that been about?’ He knew George had told him to watch. ‘Watch and learn,’ is what Ken figured the old guy had really been saying.
George must have been listening to his racing mind because Ken received an answer almost immediately. Over a period of the next few minutes...it may have been hours, perhaps days, or even weeks, Ken didn’t really know anymore...he was treated to an experience that made him feel rather like some nether-world version of Ebenezer Scrooge during a macabre showing of A Christmas Carol.
As he sat upon the sandy stage, a never-ending parade of images began to flash overhead like a giant slide-show. Ken lay back and watched them as they flew past above him in all their horror. The images were rather like the trailer for a forthcoming movie and his eyes tried desperately to follow each one, constantly being drawn to the next picture as it appeared overhead. He wondered what it was they illustrated. That was the question.
There were scenes of war, horrific acts of destruction with long lines of bodies being bulldozed into lime-filled graves. Scenes of famine: the fly covered faces of the victims looking up with the dull eyes of those who have no hope. There were tribes of warring Africans, hacking with their machetes, slashing and bludgeoning the women and children of their vanquished foe, relentlessly dispensing with all those who were not of their own. There was a scene where a chain of nuclear blasts, one after the other, exploded in endless synchronicity. Sub-surface, surface, and airborne blasts, played over and over. Such was the perfect roundness of its fireball that the final brilliant flash of light looked as though it had been in space; so fierce was the brightness of the explosion that Ken had to turn away.
Pictures of terrible slums played over and over, the poor grovelling through the waste bins. More pictures of poverty: half-naked children wading through drains in bare feet and picking through the rotten scraps that lay festering in amongst the collection of filth. Terrible images of women and children being stoned or having their hands cut off whilst on-looking crowds jeered with delight. It was then that the awful addition of his newly acquired inner voice took it upon itself to decide to help Ken out with a commentary on this cinematic preview for the insane.
‘Hey everybody, look at what we have in store for you at next week’s matinee, yes siree, get yourselves a bargain bucket of popcorn and make sure that you’re early. This is gonna be a show that you simply can’t miss! Book online and we’ll throw in a treat. Yes, indeedy, we’re gonna let you kill your own kids in the aisle, right in front of us...those little bastards...and we’ll watch and we’ll cheer! And hey, guess what, if you get the audience vote, well...then you can come and do it all again next week for free, winner takes all!’
The droning voice echoing in his head made Ken feel like shooting his imaginary mental partner. He felt his sanity think about leaving, but there was to be no respite, the show rolled on.
Every now and then there would be a slide showing great geysers of oil, spewing up hundreds of feet into the air – Ken must have seen that one at least five times, and yet it still fascinated him. Many times there were images of the hyenas, ripping, tearing and slavering, their beautiful handmade suits dripping in the remains of their victim’s guts. Yellow eyes rolling in their powerful heads as they gorged upon a menu of dollar bills and piles of raw meat – meat from a species Ken knew. They sated their obvious thirst in the pools of oil-blood and Ken almost recognised some of their insane, canine faces. They reminded him of people, people whom he knew, but not quite, they mesmerized him with their grotesqueness.
Every third slide or so would show a small, silver box that resembled a cigarette case. It had a glass lid – Ken couldn’t quite determine if it was glass or not, as the
George must have been listening to his racing mind because Ken received an answer almost immediately. Over a period of the next few minutes...it may have been hours, perhaps days, or even weeks, Ken didn’t really know anymore...he was treated to an experience that made him feel rather like some nether-world version of Ebenezer Scrooge during a macabre showing of A Christmas Carol.
As he sat upon the sandy stage, a never-ending parade of images began to flash overhead like a giant slide-show. Ken lay back and watched them as they flew past above him in all their horror. The images were rather like the trailer for a forthcoming movie and his eyes tried desperately to follow each one, constantly being drawn to the next picture as it appeared overhead. He wondered what it was they illustrated. That was the question.
There were scenes of war, horrific acts of destruction with long lines of bodies being bulldozed into lime-filled graves. Scenes of famine: the fly covered faces of the victims looking up with the dull eyes of those who have no hope. There were tribes of warring Africans, hacking with their machetes, slashing and bludgeoning the women and children of their vanquished foe, relentlessly dispensing with all those who were not of their own. There was a scene where a chain of nuclear blasts, one after the other, exploded in endless synchronicity. Sub-surface, surface, and airborne blasts, played over and over. Such was the perfect roundness of its fireball that the final brilliant flash of light looked as though it had been in space; so fierce was the brightness of the explosion that Ken had to turn away.
Pictures of terrible slums played over and over, the poor grovelling through the waste bins. More pictures of poverty: half-naked children wading through drains in bare feet and picking through the rotten scraps that lay festering in amongst the collection of filth. Terrible images of women and children being stoned or having their hands cut off whilst on-looking crowds jeered with delight. It was then that the awful addition of his newly acquired inner voice took it upon itself to decide to help Ken out with a commentary on this cinematic preview for the insane.
‘Hey everybody, look at what we have in store for you at next week’s matinee, yes siree, get yourselves a bargain bucket of popcorn and make sure that you’re early. This is gonna be a show that you simply can’t miss! Book online and we’ll throw in a treat. Yes, indeedy, we’re gonna let you kill your own kids in the aisle, right in front of us...those little bastards...and we’ll watch and we’ll cheer! And hey, guess what, if you get the audience vote, well...then you can come and do it all again next week for free, winner takes all!’
The droning voice echoing in his head made Ken feel like shooting his imaginary mental partner. He felt his sanity think about leaving, but there was to be no respite, the show rolled on.
Every now and then there would be a slide showing great geysers of oil, spewing up hundreds of feet into the air – Ken must have seen that one at least five times, and yet it still fascinated him. Many times there were images of the hyenas, ripping, tearing and slavering, their beautiful handmade suits dripping in the remains of their victim’s guts. Yellow eyes rolling in their powerful heads as they gorged upon a menu of dollar bills and piles of raw meat – meat from a species Ken knew. They sated their obvious thirst in the pools of oil-blood and Ken almost recognised some of their insane, canine faces. They reminded him of people, people whom he knew, but not quite, they mesmerized him with their grotesqueness.
Every third slide or so would show a small, silver box that resembled a cigarette case. It had a glass lid – Ken couldn’t quite determine if it was glass or not, as the
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