Power Love

Your definitive resource. That's all, just your definitive resource.

21 March 2012


At this point, she's about to give up, head home, have a drink, watch Season 2 of "Sons of Anarchy." Fuck the mission, she thinks. She's sick of this shit--chasing down the souls of The Entitleds, administering due diligence.

The Entitleds: all big mouths, fat words, hot air. Judging others with the passion that can only come from someone too afraid to look at himself honestly.

The Entitleds, she thinks, are like mosquitoes; for the most part, they're annoying pests, but sometimes they can infect an entire society with a disease that could've been stopped if someone did something early on. She has her bow and arrows strapped to her back. Gun on her belt. Knife at her ankle. The forest is quiet tonight, the moon is bright. She can see very clearly the path that leads to the clearing, though it doesn't really matter. She could walk this route with her eyes closed.

She smells him before she sees him. The Entitled reeks of insecurity and righteousness that have been fermenting for decades, so, basically, like sweat-soaked socks that have been locked in an airtight room for decades. She thinks part of The Repercussion Agreement should include an odor check and she makes a mental note to include this suggestion in her report.

She can hear him breathing. He's wheezing. His breath sounds like he's pulling a nickel through a straw. He had to walk out here himself, it's part of The Repercussion Agreement. And anyway, his driver no longer works for him; quit last week when The Entitled regurgitated shit through his mouth in public. It's embarrassing to be associated with someone like that.

When she reaches the clearing, she walks straight to the middle. Across from her, steamy gusts of hot air are expelling from a large mouth with no teeth. Attached to the mouth, on either side, are two arms, both of them spindly, with fingers that nervously pick at one another. No legs. No torso. No heart. This is The Entitled. Well, this is the soul of The Entitled. His human frame is back out in the real world, behaving like a fool and congratulating himself for it. She reminds herself that this is what she loves about her job--addressing the actual problem, not the shell.

When The Entitled senses she's there, he sneezes. She pulls out her log book, unfolds The Repercussion Agreement, and reads: "Sir Entitled, you have been found guilty of gross misrepresentation and contributing to the advancement of societal moronity. Your soul is here as stipulated by The Repercussion Agreement. Please acknowledge your presence."

The Entitled exhales a plume of air. The clearing suddenly smells of Funyuns and cheeseburgers. "I didn't agree to this," The Entitled says. She folds his paperwork, places it back in her log book, and sets the book on the ground. "We didn't ask for your thoughts on the subject," she says calmly. She looks at the sky. A single star blinks purple, then red, then settles into its traditional white, and she knows the home office has recorded his verbal acknowledgment of his presence here. She's clear to proceed.

"According to The Criminal Document, sir, you have used your gift of speech to slander others, which carries a punishment of three smart arrows. You have also used faulty logic punctuated with self-righteousness, which carries a penalty of two smart arrows. You are aware of this, yes?"

The Entitled looks around, but because he has no eyes, he's really just a pair of lips moving side to side. He reminds her of a clown. She's not fond of clowns. She's not fond of The Entitleds, either, but she's here to do a job. "Is that correct, sir?" She asks again. There is a pause, then The Entitled says, begrudgingly, "Well, yes...I suppose, but it's rather subjective, wouldn't you say, I mean, I am, you know, me..."

"An excellent point," she says. "However, your opportunity to advance your argument has already passed." She pulls out five arrows from the quiver on her back. The Repercussion Agreement calls for compassion, thoughtfulness, empathy, kindness, and logic. She holds the arrow for each of these in her left hand. Together they look like a bouquet. Deftly, because she's done this a million times before, she flips the bow from her shoulder and settles it in front of her.

"I'm not the problem," The Entitled wheezes. She smells seafood in the cloud of smoke that accompanies his words. His fingers are twitching. Usually this is the part where they start yelling, or crying, or screaming profanities. She cocks her head. "You are," The Entitled says. "You and your kind. You're so easily antagonized, we only have to distract you with a few words and you completely lose sight of everything else."

She lets the bow drop to her side. She twirls the bouquet of arrows in her hand like a baton. She considers the names The Entitleds have hurled at her kind. The sleazy suggestions they've made. She thinks about how she's part of 51% of the population, but only 1% of the leadership. She thinks about the importance of action as opposed to words. She remembers last night, at dinner, when The Doctor walked into the dining room, how everyone at the table talked about The Doctor's fake tits and said nothing about The Doctor's razor sharp intelligence or her impeccable character. She recalls how everyone at that table looked like each other, like her, like The Doctor, not a single Entitled among them.

"It's easy to undermine the already undermined," The Entitled says. She thinks he's smirking. But maybe that's gas? She lifts her bow, threads the compassion arrow into it and shoots. She does the same with the empathy arrow. Now The Entitled is nailed to the tree behind him, Christ like. "Comfortable?" She asks. "Very," he says.

She waits a moment for the arrows to seep into him. She threads the thoughtfulness arrow into her bow and says, "We're implementing a new two-tiered process." The thoughtfulness arrow rests snugly for a second in the strings of the bow and she thinks she can hear it sigh. "We'll maintain our current approach, then complement that with our methodical proactive approach." The thoughtfulness arrow knows that she will need to bring this up in council before it can actually be implemented, but she gives the arrow a sharp look and it remains quiet.

She aims and the thoughtfulness arrow lands in the middle of The Entitled's mouth. A plume of noxious gas escapes. The Entitled's have very poor eating habits, she realizes. "We have a plan," she says. She knows there really isn't a plan, per se, but there will be, because she's sick of The Way It Is. She questions who's actually responsible for that.

The arrows are starting to seep into The Entitled. In rapid succession, she shoots the kindness arrow, then the logic arrow. They land in the middle of either bicep and The Entitled exhales, almost restfully. She waits to see how deep the arrows will seep. Sometimes they only hit the superficial layers and by law, she's obligated to kill him if they don't penetrate the deep layers. That's the part of her job she loves the most.

In the pause, she thinks about the time they waste on The Entitleds. How they could use that time to build their collective soul, how she loves her arrows, and The Repercussion Agreements, but how she wishes there were more options. The silence is broken when The Entitled spits out, "Whore."

She pulls the poison arrow from the quiver and threads it into the bow. She's thinking about the mountains she's moved and how many more are out there. She recalls the highways she's built. The families she's created. She places the poison arrow back into the quiver. She will have to include this in her report. "Mercy is for suckers," The Entitled says. She can see the anger and fear dripping off him like melting icicles. She laughs. "Mercy," she says. "That's funny. It implies you're human. Which is funny." She picks up her log book and stuffs it in her back pocket. "You're afraid of your own irrelevance," she tells the mouth. "You're old. You'll be dead soon. There's no need to waste a perfectly good arrow on you."

As she turns and walks out of the clearing, she feels the ground shift, like an earthquake's coming. She knows his shell in the outside world is starting to crumble. She considers the first line of her report. She settles on: The Entitleds are dying. Let them fade. We have mountains to move.