HONEST-TO-GOODNESS surveillance was carried out for more than six months… thorough extirpation spree came at the heels, each member of the official’s family— surviving next of kin, wife, sons, daughters, and grandchildren– were sent to an early date with embalmers.
It was needless at burial rites to cue for crocodile’s tears that poured awash like cash the official had appropriated for himself over the years.
Ambuscade right after the last of his kin was interred… official was spared, though. He was pumped several clips of small caliber slugs that tore out both patellae, shredded his penis and scrotum and sent him on his knees begging his masked attackers to put him away… with a view to a reunion with kith and kin in a comfy, fiery place reserved for their kind…
His plea bargaining was politely ignored with a solemn collective salute. They wanted him to live, maybe, enjoy or endure his cache of millions… live on as a derelict.
It was a priceless gift of life—his own—that the bushwhackers were generous to bequeath him… for it was beneath human dignity to butcher a cockroach.
No mockery or scorn was meant in serving him a daily dish of flounder—palatably dainty with notes of marine depths unfathomed—and greasy slabs of pork bellies in a savory sauce the color of taxpayers’ blood and sweat… thus, his remaining days and monies were spent in a well-appointed home for the aged.
Thus, he lived in a semblance of comfy ease until he croaked his last… apparently, he grew larger than a barrel of blubber with such a prescribed diet and burped dead… many suspected it was a heart attack but there were equally valid suspicions that he didn’t have a heart.
Doc Childre and Howard Martin: “The collective energy generated from the feelings, thoughts, and attitudes of the almost six billion people on this planet creates an atmosphere or ‘consciousness climate.’ Surrounding us like
the air we breathe, this consciousness climate affects us most strongly on energetic and emotional levels.”
My dear children, that’s the flimsy excuse I can proffer as to why I don’t bother to chip in my two cents’ worth on graft and corruption… truckloads of more capable journalists and opinion makers will be sounding out volumes and summon the proverbial Furies, rail atop soapboxes and shoeboxes and slather the atmosphere with futile rage…
I’d rather pray in earnest to the angels of destruction, Kemuel and Simkiel… to do the honors and useful horror of doing the needful, maybe send several crates of .50 caliber ammo and an M-107 Barrett rifle that can take out targets a kilometer off… –Dong de los Reyes