#since they transcend themselves in order to earn the fool's powers

[elsyrel]

So, we know that Asra, Nadia and Julian have their marks on the heart, forehead (third eye) and throat respectively. Those coincide with the position of some chakras... so I wondered: where would Lucio, Portia and Muriel have their marks? There are four chakras left: crown (transcendence, spiritual connection), solar plexus (will, confidence and self-esteem), sacral (emotions, pleasure, sexuality and creativity), and root (survival, security and stability).  Taking this into account, I'm pretty confident Lucio's chakra would be the sacral one, Portia's would be the solar plexus one, and Muriel the root one. So here you have my interpretation!

[greencrusader13]

All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 3 - Eonur Bogra

Well, that sure took awhile, but it’s finally done! If you’ve been enjoying this fic be sure to give it a reblog. Anyways, enjoy this chapter as we’re introduced to our little iridonian: Eonur!

           The guards were always the same, regardless of the planet or owner or banner. Their eyes had been trained to watch for any signs of insubordination, and their hands equally taught to linger above whatever weapon their employer had deemed appropriate. Electroshock collars were the most common, followed only by equally painful batons. After all, any permanent damage to the goods would be detrimental for business, a waste of credits. Eonur had only felt their sting once after he’d resisted their pull as he was separated from his mother, having been sold to a new owner. The overseer in question hadn’t even hesitated.

The only thing that ever changed was the colors and emblems they associated with themselves. It hadn’t taken him long to differentiate the insignias of the Hutts or anyone else who dealt and purchased slaves. The variety of masters in his life had taught him their superficial differences.

           At least, that’s what Eonur had thought; standing under the crimson and black Imperial flags was another story altogether. He’d been traded around by slavers before, and he’d known them all to put on the most intimidating posturing they were able, but with the Imperials it didn’t feel like they were posturing. Lines of soldiers guarded the ship, their faces hidden behind emotionless black visors that reflected the visages of the slaves back upon themselves. Each one held a rifle drawn across their chest, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. His three other slave tradings over the past eight years of his life had been underlined with an air of greed and tense perverted excitement from the prospective buyers, as though he and the other slaves were new ships for purchase. Here, the Imperials only exuded coldness.

           He’d been lined up alongside his fellow slaves - most of whom were older than himself – inside the hanger bay of some Imperial ship while officers observed the new purchases. His former master had already departed the corvette some time ago, his deal complete and the appropriate credits now in his possession. Eonur didn’t understand why the Imperials waited before cramming them into a shuttle, but that confusion was tempered with relief. It was a rare occasion that they had open space without the expectation of strenuous work.

           Eonur gently tugged at his collar as the metal pinched at his skin, but found little relief and subsequently gave up. If he pulled too harshly an overseer might think he was trying to remove it altogether. A shock would usually follow in that case, and an imperial would salivate at the chance to inflict pain on an alien such as himself, even if iridonians weren’t considered brutish like some other species. On one occasion he’d seen a fellow slave shot over it, and though he doubted that his owners would risk angering the Imperials by harming their stock.

           “Just leave it be,” Jowporin said lowly in Shyriiwook. A cluster of Imperial soldiers turned their head at the sound, but made no further moves. To them Shryriiwook was just feral growling from a barely-sentient beast. Even they knew that shocking Jowporin would likely just make him angry, and the last thing they wanted was an enraged seven foot tall mass of black fur barreling towards them.

Eonur grumbled quietly to himself as he resisted scratching at the pinch. “It’s itchy,” he mumbled back, but made no further protestations. Jowporin was right; he often was. The older wookiee was the closest thing he had to a friend despite their pronounced differences in age. They’d been bought and sold in the same cluster of slaves for their past two owners, back when Eonur’s only use for his masters was for fixing faulty wiring in small machines. During one of the repairs Eonur had dropped a wrench onto the foot of another slave, who then proceeded to beat him with the same tool. Jowporin broke the man’s spine in response.

He’d been looking out for Eonur ever since.

In the years that had followed Jowporin imparted what wisdom he’d acquired from his long tenure as a slave. Don’t question the master or his overseers aloud, but never stop questioning them within. Work competently, but not too quickly as to not earn the ire of other slaves. And, most of all, not to lose his identity in the wake of everything. The last had always seemed the most important to Jowporin, though Eonur couldn’t quite understand why.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Eonur asked, nodding towards the shuttles ahead of them. There were few military strike crafts in the hanger bay, and most of the ship designs appeared better fit for transportation than combat. Even the number of soldiers manning the cruiser seemed less than what he’d been expecting from what little he knew of the Empire. Weren’t they supposed to be at war or something?

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon,” Jowporin replied, “It doesn’t do us much good to speculate though. Just stand tall and don’t draw attention to yourself, like all the other times.”

Eonur glanced between Jowporin and the massive trandoshan to his left. “Easier said than done.”

A hush fell over the assembly of slaves as a thin figure approached them in long strides, his violet robes rippling like a spring in his wake. He was alien – the only non-slave alien Eonur had seen among the Imperial’s ranks – though his appearance was unlike any other alien he’d seen in his life. Smooth crimson skin accentuated the man’s angular features, stretching perfectly over ridges along his eyebrows and chin. An air of smugness followed him, not unlike his human compatriots, but far more intense and certain. The other Imperials seemed to cower in his presence as though he exuded fear itself. Eonur himself felt a wave of dread as the man stopped at the front of the rows of slaves; even then he could not stop peering through the slaves ahead of him at the enigmatic figure.

The figure unfolded his gloved hands in a benign welcoming that bordered on friendly. “I, Lord Rhoral, congratulate all you assembled here, for you have been selected for the glorious purpose of serving the Sith Empire in battle against the Republic. No more will you have to fritter about with menial tasks fit for a droid, for you have ascended to projects far greater than those assigned by your previous masters. Leave all memories of your pitiful pasts behind; they will serve you no longer in your service to the Empire.

“In three days’ time we will arrive at the planet of Ord Radama, where we are preparing for a siege on the planet led by Darth Malgus himself. You yourselves will take part in this battle, to our benefit.” A bemused, cruel smile crossed his lips. “Your... efforts will pave the way for our loyal sons and daughters to claim victory over the Jedi fools holding the planet.”

Behind him, Eonur heard a slave mutter, “What does that mean?”

“We’re being sent to our deaths,” another replied, panic evident in slightly raised voice, “They’re going to use us as cannon fodder. We’re dead. We’re dead.”

Lord Rhoral’s head snapped towards them with the alarming speed of a deadly predator. He took several silent strides towards them as the two slaves fell silent in feigned innocence. To Eonur’s surprise Lord Rhoral’s expression remained placid. While it was far from neutral or apathetic, there was a temperance about it that was unlike any master of his in the past. They would have already been spewing spittle in their orders for fresh lashings.

Then Lord Rhoral’s expression changed, slowly morphing into intrigued perplexity as his eyes instead locked upon Eonur himself. The Sith Lord’s gait slowed, and he shifted his posture to more directly approach him. Eonur tensed. Terror wrapped around his innards, and he felt as though his fear would choke the life out of him before this Imperial could have the chance. Beside him Jowporin grew rigid, glancing frantically between Eonur and Lord Rhoral in helpless fear.

Eonur closed his eyes at Lord Rhoral’s approach, too afraid to open them lest the unknown punishment follow. From what little he knew of the Sith they were not unopposed to inflicting senseless pain onto their victims in the hopes of instilling fear among those meant to serve them. But even in the darkness he could not hide, and Eonur forced his eyes open, finding Lord Rhoral’s gaunt frame standing over him. Two gloved hands gripped his chin, just under his shock collar, and tilted Eonur’s gaze to match the Sith’s.

“Fascinating; it resonates so strongly within you despite its dormancy, locked away as much as you are,” Lord Rhoral breathed, allowing his fingers to slide along the collar’s length with gravity’s natural pull. Eonur struggled against his body’s desire to recoil, too fearful of what would happen if he did so. Even then a flicker of amusement crossed Lord Rhoral’s thin lips as though he could sense the very fear that sent Eonur’s heart racing. “You’ve never seen my kind before, have you?” he asked firmly.

Eonur shook his head, averting his eyes away from Lord Rhoral’s unsettling amber irises.

“I am Sith, but not as you might recognize. That name was bestowed upon an Empire that is but a shadow of what we once were, what we hope to restore. No, I am pure-” Lord Rhoral lifted Eonur’s chin once more, “-of blood. The Force runs through my very essence, untamed, unmeasured. My power is beyond compare of anyone else in this room. And want to know something child?” Eonur remained frozen, unsure if Lord Rhoral actually wished for him to respond. “Power. Recognizes. Power. The Force calls out to me from you. Can you feel it as well?”

Somehow, beyond all explanation, Eonur did feel some invisible tie to Lord Rhoral, as though he could sense a presence of his that transcended sight or touch. It was faint, but present. Strangest of all, though, was that the feeling wasn’t entirely new. A part of it, however small, felt familiar to Eonur, even close to his own heart. With even more attention Eonur’s awareness extended beyond the Sith Lord, but to Jowporin as well, his friend’s anxiety resonating as though his own. Eonur returned a cautious nod to Lord Rhoral.

“Commander, unshackle this iridonian here,” Lord Rhoral ordered, waving over a black and grey garbed Imperial. The officer – a brawny, pale-skinned human - jolted out of an apparent daze and hurried over while adjusting the cap upon his head.

“Milord, you shouldn’t bother with this alien filth. My men and I-” The Imperial stopped midsentence as Lord Rhoral extended his hand towards him. His eyes went wide with shock. His hands clawed at his throat, and he fell to his knees whilst gagging, as though he were choking on air itself. A sickly blue climbed his veins to his face, and his eyes bulged as the blood vessels within them started to burst.

All the while Lord Rhoral clicked his tongue. “Commander, I didn’t ask for your opinion. Now should we try again, or shall your subordinate take over from here? I’d think about your answer very, very carefully.” He glanced at Eonur from over his shoulder. “Sometimes you have to make points like this. Quite bothersome. What would you do with him?”

Eonur flicked his eyes between Lord Rhoral and the Imperial. What would he do? No one had ever asked him for his opinion on a matter, much less for his advice. He watched as the Imperial commander crawled along the floor as he fought for air. The pain looked unimaginable. Maybe if it were one of his old master’s the pain would be deserved, but Eonur knew nothing of this man. “Give him another chance,” Eonur said.

Lord Rhoral lowered his hand, and immediately the Imperial began gasping for air. “What are you waiting for?” he barked at a nearby soldier, “Get the damn key and unlock that boy’s collar!”

A black-helmed soldier rushed over to where Eonur stood and unlocked his collar with trembling hands before retreating as fast as he’d arrived. Just like that his bindings were undone, and for the first time in his life he stood without a slave’s denotation around his neck. Eonur rubbed at the skin along his throat. Relief overwhelmed him, as well as tremendous gratitude, and he fought back tears.

The awareness Lord Rhoral had brought him – this Force, as he called it – resonated even stronger within Eonur than before, filling his very being tenfold. It was a sensation as though he’d only ever experienced a light breeze in his lifetime, only to be now caught up in a windstorm. “The Force shall free me,” Lord Rhoral whispered, “I sense a great destiny in store for you, my apprentice.”

Before he could express his thanks, Lord Rhoral continued. “I am your master now, and you answer to none but me. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good,” Lord Rhoral said, “Now separate yourself from this… lowly ilk and-”

“Master, can my friend go too?” Eonur said, looking to Jowporin. “He’s-”

Eonur cried out in pain, doubling over as a burst of silver-blue lightning emanated from Lord Rhoral’s fingertips and wracked his body. He wrapped his arms around his chest as he’d been taught to weather the pain; however brief, it was far worse than any of the shocks he’d grown accustomed to over the years. All the other slaves’ eyes were on him, and Eonur could sense their fear. More than that, he could feel Jowporin’s rage precariously teetering on the edge of being beyond control.

“Do not presume to think you can speak out of turn, or that you regard me as owing you anything. You follow my prerogative, not your own. In fact, for even so much as raising the question…” Lord Rhoral reached to his side, where he then extracted a cylindrical piece of metal resembling a baton, only thicker. He flicked a switch, and a brilliant scarlet beam came to life at its end with a fleeting screech, and it hummed as he held it there. Eonur could feel the power radiating from the blade.

Lord Rhoral extended the hilt to Eonur, and he took it with both hands. The weapon felt lighter than it looked, and he held it with ease. The Sith cocked his head towards Jowporin. “Strike him down.”

Eonur’s eyes went wide as horror seized him. “What? I can’t do that! He’s my friend. I can’t do that!”

A flash of anger materialized in Lord Rhoral’s amber eyes. “Either you strike him down, or I will order my men to re-collar you and put you on the front lines for this siege, beaten and starved-”

“Please!”

“Power or death! It’s your decision!” Lord Rhoral barked. He began pacing. “Do not test my patience!”

Tears streamed down Eonur’s cheeks as he recited hollow pleas. Through stinging eyes he looked upon Jowporin’s now calm face, who then nodded, encouraging as always. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong. It couldn’t be happening. All the gratitude he’d felt towards Lord Rhoral had vanished, replaced with seething hatred. Eonur’s hands shook, and he raised the blade above his head…

And swung it at Lord Rhoral.

In a single, deft movement Lord Rhoral twirled around Eonur’s clumsy strike as the blade hummed through the air, knocked the hilt free from his hands, and pinned him underfoot. Ghastly laughter rang out in the hanger. The Sith Lord smiled down at him, twisted mirth filling his expression. “Well attempted apprentice! Your hatred shines like a beacon! Feel it! Embrace it! We’ll make a Sith of you yet!”

Then, suddenly, sirens deafened the bay as red lights began flashing from the walls and ceiling. The troops assembled began moving while their commanders barked orders, some heading for the fighters docked not far away. Lord Rhoral looked up, confused, and scrambled for his holocomm. A scrambled blue figure appeared on its base, and Eonur recognized from their uniform as another Imperial. “What’s happening?” Lord Rhoral barked at the woman.

“It’s the Republic milord. They’ve ambushed us.”

Lord Rhoral pocketed his holocomm and lifted his foot off from Eonur’s chest. “Blast,” he muttered, turning to the vastness of space at the far end of the hanger bay, “Always looking to interrupt my fun, aren’t you? No matter…” He turned back to Eonur. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this demonstration short my young apprentice. We have more pressing things to attend to.”

The Sith Lord bent down and extended his hand. Eonur stared, cautious. As much anger as he still felt towards him, he feared upsetting him further. There was no room for bargaining. He was just as trapped as he’d ever been. Reluctantly, Eonur took him in his grip and allowed himself to be hoisted up. “Please” was the only word he could muster.

“Fear not apprentice, we’ll wait somewhere safe while our troops crush the Republic. Come with me.” Lord Rhoral took a few steps, and then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

The blade sparked to life again. Lord Rhoral lunged and with a single, deadly motion, stabbed Jowporin in the chest. The wookiee crumpled without a sound. Just fell. Like that the presence Eonur had felt in his friend vanished, smothered out. A scream tore its way from Eonur’s mouth, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could feel was the violence scraping at his throat, a sound that could barely match his horror.

Lord Rhoral then seized Eonur by the scalp and began dragging him away. “Order troops to guard them,” he said to a nearby Imperial while gesturing to the slaves, “If the Republic dogs board our ship, kill the slaves first.” Without another word he whisked Eonur away, leading him down hallway after hallway until they reached a corridor towards the back of the ship. A pair of soldiers saluted as they entered the room before entering codes into a panel by the entrance. Massive security doors folded down onto each other, sealing Eonur behind the defenses with a Sith Lord.

[writer59january13]

When The Doomsday Clock Struck Twelve

    PROLOGUE: Ever since the timeless immeasurable coalescence of consciousness viz wrought higher thought propensity, and bequeathed the rudimentary tools of the then nascent malevolent (though unbeknownst to themselves, innocent looking, knee high primates, would attempt a futile declaration of independence, nonetheless their biological constitutional bound them to chromosomal amendments), would affix the seal of disapproval alluding to archaic contraband arms trade (those most primitive hominids forged sticks and stones as defensive means), yet unwittingly, jarringly, and alarmingly – in due millenniums got cursed with their own demagogic demise.

    The prism of hindsight allows, enables and provides a peg leg up for us grand children to the power of googleplex from those nattering nabobs of…nature scant survivors to parse and piece together an anthropological spectrum analysis.

    We can advantageously, yet delicately isolate (much more easily than those bipedal millennial lowbrow swedish, nor wee gin, and dane hush knuckle dragging forebears of contemporary residents of Lake Woebegone) that roamed vast expanses and virginal plains on the prowl for seedy stems, root stock, and grubs that formed a zigzag pattern of trial and error asper what did not kill them got the shortish brutes (yet to attain the realm noble savages).

    These early primates rode a figurative and veritable zip line toward domination upon the healthy terra firmae, and unstintingly planted the spores for vast generational realms spelling beasty boy modern day prairie home companions, who accidentally stumbled upon the long lost culinary delicacy earning the equivalent of Michelin awards for high demand best selling powder milk biscuits comprising raw bits of NON GMO, gluten and msg free vintage Triceratops ground horn meal circa millenniums ago.

    Inconclusive questions still abound asper how one wimpy, scruffy, and outlandishly kooky band of ambling ape like creatures attained the rand and file of most dominant, hogtied, and lukewarm pygmies strode right topmost uber valiant warlords.

    One school of thought ascertains highly touted punctuated equilibrium theory. This hypothesis ordains a sudden and inordinate burst of species differentiation versus gradual feints evolving determination to cope.

    A brush stroke of chance graced one great descendent of a monkey’s uncle (christened matthew scott harris – who just by beginners luck linkedin with all in his family inside a radiation proof arched bunker) with empirical and unique wisdom – at least in comparison with other feral and furry jungle loving spoonful sized swinging creatures.

    No matter whether one attributes bytes of divine intervention, a mere crapshoot in the dice throw of fate, the scattershot fits and starts among Darwinian survival of the fittest brought an undeniable net result, which in toto spelled light years away complete and utter extinction for a biological experiment that went seriously awry.

    Over the course of millennial generations, a combination of beginners’ dumb luck, coevals of circumstance and happenstance proffered the L'Enfant terrible civilization with the subtle trappings of preponderant transcendence and imminent domain over all the other life forms great and small.

    This godlike domination and mantle to rule with an iron maiden fist would eventually and in short order cook to a crisp the supposed ribs from cosmic creator.

    Mushroom became a hot commodity and premium especially as invisible shackles proved to chain these prehensile beasts acquired, reveled in unbridled power.

    This inimitable coterie of chest thumping missing links into deluded them into owning a fools’ paradise.

    A parabolic trajectory arced elliptically toward chaos of lex Lucifer at that atrocious, nefarious, and heinous explosion.

An innocent, innocuous and subtle series of incremental transitions fostered physiognomy of arboreal mammals to climb, crawl, shimmy and slide across various and sundry terrain.

    At some metastatic stage, these informal claques and clicks spurred an inexplicable brainstorm to tap out a manifesto and stand up for vaguely grunted inalienable rights.

    Who knows really knows how, what or when precipitated one unsuspecting ring leader to prompt a horde of hairy brutes to lurch ahead of the pack?

    Once in an upright pose, the de facto leader probably received the first standing ovation.

    An erect and more upright posture stepped up the advantages, which ironically enough set the stage for one after the other epic tragic 2017 spatial odyssey.

    In the end one nasty, shortish, brute could end up wielding a bigger club, rattle a sharper saber and sadly and lastly fire off a deadlier warhead.

    Fain to argue against the existence of diabolic ambitions and concomitant sinister treason against scripted virtuous blueprint fleshed out on the divine creators’ drawing board, when tell tale signs abundantly litter the byways and highways of the actual and information superhighways of this human lot.

    That slow but inexorable ascent from the primordial ooze thence reaching upon the highest summit of egoistic grandeur also condemned and forebode a relatively terrible swift descent from what would turn out to be a hollow and precarious precipice.

    Difficult if not well nigh impossible to discern any traceable handy dance blues clue of such demonic motives in the rather cute and furrowed brow, heart and soul of those ape men, women and children that happened to be above average.

    Although anthropological lineage can be traced with a rather jagged line from that hazy humid dog day afternoon, an ordinate amount of energy plus a preponderant exuberant expenditure of crusading conviction found pitched battles with battle axes and crucifixions following pomp and circumstances infusing the exploits with pomp and circumstances of the fighting machine.

    Like overgrown children egging the enemy for a zealous fight, that lethal brinkmanship set in motion an irreversible lethal assault.

    Instantaneous electronic and satellite communications automatically instructed formerly hidden weapons of mass destruction to get launched from their respective silos only to bore down heavily on the designated pre-coded targets.

    Tracers arced and lit up one fatal view of the celestial orb, gamut of constellations and cosmic mysteries burned as one collective blinding nihilistic imprimatur – upon billions of seared retinas!

    This veritable blitzkrieg zeroed in on major metropolitan centers before extinction of détente ripped a black hole in the heartland.

    Time seemed to be suspended and still for one brief yet glorious moment before those sinister mushroom clouds sprinkled spores, sprouted and populated the radioactive heavens.

    A deafening ear-splitting sound filled the air just before the cherished landmarks got rent a sundered by this encompassing apocalypse now, with critical up to date emergency specification blared via national public radio, yet audio soundcloud muted by the sonic threshold waking up the recently grateful dead.

    All phenomena became liquefied into gruesome, macabre and twisted shapes.

    Entire populations became hostage to an evil genii loosed from the bottle of atomic energy.

    This entropy purportedly milked from noble heart felt blood sweat and tears for fears.

    The long march of history presented a completely replete treat of supremely intelligent mortal men and women bestowed with the benevolent title of genius ineluctably contributed to the annihilation of planet earth.

Forsooth thy willowy young lass named lingua franc me childhood sweetheart and newfound bride long gone bonnie oh

abeyance promulgated by Prometheus

reigning eternal radiation to glow

no more splendiferous raiment

nor sylvan paradise

bloweth gale like from thine beau.

    A small number of multi-cultural Homo sapiens from Lake Woebegone (myself included plus a claque of hearty strapping Norwegian Bachelor farmers, whose diet of powder milk biscuits and raw bits a possible preventive inoculation) in addition to a cadre of various and sundry other species chanced to be on a reconnaissance mission ironically to broker negotiate word peace.

    This motley crew (a typical representative sampling of most all the gamut per creed, nationality, race, religion, et cetera) of humankind experienced a collective gasp of horror at the blinding flash that cleft the globe into smithereens and shattered the atmosphere into at least a millions little pieces.

    No more ability to support life in all those various and sundry manifestations with a newly forged asteroid belt birthed into existence.

    Such an ignominious end and total destruction of mother earth (formerly replete with all the attendant diversification of flora and fauna) far exceeded the ability of our shell- shocked vestigial eclectic tribe.

    This emotionally tattered remnant (once part of a now vanished misty, mythic, swashbuckling and vainglorious past) awash with self proclaimed manifest destiny and emancipation a little to late swore unbridled allegiance to all manner of god and country (incorporating hidden and inconvenient truths to boot chrome windows) no longer inhabited the four corners upon the plane of Gaia.

    Prognosticators of yore spouting this, that, and the other end of world hypothetical scenarios could never even approach this catastrophe on a biblical scale times the power of google.

    Witnesses in now way, shape nor form could capture even a paltry approximation the fury nor wrath of these tectonic nuclear blasts.

    Classic literature steeped in the annals of the noble savage banging the tom-tom and emitting that blood curdling and ear-piercing scream.

    This eruption of ferocity meant to breed fear and sought (perhaps in addition to a scalp or two) nothing short of being heir apparent sovereignty, a salient trait to bank upon.

    How quaint that now iconic image frequently reminisced by artists, musicians, writers, et cetera contrasted with those last surviving exploitative ideologues qua demigods, who in the name of busy whacking democracy similarly plundered and raped with reckless impropriety and nonchalance.

    Those pulverized remain permanently ensconced forever pinwheel thru the air of those skeletal concrete and steel reinforced fortresses.

    Hot vicious thermal winds blew the thick mass of cremated ashes across the rubble strewn and severely cratered landscape.

The devil made mince meat oye vay

as like one huge lumbering ogre massive as Uruguay

and grim reaper got feedstock upon lovely bone covered tray

rolled up into one not so jolly green giant did slay

good will to all men

and spat out pox with an emphatic nay

triumphing over godly salvation

using eponymous accursed pitchfork

made merry and rolled in the hay

simultaneously sneering out in delight

at wanton death and decay

whereby civilization forever mutilated

and perforated said spindled World Wide Web structure

where once proud and strong spikes radiated

now sundered in total chaotic disarray.

    EPILOGUE: Ever since the beginning of time, when one select group of primates owned an advantage to survive and transcend pitfalls and predators, their abilities to forage, hunt and scavenge for food and safety likewise eclipsed other equally adept tribes.

    Vagaries, vicissitudes and voices initially in the form of primal groans and grunts began to weave the rudiments of traditions, which in no short time seem to thrive on sacrifice, superstition and many aspects of the kill.

    At some juncture, one branch from the tree of homo sapiens would practically subsume the entire trunk line, thus render the once almighty, beastie boy, crafty duty enemy fly guy humbled.

    Thus, the varietal genes and chromosomes encapsulating latent internecine torture and extermination bred dreadful heathen jimmied, linkedin, nasty pirated reprehensible totemic vicars xing zone.

    Eons would elapse with negligible yet faintly perceptible notches of sophistication. Ever more egregious methodologies would be dreamt up, employed in peevish mock war games

    Only to be inflicted on innocent civilians or military personnel as collateral trophies in the name of mortal combat.