An ode to madness.

Dear diary. The crazies have taken over. I tried to shoot myself yesterday but what emerged from the barrel was a note from the bullet saying it was not qualified to be ejected from this barrel and nor were his five co-workers. A rage forged in a fire of annoyance, boredom and over-enthusiastic health advice took me and guided my hand as I threw the gun into the river, bullets an all. Madness and chaos, everywhere they are; howling amidst the unrelenting fear like two assholes, occasionally calling out to some fool, ‘hey, hey you! Watch your step, our brothers will be here soon, between us we’re going to build an improvised apocalypse, and you’re the fucking powder keg.’ Their plan makes no sense. Strong-arm tactics against the biggest monster on the planet? He who had more tanks and bombs than the rest of the world, combine that with a complete lack of savvy, an inability to extend your sight beyond that which is written on a piece of paper five feet in front of your face. No real human emotion at all! Not a care in the world. And you want to strong-arm this man with promises of biblical firecrackers? Fools. It reeks of Patagonia; why else would you carry such a stench of turpentine unless you were a sheep dipper moving from herd to herd in the backward wilds of Patagonia? Dammit, I have a headache. ‘Bronco! Where is the rum you scoundrel?’
I had a brother lived in Patagonia, or was it Beirut? Never mind that now, I’m not even sure if this is the real me. The real me could be hanging upside down in a hanger somewhere for all I know; my eyeballs dangling from their cubbyholes on optic nerve bungee chords. Amidst all this chaos, who would know? Who would care? Updating you now might well have been their intention all along; a doppelganger would be needed to do that, there’s your reason Mr. fancy scrotum, this ‘the world is a nice place’ nonsense you’ve been promoting will be your undoing, hell man you’re already a stuffed bear, how much further down do you want to go? And besides, stop distracting me, this diary must be completed. TREAT ALL REPORTS AND DATA WITH THE UTMOST DISTRUST, ALL FACTS DOUBLE CHECKED, ALL FRIENDLYS ASSUMED HOSTILE AND RIGOROUSLY SEARCHED. You’re the boss now diary, I’m counting on you not to screw this up. ‘BRONCO! Where’s the damned rum?’ the lesson here, if you want something done right, you need to watch closely the migrant your paying to do. Tutor him well and you will have a future cheap craftsman tailored to your own standards of workmanship, yet instigated in such a way as to nurture the laziness that festers within you. To summarise, trust no-one. Always stock a good amount of rum. Be sure to invent your own god or idol and keep its particulars secret. Never shift your gaze from the real and dangerous monster, apocalypse come and go and yet the world has still not exploded. Remain sceptical.