The people at lucky times nourished and thrived off “the loopholes” — when they could find them. Any rights to justice had long been negotiated off by a series of stoic compromises of “the settlers.” These holes could not be simply shut off, as that would reveal an existence the state could never admit, and the general would never leave a new trail-head to follow, where the soul starved might find the next loose valve to suckle off of. The general sprayed the gaslight on those who knew the secrets, making crazy or worse, those who had learned too much, by the glow of exposure from the licensed conspirators, all were laid barren who spoke the truth.
It was the last election– the infantile beginnings of what was to become a new era — when hard wired weapons were useless, too obsolete – it was the minds they target, the fight was in the webs. There was no reason to call them anything different.
The new apocalyptical realm: truth was fluid – like jelly — fought for in phantom spaces. Representing the state, “the interests” being well regulated by the licensed conspiracy theorist called the prosecutors — of which there was the most evil — the General – once the Attorney General, but since the war had shifted to skirmishes in the shaping of “reality,” — he was just: The General.
The hope now was in the one who did not exist. The re-incarnator. The one they called Wei Wu Wei, who called himself the film maker, who had never made a film, except in the mind of his nemesis.
A man like him is one you don’t want to fall under the attention of. In his particular case, it is better you never existed. For once you are there, you are merely flesh for the beast – the material that needs the tools. The wood that needs the saw. The nail that needs the hammer. And for an old hammer like the General, there are only nails. It’s not his job to interfere upon himself, to stop the trigger when one is found in his “sights”. That’s for someone else – that’s the law.
His mind and authority are unfettered, with few restrictions, to mold you to the criminal of his imagination. He takes mere circumstances, creating plausible scenarios in which you become the actor in his play – at whatever location you can’t prove you weren’t and even some he can’t. His mind invents then projects to his selected jury – of you who hold the weapons, pulling triggers and in this case raiding houses in the dark night to beat old ladies unwittingly readying for a humble family meal.
General Strain is what he allows people to call him. It is how it is written in the court documents of Tennessee – thick faced with squinty eyes and a broad moustache – which is new — he had a beard before the film he believed was being made started in his mind – the beard I preferred, as it was something to let you know it was the mountain people we were dealing with – but his fur still shows at times, slipping out under the cuffs of his worn blue suit. He is the chosen handler of the mountain people. Those beasts of poor white Grundy County, where legions of unwatched cars disappeared into backwoods gulches, parted out at Don’s auto body or other family franchises like those who operated the push off mountain family assembly of thieves.
The generals job is to keep the trash from rolling down the mountain to Chattanooga. And put enough behind bars to keep the fear at sufficient levels – banging the cage with his beating stick – to keep the animals in line.
He is the ultimate conspiracy theorist, sanctioned by the state, and you are the perpetrator. It doesn’t matter how fantastical his theories are as long as he can convince the jury. – Sure there are some rules. But not many. And many are broken. After all, if he is wrong, you have your lawyer.
In his arena, the prosecutor is able to do what all good criminals do, deflect the crimes from himself. It is only by stopping that one looks back.
“Your honor if we had to wait until the evidence came back from the lab before prosecuting cases, there would be an ungodly backlog.”
From the moment he sees you – you are the doer. Everything else is just the story being built around the premise. The doer.
For the General, on his mountain keep, this is no doubt true – the lawyers are helpless and the judges in league – there is little hope for those causalities fo justice – little hope but for the one
As there are, and always have been, those few that roam in search of their own souls, looking in the deep dungeons for opportunity to now revenge their pasts – armed with a fearlessness, you might say as a fool, but possessed only by those who have given up life as you know it. At least once already. Living in the after-life yet still of this earth as is what you would call me – the re-incarnator. And like the General, one does not want to fall under our attentions. As this re-incarnator will reborn you to the other side, appearing in an identity, you would never have imagined. When being more tangible I would say I am the film maker, with a knowing that this alone would unnerve – as I have never made a film but the one in the mind of my nemesis.