of treading them down into the muck again. The flowers were not pleased that I had come into their midst, as was I. Rather, they were enraged. They were abhorrent. They were terrified.

At the urging of that pinpoint prick of time, from the roll of one wet heartbeat to the next, within the breadth and span of a single bat of my eyelids, I understood that my wild experience had been more than a selfish joy. I was made aware of the awful costs of my purchase. I recognized that every toe's grip of rich loam, that every whip-snap of a those dappled stalks, that every cycle of my vicious legs had been a separate, sanguine murder. And in my dreams I would bolt upright, dislodged stems and flower heads dangling from my hair and shoulders, I would snap upright and gaze back the way I had come. I would at last turn my once heedless thoughts on the wasteland of my wake.

...(More Reading Here)

The Despot Dreamed of Flowers