Over at WorldNetDaily, the comment section to an article about a Secret Service agent who announced recently that she will never take a bullet for President Trump pretty quickly went further downhill than you’d think it could.


Jerariah knelt on the inexpertly poured concrete floor, the grit and cracks gouged into his raw knees through the threadbare slacks he wore as he wobbled slightly left and right. He found he hard a hard time balancing with his hands tied behind his back at the wrists. An oscillating, dopplering sound, almost like waves, almost like flapping wings, filled and fled from his ears in rough rhythm with the four swinging  bare bulbs that illuminated both the dark hole of a trial chamber and the three magistrars at their splintery wood desk. The sound made it hard to hear them discussing his crime and his fate and he heard their conversation only in quick, muffled bursts.

“He didn’t kneel. He never knelt until we made him…

“What good can come of him? What good can come from him? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing at all…

“The stain will only spread further. We waited long enough in letting him stand for so long in front of the Regent. It’s time to blot this. The family as well. They’re all polluted.”

At that, Jeraiah, his throat raw and tongue swollen, his teeth loose from malnutrition and his head pounding from lack of sleep, uncertain if he had really heard what he thought he had, shouted as best he could, “You are not the heroes you want to be. You never will be. You can’t be. The spark, the warmth, the goodness inherent in people is either extinguished in you or was never present. You’re beasts who’ve learned to mimic human movement without ever learning anything of humanity.” He tried to spit on the floor but only succeeded in toppling himself over on his side. His skull cracked and bled and his vision swam in waves like a broken cathode ray tube television and though it was not unexpected, he neither saw nor heard the magistrars get up from their table, circle him and crush his ribs with their boots until the bones snapped and pierced his fragile lungs.


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