From: Bubba Rom Dos <bubba@dev.null>
Date: Tue, 18 Mar 1997 02:51:45 -0800 (PST)
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: Prologue
Message-ID: <332E735C.7E7A@dev.null>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/html

Title: Tragedy / TV_WORLD Prelogue






Prologue to 'WebWorld & The Mythical
Circle of Eunuchs'


Prologue

The great tragedy of it, is that it didn't have to
happen. Not at all...we were warned.
And yet, still, it has come to this.

I don't know why I feel this overwhelming compulsion
to go on and on about it. I could have done something. We all
could have done something.
Perhaps the final epitaph on the gravestone of Freedom
will be, 
"Why didn't somebody do something?" 

That seems to be the common battle-cry of the legions
of humanity that have been sucked into the vortex of the New
World Order.
None of the imprisoned seem to know that the very phrase itself
is reflective of the source of their imprisonment...that this
desperate cry of anguish is in no way an antidote for the terrible
disease that has afflicted 'Liberty and Justice', and that
it is, rather, merely the final symptom of the cursed blight itself.

I can hear the rumbling of the trucks as they come
up the street, and soon I will be hearing the thumping of the
jackboots storming up the staircase, as I have heard them so many
times before. But I suspect that this time, the sound will be
different, that it will have an ethereal quality about it, one
which conveys greater personal meaning than it did when I heard
it on previous occasions.
This time, they are coming for me.

My only hope, is that I can find the strength of
character somewhere inside myself to ask the question which lies
at the heart of why there is a 'they' to come for me at all...why,
in the end, it has finally come to this for me, as for countless
others.

The question is, in retrospect, as simple and basic
as it is essential for any who still espouse the concepts of freedom
and liberty to ask themselves upon finding themselves marveling
at the outrageousness being perpetrated upon their neighbors by
'them'...by 'others'...by 'Friends of the Destroyer.'

The question is:
"Why didn't I do something?"


These are the words that legend ascribes to the tombstone erected
in a 'potters field' outside of the B.TV city of Austin, Texas.
The tombstone, according to historians who have verified it's
existence, though it was removed after being in place for less
than twenty-four hours, was supposedly that of Vice-Admiral B.
D'Shauneaux.

Although historians have verified the existence of the grave,
as well as the tombstone, the actual words inscribed on the tombstone
remain in the realm of mythology, as does the true identity of
the individual whose grave site it bequeathed with such legendary
eminence

The irony of this mythological epitaph-which is said to be a verbatim
translation of the final words written on the Vice-Admiral's computer
screen when the jackboots laid to the door of his country home
finally gained entry, only to find themselves too late to torture
yet another living creature-the irony is that it was written by
one who, according to a 'parallel,' underground legend ascribed
to the mythological Circle of Eunuchs, was, rather than
the 'Right Hand of the Destroyer' that history records him to
be, actually a tragic figure who, caught up unknowingly in the
great drama played out between the Forces of Light and the Forces
of Darkness, condemned himself to a life of quiet desperation,
restraining himself from acting on the dictates of his conscience
because he felt that to do so would bring great danger to those
whom history would have us believe he was responsible for ravaging
mercilessly, and without conscience.

The great irony is that this lexical obelisk to such ancient concepts
as freedom, justice, and liberty, was written by an individual
who, by condemning himself to a life of separation from those
striving to defend these ideals, did more to protect these concepts
from total obliteration from the face of the earth-if you choose
to believe mythology over history-than those who actively strove
to proclaim them.

The sublime irony of these words is that, despite their self-accusatory
nature, they are an embodiment of the highest standard possible
for any and all who lay claim to being a 'person of conscience'-a
self-decreed standard which, rather than lauding oneself for sacrificing
'much' for the cause of freedom among mankind, instead decries
one's failure to sacrifice 'all' for this noblest of causes.

And the ultimate irony, for those whose cry of lament remains,
"Why didn't somebody 'do' something?", lies in the empty
grave lying next to that purported to be the Vice-Admiral's final
resting place-the grave which, legend has it, is reserved for
the last free man or woman remaining on this planet. The grave
whose headstone is a plain and simple mirror.

Legend has it that, at dusk during the spring equinox, that one
who gazes into the mirror will hear the sound of the Vice-Admiral's
voice echoing through the labyrinth of the communal mind of mankind,
whispering as if it were a gentle breeze rustling softly through
the leaves of the aged willows surrounding the site.

It is a voice tinged with an equal mixture of conscience and remorse.
It is a voice that whispers, quite simply, 

"Why didn't I do something?"