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THIS IS OUR FINEST HOUR At our most recent conclave, Jody asked me not to shout so much in my letters. It's an eyesore, and it gives her a headache, she said. Jody, I feel your pain, I really do, but why am I the only one shouting? Truth be told, I must shout because no one else is doing so! (did that get anyone pissed? Good, it worked, then!)
Let's step back a moment to reflect on our past, shall we? Remember Fritz? Fritz ranted, raved, and shouted, trying to warn us about exactly the fate we're faced with today: lulled to peaceful sleep to dream crack-fiends' dreams of euphoric surreality, bottle-fed to us by a psychopath with a baby face who wears stately attire.
Does the name Devin sound familiar to anyone? Surely you remember him, the off-kilter lunatic who prophesied our imminent doom if we all remained quiet while the shepherd led us to the slaughter. We've got a long-standing tradition of remaining passive while the sirens scream to us, "Attention! Now is the time for all good women and men to come to the aid of their city." And in that time, we've always had our wackos unfurling their banners for one cause or another:
No Camarilla Prince! Give me Liberty or Give me Slack! Don't Bow Down before the Sabbat Menace! Free Tortillas!
And so on.
For God's sake, people, please see the wolf at your door for who he is! If you think for one second that I'll be devoured by his bloodlust without one HELL of a fight, you'd better change your tune, brother. Death comes for us all, but you can take control of when, where, and how it comes for you. Mine's already carved in stone--I'll go in a wash of blood, kicking and screaming as the shadows drag me to the Abyss. Hope to see you there.
Gunther Gable Jergen Clan Brujah May 20, 1997 2:30 AM
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