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border-spam · 4 years ago

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Leech Lord AU short - It comes before a fall

The craggy landscape of Pandora raced by outside the tinted windows of Troy’s massive technical as the COV war machines that escorted the glossy black hulk thundered around it in a convoy, weaving between the billowing clouds of acrid dust that trailed behind the God’s chariot as they bounced and jostled along the dirt road that lead to their backwater destination.

Its deified passenger wasn’t enjoying the trip quite as much as his retinue, and was finding it difficult to deal with their raucous voices and blaring music audible over the roar of the vehicle’s engines as tires screeched over the rocky dirt road.

He rubbed at his temple, wincing quietly at each bump and grind of the car’s axles, and reminded himself why he was wasting his precious time driving to this nameless little shithole.

Pride.

(Incredible art by @lazulizard ) Troy had reluctantly added the town to his itinerary after noting how close it was to the cult-controlled Eridium plant he’d scheduled to inspect with his vanguard today, it had been an irritant under his skin for long enough, and it seemed fitting to gouge it out when he had a couple of hours to spare, regardless of how much he’d rather be in the Grand Cathedral right about now. The camp was a blip on the map he’d spent so long seeding across Pandora. An insignificant, pathetic speck of non COV land surrounded by the vast sprawl of the Twin’s territory, that had been in the back of his mind for months now. As his iron grip tightened on the region and the cult’s control had spread like a seeping cancer across the desert plains, the gaps had filled in piece by piece, all bar this dive. He’d figured it was time to scratch the itch, they were going to be nearby anyway, just a couple of extra hours drive in the padded luxury of his chauffeured technical and they’d still have time to be back in the Holy City by nightfall, so why not. Get it done. Make the cut.

He just wished his skull wasn’t splitting as the car lurched, or there was some company with him to lighten the mood, give him something to listen to bar the shrieks and throbbing music of his crusaders. The day had been tiring enough, the threats and sneering orders he’d snapped at the plant workers took more out of him than he’d ever feel comfortable admitting. The technical was air conditioned, comfortable, armored, and his driver pleasantly silent, but the migraine wouldn’t budge. He was tired, tired in his fucking bones, and he couldn’t even remember when the last time he hadn’t felt this way was.

Everything was changing, or had already changed. He wasn’t sure which, but what he did know was that this, riding passenger in a 6 million dollar custom war-machine with a bottle of champagne in the platinum holder next to him he couldn’t pronounce, driving towards a shanty town with a retinue of blood thirsty marauders who carved his name into their chests and performed rites of sacrifice in his image, this was not what he’d signed up for. This wasn’t becoming a star was it, Tyreen?

This had turned over time into something else, and he was clawing to try and keep it under control now, constantly. Scrabbling to placate the rot in his gut that whispered it was real, that he was a God, and that these people deserved what his cult did to them.

He rested his head against the blacked out glass of the window, watching the retinue belch fire and smoke from hood mounted exhausts while playfully attempting to push each other off road as they drove on, his guard’s excitement manifesting in triumphant yells and vicious warnings to “Keep your distance” - blasted from car-mounted stereo equipment that echoed out across the wastes. He wished for a moment he could still feel that level of adrenaline, that rush of carefree blood-thirst his crusader’s inebriated themselves with on runs like this. Everything was just.. grey now. Had been for a long time. He let his eyes fall closed, grounding himself. They’d arrive soon. He’d step out of this gilded cage of a car and into the spotlight. He needed to slip on the character. Place the mask. Play the part.

Time to have a nice little chat with them, an unannounced Holy visit. Find out why exactly they hadn’t accepted the COV’s gracious offer to join in all this time… give them a reason to believe.

As the town came into sight through the oily dust clouds in the distance ahead like a rusty blemish on the rocky horizon, he tensed, leaning to his side to get a straight view of it through the dark glass. A wave of disgust ran up his spine as they closed distance and the reality of its state came into focus, sharp eyes taking in the town’s condition while his retinue’s speakers turned toward it to blast an announcement of their God’s arrival.

It was tiny, filthy. Ramshackle junk housing stacked haphazardly on top of each other. Rusted cargo containers turned into homes for people with nothing else to call their own. The crudely cut windows and doors fluttered with rags and patched together clothing set out to dry in the parched desert wind, and they caught the red clouds of dust the convoy billowed into the air as the vehicles screeched to a stop in front of the shabbily constructed entrance to the village.

It made you feel grimy just being here, he thought with a scowl as he stepped down from the technical, watching with disgust as the polished metal of his boots instantly turned dull when they crunched into the red clay beneath him. The God King flipped his fur collar higher and lazily swiped his hair into place with practiced indifference as the crusaders on either side of him thundered forward into the village with weapons raised. His personal guard immediately began to establish a perimeter away from their King, herding and snapping at panicked townspeople with efficient, well trained, deadly ease. He took a moment to assess the terrified crowd of inhabitants that had collected in fearful groups. They were cowering in doorways and stumbling back over each other with hands raised in submissiveness as his vanguard roared orders to “Make way for Father Troy”, parents calling their scrawny children with frantic gestures to get inside their homes, no one giving even the slightest resistance to the demands of his retinue. These weren’t a threat.

Skinny. All of them. Malnourished, most in rags or barely clothed at all. Sickly kids stared at him from sunken eye-sockets over the jagged windows they peeked out of, this place was diseased. The few weapons he noted as he scanned across the crowd were rusted or poorly junked together out of scrap. These weren’t even bandits, bandits were more robust than this, these were just people. The forgotten of Pandora, the absolute bottom rung in the pecking order. People, trying to survive on a planet that you either sacrificed your morals to, or your life.

Something in his gut twisted in response to that. Something that he’d rather not think about as he strode into the village, his polished smile and immaculately clean outfit emphasising the wealth and power he held in stark contrast to the dust coated poverty he stalked into, he stood out like a wound here, twinkling jewelry and harsh metal spines of his cybernetics glinting in the evening sun. The commanding presence he emanated was amplified by the crusaders who flanked him on either side in their warped skull masks and dark leather armor, monochrome bar the neon splashed COV weapons and chrome spiked accessories they wore as uniform. No one kept God King Calypso waiting long, and the old woman stumbling towards him was clearly the town leader - considering the worried glances towards her from the rest of the villagers as they watched in nervous silence.

She stopped a couple of feet before him, not reacting to the weapons raised in unison by his vanguard, a tiny little woman, all pinprick brown eyes and brown craggy skin, who’s wispy white hair fluffs in the breeze like a cloud perched onto her scalp. She wasn’t remotely afraid, he could feel that straight away, but she bowed to him politely, spoke her crude little greeting respectfully through a dry old throat.

“Troy Calypso, welcome, majesty. Not sure why yer here, but what can we do for a God kind enough t’ grace us with his presence?”

He took the bait, sparkling smile spreading wider as his eyes narrowed , gesturing with a grand bow towards her to emphasise his reply:

“Oh, no, no ma'am, what can we do for you? That’s why I’m here. To get an answer to this tricky lil’ question at last.” he smarmed, standing to his full height again, golden fangs so clearly peeking out of the now wolf like grin as his eyes twinkled with mock kindness.

“The COV would love to welcome you into our family. Have wanted you to join for quite a while! I thought a… hah.. personal touch might help, came to have this polite chat with you myself, hope I wasn’t too forward.” he raised his mech fist slowly, counting off the bladed fingers theatrically as he continued.

“Food. Medicine. Safety. Guns. Protection, we offer the same benefits to all our followers, and we really do ask for so little in return - just your fealty, and that’s such a small th-”

“No thank you.” she croaked in reply, cutting him off mid sentence. The crowd behind her gasped in quiet shock at the rudeness, and the insult of her dismissal shot like a sniper round directly into the back of his brain. He reeled for a second, mouth souring out of the fake smile it had been locked into as he took a moment to scrutinise her wizened little face through a disapproving side-eye. The right panel of his maw twitched involuntarily - just quick enough for a flash of razor sharp teeth to catch the sunlight as it slid back into place.

He almost mouthed his thoughts, nearly warned her to not do this, not when there were people he had to maintain his reputation in front of, but he swallowed it down instead with an arrogant tilt of his head and flex of his lithe torso. Locked it deep in his belly and hoped she’d realise her mistake.

The old woman was expressionless, but wasn’t meeting his demanding stare. Her eyes were instead trained on the skull tattoo shifting across his chest with each controlled breath, was she aware of the knife-edge she was walking on? Did she know the danger she was really playing with? He closed the distance slowly, a subtle hand gesture commanding his guards to lower their weapons as he came close enough to her to hunch down, dropping his towering frame to bring his face closer to her eye level.

He said nothing for a moment, breathing in the smell of dust and old sweat she gave off in loud, deep huffs through his nose. She was shivering, not as stoic as he’d thought. He could see that now that he was so close to her throat.

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he sighed. Troy was tired. He wasn’t in the mood to play this game, even when he could see ten steps ahead and knew the direction she was making the terrible mistake of heading in. Letting the persona slip away, he lowered his voice, wanting to keep this between just them and out of range of the surrounding nearby crowd.

“Lady, help me out here... I’m confused. I’m fuckin’ insulted.” He muttered, jaw a little tighter than he wanted to acknowledge as he continued.. “Your town is too small to even tax, we ask nothing from a shanty this size. I waive tithes… ” Troy paused as he turned his mouth closer to her ear, close enough for the heat of his breath to prickle the hair on her neck, and lowered his voice further till it was barely a husky whisper.

“All the COV will ask from you is loyalty. You know I could level this shithole with a nod… right? You get that I could massacre aaalll these people with just a word? Why. Why would you deny us? These people, these kids are s-starving. These kids are sick. We- I can fix that, like this:”

He snapped his flesh fingers next to her ear, and bristled pleasurably at the wave of perverse satisfaction that rolled through his stomach when she jolted in response, her paper thin eyelids fluttering. Did she understand now, he wondered, flicking his piercing gaze to one of the skinny kids holding onto their mother’s leg nearby, and the look on their face as they stared at him, like they were realising the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t entirely make believe. Did she understand the out he was giving her, the genuine offer of charity hidden behind the God King’s sneer? That he couldn’t provide it unless she bowed and played along?

She shifted a little, her stiff old shoulders popping in complaint as she did, and finally raised those warm little brown eyes to meet his bitingly cold ice blue ones.

“I didn’t mean t’ insult his liege..” she breathed, and he waited for her to continue, waited to hear her out.

“Maybe you just got too big t’ understand. Maybe bein’ so strong can leave you soft in places you don’t know about anymore. Cuz’ starving to death? Bein’ sick?” she shrugged awkwardly, lowering her eyes to his chest again.

“We all die, but at least you’d still die free.”

That stab landed. He sucked in a jagged breath and held it, shaking. The moment of silence that followed felt like a millennia to the hundred people huddled around them, too far to hear what had been said, but close enough to see his reaction to it, see the jagged black metal spines of his vertebral implant raise and vent crackling red Siren energy in response to the berserk anger their leader’s muttered words had ignited in the King.

His fist tightened by her ear as his markings flared, and the pulse of scarlet light bathed them both in that moment, reflecting cruelly in the piercing eyes that bored into the side of her head as she refused to meet his stare.

The rage rolled off God King Calypso’s hulking frame in tangible waves... but the old woman did not waver.

He straightened slowly, maw clicking and twitching in fury as he rose. A stringy line of drool slavered from the split mandible and landed at her feet as his eyes narrowed, and Troy smiled at her, his jaw clipping together into a friendly grin so transparently hostile you could see the fangs snapping into place behind it. His eyes scanned the crowd rapidly, pausing imperceptibly on each of those scrawny kids that hid their faces from him now, terrified past their curiosity. OK. If this is the way she wanted to play..

Then he’d do the same. ”Fine”, he barked, voice clear and loud, making sure every villager would hear what he had to say, that all eyes were locked on him as he continued. “No problem ma’am. I’m not a man to push my kindness on others. Good luck with your..." he paused to crack a false laugh, shifting his eyes to the nearest family - “Your uh.. “dying free”.” He winked at them, and then his entire demeanor shifted purposefully, making a scene of dropping the playful act and warping into grim disgust as his gaze snapped back to her, still refusing to meet his eyes. He began to turn, and gestured for his retinue to follow, their boots crunching through the dirt as they stormed to his side. He made one final pause as the reached their vehicles and looked back, lifting his monstrous cybernetic arm to wave playfully at the gathered people, watching with satisfaction as a few cringed when the bladed fingers caught the dying sunlight. “By the way!” he bellowed, commanding their absolute attention again as his mouth split into a wolfish grin. “If you need any help with components for building all those little kid sized coffins, give us a call, yeah? We’ll cut you a good deal.” The looks they shared were a reassurance at least. Maybe someone would listen after all.

*******

"Fucking MOVE” he hissed at his driver as a crusader closed the car’s door after him, and they gassed it at his command, the hulking technical’s tires spinning a cloud of debris towards the town's inhabitants as they covered their eyes and coughed. He couldn’t get out of this shit-hole fast enough. Couldn’t get far enough from those *children* and the way they’d looked at him, he flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror and felt a cold chill through his burning chest as they faded into the dust behind the convoy. That stupid woman. That stubborn old bitch. She’d let them die rather than bend a fucking knee. He was disgusted, and not fully sure who with. Slamming his boot into the back of the partition in front of him and feeling the car swerve as the driver jolted, he screamed “Drop the DAMN DIVIDER, YOU MORON!!” - panting in anger as they fumbled in panic to hit the switch and activate the internal armor at his demand. He’d barely managed to keep the storm of emotion brewing inside him contained when they finally found it, and felt a wave of relief when the reinforced metal screen closed between them, giving him privacy at last. Troy hunched forward in his seat and pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes closed and desperately trying not to sob. What the fuck had just happened back there? He wanted to cry, his heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest and he couldn’t seem to get enough air, lungs heaving as he shuddered in gasps while trying to swallow down the panic. What had happened? In 6 years of recruiting, 6 years since the COV had reached a level of power where they were no longer told no, he’d never encountered anything like that situation. He wasn’t prepared for it, he’d never had to deal with this mix of completely opposing emotions before. Standing there looking at sick kids he knew could help so easily, but knowing that under the scrutiny of his vanguard and the terrified eyes of the villagers, he couldn’t break character to do it. He ran his flesh fist into his hair and gripped hard into the dark mess, pulling sharply at his scalp as he crumbled further forward, head nearly between his knees as he trembled. Trying to give that bitch an out, trying to be clear in his cunning, emphasising what he was offering, and being denied the only route he had to help them by a weak old woman too proud and stubborn to give the nothing he asked for in return. Nothing! Some COV propaganda plastered about the town would have been more than enough, it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t understand. No one said no. No one denied them. He hissed as the first tear spilled down his cheek, then threw himself back into the seat and *screamed*, bludgeoning the massive mech arm into the steel divider. Not caring if the driver heard him choking out tears. Not caring if they told the others, not caring about anything anymore bar those kids, and how sick he’d been, and how powerless he was now even when he paraded himself as a God, how much of a lie it was. He had no control. He had to act the part, always, even when it was something he hated, when it wasn’t what he wanted. Troy snarled as the hot wet slick under the bracer and the telltale burn along his delicate scarred shoulder became noticeable, but didn’t stop, hammering the metal over, and over, as the agonising jolts buckled the arms outer plating more with each blow. His voice was starting to crack between sobs, wheezing on the intake as his weak lungs began to fail, but he had to spew this bile out now, knowing he couldn’t risk trying to carry this level of emotional turmoil into the Holy City while hoping the mask didn’t slip in front of Saints, or his sister. He was a fake. No God would be sobbing like this, having a tantrum alone in the back of a damn car.

Nothing about him was fucking real. That woman had seen it, she’d looked right through him like he was glass. Straight past the bluster and fangs, to the stammering, sick, broken, weak man he’d thought he’d hidden, and known she could say no. Known straight away that she was stronger than him. He’d thought.. he’d hidden that person.. so well. Coughing a final sob as his ruined arm shuddered on damaged pistons and slid to his side, he lifted his left to cover his face, slumping back in his seat, silent now bar for the pained hiccups that followed. God. He didn’t know what to do.. Part of him wanted to say screw it, order an airdrop of supplies off the books. Food, medicine, some guns. Anything to give them a chance out there. He was in charge of finance, no one would need to know, maybe he could manage it and keep his reputation intact... But the other part of him wanted to send the command to have the fucking shit-hole razed to the ground. How’s your freedom taste now, while slag melts the flesh off your bones you stupid old bitch. Troy coughed quietly, sinking lower into the seat as he rested his sore neck against the curve of the headrest, trying to steady his breathing as he forced himself to calm. There was no longer any sound outside, no shouting or broadcasts, just the dull roar of the convoy’s engines, like white noise in the back of your mind. The same craggy Pandoran landscape raced past as before, but pitch dark now, the only light being what streamed from the vanguard vehicle’s headlamps. Suddenly, the technical bounced over a bump in the dirt track and he winced as he jolted forward, then nervously lifted the front of his coat as he felt a trickle down his right side, sighing in embarrassed defeat as he saw the blood seeping from under the bracer seam resting against his lower ribs. Perfect, he thought, banging his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes.

Wonderful, he’d really made the right choice with that breakdown, huh. The arm was junked, his shoulder was torn to pieces, and he’d probably lost his voice. Tyreen was going to eat him alive, if she even noticed, he reminded himself with a humorless snort, too tired to even manage a sneer. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Echo, sniffing as he bent his head to rub his eyes on his forearm, too blurry with tears and mascara to see the display clearly. He didn’t know what to do. But she would, wouldn’t she. He slowly thumbed through the 2 years of unanswered messages, all read, over and over on nights when things were bad, but none responded to. All from her. Checking in if he was ok, repeating it hadn’t been all his fault, letting him know she was still right there if he ever needed her. She’d know. He could ask. He could ping her right now, and she’d know what to say straight away. She’d point him in the right direction, dig the worry out of his chest and slap the back of his head with a few blunt words of choice like she always managed. Seifa would know.. He didn’t realise how hard he was gripping the E-Dev till a straggling tear dropped to his bone white thumb knuckle, and he blanched, snapping out of his lost thoughts as he shook his head. With one last glance at her messages, he tapped the display button and dropped the Echo to his lap, then lifted his shaky hand to wipe at his eyes, feeling the oily shift of streaked eyeliner under his fingers. He needed a fucking shower. He was so tired. ****

Had so much fun writing this and appreciate any and all feedback and comments! If you’re interested in the Leech Lord Borderlands 3 AU, check out my pinned post and the tag on my feed for all the content.

#Borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #seifa #leech lord #my hcs #my writing

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denisonforum · 6 years ago

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Man bitten by severed head of rattlesnake

A man in Texas nearly died when he was bitten by the severed head of a four-foot rattlesnake.

Jennifer Sutcliffe told a Corpus Christi news station that her husband had been clearing their yard over Memorial Day weekend when he saw and decapitated the snake. When he picked up the dead rattlesnake to dispose of it, the head bit him and released an almost fatal amount of venom.

He was flown to a hospital and treated with twenty-six doses of antivenom.

“When poisons become fashionable”

Like the dead rattlesnake, our crucified “old self” can still attack us.

Paul declared, “We know that our old self was crucified with [Christ] in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. For one who has died has been set free from sin” (Romans 6:6-7).

And yet the apostle admitted, “I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me” (Romans 7:18-20).

Is his dilemma familiar to you? It is to me.

Some sins in the news are beyond our comprehension. For instance, an Arkansas man admitted in court this week that he intentionally contracted HIV so he could expose others to the virus. He also pled guilty to several other heinous crimes.

A twenty-three-year-old driver in Boston allegedly struck and killed an eighty-year-old man on Wednesday. Following the fatal crash, he told reporters that he did not intend to hit the man. “People hit and run people all the time,” he said.

Other sins are more mundane. Lying, coveting, and refusing to forgive people seldom make the news, but they are nonetheless just as sinful as crimes that generate headlines. And just as deadly (Romans 6:23).

C. S. Lewis warned: “When poisons become fashionable, they do not cease to kill.”

“Sin will have no dominion over you”

How do we defeat the “old man” who has died in Christ but still kills?

First, define the problem.

Tim Keller: “The human heart is an idol factory that takes good things like a successful career, love, material possessions, even family, and turns them into ultimate things. Our hearts deify them as the center of our lives, because, we think, they can give us significance and security, safety and fulfillment, if we attain them.”

Second, choose God’s solution.

Paul counseled: “Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions” (Romans 6:12). How? “Do not present your members to sin as instruments for unrighteousness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments for righteousness” (v. 13).

“Present” translates paristemi, meaning “to place at someone’s disposal.” “Members” translates melos, meaning “limbs” or “body parts.” Speaking metaphorically, Paul instructs us not to let any part of our lives be used for sinful purposes. Instead, we are to submit every dimension of our lives to God “as instruments for righteousness.”

When we do, “sin will have no dominion over you” (v. 14).

St. Augustine noted that “sin is believing the lie that you are self-created, self-dependent and self-sustained.” Freedom from sin therefore comes from believing the truth that you are God-created, God-dependent, and God-sustained.

“What we need very badly in these days”

If you want your “old man” to “have no dominion over you,” you must surrender your life completely to your Lord. C. S. Lewis asks, ‘To what will you look for help if you will not look to that which is stronger than yourself?”

The result of such submission is not begrudging servitude but joyful freedom.

Amy Carmichael: “Joy is simply perfect acquiescence in God’s will, because the soul delights itself in God himself. Rejoice in the will of God, and in nothing else. Bow your heads and your hearts before God, and let the will, the blessed will of God, be done.”

To this end, consider a perceptive insight from A. W. Tozer: “What we need very badly in these days is a company of Christians who are prepared to trust God as completely now as they know they must do at the last day. For each of us the time is coming when we shall have nothing but God. Health and wealth and friends and hiding places will be swept away and we shall have only God. To the man of pseudo faith that is a terrifying thought, but to real faith it is one of the most comforting thoughts the heart can entertain.”

Which is it to you?

The post Man bitten by severed head of rattlesnake appeared first on Denison Forum.

source https://www.denisonforum.org/columns/daily-article/man-bitten-severed-head-rattlesnake/

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therightnewsnetwork · 7 years ago

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The double murder of Otto Warmbier

We may never know what brutal torture and malign neglect American student Otto Warmbier suffered at the hands of North Korea’s dictatorship before losing his life this week at the age of 22.

But it wasn’t the first time the free-spirited Ohio native died.

More than a year before succumbing to the unknown illness or injury that left him in a coma thousands of miles away from home, Otto Warmbier’s own countrymen murdered his reputation. His character. His humanity.

Click-hungry media ghouls knew nothing about Warmbier’s small-town upbringing, his family life, politics, personality, disappointments or dreams. But they gleefully savaged a young man who made a mistake on a doomed trip to a totalitarian hell.

Warmbier’s thoughtless taunters instantly transformed him into a bigger, badder villain than the barbaric DPRK goons who beat, starve, rape and kill enemies of the state for such offenses as listening to foreign radio broadcasts, possessing Bibles and disrespecting Dear Leader — in Warmbier’s case, by attempting to steal a propaganda sign that read “Let’s arm ourselves strongly with Kim Jong-il’s patriotism!” as a souvenir.

The Huffington Post published an acid rant by “Blogging While Black” writer La Sha titled “North Korea Proves Your White Male Privilege Is Not Universal.” She rejoiced at Warmbier’s sentence because, she gloated, it taught him that “the shield his cis white male identity provides here in America is not teflon abroad.”

Instead of faulting a repressive socialist regime, La Sha blamed Warmbier for “being socialized first as a white boy, and then as a white man in this country.” The HuffPo’s megalomaniac millennial had the gall to compare her daily plight of living and breathing freely in America to Warmbier’s captivity:

“The hopeless fear Warmbier is now experiencing is my daily reality living in a country where white men like him are willfully oblivious to my suffering even as they are complicit in maintaining the power structures which ensure their supremacy at my expense.”

But it wasn’t just babbling diversity bloggers who exploited Warmbier’s imprisonment.

For a few cheap yuks, liberal black comedian Larry Wilmore plowed ahead with smug disregard to how Warmbier’s parents, family and friends must have suffered as photos and videos of their son and loved one were plastered all over media. To canned laughter, Wilmore mocked Warmbier on his Comedy Central show with a graphic labeling him an “ASS,” which spelled out a fake frat name, “Alpha Sigma Sigma.”

“It’s just tough for me to have much sympathy for this guy and his crocodile tears,” Wilmore snarked as he roasted the “Frat Boy.”

Left-wing website Salon added another layer to the white male-bashing echo chamber:

“This might be America’s biggest idiot frat boy: Meet the UVa student who thought he could pull a prank in North Korea.”

Not to be outdone, Affinity Magazine (a “social justice” online magazine for teens) stomped on Warmbier’s grave after his death was announced:

“Watch whiteness work,” the publication tweeted. “He wasn’t a ‘kid’ or ‘innocent’ you can’t go to another country and try to steal from them. Respect their laws.”

This from a rag that had deified Black Lives Matter icons Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin as downtrodden youth whose extensive rap sheets must remain unmentioned at all costs.

Otto’s saboteurs engaged in the very same bigotry and stereotyping they recklessly accuse everyone else of at every turn. The far left learned nothing from leaping to conclusions about the Duke lacrosse players or the wrongfully accused members of Phi Kappa Psi at University of Virginia — where Warmbier was a junior double-majoring in commerce and economics.

By all accounts, Warmbier was a charismatic and caring human being whom one high-school classmate called “Everyone’s friend.” He was a lover of cultures and intellectually open-minded — “a warm, engaging, brilliant young man whose curiosity and enthusiasm for life knew no bounds,” according to his family.

Utterly consumed by malignant identity politics, the left-wing intelligentsia have become the intolerantsia. They are bent on dehumanizing individuals, fomenting racial, ethnic and class division in the name of “progressivism,” and never taking responsibility for the damage done.

Contrast the no-regrets policy of these “Frat Boy”-bashers, with a former North Korean prison guard, Lim Hye-jin, who escaped recently and recounted the horrors of life in the camps.

“We were manipulated not to feel any sympathy for prisoners,” she said. The guards of the totalitarian state “do not see them as human beings, just as animals.” After realizing she had been brainwashed by ideological monsters, she spoke out.

“Now I know they were normal people, so I feel very guilty.”

Will the short, slandered life and double death of Otto Warmbier prompt the American left’s cruel character assassins to admit the same?

Soul-searching, alas, requires a soul.

from http://www.therightnewsnetwork.com/the-double-murder-of-otto-warmbier/

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patriotnewsblogger-blog · 7 years ago

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The double murder of Otto Warmbier

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