Dappled sunlight lay upon the carpet, its efforts to brighten the bleak room hindered by the glass whose translucence was being threatened by a growing level of dirt upon its face. Red carpets gave way to red plastic chairs which hosted a community of the discontent. The color was appropriate for the evening’s plans. War was upon us. While we were strangers in a far off land that was not our own, our belief in our cause was as vehement as those we waged war upon.
We were invading the territory of those selected adversaries, encroaching upon their homeland and feeling the resistance each night as sweet sleep pulled our weary, battle-worn eyelids down over our eyes. Those eyes hosted a steely determination; a determination that would lead to eventual victory. A restlessness; however, accompanied those scant periods of sleep.
Often, night attacks were staged by the Resistance. Those brief hours of sleep were interrupted by the nagging sensation that the enemy was rising against us. The pellucid screams of the dying, along with the moaning cadence of their funeral rites echoed in our ears as we tossed in our sleep. When we woke, our bodies hosted the effects of our war: weary muscles, tired eyes and physical trauma gave our pristine chalky skin a mottled hue; red upon it like the carpet, akin to the blood often spilt in war.
Pallid expressions graced our faces as we examined ourselves, and a new fervor was welling up inside us. We would have victory, regardless the cost. Though legions may rise against us, and even invade our temporary home, we would drive them back with the force of our conviction.
Dissension reverberated often, its pear-shaped tones sweet honey to some ears and an efficacious poison to others. The war we were fighting was breaking the willpower of the weak, and testing the lingering resolve of the strong. When it seemed that hope was lost, that the darkness around us was finally closing in and had permeated every fiber of our resolve, we heard the peal of reinvigoration.
Our greatest weapon was finally realized, and when I gripped the slender, metallic cylinder, I knew that victory was at hand. Reconnaissance missions began, searching for those avenues in which the Resistance had gained purchase in the home that had once provided solace. The cracks in our defenses were found, and they were alarmingly numerous. We watched the Legions of Resistance trickle in before our eyes, their efforts so brazen that they did not even wait for the cover of darkness to begin their assault. The walls around us, which had once been labeled strong, were seen as they truly were: the staging area for the Resistance. And, if complacency inhabited our hearts any longer, our demise.
While taught to walk in peace, the affront was too great. Our bodies had been weakened by weeks of fighting. The muscles we hosted were taut, ready for the final onslaught. Slinking toward our destinies, we raised the Cylinder, the weapon of mass destruction we had bought for a meager price from merchants who confirmed our fears of it being easily accessible. We aimed with malicious intent, watching the Legion pour into our very lives, the imagined the ringing of laughter, taunting us with each passing moment. They were inhabiting our safe place with a pervading sense of arrogance that tested and exceeded our patience.
We fired.
Noxious justice rained down like flames from Heaven, passing through the sturdy constitution of our enemy as easily as loving admonitions pass from the Father’s lips.
There was no sound.
No mournful screams of agony or Death manifested reached our ears. Justice was that quick. As soon as the strength of our resolve reached their bodies, they fell in droves. A satisfying number of bodies fell from the cracks in our strong walls, the red carpet accepting the dead with an alarmingly quiet ease.
The stench permeated the room, the smell of death and chemical warfare unleashed assaulting our nostrils. It was the price we would pay for victory, we would have to endure the lingering consequence of our actions for at least a minute or two. We retired the Cylinder, placing it high upon a mantle, agreeing unanimously to only use it in the most dire of circumstances. Together we celebrated our great victory, along with the hope and peace that had been restored to our place of tranquility and solace.
I stood over one of the Fallen, its body curled grotesquely, its stomach seeming distended, and did not mourn. I would not mourn the death of this fallen adversary, or the millions of others that would have unmarked graves among the inviting threads of red carpet. The Legions of Ants had been defeated, and we laid down for sleep, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before they grew strong again.
We woke, our sleep again brief and restless, our bodies ravaged by another repugnant foe: Mosquitoes! We would have to ready our nets for their future bombardments.
We are taught that those who live by the sword die by the sword, but the Legions are many, and we have many foes left to vanquish before our sword arms can rest.
~B-Squad Manistry Month, Gua Musang, Malaysia 2012
Sometimes you have to fabricate the humor, even dark, when Life is adamant about not offering any.
~Jordan
