The Art of Watching the World Burn.

A story of a little boy who is broken and grows up hell bent on making everyone suffer. This documents some of his adventures, minor falls and epiphanies from an unbiased point of view. This isn't just revenge - it's a massacre.

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1. Prologue.

Hard days and hard lives make hard people and even harder societies.

 

Tractable libertines that strive to watch the world burn.

 

It’s a stretch - but most of the assiduous working class eventually get there. To the breaking point. So where is it? ... The point that they begin to break, crumble and return to the dust? It’s hard to judge by looking, and even after months and months of being under scrutiny, even with his almost immediate and universal recognition, people still hadn't come to the realisation that a young boy at the center of this story had broken. Into millions of fragile, miniature and impaired pieces.

 

He had found himself in the middle of a crowded pavement. Even though he’d stopped, people automatically assumed that the figure clad in black had a perfectly feasible reason for obstructing the phlegmatic flow - they just avoided him. Nobody could see the tears falling from his eyes; he kept his head down obtaining from engaging conversation. His eyes silently darted left and right, focusing on the cracks in the hard pavement, questioning himself as to why, where and how he put himself in such a tricky situation.

 

The change was instant, and the intrepid him took over the weaker side to his seemingly split personality. The effort to hide the uncontrollable jerks was in vain, a few people stopped to stare momentarily, but the ever quickening flow and rush of new persons engulfed the old ones. He was not stopped.

Suddenly, his whole body jerked up, reminding himself as to why he was there. He chuckled silently, placing himself bang in the middle of the sidewalk. The echoing, deafening, ticking coming from the iron cast stopwatch underneath his baggy hoodie was reminding him why. The arabesque symphony of countdowns in his head was reminding him why. The paucity of fairness, democracy and ever increasing partisan agreements screamed at him why. The consequential, feckless government was begging for truculence, remonstration and the middle finger. Rebellion. And he was the key – it was a veritable truth. He needed to be the one to flip that finger because it was the same finger that grew back when they enervated him, willing it to drop off. Maybe they were just the sycophants, but the masses were just as responsible and he felt that they needed to get it. The wrath.

 

Of course the transient idea that it was 'wrong' should have crossed his mind. But it did not, if anything he felt and increasing ardour and pride with the explosion. He looked around the square, smirking as the terrified pilgrims scurried left and right for cover. Laughing at the multifarious welter of citizens, running around like little ants.

Here he was powerful.

And it was about time - life is just a side effect of death. They had it coming.

The taciturn pariah was finally holding his pillory.

Revenge is sweet.

 

 --- Are you cold enough yet?

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