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7/29/2011:
It is not often I express joy. It is sentiment reserved at most for the mentally simple and the off-puttingly
effeminate. But as I see the sun set and rise in the sky over and over, my smile grows. I watch the large clock
in Ares' American mansion spin ever forward. Every bell ringing brings another hour to death. That hour's corpse
becomes one more stone in my path to 30 July. I have had only words at my disposal thus far, and it angers me.
The youngest and most foolish Ant of them all parades around in a rolling outhouse, staring at fields for some
misguided inspiration. Even were our paths to cross before 30 July, Ares and Claudio tell me that violence is
forbidden. There are different rules here in America. That is to say there are rules of any kind. This is not home,
and this is not prime example of how we did settle affairs in past. I must not wring last short breaths from
Apprentice Ant's wispy neck. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.
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To pass time quicker, I watch of history. Of Ants marching into the swamp of Reading to do battle. And I laugh.
I see my friend Keita Yano take simplest technique and crush Green Ant's arm to powder. I think of time ago to
that day. I wait in halls to further cripple Gregory "Iron" in next fight. I remember silence, and then bursting
doors and girlish screams. The Red Ant and The Soldier dragging their apprentice to car, while he screamed out to
CHIKARA's rotund doctor for help. I could see fear devour Green Ant that day. I knew he had no warrior heart.
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Then Jakob shows me older film, from the dark ages before The BDK put its light upon CHIKARA. Another Ant, I
have never known. In the same swamp of Reading. Hoisted high up by imbecile Chuck Taylor and brought down to
his end. I don't compliment easily, but I commend Chuck Taylor for that act. Without fear or doubt, he won his
battle as warrior should. Then from curtains, emerges another Ant. This one, I know. Green Ant. Likely found
the dead Ant a hero. Wanted to be that Ant. Soon, The Red Ant and The Soldier gave him what he wanted. He took
the place of his fallen brother. And on 30 July, he meets same fate. In same swamp. But there will be no other
Ant to pick him up or carry on his name. There will be but 2, and they will be gone soon enough.
Then, this. Where begins? New idol to you, American Ant. Man who inspired your stupid pilgrimage to bowels of
USA. I know not of this man. But he believes in you, he say. Tell me, have you ever hit a someone with belief?
Have you ever wrapped belief around a man's neck and squeezed? No! So then I say what good is this fractured old
man's words to you? Will his infantile Christian god provide protection to you? Will the heinous flag you both
drape yourself in carry you away just as I finally end this aggravation? Would he himself dare approach Tursas?
I find all ends unlikely. It is more American tradition - presentations with no might to enforce. Empty words
from an empty man to an empty Ant.
Make your peace, young Ant. I may loathe you and your kind, but I respect the process of death.
Disperse possessions, share last meal with your closest allies, and ready yourself as never done prior.
But never take eyes from time. As times brings me ever closer to what I seek, it pulls you away from what
all you fight for. I make no promise as to the final state of your body form, but I will bring you death
quickly if you submit. Expect from you that my words will not make heed in you. Expect from you worthless
fight. Arms flailing against destiny much greater than even Tursas. Perhaps you will even bring your black
magic steel bone to try to fight this end. But no magic or metal or merging of both can break destiny. Nor
can they break Tursas.
7/29/2011:
It is not often I express joy. It is sentiment reserved at most for the mentally simple and the off-puttingly
effeminate. But as I see the sun set and rise in the sky over and over, my smile grows. I watch the large clock
in Ares' American mansion spin ever forward. Every bell ringing brings another hour to death. That hour's corpse
becomes one more stone in my path to 30 July. I have had only words at my disposal thus far, and it angers me.
The youngest and most foolish Ant of them all parades around in a rolling outhouse, staring at fields for some
misguided inspiration. Even were our paths to cross before 30 July, Ares and Claudio tell me that violence is
forbidden. There are different rules here in America. That is to say there are rules of any kind. This is not home,
and this is not prime example of how we did settle affairs in past. I must not wring last short breaths from
Apprentice Ant's wispy neck. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.
