The Battered Wife Syndrome Streak In The Liberty Movement Chapter VSubmitted by Menschken on Sat, 02/23/2013 - 23:56
(part V of a series inspired by glenn beck)
He coolly sat in his arm chair about ten paces behind the camera, 20 shy of the man in the big chair, flicking a rubber band in his hands.
The voice in the distance droned on, now high pitched, now low, punctuated by contrived pauses and high displays of emotion. A smirk crossed his face as he suppressed a chuckle, noting to himself that the performance was worthy, or unworthy, of a grade A con man working the crowd at a circus in the backwoods of some bygone era. Thieves have more honor, he thought.
It was all he could do to hide his disgust, which he did every day. He was the big man's point man, the brains behind the act, and his self loathing at being the tool of such a one as this grated on his conscience and frayed his nerves day by day, week by week.
It sometimes mounted to such a fever pitch of frenzy and paralysis that it could only be discharged by late night episodes of debauchery and paroxysms of Dionysian revelry not here to be recounted.
Punctuating a life normally mundane, these episodes burst out of the grey skies like a thunderbolt out of the overcast gloom that regularly held sway.
His disgust at the empty man in the big chair was eclipsed only by his disgust at himself for being the tool of such a man, such a worm of a man.
Were all his efforts and labors for naught? All his studies, the things he had learned, had subjected himself to learning, so that he could be the go-fer and errand boy of a man fit more for tarring and feathering than for a seat of high dignity and public influence?
Is this why he entered the "movement"?
Had he once had self respect, long ago in an hazily remembered youth? He had.
Now it was the greatest exertion of the soul for him merely to drag himself into this dismal barracks of offices to make his bread. His body, what was left of it, was like a leaden weight around that meager soul, and this he dragged along each day in order to sell it, to prostitute that fine mind which he once so much adored in himself.
Not a knave, but a tool of a knave, preaching to fools.
Certain he was not that some dreadful punishment awaits those who stray in life, but certain it was that daily he punished himself, tormented by a conscience that knew it could not much longer bear the ignominy of such a thing and such a life.
to be continued...