Pawns, meet the pawns.
I have three stories in my head today.
One is an inverse romantic comedy, call it a reconciliation-com. All I have so far are the establishing shots, him moving his too-much-stuff into a too-small apartment, her trying to spread her too-little-remaining-stuff around in the now-too-big space he has just left. The story is obvious, but it’s the details that make a rom-com fun, and getting back together is a fun story we should tell more often.
That’s a piece from yesterday’s homily at The Church of Splendor, inverting a cautionary tale, like The Breakup, as a comedy:
Story number two is another glimpse of the same idea, this time expressed as historical fiction about the early Hoplites, the freeholders who were all the order there was in the Hellas for hundreds of years. I don’t even like historical fiction, but I like this story – how fathers make the world safe for their wives and children, and thus for everyone. It tells us everything about who we are as people to this very day.
But the story that is straining my brain and drowning out the other two is this one:
A pandemic is the perfect death panel, if you care more about political power than human lives. Make time for your grandparents while the weather is still warm. You are a mute witness to mass murder, maybe yet its victim. And, brother, you asked for it.
I wrote that as a caption to the photo you see above, adding this a Facebook comment:
Respiratory illnesses take out weak and compromised immune systems, disproportionately. If you want to loot the elderly and trim the downstream debt of the entitlement state, one good flu will do the job.
Pawns, meet the pawns. You’ll be sharing mass graves together.
Marxists, meet the mirror. You are everything you’ve ever aspired to be: Cheerleaders to genocide.
This is speculation, nothing more. If one were to surmise that looters looking for an end-game strategy might hope for a flu epidemic, then the mass importation – and instant, essentially random dispersion – of potential carriers of all manner of infectious diseases makes perfect sense. Recent reports about mishandled shipments of disease organisms suggest that our new neighbors may be no more than scapegoats in any case. Send forth the immigrants. Send forth the virus. Blame the immigrants. Cash in – while you can – on all the death.
I don’t even like that kind of story, but I am dismayed that it seems much too plausible to me. Like this:
* A flu epidemic would take out the very old in huge numbers, resulting in a massive transfer of invested wealth to the state and to their shiftless, thriftless offspring. The name for this crime is geriatricide.
* It would also kill a lot of babies and young children, including very many of the children who were thrown by Hail Mary passes into the United States.
* And it will kill a lot of poor people, especially urban poor people – meaning black and brown poor people.
Assume the scenario is true: Our undocumented friends are being imported by the tens of thousands and are being widely and largely secretly dispersed into American communities to serve – either actually or as potemkin propaganda puppets – as the vectors for a respiratory pandemic of some kind – either a flu or something even worse.
We can see easily enough who stands to lose.
The question that makes the thriller is this one:
Who stands to gain?
Indeed: There’s more the one way to renounce a debt.
Are the people who own you – mind, body and soul – really that evil?
How comfortable are you knowing that you cannot swear they are not?
And what – besides making an effort to visit with your grandparents, just in case – are you going to do about it?
