Cockfighting is Logical: Perhaps Ethical

As the manufactured falsepocalypse transpired; I among others obtained chickens. The evolution and urgency in local Kijiji ads this past few months indicates a multitude of new chicken owners. As mine grow from babes; some of them are certainly dudes. I promised my daughter after much consideration that I would not kill and eat the ones that cannot stay.

All of the ways to resolve this gender balance had been pondered over. Outright execution and consumption seemed most logical. Second most logical is giving away. Which is likely what will happen. So an ad was considered; so many for young roosters were found. Owners requiring a ‘good home’. Nay, new chicken person. In the factory world these things get killed before they grow up. Just because your baby chicken is a baby rooster doesn’t mean you get away with skipping the deed if the homes run out. Half those folk taking your pet would eat it. Why else take a rooster; honestly? Unless it’s one sexy damned rooster that some fancy breeder wants laying chicken-pipe in his egg-birds.

I am left to wonder about thousands of generations past; cohabiting with small amounts of personal chickens to feed ones family. The same gender balance of all creatures would be then as now. What to do with the excess?

Human creatures kill each other for fun and sport as well as war. PTSD was the descriptor of nearly every generation to some degree until very recent in our species’ past. The logical deduction of a generationally-shell-shocked species noticing how the spare cockerels fight is being entertained by it. Perhaps abhorrent to some modern sensitivities; death was common from a young age for many of our forefathers. From waking up to the rooster you eat later that year; to hunting as a necessity; or as far as witnessing war as a necessity. The world before our modern one was not that pleasant to exist in by modern standards. Shit, much of our planet is currently at war or unjust. Slavery exists now. Rape as a tool of war exists now.

Chickens aren’t people. If our world is one in which Epstein can exist; one in which the worlds strongest nation can use the destruction of two insured financial buildings to justify the destruction of two complete countries – one could reasonably argue that a human channeling their primal simplicity at chickens fighting to the death is a logical and inconsequential derivation of the human animal. Anyone who wastes their time arguing otherwise is a child, a vegetarian, a hypocrite, or a coward. I watched a cockfight in the mountains of the Dominican Republic. I own chickens now, because apocalypse. Some chickens are absolute assholes; some are cool. Fucken let’em fight. Let dudes pimp their cocks.

My position is that when viewed relative to the things that our power structures allow and has allowed to exist since time immemorial; cockfighting is one of many logical ends for a simple minded mass of humans farming chickens. I am sure if ancient humans could have convinced pigs or owls to fight; they would have.

ANTS! – Part 7: Currency Digitization and the Emu

All of a sudden there was no more money.

Granted… one could argue that there hasn’t been any real money since we got off the gold standard. Social distancing lead to a ban on using cash; hard irrefutable un-hackable cash was no more. We had no choice but to choose one of the major banks that offered all of the hands-free bells and whistles.

Cryptocurrency thrived. Eventually the debit-card ‘tap’ evolved into a hand-wave. Your hand couldn’t touch the sensor, obviously, because virus. It was a wave. It could be an aggressive wave; a royal wave; a salute. As long as your chip was functioning, it was simply a matter of getting your hand close enough to gesture positively – throwing ones energy at the device in a complicit acknowledgement that the human race ended long before.

We are machines.

Perhaps too were the ants.

Some of the rebels held a belief that by removing their chip the ants couldn’t track them. For some it was the whole hand if haste was the flavour of the moment. To a degree they were correct about the chips; this being confirmed for me in the hereafter.

The ants could still smell us; but the radiowaves emitted from an individuals RFID chip were like a haze of warm apple pie ascending the stairs on a sunny mountain morning. The ants could trace where you’ve been like a rabid yet silent wild animal.

Gill Bates had a backdoor into everything. As did Snuckenberg and the entire patriot acting establishment. Their insistence that we adopt these things; as beneficial as they were; assured our destruction.

In philosophies of millennia past; money was a great evil. Ironic really that the removal of it in favor of a once obscure technology feared for it’s geo-tracking ability was precisely what would give the technological advantage to our insect predators.

More efficient money hastened our demise.

Who’d have thunk it?

We reached a time of such abundance and opportunity that we could invent an invisible system of social credit whose minutiae allowed our worst biological enemy to hone with electronically supported malice their violent contribution to our apocalypse.

Hunters with night-vision brutally chasing stinky meaty prey.

A right irony in Australia was the dominance of the emu after radiation worked it’s way through us. It grew as the ants did and was one of the few animals that thrived after the fall. Vicious bastards.





ANTS! – Part 6: The Suicide Fire Bombers

The island of Borneo once contained the kamikaze ants who in their time were a force to be reckoned with. When threatened, the lowly workers can sink their jaws into the threat, hug them close, and then explode.

A violent marriage indeed as their hoards mixed with the various fire ants found everywhere else in the world. For always, the jungles of the island nation contained the pressurized bastards. We only discovered them shortly before the fall.

Before the changes, fire ants released a pheromone when threatened that alerts all other fire ants to attack. This didn’t change when they did.

Seconds after the first fire-bomber ant feels threatened it latches onto the attacker, locking it’s jaw before exploding. The liquid is putrid and painful and toxic. Suddenly a swarm of giant mutated fire-bombers attack the threat en-masse with painful stings and bites. Over and over, the biting never stops because the ants don’t feel threatened anymore therefore they don’t explode. The pheromone has them horny for violence.

They just keep biting.

In a way it was better to be taken by a swarm of the fire ant descendants as opposed to one of the bloodlines that slowly and savagely pulled you apart piece by piece in small teams.

Some of the souls in the here-after explain very quickly reaching a point of maximum pain and shock and describe their perception of their demise at the jaws and juices of fire-bombers as rather swift and merciful in comparison.



86,492 BCE

The Denisovians figured out how to build ranged-weapons first. During the many-moons of the last Big-Ice; their weak homunculus bodies made them prey for the brutes of Europe and the shadow-skin runners of the landmass where the beard-cats roam. They walked toward the land of the stripe-cats and the woolly-ear-forks whose herds trampled our tribe’s attempts to cross their territories.

The Ice-People of the cold-place wear the skins of the forest-beasts. Their brute force was no match for the runners’ arrow; and their sophistication in spite of their brutality amused the swift-footed archers from the Levant.

For a time there was peace… but it wasn’t just violence that brought an end to the earlier humanoid realms. The natural folly of disease and overpopulation befell societies then as it would again and again. Thousands of generations of human-being-like-beings simply getting better at not dying.

The major misstep of the Neanderthal lay in it’s nomadic nature. They simply did not mind picking up and leaving where they were. As the generations of inter-living between the various tribes of humanoid caused a peace; so too did the nature of the neanderthal cause the opposite of peace. Not causing much trouble aside from the individual ostracizing skull-crackings of their enemies that prompted why many left; their families and slaves among them departed in all directions. It happened in waves. Some stayed and blended into the fabric of humanity; just like us.

This really is the cradle of our civilization.

It was too cold in the darkest-North for the one’s who had for many-Grandmothers lived with the Think-Run-People and the Hair-People in the warm place where the long-water meets the big-bowl. From the Indus to the Ivory Coast we had stories of what we are and how to be. Nature is a merciless set of circumstances and the divine theatrics of each corner of each brain of each ancestor lay the most raw and genuine examples of why we are how we are today.

It was necessary at all points in our existence that the use of brute force was the tool of the good and the evil concurrently. He who can knock down a tree with ten swings instead of our forty will surely take the heads of more men than we. It was nearly always only at times of scarcity that the artificial lines we drew between ourselves really mattered. Some bad-ones exist. For most generations trouble-makers were swiftly ended; especially among the brutes.

Death by unexplained illnesses, Ice-deserts, animal, and drought. Misunderstandings between members of some tribes were as life threatening as a Woolly-Fork finding you and your brethren harvesting it’s kin.

Attributable often to one or many of a cast of divine characters and forces taking innumerable shapes and forms. Part of the problem with language is that those of different tribes have large differences in perspective and comprehension. Often this caused violence.

The Large-Ones dispersed; as did all of us. The sicknesses they brought with them from our place would lead to their destruction in the Cold-Place and the High-Place. When they found us again after many Grandmothers; they knew nothing of our former kinship aside from vague signs and symbols scratched on rocks. The ones who could speak the signs brought peace but most others brought harm.

A few reconnected to our human-family but the rest were slaughtered with violence between themselves and the archers and brutes of our civilization that evolved without them. The thinkers think and knowledge waits; crafting better arrows and painting plates; while the civilized brutes protect the gates, and propaganda protects the hate.

Just like now.

The Truth Behind Roswell, New Mexico

He wakes up. The man is lying on a hospital bed in an open-back shirt and lace-less shoes when a nurse walks in and asks him if he knows why he’s there.

The man nods his head to indicate an affirmative ‘yes’.

The nurse, emotionless, writes something down on her clipboard and walks out of the room. A few moments later; two security guards and a policeman escort the man and his bed to an interrogation room where a portly blood technician draws four tubes of the green-stuff to figure out what’s going on.

Back on Earth; the research team haphazardly works through which contingency plan to go with after one of the mapping ships crashed somewhere near what the inhabitants call New Mexico. The team was close-scanning to find the source of the erratic radiation blasts that our sensors keep picking up.

“New pilots…” the commander says as he shakes his head on the bridge of the lead ship, laughing.

“We have to go back!” the captain of the second ship demands through a thought-dream transmitted seamlessly to the commander.

“We did.” glimpses the commander, timeless in his understanding of the dimensions of existence.

“Who’d you send in?!?” inquires the man. “BlorgDamnit!! It had better not be Dennis-Brian! That blorks skill set as a pilot is as well-tuned as his moral compass! Well!!?? Who was emitting such sporadic splashes of aggressive radiation ding dongs on the blue-green one?!”

“Sir… you really need to rest.”

Suddenly the task force general and his adjutant enter the room, “Dennis-Brian-The-Selfish crashed into the blue-green one; forever contaminating their timeline as first-contact.”

“Dennis is such an idiot.”



ANTS! – Part 4: The Way The Ants Took Over

Like the apes of Heston; these creatures evolved to rule a Holocene-shadow of our meaty species. Over time they built cities like we had. My ability to narrate my experience is un-explainable – even to myself. Perhaps it is a testament to the immortality of the soul.

Do these ants have souls?

We watched from above as our descendants perished; soon to join us in the here-after.

As their technology and psychological sophistication grew; the ants very quickly befell the same sorts of political and geographical follies as their mammalian forefathers. Their competition for resources would not be described as diplomatic in any such way. It was much more of a blitzkrieg.

The radiation blasts warmed the ice-caps beyond anything industrial ever could have. Ants have the ability to form cohesive rafts to ride out floods. This allowed every type of ant in every place to reach the new continental islands formed around our space-sphere.

It also tweaked the ants enough to allow reproduction among once incompatible species. The Bulldog ant of Australia – considered one of the deadliest in the world in our time – floated in ant-rafts to each corner of the compass. In all but the Southern jurisdiction did they find treasure and mates. In the south they found ancient diseases beneath the ice-caps that killed them as it likely would have us; if not for them.

Bulldog-Ponys and and the Fiery-Bullet-Siafu became the dominant tribes as the ants began to grow larger; swarming and slaughtering competing tribes and species for space and resources; an echo perhaps to their human forefathers that dusted the earth with radio-pestilence.

Also perhaps in homage to us; they enslaved the ant-races they considered lesser than. The larger and more technologically advanced ant-tribes used their collective hive minds to assimilate or destroy all of that which they encounter. The only species that really held any chance were us for that brief period of time in which they farmed us. One could argue that the various species of ants are different; but all of the ants were capable of speaking the silent-hive-language of the insect-beasts.

Our screams met with silence by the dominant species alongside lesser ants if the Dogs were hungry; it’s almost sicker – the silent death of the weaker ant. Each ant knowing it’s place; it’s silent death-squirms as the Bull-venom takes hold alongside our treacherous mammalian wails. Equals in those final moments; but the beast dying beside us would surely bite our bones to shreds if it passed alongside us in the wild.


The blasts that poisoned the earth were meant to cleanse her of the virus. The official story is one of a tainted meat market. Swiftly silenced rumors of a leaked bio-weapon are more akin to the truth.

The Orwellian nation-state from which we source our goods had been interring the religious minorities and political dissidents for generations. Ramping up over the past few years; they have perfected the logistical science of cataloging and warehousing humans for organ harvesting and political extermination almost as well and better hidden than the Axis force in the Second Great War.

Leaked numbers of dead reached the millions as hackers breached the official news channels; nearly instantly the numbers slashed by two and three digits; greatly downplaying the toll. Hospitals and mortuaries and crematoriums constructed in days. Scaring a population of billions into staying indoors for weeks while government workers in hazmat suits drag people away in vans with zero due process.

Fear is the tool of an oppressor.

Who else do you think is being erased in those ovens?

What about all the Uighurs who have vanished into re-education camps and prisons? Patient-zero was an escaped test subject who sought to bring his torturers to justice by telling the world of their plight. Not knowing where or how to escape; things were broken and smashed on their escape from the lab. In the darkness of night; yet un-infected; they first destroyed as much as they could before escaping. It was this noble act of rebellion that ultimately led to the state in which we left our world.

Those vials were filled with the worst diseases and plagues known to and created by man. Even entering the room the vials of death were contained within was enough to infect the strongest of us. How would this villager who was abducted and tortured and transported to a strange and futuristic hospital for biological experimentation know that an expression of his justified rage at this critical moment would be the downfall of the society he wishes to rejoin and free.

Smashing every piece of glass in view before escaping; they were eventually captured three-point-four miles away in the neighboring city of Bandan; shot dead in a live-meat market among a crowd that were told it was an escaped murderer and thinking nothing of the brute force used to quell the threat.

It was already too late. The dormancy for some was hours or days; for others a month or more. So many… so fast.


The blasts were meant to cook and burn and destroy the virus. A last-ditch effort to cleanse the earth of that which was killing us. Instead; the thermonuclear blasts eradicated billions of people and then caused the earth and it’s creatures to change forever.

Now we find the ants as the rulers of the earth and the bees become the rulers of the air. That is how it is now. When everything melted from the blasts; much of the coastlines of every continent were sunken and washed away. New islands and rivers were formed; new lakes and streams. Obscure ancient fungi also thrived.

As the ant-rafts crossed oceans and found the pockets of humans still alive – they farmed us. Our final bombs knocked out all that we ever knew about how to sustain ourselves. I am not sure the bombs that created these giant beasts would ever be able to stop them now – not without destroying this entire planet.

The hive-mind ants would surround us; their many moving legs as living bars; their jaws as bailiff. They eat us when they are hungry; but they prefer the sweet crops our species left behind. They also enjoy the meat of other animals. Some of the… groupings… that they kept us in grew quite large; miles around; millions of park-bench-sized to full-on-steamroller-sized insects surrounding small to medium sized agricultural communities and silently and hungrily demanding a sustenance to temporarily quell the soulless way in which they will surely devour each of the inhabitants and their homes as supplies dwindle.

Giant anthills dotted every landscape. Pipelines of mutated ant species; now giant; silently working together for the goals of the hive – whatever they may be. They find use for many of our things; hastily working out architectural innovations and solutions that incorporate that which we have left behind.





Oblivious in Sosua: Part 7

Waterfall jumping was on the menu for the day. My crippling fear of water was covered a few days before; why not handle the heights as well. The water itself was not as deep; and the waterfalls not as dastardly high as I had expected. The elevation was alarming; but after reaching the summit – we descended as if sliding down a watery staircase.

On the hike through the jungle I got to know the shorter, hotter, more confident, and most socially powerful member of the group of women that were staying at my resort. All my age. All attractive; from the plump sisters to the toothpick socialite I was lagging behind the group with.

‘Never fuck on the road’ is a mantra I adopted while travelling across the United States.  Surely my foremost rule about entering strange women shouldn’t be ignored. I had nearly crossed that particular line earlier in the week.

We walked and talked on the swinging foot bridge; a hundred meters or so behind the group. She was less on-guard than when her friends were present. I tend to have that effect on people. Disarming their defenses and momentarily caressing their souls.

She cared too much about what they thought of her; she had to be dominant in every situation in which they were present.

Alone she was an insecure sweetheart; more than simply interesting to talk to; fully worthy of the attention she so carelessly grasped for in their presence.



Oblivious in Sosua: Part 6


Those four wonderful souls from Thunder Bay that distributed the presidential malt beverages on the bus from the airport. Thank you; kind travelers. A brother and a sister; with their best friends and spouses. The brother and I shared the same name. These are good people; people like us; people like me; peaceful wanderers.

That was days ago. Here we are; halfway through the voyage and your tribe has located a patch of grass on which to sit. Why not? I’d thought. An unexpected perch of turf on which to rest ones appendages should be welcomed; not ignored.

Ride the wave.

If you prefer to hear this sentiment proven by an expert; as opposed to this drunken rambling quixotic wander; listen to the immortal words of of the Great Doctor himself, “Buy the ticket; take the ride.”

Such lack of discretion for ones personal safety is the deepest act of faith in God. Perhaps it was the medallion of Saint Christopher I carried; perhaps it was my ancestors; perhaps it was the natural serendipitous way in which this beautiful reality of ours is constructed – but I rarely felt unsafe. The invisible hand of the Universe has a poetic way of guiding its passengers.

The drugs and alcohol help with the weaving of oneself into the fabric of time.






ANTS! – Part 2

Agriculture is a cultural development that transformed the way that humanity evolved. These creatures, these ants, they farm too. We thought nothing of it decades ago when it was aphids balled up in the leaves of our apple trees; but now it’s us.

The ant overlords have discovered how to make use of us; industrially. Our usefulness is only as valuable as our compliance. These ants have no soul that is fathomable to human beings. The ant-soul is dark and mechanical – powering black-iron suits of capitalism that tower over those with the knowledge and aptitude to complete the tasks that stockpile resources for the ant colony.

This is what an alien invasion looked like to many science fiction writers of centuries past. Insect-like overlords that used coordinated power and influence over land and resources to ensure their own prosperity while securing the bondage of their servants through acts of treachery.


One day we’ll figure out a weakness; a way to stop them.

But that day isn’t today.

Many humans live in the wild; outside the farms; many live like us. They breed us like cattle. The scariest part about the whole situation is that it took not a spoken word. Billions of our human screams reacted to with silence from the beasts. At first, they herded us around the plains; eating us as they got hungry; encircling us in a ringed prison of insect legs and jaws.

Quickly we learned to please the ant overlords and avoid death. We hit fields of sugar cane and corn; and they stopped. They were drawn to the sweet glucose in the juices of these plants. We could also subsist off of such crops.

Our symbiotic relationship developed to the point that the ants showed up regularly to collect a tax – in the form of agricultural goods, from all of us.

Sometimes they eat us; or crush us; or kill us unknowingly; but these beasts leave us alone if we live only with-on our hills – laboring only for what they need from our environment in order to keep them from eating us.

The ancestors told stories of a world in which the ants were small and we were big.

Such a life, I cannot fathom. 




Oblivious in America: Part 8

Portal, North Dakota

Sitting in the drivers seat of my car; three vehicles deep; waiting to speak to the border agent at the drive-through window. Stuffed beneath the center console were a few extra packs of cigarettes; in addition to the second full carton hidden in my suitcase that I had no plans to declare.

Passport, please.

Three and a half days of stubble on my face; tanned from the springtime sun; I hand the melanin-positive-female-passport-gestapo my passport… the one with all of the squiggly stamps on it. She asks if I have anything to declare. I declare the first carton of cigarettes; and 40 ounces of my 66 ounce bottle of brandy.

Pull into the garage, sir.

Was it the squiggly airport stamps or the visa from Afghanistan, I’d wondered.

I sit on one of my suitcases; my sand-colored flight bag to be precise. At present; it was the only bag to have been completely searched by both border agents plus the dog. My car doors are open; the hood is up; the trunk is cleared; and the spare tire is out.

The dog is running coordinated paths around, under, and inside of my car. He’s standing on the engine, sniffing under the hood. I just smile. This is fun. How much trouble can a bloke get into for a carton of Pall Malls?

You didn’t declare this, sir.

He found the second carton of cigarettes; my Pall Malls. I declared my Marlboro’s. Neither the male; the female; nor the pooch mentioned diddly-dick about the extra 26 ounces of brandy.

I smile.

You missed some smokes, eh.

The pretty lady guard smiles.

I pop the center console and produce 6 extra individual packages of Marlboro’s that I’d picked up along the way.

What now?

The guy tells me that I have two choices. My first choice is to go pay the tax on the additional carton of cigarettes and leave with a good story to tell at some un-determined time and place in the future. My second choice was that they confiscate my contraband and I get put on a special list of people that border guards have; but I wouldn’t have to pay the tax.

I choose the former; and here we are.

Onward to Estevan.