First Missive From The Source (Part Two)

A detractor said to me: The position of completely insane political agitator doesn't pay very well.

Verily I said unto his servile, damnable ass that "It may not pay in beans, but in pays in legend, which is the only currency to transcend mortality. Think beyond the curtain fall, oh, myopic one, for there is more activity behind the scenes than on the stage in any performance. Do not think of your cataclysmic life and death events as the very bookends of existence. For that is a sure way to fall from the shelf. No, the truest treasure lies in the perpetuation of legend; the immortalities of myth and half-truths, tall tales and limericks shall long outweighh the memory of money and such chintzy ephemera. Money costs lives, memory transcends them."

At this he lopped off his own head with a cudgel, and thus wove his memory into the tapestry of this manifesto, ensuring his endurance hereafter.

You are voiceless in a world where those who have a voice say nothing. A cacophony of silence, where the noise of sixty-billion people saying yes by doing nothing renders inaudible and trifling the sound of one man saying no by doing something. I say unto you, rise up my brothers and recognise that you each are one of a brotherhood, who when united by focussed passion are a force of indomitable might; a force of unopposable will. You are not an extant node drifitng in a sea of petty rewards; you don't need to live for dog treats; you don't need to wag your balding tail for the master. Real dogs turn on their owners when persistently beaten and yet you who boasts a greater brain than such a turncoat beast routinely bares his ass to the brickbat with a pleading, propitiating smile; a cognitive capacity that could be applied reactively to the notion of a beating, and yet stews listless in the cauldron of your skull, strirred into a lifelong rite of passivity by the voodoo snare of your owners; the savages, noses pierced by a lone staple, clad solely in a loincloth of 300gsm unbleached recyclable A5, jigging a catalepsy around the living grave of your head as they lay you to rest under six feet of post-it notes and head office memos. Rest in Peace, Rot in Paper, Revel in Passivity.

Trees give life, while paper in such abundance absorbs and subjugates life with the enthusiasm of the most efficaceous kitchen towel. Your new job is to steer the steering group towards their own exruciating demise; your primary objective is to devastate their brittle economy by absenting yourself from its sustenance; by evacuating the none-too-watertight ship HMS (His Master's Salary) Society and seeking firmer shores, where your toes shuffle through golden sands instead of the shit of a besuited demiurge. I offer you the lifeboat with which to journey to these shores. Then with the distance granted by this idyllic safehouse, you will see the stinking, rancid vessel in all her fickle drudgery slink off the radar into the depthless fabric of history; and with her will drown the captain, naked as an Emperor, tie-pin rusty as an anchor, saluting those who served for even a second aboard her mutinous galleys without contemplating self-abortion. And all the remaining crew - for their inexcusable self-apathy - so righteously deserve to join her as she comes to rest a shattered hull upon the icy, vagueish sands of yesterday; yesteryear; back in the days when it wasn't considered a crime to commandeer someones very existence and determine its trajectory by the hissing of the Admiral's wallet.

How absurd it seems to us islanders to think of a time when every ship was designed for the jettisoning of treasure before any have been accrued, for the toppling of the crow's nest long before its meeting the final cannonball. How incredulous we listen as those who remember such days - the founding fathers of freedom - relate the woes of obedience; how the crew were gagged and bound and forced to operate a galleon not of their making, and not to their own maps. The elders will weep at the realisation of how few actually jumped ship when presented with the chance for their hand at the wheel; how scant was the enthusiasm to let the mothership tumble to the abyss, followed by all those blinkered dogs who man her riddled and feeble armada. Yet all it took, they proudly assert, was the hollering of a few stray dissenters to plant splinters in the main brace, to leaden the anchor and foul the crow's nest, sending the Good Ship Society plunging into the dense and pulverising waters as they watched from the island on which we share these very fables of yesteryear.

I am only a humble mage who pleads with you to excuse yourself from the dinner table on which you yourselves are the main course; who incites you to shit on the tongues of your abusers, to manipulate the arms of the manipulaters as they eat, plunging fork into tongue into soft pallete; as you leap from their mouths and watch with satisfaction as they choke and gurgle on their own diseased blood - blood which you have regretfully pumped for your entire shelf-life up until this point - watch this from the table and then leap to the periphery as it capsizes under the weight of its own vacuous self-importance; a self-image that relied on your steadfast conformism to the common goal (i.e. the betterment of your superiors) for its support. The board around the table will tumble as though it were a vessel forged of lead.

Without legs, a table is but a board, and if the words of this board have no way of trickling downwards, then it has no foundation. Gravity pulls it down and its authority is scuppered. The board is made from a very exceptional wood wherein if it falls, and no-one hears it fall, it has fallen irrefutably indeed. For when the canopy clears to let the sunlight into thine reddening eyes, you shalt know that the board hath sunk and upon its earthbound surface you canst dance and and jig and join together in rejoicement at its felling. You are no longer the collective foodstuff of indiscerning gluttons; you are a delicacy for your own titillation, and so you will savour your unique taste and texture; every mouthful shall bring with it volumes of learning and experience, colour and shape; no longer seasoned with the vulgar, homogenising flavours of middle-management (lest we forget, once, in the Darkest Ages, you wilfully submitted to being managed) you are free to explore the complexities of your taste unsullied, untainted in its vibrant, unsanitised magnificence.

Let not the rapist plunge his rusted sceptre into your soul, impregnating it with the living death of ownership, I beseech thee, oh, prostate slave to your own complacencies. Leap from death's chair and startle the executioners by saying very loudly and with much conviction as you twist the axe towards their necks, 'NO'. I am El Bruxo. I am. You are everyone else. You are not. I am El Bruxo. I am now. You are everyone else. You can be.

The Mage.