The sign read, by way of the Inter-Translator 3000 Version 3.0, ‘Love is hate or Jesus hates, fuck the save…’

The people, who take up and wear the mask of the oppressors, and fires upon the people on orders of the oppressors, become the oppressors. And whoever is the oppressor is the enemy to the people.

Or so the old prophets wrote back in 1969.

The church bells rang; oh Saint Mary, I have done wrong to the people, I have giving up on society, either side of the fence can go to Hell.

The Protestors, those kids in the streets with their signs and their voices screaming into the air, do not know what to protest but they know they must protest as that is their lot in life, what else could they be but what they are?

What would The System destroy without The Protestors, The People, The Tribes?

The System, greedy disease filled monsters, the keeper of the gateway, denier to that way if you are not the right lot, oppressors, their lot in life, which everyone needs, a lot, a place in society to call their own even if it was a hellhole, it was theirs.

I have no lot.

I did once upon a midnight dreary, but it was lost, thrown away, cast away, like a used condom into the sea where, upon its rest upon a foreign shore, someone who decides to base a religion on its content discovers it.

“Rejoice, God has sent us his semen, his seed! We will birth his child, a son, upon the House of David…”

Religion, words on a birthday cake, easily wiped away, proved, disproved, taken up as the word of God, who, by the way, has a terrible press agent.

The System decides what counts as anything and The People either accept the facts as laws or rebel against it to be squished like bugs in the end, either way.

I do not count, not even a blip on The System’s radar.

They wrote and told me so.

It was a finely handwritten letter on cream colored paper, with gold etched lettering.

God did too, though he forgot my name.

“To whom it may concern…”

The letter from God came in a box made from the skin of aborted fetuses of now long dead sinners, fornicators who had needs to fornicate and failed at the birth of their procreations.

It was a very nice box, addressed to occupant, postage due, eight dollars and forty-eight cents.

There was a photo of some woman, a princess maybe, holding the carcasses of some long dead beast, her son from a previous sexual encounter.

“Whore” in big red letters was scribbled on the back and the year 1976 was placed in neat blocked letters underneath that.

The Tribes, each member quite old by the time of this manifesto, but young when I began my life in 1971, were each divided in their ways. 

One would say they wanted to rush the blockade of the System, bring down the walls, and crush in their skulls with their own batons.

The others would disagree, some would say they should wait; The System could not live forever without new members to keep it strong.

And others would disagree with that, stating, that for some reason, new members were always going into The System’s keep, becoming part of them, becoming stronger.

That is how it continued, a stalemate. 

The System stayed.

The Tribes stayed.

The Protestors protested about nothing and everything.

And I decided I wanted something else. 

I gave up, all sides could go to Hell, I gave up…