Idle Hands

Let me begin by stating that I am completely pro-gun. Gun rights are not only essential for protecting all other rights, but also that they are rights alone should simply suffice as justification for their continued existence. But where reason fails…

Anyway, while I am pro-gun, I recognize the great evil that guns helped bring about in Western society. (As did the industrial revolution, but that is a story for another time.) Guns do not kill people, people kill people. Of course the same could be said of Communism. No, I am not saying guns are Communist and, like Communism, have no legitimate use. What I am saying is that guns helped lead to Communism. I know, it may seem strange, but ‘bear’ with me…

It all begins in Medieval Europe, or perhaps in China, but regardless: the meteoric rise of guns and gunpowder led to a restructuring of armies and, therefore, a reformation of European society. Feudalism, in many ways a precursor to Federalism, depended upon a fragile status quo maintained by several key factors. A lack of transportation was one of those factors. Another was the power of the nobility.

The nobility derived their powers from arms. Nobles spent much of their lives training for war. They had the money, and therefore the equipment, to go to war. Swords were expensive to make, and learning to use one even more so. Nobles had an interest in the status quo. Not just at the micro-level, mind you, but at the macro as well. Whenever one of their brethren became too powerful they tended to band together to defeat him. And they generally succeeded. The status quo was maintained. Then…

The gun. It changed everything. And not entirely for the better. You see, guns were relatively easy to make, and training was even easier. The accuracy of guns at the time made aiming a relatively unnecessary part of Basic. Load, point, shoot. Rinse. Repeat. Guns were less effective than bows and arrows. Bows like swords, however, required quite a bit of training, and as the population grew self-trained woodsmen became increasingly hard to find.

So what was the problem? Other than as Huxley once pointed out, rather than improving the world we have simply developed more efficient means of killing each other? Well for one, this destroyed the role of the nobles. Some have credited gunpowder with the development of democracy in Europe. I credit it with the development of anarchy; instability, disruption, chaos. Of course that really is what democracy is. Democracy—small ‘d,’ unless at the beginning of a sentence, as in this sentence—is very unlike the constitutional republic stability-loving Northern Europeans had grown fond of. Yes, even under monarchy realms such as England were constitutional republics.

The problem wasn’t just that the peasants had more power, but that the nobles retained every aspect of their power outside of war. They were in effect a bunch of rich people with political power and no real jobs. Sound familiar?

There was a solution to this problem. Louis XIV decided he could keep the nobility busy by building a cult of personality around himself and throwing lavish parties for them so they would compete for his favor. Meanwhile Louis would bankrupt France paying for those parties, building palaces, and fighting expansionist foreign wars in an attempt to further his own ambitions. Oh, wait. That wasn’t a solution at all. It was a disaster that (hopefully) culminated in the bloodbath of the French Revolution. Well, I’m sure the Sun King’s policies worked better in Prussia…

So next time you fire a gun, remember that while it is merely a tool, for good or ill, it can also have a transformative effect far beyond what one might imagine. And then, instead of throwing it away in disgust, keep training. Keep training and don’t let His Majesty buy you off with trinkets—surrendering your traditional right, and duty, to fight.

Tales From The Krypt: An explanation

These are stories from the past. Dredged up from the dark depths of Kryptonian history, they are a part of Krypton's greatest epics. Once thought to have met their apropos end in the dying throes of our tragically engorged red sun, I, Ben-El of Krypton, have re-discovered and translated them. Or they may be the scribblings of a Kryptonian child who was possibly also a deranged dullard from eating too many lead paint chips--good thing he wasn't a Daxamite! Whatever the case, these are the "Tales From The Krypt." Clever, I know.

Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version II

Guy was not a short man by any means; he was just under six feet tall. However, whenever he stood next to someone who was three or more inches taller than him he felt diminutive. Like most men he was a man of two minds. One side of him thought he was supremely excellent, a proud man worthy of the glory he sought. The other thought himself a pathetic wretch of a fool with no right to fame, power or glory.
Perhaps this is why a British kid who grew up in the suburbs and had no history of outer conflict would suddenly in his mid-twenties don a black leather jacket, black jeans, black shoes and a Union Jack plastered T-shirt, forgoing all other clothing. In addition he bleached his hair blond and tried to take up smoking. He quickly abandoned the smoking after the first few cigarettes made him cough terribly, besides, he thought, cancer wouldn’t be too glorious, would it? Now, as long as he kept his little smoking mishap to himself, everyone who met him would remember him respectfully… if not fondly.
Guy’s belief that he was oh-so-worthy contrasted interestingly with his hitherto failure to achieve anything of great significance. Guy was of a mind to change this, and his first stop in doing so had been in a posh Victorian home just outside of London: the home of one Thaddeus Crutchley. Mr. Crutchley, a tall gray-haired former professor of history at Oxford University with bony cheeks, was the antithesis of Guy in every conceivable way. As often as Guy wore his jacket, jeans, shoes and Union Jack tee, Professor Emeritus Crutchley wore tweed. He also wore impeccably polished brown leather shoes and small rectangular spectacles which were wont to slide down his thin crooked nose. Guy would have called him a “sodding nancy” upon first meeting him if he himself had not been one. The truth was that despite their appearances Guy was the coward and Thaddeus was only what could be described as mercenary; a ruthless cutthroat. The two had nevertheless become close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world. This was, ironically, what they were trying to do.
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time,” Thaddeus had told Guy several months ago in the drawing room of his Victorian home.
Guy set down his near-empty wine glass which he had been twirling carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. “Ready for what?” he asked.
“When I first swore you into the organization,” Thaddeus ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that you are a truth-seeker as much as a glory-seeker and thus are tremendously frustrated by conspiracies.”
Guy sat upright, “Well, yeah,” he protested.
“I want you to infiltrate the Illuminati,” Thaddeus said abruptly.
“You what?”
“You shall begin tomorrow.”
“Riiight,” said Guy, standing up. “I’ll just waltz over to Parliament and say ‘Mr. Prime Minister, sir, I’d like to join you and your conspiratorial backers in a game of poker, nineish?’ and then we’ll have a right merry time discussing politics over tea and crumpets.”
Thaddeus continued to ignore him, saying, “According to my informants, a high-ranking member of the Illuminati is currently stationed at the

Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version I

“I believe you are ready and have been for some time, Guy,” said the tall tweed-clad man with bony cheeks. Along with the tweed, he wore, as he did every day, impeccably polished brown leather shoes and tiny rectangular spectacles which rested upon his thin, crooked nose. His name was Thaddeus Crutchley, professor emeritus of Oxford and widower of the widow of the heir apparent of the Duke of Northumberland. Try saying that three times fast. Professor Emeritus Crutchley was left with one million pounds and a nice Victorian home just outside of London. The discussion he was having took place in the drawing room of that very home.
“Ready for what?” Guy asked; setting down the near-empty wine glass he had been sloshing about carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. The ex-professor, or as Guy often called him, Tweedledum, didn’t take too kindly to his offhand manner.
The first time they met, also in this home, was an awkward experience to say the least. The recently retired Crutchley had, unsurprisingly, been dressed in tweed and Guy in his usual black leather jacket and jeans and T-shirt with a giant Union Jack plastered across its front. Crutchley had surveyed Guy’s bleach-blond hair with skepticism, and Guy had nearly burst out in laughter. This stuffy old man would be the leader of the revolution? Oh yeah, he was a real rebel that one. Although in Guy’s own words Crutchley looked to be a “sodding nancy” and in truth, he once had been, but something in his past which he refused to specify had changed him. Now, however, Crutchley was what Guy could only describe as mercenary. He was ruthless; a cutthroat. When Crutchley had first told him the rules of the movement—that anyone who betrayed it would be cruelly and mercilessly killed—Guy had been shocked at this revelation, but not put off. He had replied earnestly, “Bit Draconian, isn’t it?” Nevertheless, despite their differences the two had grown close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world; which, as it so happened, was what they were trying to do.
Presently, Crutchley pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with one long thin finger; they had fallen, as they were wont to do. “When I first swore you into the organization,” Crutchley ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that not being in on a secret is painfully frustrating.”
“Well, yeah,” Guy protested, “but that’s a gross oversimplification--”
“The only reason I did not kill you on the spot as a being danger to the organization,” Crutchley interrupted, though not entirely unkindly, “is because revolutionaries are rarely better than those they overthrow.”
Guy looked almost hurt.
“You see,” Thaddeus smiled wanly, “few enter government with the intention of doing evil, but power corrupts… nevertheless, I feel we are necessarily bound to ousting the current wolves who would lead the flock back to their den.”

Tales From The Krypt

I probably overdid the scare quotes but, otherwise, worth continuing? Well it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, I like it:

Antimetabole

The man was an echo. A verbal shadow of all the books he had ever read, whether on history, economics or love. Most would have called him a parrot, but I knew better. A parrot merely repeats words, while he was a reflection of them: a hollow man made entirely of long drawn out theses and “statistics” lazily pounded out on typewriters by crusty professors, neo “intellectuals,” and other pontificating self-styled “experts,” all of whom disagreed with each other. It was a wonder, then, that there could be found any consistency in his “opinion” at all. Not the least because none of the books he read were entirely consistent within themselves --much less one of his favorite “experts” be very consistent at all throughout his or her various books—but that, having no will of his own, he managed, as though instinctually compelled, to form a semi-coherent series of book quotations from hundreds of authors supporting his “beliefs.”

You are probably wondering who this lifeless shell of a man—propped up by hundreds of pounds of pulp, cardboard and ink—was. To put it simply, he was my master. I was a simple servant in the House of ?, one of the wealthiest families in the city.

“The first shall be last and the last shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven.” That is how I got through the injustice of it all. Knowing fully that one day my reward would come. My master’s reward would be different. Quite different, I imagined. Not that I wished ill upon him. A man wishing ill upon his master could hardly expect a reward from his master in heaven.