Right White Wing Weekend Wrap-up

I have eaten too much, as is the custom here. Many good conversations in the map room. Awe inspiring personal library bunker. And, a real treat, human sacrifices in celebration of Celtic culture, on the shores of a snowy Canadian lake.

I had mentioned previously that there was a spiritual affinity between myself and my last accidental host. We both share a belief that certain stones can experience certain of the same things we sentinent beings can: hence, the wisdom of spilling your drink on the table. This weekend we took it up a notch and I was graciously invited into the deeper culture of rural white Ontario. I arrived long after the three homeless people had been assembled inside of three wicker forms.

Their names are not something I wish to share. At this stage of their symbolic journey they were badly composed. They stank of urine. They did not really behave like someone should at a religious ceremony. They were being disrespectful of diversity. So, I developed a strong dislike for these people. Quite frankly, there is no reason to be rude. It made my job sending their souls into the paradise of Elysium (which is the comforting reward of any offered to Set, the Snake God) a little bit harder.

Three sleds had been prepared. Larger than one would take on a road, wider. Made of stout timbers, then planks; and it smelt new from Tractor Supply. Upon the sled was a frame which held one of the wicker men. Three sleds; three wicker frames.

The one on the left smelt the worst. He told me he was a diabetic and needed water to swallow his medication. Considering that within twenty minutes he would be merrily roasting in a large fire, I did not know what to say. They had already taken his credit cards, and he could not remember the numbers.

In the center, the reasonable one. He wanted to know if I had a human consciousness that could participate in ritual murder? I looked at him, and put down the brush I was using to paint on bar-b-que sauce. I told him that he was being a racist. These people were just celebrating their culture. You cannot judge them. Just for being angry you are being intolerant. I slopped a fat glob of bar-b-que sauce over his eyes, to distract him. His pockets were empty, too.

On the right, a cry baby. I won’t even write down his last words before the Final Food Prep. Then I noticed he was wearing the same size shoes as me. These were new. Obama money shoes; I coveted them. I started in on his left foot.

Oh, no, do not take my shoes, he cried. You can hear it coming, can you not? The same old, same old, Please do not kill me. Please leave my shoes alone.

I asked him if he could see if they were bringing out the last load of fire wood and bacon? My back was to the action, and he was wiggling his toes, making it hard to unlace down the middle. It was a failure at distraction. He still was selfish and only thought of himself. He did not want to put the group objective above that of his own. He was not a team player. All these people had gone to all this work, and he was being intolerant bigot by not doing his small part. The prospect of a twenty five year tour in Elysium, before reincarnating as a feeder pig in Iowa did not tempt him, as it had the other two begging for their lives. I could just barely make up what I wanted to hear them say. The wind was picking up; the sun was setting; I had a pair of shoes; and the bacon was finished being stacked.

The smell of paprika was in the air. A final dusting, with highlights done with turmeric. The three spiced ones were ready for a ride across the lake. On the shores, the good folk of the area were gathered … a good hundred I reckon. There to celebrate that part of Celtic culture that is their contribution to diversity.

The cry baby on the left started to shout my name. This was surprising, as I go by other names when with the Survivalists. He begged me to release him, in exchange for information. He knew secrets, how far the operation had been infiltrated, and if he disappeared, his people would be angry and come looking for him.

It is hard for someone dusted red with paprika to be convincing. He had memorized some lines from a James Bond movie. I put a Camel dead head in his lips, and waved on the show.

He looked at me, as his sled was pulled out onto the lake. I nudged my collegue, He wonders why I did not light his smoke, I said. I can read his mind, I boasted, he wishes his smoke was lit.

I leaned forward into the blowing snow, and cupped my hands to make the sound go farther: Your wish will come true!

Soon the air was free of screaming, and only the crackle of wood and the sizzle of many pounds of bacon. Everybody present was happy! Most of the crowd danced and sang! They recited poetry. If you took a picture that excluded the three burning bodies in the wicker cages, you would have a setting worthy of the Beachcombers. Real touching.

Sometimes, being in the service of Set, the Snake God is all about good feelings.

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