Hopeful Tribe Hunter

She thought she had one friend with whom she could speak about what she had found to be as true as true. Alas, there wasn’t one. That friend too had placed her in an awkward position of having to come to terms with that unconditional love would be the only way to stay some way within the realm of what is called this life because it would be the single only way to interact with anyone she knew except for ones upon the data screen of world wide interaction. There she’d found a tribe that seemed to be still holding up the right number of fingers to match the offered equation — “How many fingers, Winston?” Winston could not tell the truth — but so far, they were — some of the ones in virtual dots.

“Don’t despair,” the man in the machine said, “You are not alone. There are millions of others I assure you, who are seeing this for what it is — and there is strength in numbers.”

She still felt alone. No one in her proximity was clear to be seeing.

“Sir, Sir! Please don’t put your things up yet. YOU NEED TO BACK UP!! You are far too close,” the girl in the mask with dying eyes spewed her ugly truth.

“It’s okay. I’m not afraid.”

“Still,” the brainwashed clerk bullied about with her new-found sense of authoritative control, “He needs to learn. Other people might not like it.”

“It’s good to break the law sometimes,” the girl trying to find a tribe said and continued, “Will you lose your job if you don’t say that to everyone in line? It’s not a law yet anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d lose my job,” the clerk cowed.

“Moo,” was what it sounded like to the hopeful tribe hunter or, “Bahhhha.” Cow or lamb to slaughter wasn’t clear — either way the same?

“Viruses have never been proven to be true to what ‘they’ say they are. More likely, they are good and necessary.”

“Herd immunity, if you believe it, is acquired by being among a herd and getting very exposed.”

“Fear is the enemy.”

“Thought police are very intent on creating lots of fear.”

“Unplug your television. Throw away your iphone. Get plugged in. Watch VHS and DVD on analog appliances.”

“Listen to crrow777radio.com for the closest thing to truth these days.”

The tribe hunter pushed her cart of plastic bags filled with the least toxic options past the clerk who she wouldn’t bother telling the list of things in her mind. Cows and lambs can’t/won’t/don’t speak the English that she knows. She’d done her best to stay in unconditional love and placed the least harmful plugs of truth out into the ether she was in. She waved to the man behind her with his dancing eyes that shone his approval. She could see his smile — it was uncovered. Tick one up to a possible new tribe member that she might never see again.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick wearing that,” she couldn’t resist telling the outside ticker taker.

“I know.” The ticker taker got a little closer.

“We have to resist doing what these idiots are telling us to do. It is a lie. We can’t let it go any further,” the tribe hunter said.

The ticker taker got a little closer still, “I’ve got a gun,” she said and her eyes were dancing too.

Maybe there were a few. Maybe there was still a little room for expectation that the worst could be diverted — though it wasn’t looking good — guns shouldn’t be required.

Nice that those who speak fealty can have lots of ice cream while the rest nearly starve.

That’s not true. The only ones with ice cream now are those who tell the biggest lies — the rest just hope they’ll get some if they bow to the upper fealty speakers.

Carrots on a stick.

 

image credit: Pixabay, Christine Sponchia

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