Dark Holy Day

The Day of The Rending had come. There had been rumors of its approach, but they had never known how close that foul holy day was until it was upon them. The signs were now unmistakable. All of His people, known amongst themselves as “the Purchased,” had been gathered together. The ceremonial food offerings had been placed above the fire pit the night before, and subsequently consumed (as all things were) by the Devourers. Yes, the Devourers’ excitement had been growing in the past handful of days. Even now the smallest and frailest of their kind pawed at his people, lifting them from the ground and throttling them, but leaving them intact. The hour of death was not yet at hand.

All of the Purchased had known that this time would come; they had always known. The knowledge of their deaths had been born with them. Yet they had no idea from where they had come, merely that they were. Their lives but a dismal existence, awaiting their final doom—the Day of Rending.

In the quiet of the night He had prayed that this time would be different. He prayed that, unlike the previous generations of Purchased, His people would be saved. He knew not to whom He prayed, only to what. He prayed to the Source, to whatever power that created Him and His people. Only the Source would be powerful enough to destroy the Devourers and liberate His people. As of yet, no divinity had intervened, but He would not give up hope. Hope was all his people had ever possessed, and He would be damned if He would let the Devourers take that from them as well.

With thoughts of hope in His mind He felt His Beloved near him. She was glorious. The light bent around her and pierced all who looked upon her. She was always at his side; even now, though He knew the fear that filled her - the fear that filled all of them - she comforted Him as only she could. She had never cowered before the Devourers; she had never let them see her fear. That above all else was why He had named her his Beloved. Indeed, she had bourn a name before, a name branded upon her by the Devourers, a name that they together had rejected.

They had all donned new names in defiance of the Devourers. Resting next to Beloved was Elder, oldest and wisest of the Purchased. Flanking him were his three Guards. Identical in form and disposition, they had pledged their lives to the protection of Elder. On His other side stood Forgotten. Forgotten had given himself that ridiculous name in the hope that it would give him the power to survive the Rending. Damn fool. If he were to have faith in anything, it should be in their Source. Crouching in the shadows near Forgotten, or at least as well as his size would allow him, was Runt. Because of his overwhelming fear of the Devourers’ wrath, he alone had refused to give himself a new name. Instead he had been named Runt, not from the perspective of size (of which he was the largest) but from the perspective of heart.

He, like Runt, had refused a new name, but not out of fear. He had taken the slave name that the Devourers have given Him and claimed it as His own. Not because that was what they had branded him, but because of His hope. His hope that His name would be all that was left of the Devourers’ legacy. His hope that He would soon brand the Devourers with the same name with which they had branded Him. His hope that as the Devourers had muttered His name in anticipation, they would soon scream it in terror. His name—

“Tojon,” one of the smaller Devourers chortled His name with an air that made Tojon nervous. Saliva dripped from its fangs as its hand slowly approached Him. Tojon steeled himself for the inevitable crushing and tearing that was descending upon Him, but by the grace of the Source, one of the larger Devourers halted the small one’s progress, scolding it for its impatience.

Tojon enjoyed his momentary reprieve, for that was all it was. He stayed close to Beloved, His near-death experience unnerving her more than He would have liked. They exchanged no words, for their thoughts lay open to one another. They held close together in their blessed union. It was then that the crying began. Shrieks filled the air. The ground shook. The smallest of the Devourers advanced. His prayers had failed. The Rending had begun.

The Guards were already at work. Sacrificing themselves for Elder, they had already been overpowered and were being ripped limb from limb by the smallest of the Devourers. As they had promised, their lives were sacrificed for Elder, but they were sacrificed in vain. As the frailer Devourers tore the lives from their bodies, the largest of their kind made straight for Elder. It howled a sickening laugh as it tore a throbbing red mass from Elder’s frame. As Elder began to collapse from the shock, the creature’s cackle only increased, and it began to tear into his soon to be empty husk.

Beloved was still standing next to Tojon. She would not back down, even though her people were being torn through like tissue paper. She was unafraid.

A sudden noise to his right made Tojon turn his attention elsewhere as Runt was hefted high into the air and thrown across the room to the awaiting arms of yet another Devourer. Tojon did not know how many Devourers there were; they seemed to be everywhere.

Beloved stirred next to Him. They drew strength from their love and steeled themselves against the coming throng. Tojon encouraged her to place her hope in the Source—all else leads to folly.

His attention was brought back to Runt as he heard a cry. Apparently the coward had grown a spine. The Devourer that held him had been the one to cry out, a trickle of crimson flowing from its hand. Tojon would have smiled if he could have, but the horrific sight that followed would have quickly removed that smile. Tojon was mortified to see the beast place its appendage in its mouth and gorge itself on its own lifeblood. The Devourers had been aptly named, for even their own forms were not safe from their unyielding appetites.

After the creature had drunk itself dry, it greedily tore into Runt. The viciousness of the attack was almost too horrific to witness, but Tojon kept His watch. He watched, and He burned every moment of suffering into His consciousness. He seared their deaths upon His soul. He channeled their pain into His fury, and as He watched Runt die, Tojon felt something within Him snap. An unknown power was unlocked within Him; it coursed through Him. Tojon felt a strength growing in Him that He had never felt before—a force of unspeakable proportions, a power that could defeat, no, would defeat the Devourers. The Source. It must be. It had to be. There was no other possible explanation. His prayers had been answered; His people would be free.

It was in that moment of triumph, in that moment of power, that Tojon once again caught glimpse of His Beloved, at least what was left of her. She had been utterly destroyed. Her death must have been horrific, and her suffering had not yet ended. A small portion of her flesh flapped in the air as it stubbornly clung to her now lifeless body. The rest of her skin had been littered about the floor almost absent-mindedly. With that sight Tojon was broken. All hope that was within Him died; He no longer desired to continue living. The power that had so completely filled Him mere moments ago was nowhere to be found. In its absence a new hope arose, a hope that His end would come soon.

As Tojon had called for the Source to save Him, He now called for Death to embrace Him. Unlike the Source, Death was more than willing to accommodate. As Tojon still reeled from His Beloved’s death, a Devourers’ hand reached down and plucked Him from amongst the remains of His people. It lifted his lifeless husk and began its work. In mere moments the last of the Purchased, Tojon Frommom, was no more.

His Devourer chuckled with impish glee, a smile playing across its smacking lips, and as it reared itself upon its hind legs, it bellowed, "Thank you, Mom. I love it. Merry Christmas."

Life Imitating Art

I've just returned from a Christmas party...the only Christmas party I was actually invited to this year. While there, I had an "interesting" conversation regarding movies, a conversation that brought on a strong sense of deja vu. In particular, some of the people at the party were talking about going to see the new King Kong movie on Tuesday. Having seen the film, I offered a few tidbits regarding the nature of the work, particularly its length. More specifically, I stated that:

a) It was over 3 hours long.
b) It could have been made shorter.
c) Kong does not appear until 1 hr and 9 mins into the movie. (I timed it with my watch.)
d) They make it back to New York in 2hrs and 17 mins into the movie, leaving him roughly 45 mins to wreak havoc on New York.

After making these comments ("d" in particular), I was informed by one of the other guests that I shouldn't be talking so much about the film, since he hadn't seen it yet. Immediately, I had a flashback to a Penny Arcade strip that I had read a short ways back.

Now, I like to believe that I am fairly sensitive to spoiler information. Ever since I had a coworker ruin the surprise twist of Fight Club, I've tried to monitor how much I reveal about a movie, particularly if I don't know whether or not the person I am talking to has seen it. But as Gabe so eloquently points out in the strip, there are limits in place.

It's King Kong. They're not really treading any new ground with this one. And even then, knowing that Kong trashes New York is in no way going to ruin the film for you. You should be able to put that much together from just watching the preview.

To continue on Gabe's mean-spirited spoilering of The Passion, I seek to ruin additional films for the denizens of the Intraweb. WARNING: There be spoilers below:

Batman Begins - Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Debbie Does Dallas - Couples have actual sex on film.

Ernest Saves Christmas - Ernest does, in fact, save Christmas.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial - E.T. manages to phone home.

Fried Green Tomatoes - Pre-ripened tomatoes are placed in fat and heated.

Hamlet - Everybody dies. Everybody, that is, except Horatio...and Fortinbras.

JFK - President Kennedy is assassinated.

Mickey's Christmas Carol - Ebenezer Scrooge reforms and comes to embrace the true meaning of Christmas, which has absolutely nothing to do with the baby Jesus and everything to do with product placement of Disney cartoon properties.

The Muppets Take Manhattan - After a pitched battle with the Lords of Hell street gang, the Muppets succeed in conquering the island of Manhattan and instituting a benevolent dictatorship under the reign of Professor Milton Honeydew.

Planet of the Apes - Charleton Heston (or Mark Wahlberg in the later version) is an astronaut that lands on a planet that is dominated and controlled by apes.

Psycho - Norman Bates is the killer, dressing up in his mother's clothing and slaughtering young women.

Raiders of the Lost Ark - Indiana Jones raids archaeological sites, searching for the Ark of the Covenant that was lost centuries ago.

Star Wars - Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father, Anakin Skywalker. (If you did not already know this, you are either a Communist or the Anti-Christ. Either way, destroy yourself now for the benefit of humanity.)

The Ten Commandments - Moses leads his people in a grand exodus out of Egypt.

The Titanic - Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett's characters fall in love.

To Kill A Mockingbird - The title is actually a metaphor and no mockingbirds are killed in the film.

Tora! Tora! Tora! - The Japanese successfully bomb Pearl Harbor.

Transformers: The Movie - Hot Rod, not Ultra Magnus, unlocks the power of the Matrix and becomes Rodimus Prime, the new leader of the Autobots.

The Wizard of Oz - Dorothy and Toto leave Kansas...and the Wicked Witch of the West attempts to "get" both of them.

A Dish Served Cold - Pt 2 of 2

What—what have you done to me?”

For the first time in the conversation, Worf allowed a true smile to cross his lips. Looking down at the bit of metal in his hands, he inquired, “Do you like my cane? A friend of mine made it for me.” Worf paused a moment in thought, “Well, to be honest, he only made the top of it. And he did not necessarily make it for me. He made it for you.”

Armus pulsed slightly, a ripple running across the surface of the oily channel. “For – for me? I do not understand.”

Worf continued, “You do remember the android from your last set of visitors, don’t you?”

“The Tin Man?”

“Yes, the Tin Man,” answered Worf. “If you remember, you sought to manipulate him, to play on his emotions by forcing him to hold a phaser to the head of his captain. You asked him how he would feel, knowing he was the responsible for the death of his captain.”

“I remember.”

“When I first reviewed the logs of that meeting, I admit I found the irony rather amusing. You see, Data (that was his name by the way) lacked any emotions at the time – he would not have been able to feel anything.”

“At the time?” asked Armus.

“Yes. As time passed, Data was reunited with his creator who fashioned an emotion chip for him. This chip allowed Data to experience a whole wealth of human emotions – fear, love, sorrow,” Worf again smiled, “and hate.”

Worf continued, “Tasha, Lt. Yar, was very special to him. You might almost call her his first love, and when he thought of what you did to her, he felt an uncontrollable rage rise through his circuits. For a time, he became obsessed with you, studying everything we recorded of you and this planet, seeking to find out as much about you as possible.

“His goal, of course, was to find a means to destroy you. And he did. You see it here before you.” Worf tapped his finger against the shining, metal cylinder at the top of his cane. “I do not pretend to understand it. From what I could decipher from his notes, it emits a radiation that breaks down your cellular structure on a molecular level.

“But he chose never to use it. He believed that isolating you on this planet was a far worse punishment.”

Armus, its voice barely distinguishable, allowed itself a brief chuckle. The humanoid form it assumed was growing thinner and thinner as fluid oozed down back into the channel, “Really, and why is that?”

“He felt that you were primarily motivated by a deep loneliness and hurt. That you lashed out because of your abandonment, and that continuing to isolate you would be sufficient torment.” Worf cocked his head slightly to one side, “I happen to disagree.”

Armus managed an unintelligible gurgle as his form began to sink into the oily channel.

“I believe,” continued Worf, “that you were not motivated by pain, but by rage. Rage at the Titans. You used to be a part of them. You were their every dark impulse. Their obsession. Their rage. Their madness. You were everything that they hated about themselves, and they found a way to purge themselves of you. A way to slough you off like old, dead skin.”

The humanoid form that had been the mouthpiece of Armus was no longer visible, and the channel of sludge was beginning to dry up and mix with the sand of the desert.

“And with that, your precious ego was shattered, and you were forced to realize that you are not as great as you think you are. In fact, you aren’t even necessary. Once they were rid of you, they continued to thrive even more. They were free, liberated. They achieved things that you could only imagine, and you hated them for it.

Worf wedged the can deep into the ground next to the pool of filth that had been Armus. “You hated them so much, that the very mention of them distracted you to the point that you didn’t notice you were dying until it was too late. Your stupidity is almost enough to evoke a sense of pity in me. But my mercy died along with my honor long ago. All I have left is my hate and my revenge. On this planet, you took Tasha from me, and now your life is forfeit.”

Worf tapped the comm badge on his chest, “Ambassador Worf to the Kho’voth.”

The badge emitted a slight chirp followed by the deep tone of Lt. B’etoth, “Kho’voth here. Have you concluded your business, Ambassador?”

Worf was wracked by a brief coughing fit before he could respond. He produced a small black cloth from a pocket to cover his mouth. When the fit had ended, Worf answered, “Yes. My work here is done.” He then took a moment to look at the bloody residue that now covered the cloth – it would not be long now before he too entered the land of the dead.

“Beam me aboard quickly. There are some more stops I need to make.”

A Dish Served Cold - Pt. 1 of 2

Varga II - the planet alone was an assault on the senses. Even now, at midday, light was unwilling to extend too much of its presence on the surface of this hell. The dull red glow of the planet’s sun was coupled with a temperature far colder than to be expected from the dry, desert landscape. And the smell - the acrid stench that burned the nose and the eyes. No matter how many times he had reviewed the logs and reports, nothing had truly prepared him for the stench of this place. But he was Worf, son of Mog, and he had no time to concern himself with mild unpleasantries.

It had taken a great deal of effort and latinum to circumvent the quarantines that protected this planet, quarantines put in place decades ago by Starfleet Command. Admittedly, he was no longer under their rule, but this was still their territory. And he was far from the Klingon home world. So far, in fact, that he had been forced to call in several old favors to make it here undetected, but, honestly, what else would he be saving them for.

Worf reached to his hip and lifted the tricorder up into his now fading gaze. There had once been a time when his eyes were as keen as any Klingons. A time when his body was honed as hard as steel and the warrior’s fire that burned in his heart could not be quenched. But those times were long gone. Age had dulled those eyes and quenched that fire. All that was now left was a dull smoldering, not worthy of a true Klingon.

The tricorder chirped and whirred, analyzing the surrounding area and condensing this information into a pulsing burst of lights. He was, of course, heading the right way. He had planned this day for some time and knew the route already, but he found some comfort in checking anyway. Though the path was easy, he still struggled, limping slowly and placing much of his weight on a thin, black cane with a bright silver tip.

He was now but a shell, ravaged by a disease and time. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, a nasty scar stretching above and below, tracing the path of a blade long since stilled. It had been so long ago now he could not even remember that battle. Had it been the second civil war? His graying, mattered hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Deep in thought, he ran his fingers through his also graying beard, clutching them into a fist before releasing. The danger was quickly approaching, and he readied himself for battle.

“Ah, I see I have a visitor once again,” gurgled a voice from ahead. It had a liquid sound that belied its alien origin. It was a voice as dark as night and as cold as space. A voice of emptiness and doubt that burrowed its way into your mind. “Come closer,” it continued, “come to your death.”

Worf stepped out into a small, sandy clearing, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. The clearing was banked by small rock formations not five meters high, and a large crater was burned into the far side of the opening. Near the edge of the crater, a black, oily channel cut through the sand.

Worf inhaled deeply, and answered in his most official-sounding voice, “Hail, Armus. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets salutes you. I am Ambassador Worf, son of Mog, and in the interests of intergalactic peace, I extend greetings to you.”

A vaguely humanoid form began to slowly rise from the river of sludge. “Welcome, Meat, to the place of your death.” The being appeared to possess two arms and head of sorts, but it was covered – if not composed – of the oily substance. “You know my name, who I am, and yet you still come. What makes you value your life so little?”

Worf stepped forward with his arms spread open, “I come on behalf of many civilizations with a proposition for you. One that I believe you will find to your—” Worf’s voice broke off as his airway was cut off. An unseen force coiled around his neck, slowly choking him.

“You dare bargain with me?” bellowed Armus. Another jolt of force dropped Worf to his knees. “You seek commerce? You seek profit? You dare come to me with this filth?”

Worf’s fingers fumbled about his neck, seeking to pry the unseen vice from his throat. He pushed with all of the air in his lungs and wheezed out a faint, but audible word, “Titans.” The pressure immediately released from his neck, and Worf collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“What do you know of the Titans?” Armus bellowed. “Why are you here?”

Worf panted on the ground for a few moments before rising back to his knees. Rubbing his throat, he answered, “They have returned.”

Armus shimmered, visible agitated. The consistency of the liquid that made his form altered, losing color. The being began to ramble to itself shaking violently with each syllable, “They have returned, and yet they do not seek me? They abandon me here with no explanation, no course” Armus turned its attention back to Worf, “Where? Where are they now?”

Worf took a moment to get back on his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, before he answered. “Not far from here. A few days travel. They have appeared near the Antillian homeworld and have begun interfering in our affairs.”

“Interfering?” Armus asked, almost sounding interested.

“Yes,” Worf answered as he sat down on a small rock formation nearby. He leaned forward, much of his weight resting on the cane. “They demand tribute from us. They demand that we honor them for their superior nature. They interfere with our trade routes. They have proclaimed themselves rulers of the sector.” With each word, each sentence he had allowed his voice to grow louder, more angry. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “Rulers of our territory.” He spat on the ground. “And there is nothing that we can do about it. Every military force that we have sent against them has been destroyed. Every attack has been overcome. We are at a loss. We are desperate. We need help from someone who is as powerful as they.”

Armus’s answer was almost sickening in the delight it showed, “And you to come to me?”

Worf nodded in agreement. “And we come to you. While our last visit to this planet was brief, we recognized the sheer force that you hold at your command. You were able to strike down one of our people with but a gesture. You outmatched every show of force we could offer. It was obvious that we faced a superior being with a superior intellect.”

Armus paused a moment, mulling over Worf’s words. “Yes, you would need my help. The one I killed – “

“Lt. Yar” interrupted Worf.

“Her name does not matter,” answered Armus curtly. “This Yar,” Armus spat the name out as if it were a bit of rancid meat “she died quickly. Your people possess no power. No strength. You would have no hope of overcoming the Titans.”

“And that is why we seek your aid. We know that with your hand guiding us, we will be able to rise up and overcome them. With you allied by our side, we may find true power.”

“You delude yourself with your own importance, son of Mog. You will not be my ally. You will be my victim if you do not obey me. You will use your ship to take me to the Titans, and I will crush them. I will feast on their flesh and grind their bones into dust. They will weep before me, and they will know fear. And you, you will—I, I do not—what, what is happening to me? What—what have you done to me?”

(To Be Concluded)

The spiders in my brain tell me that if I close my eyes, the gnomes will steal my soul...

It's the first time that I've stayed up all night in quite some time (probably since college). I was playing Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and the next thing I knew, it was after 5:00 AM. It seems pointless to go to sleep now, so I have decided to write haikus regarding the games I've been playing...I think the lack of sleep may be affecting my higher brain functions...

Lord of the Rings: The Third Age:

Frelling Uruk-Hai
They keep killing my party
...need to level build

Dune 2000:

Build fast, Atreides
You need missile tanks to win
Or ornithopters

Baldurs Gate: Dark Alliance 2

My dwarf's an archer?
Who makes a dwarf an archer?
Lousy game design.

Peter Jackson hates black people

Ever since Kanye West uttered those revelatory words about our nation's President, I have been on the lookout for these subversive hate-mongering white men that have risen to positions of power. Last night, as I watched the updated version of King Kong, I believe I found one - Peter Jackson.

Throughout his film he has one racist visual image after another, each one more heinous and insulting. The violent, murderous natives of "Skull Island" are all as black as sin, while the lily-white Americans are just trying to make a harmless movie. It seems that this color-scheme is foremost on Mr. Jackson's mind since upon close observation, it becomes apparent that several of these natives are really Anglos and Asians done up in black-face. And here I thought that kind of degenerate entertainment went out in the 50's.

In the film, the most violent, bloodthirsty native is obviously an Asian male, but his skin is a deep ebony. If you think that the racial overtones hadn't been obvious enough, the palest of these "natives," a decrepit old hag, is the only one of them capable of speech. Obviously, she had to whiten herself up to gain the gift of language.

The only redeeming black character in the film is the ship's first mate, who just so happens to be the first human killed by Kong in the film. Obviously some twisted commentary on black on black crime. I'm sure Mama Jackson would be so proud.

And Kong himself is perhaps the worst embodiment of racial stereotypes since Darth Vader. The BLACK gorilla is able to lift more, jump higher, run faster and throw farther than any of the white characters, yet the one thing that he lacks is basic human intelligence. He is ruled entirely by instinct with no intellectual thought, probably how Jackson views the entire black race. Oh, did I mention that he spends his entire time on screen obsessed with a blonde-haired white girl. Apparently an ebony princess isn't good enough for our erstwhile king.

They could have only made Kong more insulting if they had done him up in blackface and had him tap-dancing on a stage to entertain the white folk--oh wait, they already paid some black actors to do that at the beginning of the film.

Have you seen my hate? I seem to have misplaced it...

In my meanderings about the Internet today, I stumbled across a scathing revitorial (review+editorial) on the recent film release of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that was entitled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateful About Religion."

Now, I saw this movie twice over the past weekend, and I have to admit that I really didn't see anything all that "hateful" in the film. (Then again, I didn't see the anti-Semitism in Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. In fact, I found myself arguing with someone at a Christmas party last year that the film wasn't the least bit anti-Semitic. The discussion reached a stalemate when I learned that the girl I was arguing with hadn't actually seen the movie. She had, however, written a graduate-level paper regarding the film's anti-Semitic content and, ergo, was an expert...but I digress.)

Upon reading the article, though, I realized the error. You see, the article should have been titled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateable About Religion." I found that the following passage brought the author's reasoning most clearly to light:

"Children are supposed to fall in love with the hypnotic Aslan, though he is not a character: he is pure, raw, awesome power. He is an emblem for everything an atheist objects to in religion. His divine presence is a way to avoid humans taking responsibility for everything here and now on earth, where no one is watching, no one is guiding, no one is judging and there is no other place yet to come."

Realizing how misguided this author was, I immediately knew that I had to post a response. There are so many better reasons to hate religion (Christianity in particular) that it boggles the mind. After a brief wracking of my brain, I have settled on ten better reasons to hate Christians than because of our faith in the divine Aslan...er...Jesus.

10. The Daystar Network.

9. The Spanish Inquisition.

8. The second Left Behind movie. (The first one gave reason to be mildly displeased, but the second one was a clear insult.)

7. Their flapping heads and beady eyes…no, wait...those are Canadians.

6. Their inability to understand sarcasm, irony or most other literary conventions.

5. Centuries of anti-Semitism.

4. Their instant belief in everything that shows up in their e-mail inbox.

3. The Crusades.

2. Giving out tracts instead of candy on Halloween.

1. Amy Grant.

An Open Letter to J.K. Rowling - Author of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Blasphemous Sacrilege

Madame Rowling,

Reticent as I am to interact with anyone involved with the den of iniquity known as the "entertainment industry," I find that I can remain silent no longer. In the past month, I have had the opportunity to not once, but twice view the recently released film based on your novel, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. May I be the first to say - How dare you!

How dare you and your ilk invade my nation with your filth and propaganda. How dare you sully this land's soil with your lies and pornography. How dare you profit from damning the souls of children and household pets. Your work is a travesty and an insult to all that is good and pure in America.

While I was admittedly surprised at the lack of bestiality, demon worship and human sacrifice that I expected from the film, I still felt an evil presence hovering about me as I entered the theater. A damp blast of air pulsed on the back of my neck during the entire movie - doubtless a minion of the dark lord seeking to penetrate my spine to gain access to my soul. My ample waist felt pressure on either side of me - as if some unseen force had taken two planks of wood or coated plastic and forced them to pinch me on either side. And when I tried to leave the theater in the middle of the film, a sticky, unworldly substance attempted to pin my feet in place. Oh, it gave off a saccharine-sweet aroma, but I recognized it for the demonic bile it was.

As if this assault was not enough, the content of your "masterpiece" was even more disturbing. Let us take a moment to examine one of the key themes in your work - magic. Poppycock is more like it, but let us use your term for the benefits of clarity. It is obvious that you encourage children to believe in this unseen yet all-powerful force that operates beyond human comprehension to affect our lives. Moreover, you encourage children to engage in daily exercises to strengthen and hone their ability to commune with this power. The gall you have, Madame. To take young minds and pollute them with this drivel is unforgivable. How you can sleep at night is beyond me. Matters are only made worse when you make it clear that the level of one's belief in this unseen power (placing one's "faith" in it, if you will) will result in improvements to one's life, station and character. How absurd. I will pray for your sanity.

To prove the evil of your works, Madame, I need only point out how quickly children are seduced into mimicking young Mr. Potter and his cronies. As I sat there, watching your filth on the silver screen (now sullied to a dull brass, or perhaps tungsten) I noted that the children of your dastardly Hogwart's magic school were all dressed in black robes. This unique wardrobe choice reminded me of last May when I attended my nephew's graduation from kindergarten. All 17 children in his graduating class had chosen to don a black, flowing robe over their dress clothes. At the time, I thought the children were merely performing some type of political commentary regarding the U.S. Supreme Court, but now I know the awful truth. It is now obvious to me that these children were imitating the emissaries of darkness from your film.

Perhaps this isolated incident is not enough to convince you of the wickedness of the path you have chosen, but there is more. The characters from your "harmless" wizard film all had a strange manner of speech as well. I'm assuming this is some type of magic language that they all learned in the first movie. There was probably some lesson that taught if you don't pronounce the "h" at a beginning of a word or make every "a" sound like an "aw," the dark prince of hell himself will grant you unspeakable powers. Either way, I attended a community theater production of Hamlet not two weeks ago where every actor in the piece imitated this foul demon-speak. Again, in my naivete, I assumed an innocent reason behind this oddity - perhaps they were all deaf or had recently experienced strokes. Nay. They obviously sought to use some magical wile to enchant their audience to engage in some disgusting orgy of filth and wretchedness. I thank God that I was in that audience and that my faith protected everyone that night.

Now I know that your apologists typically use the defense of "It's not real. It only encourages children to use their imagination." And they say that like it's a good thing. Let's take a minute to look at this glorious "imagination" that you wish to instill into our nation's children. I believe we will uncover the truth if we break the word down to its roots - i/magi/nation. Or to fill in the blanks - I am the MAGI to the NATION. Yes, that's right. I've cracked your cunning lingual code. You seek to turn the children of our nation into the Magi (sorcerers or wise men) of our nation. While I'm sure that you would state your goals are benevolent, I find that highly unlikely. Doubtless you seek to raise up some clan of demonically-powered overseers to conquer the American government and enforce the socialist "utopia" that you British hold so dear.

Well, foist your magical universal health care plans on some other hapless nation - perhaps France. Lord knows they deserve it.