Imagination is God's greatest device for propaganda. I, being a man of standards and practices, requested to borrow such a tool. I use it often, time and time again, never finding the need of offing myself. Join me.
Imagine it: God being on the edge of his messianic throne, staring from above, being held in sheer uncarcerated suspense.Or maybe I jumped the gun for what is and was assumedly tolerated. Let's do it like this:Imagine it: God being.Look, completely illustrious here. I ain't makin truths. Bear with me.God not only being, but being in a state of uncarcerated suspense, zooming in on one instance of one man whose decision He knows nothing of.God making like a Voyeur, knowing what is, what this all is, but not knowing which contestant finishes first.Imagine God looking to the grand south of things, watching a glorious episode of His prefered show.Imagine today's episode featuring Alejandro Garcia.
Alejandro Manuel Garcia actually came tentalizingly close to winning the whole shabang. Time would have ended, euphoric balloons would have been lowered, and Alejandro would have been told this: "Alejandro, you are the perfect script. I never knew you had it in you."And God would not have been kidding, he would have really not the slightest of clues.Sure, he had the idea that one of the SOutheners had it in them. Who it was?That's what kept the Voyeur watching: the sweet intoxication of mystery.
The Almost Perfect Script, after crowning his head out of his mother's vagina, came to be on these terms:Poor.Had a dead parent (one with the penis)Likelyhood for alchoholism (thanks to the one with the penis).Only child.Was to be raised in an credibly shitty area.
Voyeur saw these terms, grimaced, and said this: "Alejandro, what have they done to you."It was not his fault he was born in Equivocas, Mexico. You see, with ever missed opportunity of the Perfect Script that slipped out of humanity's grasp, the probability became more dire and futile, but the plot so much more intricate.The Voyeur was torn between Entertainment and Intervention. Entertainment it was.
Voyeur covered his trcks, though, making the stakes higher and higher with each instance of infamous, human "Whoops!" Alejandro Manujel Garcia aged, just as so many others do, and with each bypassing year Alejandro, aswell as mankind, bypassed the key to the perfect script, the key to the whole shabang.
The episode spent most time with Alejandro's childhood. Fact was all of that was just Dro being thrown in a pinball machine, a pinball machine with variables skewed and tainted by the Game's failures, by the shits and fucks and damns and whatnot.
If the SOuthern Heritage allowed for a contestant to find the victorious finish line, make a monotonous A to B, the victor would hardly be the perfect script; the Voyeur would hardly be entertained.
So the tale of Alejandro Manuel Garcia came and went befor ethe Grand Voyeur... He cried, laughed, and commerated Alejandro's almost perfect attempt at existing.
And. It. Went. Like. This.
Garcia had no Garcia Senior. No one to help him grunt at the tough shit and show him how to grunt appropriately at the good shit.Thusly Alejandro grew up without knowing the conventional way to release his mad, mad testosterone. He flailed his arms and clapsed his hands and hit things, whether boy's heads, thick walls or big, bright mirrors. The Voyeur sympathized. And as he grew into bigger fists and longer arms, the spae for his brain did asweel, but it was a shy device and did the action tentively, feeling as if it were mandatory.