She didn’t want to do it but they made Her, it really wasn’t Her fault. Look, if you don’t get this, then you won’t understand anything. It was a matter of conceptual conquest, a hijacking of homelands. She was a war prize. To the victor go the spoils. They raped her then, each of them in their own fashion.

An assembly line generating engorged genitalia.
Rendering the victim a reconstituted replica.
A derelict waste.
Submissive.
Succumbed.

Lately, Sam decided to give it a go.
His lust was uncontrollable.
But it was all for Her own good.
Sam knows best.
Sam always gets to decide.

Sam eats meals he never cooks, off of dishes he never cleans.
Sam flies first class to Costa Rica every weekend so he can pay eighteen dollars to smear feces on the bare-chested dark-skinned natives.

A self-made man, a venture capitalist.
Religious as any polygamist.

A gambler, he made a bet to a triumphant Trickster dwelling in the drilled-out deserts. The Trickster could borrow Her, just for a time, in exchange for a taste of the dark nectar dripping from putrid petals, compressed slivers of cellulose buried far bellow. Mined and exported.

The part that everyone forgets to mention, is that all along, Sam knew it was coming. It was all part of the deal. In the early morning the initiates would wake Her violently, twin explosions of eroticism on replay, badly damaging Her, knowing that they themselves would die.

You can’t complain if your tongue has been ripped out.

You can’t think straight if every angle of every evangelical broadcast forces you to face the fearsome fact that you are being attacked. Sam knew just how to work things to his advantage; he was already poised for pre-emptive invasion. It was a paint-by-number playland, and somehow he would twist things around, make things fall into place, little by little, as he litigated his authoritative legislation under the guise of pursuing freedom.

Oh, and the Trickster, he made off silently into nocturnal refuge.
His brothers and sisters were juxtaposed, superimposed as scapegoats in his place.
The perfect patsies for a premeditated plan to instate power structures indefinitely.
Ironically enough they would still flock to his callused cause.
Ironically enough they would continue to revere him even as they were besieged.
The Trickster has become a graven image.
Invoked whenever Sam feels the need to appropriate approval.

Everything is going according to plan.

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