Featured in The Burning Block Issue 4
There is a synonym for every million corpses. There is a phrase dripping with the sentimental dew of illumination for every drop of blood spilled in the name of the greater good. The greater good is always had at the expense of ten million conversations. Ten million conversations are traded for ten million lives. Genocide after genocide after genocide and soft, intellectual men are still creating holy trinities to affirm their unquenchable thirsts for annihilation: Marx as the Father, certainly, while one may trade the Holy Spirit for a Derrida, a Sartre, a Foucault. Most don't have a Son, but those who do choose Stalin, Mao, Lenin and Robespierre the way kids pick patches of their favorite bands to sew onto their jackets. Any bloody-fanged hound save Hitler will suffice. Prizes are handed out like caramel candies to every academic who can make his case with the most earnestness and with greater flippancy utter devotion to his favorite tyrant.
The slaves are killing each other. Pig morality reigns. They snort about labor but squeal for more and more slop every time the master walks by. Does the master slaughter all the cattle? Burn his own fields? Sodomize every visitor and crush the skull of every passing child? It doesn't matter. They squeal. They squeal so shrilly that one can't help but feel sorrow, as though contained within that squeal is the very essential nature of hunger itself. Are their stomachs empty? Are they full? They squeal exactly the same either way. Feed them forever, but one would do best to count their honks and bites at one another in between their relentless feeding on the rinds and garbage thrown at them as the only gratitude one will ever receive. They want labor divided, but they expect the greatest tokens of technology as a rule. No update or increase can happen fast enough. They open their mouths and stick their snouts into the air faster than it can be poured into their troughs. They trample over the top of one another to prove that they are better pigs. They pile onto and kill the pig who does not squeal loud enough and eat him. Their glory is hatred. They hate to the degree that their hunger increases. Once satiated, they feel only the sensation of having been fed, quenched temporarily and fatigued by their own vigor. They think their love is their fatigue from having been fed-from having been exhausted by work. Love is, to them, the complete lack of distinction. It is the hell of other people forever suspended, forever kept in their place performing their proper functions.
That life which is not an avatar of utility to them is only a number, a statistic. It is something in the way of more slop. They make an eternal compromise with danger so that they won't have to accept risks.