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[personal profile] kittydesade
Would someone please explain to me why we're still rattling our sabers?

It's over! We're through! Saddam's agreed to begin destroying the missiles, under supervision. The inspectors are still in Iraq. The UN is meeting, he's agreed to meet with our president, he's being eerily reasonable (granted, I still think he's hiding something). It's over! The UN, with the notable exception of Britain, is generally against a military action! Russia has said it will vote against any resolution that even hints at going to war with Iraq, at putting troops there. So why is all this war talk still going on?

I'll tell you why. It's because the media won't leave the goddamn terror war alone. Nor will the government, for whatever reason. The conspiracy theorist in me says it's because they want to lo-jack us all. The activist in me says it's because they're trying to keep the people who are in power, in power, so they can keep their oil and their money and what-all else. I don't know why the whole terror war thing is still going on, and I'm not even sure I care anymore. I just want it to stop. We think we have it bad? We think we have to worry about terrorists? Christ, people. Move to Ireland. Move to some of the worse parts of England. God forbid, move to the Middle East. Move to just about any country in Central or South America. Now that's terror. So what are we doing running around in circles waving our hands in the air and screaming that the sky is falling? Do we really think that any of these measures are going to stop determined terrorists? Probably. Are they going to? No. I've flown recently. Airport security isn't tighter. It's just more visible. Oh, the metal detectors are turned up, sure. But that's about it.

And, really. What the hell is going to war with Iraq going to do against Bin Laden? Do we even know that he's still alive? All reports to the contrary, I highly doubt we know either way. And considering the number of bounties (and the sheer amount of said bounties) on the man's head, I doubt he's alive anymore anyway. No, see, we're going to war with Iraq because they have oil and won't share, and because we're all pissed because we trained him and now he won't do what we say. We did the same thing with Castro and Cuba, years ago. And the funny thing is that Castro's still in power and Cuba's actually doing pretty good for what it's got, from what I've heard.

And the real kicker, the other reason we're going to war is because Bush wants approval ratings. Bush wants to be as badass as his big bad daddy. Goddess, but I hate that entire family. They fill me with loathing. Cheney's not much better. I thought Powell had better sense, but then I don't know what his motivations are or how much control he has over the situation. He seems to be a sensible guy anyway. But.. Bush. Gyah. He makes me want to bite. Hard. He's just trying to be his dad, and he can't. Mostly because he gives ultimatums like... twenty times over. "This is the last straw..." yeah, isn't that what you said a month ago, Bush? Bite me.

I'm calming down now. *sigh* Really. It still pisses me off.


Willard sat in a corner of the room, crying. Next to him a small white rat, the only surviving child of Socrates, nuzzled at his toes. He didn't pay any attention.

He'd lost it all. Friends, both human and rodent, were gone. Mostly because of him, and it wasn't anything so forgivable or indirect as being in the wrong place at the wrong time or having a personality that was naturally reclusive (although both were true). No, he'd lost his friends because he'd killed them. Turned one on the other, until they'd killed each other in a feeding frenzy that eclipsed his hatred and fear of the world around him. It had shaken even him out of his daze and forced him to realize what had happened and what he'd been doing. And that realization was going to kill him.

Their corpses were scattered around the giant house, which was why he was sitting in the corner. He didn't want to move... he didn't want to have to face what he'd done. There was very little skittering in the walls anymore; most of the rats were dead by now, or dying. Only Socrates' child was left, now nuzzling at his hand as though to try and wake him out of his daze. It didn't happen. The tears kept flowing.

"Hello?"

It must have been a hallucination. A thickly accented voice was wafting up from downstairs, and he wondered how the man had gotten into the house before he remembered that he'd left the door open.

"Is anyone there?"

Willard made a strangled noise, frightening Socrates' child away. He thought briefly about naming the rat, because it deserved an appellation that was more than just 'Socrates' child'... but no. He didn't deserve to name it. He buried his face in his knees and kept on crying. It was all he had left.

"What's wrong?"

A man (an eerily handsome man, even Willard had to admit it) was standing framed in the doorway, tall, filling it out. Not muscular enough to be threatening but definitely solid enough to be formidable, he looked almost like a Latinate hero of some sort of romance novel. He was dressed simply, in a black sleeveless muscle top and black jeans, and he had what looked like a ragged tattoo of a crown on the outside of one upper arm. It would have threatened the socially awkward, plain, shy Willard, but he was too emotionally exhausted to be threatened by much of anything anymore. Besides, there was an air about the man that was almost comforting to him. And he had Socrates' child in one hand, cradled delicately.

Willard turned away. "Nothing."

The man stared at him, puzzled, then came forward to kneel down a few feet in front of him. "That's not what Plato says."

Willard blinked, looking over at the man with bleary eyes. "What?"

"Your friend..." he held out the small white rat, who immediately leaped down and scurried over to cuddle up against Willard's leg. "He says his name is Plato, because his sire's name was Socrates. It's what he read off of your books."

"Plato..." Willard said slowly. It seemed to fit. But... "How do you know what he's saying?"

He blinked. The man's eyes had gone dark, beady... almost like a rat's himself. Willard blinked again and the image was gone, almost as though he'd imagined it. The man shrugged. "I have an affinity for rats," he smiled a little at some secret joke and looked very directly at Willard. "Rather like yourself."

Willard started to say something and then thought better of it. He looked away, ashamed. "Oh."

The man extended his hand, ignoring the grotesque feast that had transpired downstairs... or maybe he just didn't connect it to Willard yet. "I'm Rafael," he said quietly. No, something in his voice told Willard that he knew exactly what had been going on, knew more about Willard than even Willard knew about himself. Slowly, shyly, he reached out and shook the strange man's hand.

"I'm .. Willard..."


Anyway, I've got the site up. I'll finish it right before I leave work, but that's one major hurdle out of the way. And now I should go back to work. Ahh well. Maybe something amazing will happen and our *$&#* of a president will grow two brain cells and half an ounce of common sense.

Probably not.
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December 2023

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