Wake Of Liberty: 22 – Darkness Descends
Cooley is pounding through the streets of medieval Paris, exposing the violent underbelly of medieval European culture. Smyth is stumbling along behind him.
Facing The Dark One by Gavin Denman
“Europe is a land of morbid opportunity, Mr. Smyth, ripe with horror stories. It is an entertainment goldmine, if you know your marketing and can sell blood and gore.”
We have been running around the filthy, mud-sodden alleys without purpose for ever. Cooley is going on and on about blood and guts and death, and doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop anytime soon. I wish we were done with this place. The sun is setting fast and I don’t want to be here when night falls.
“Pay attention, Mr. Smyth. People love being entertained, right? I mean the amusement parks of the 21st century are packed with people waiting in line for hours to get in, from Disneyland to Six Flags, to Universal Studios and Waterworld, all because thrills are what get people going. The cinemas and theaters are constantly jam-packed with captive audiences and the stadiums and arenas are overflowing with sports lovers and music fiends. Wherever you go, whatever you do, people are looking to be entertained in large numbers. Correct?”
I nod reluctantly. I don’t see where this is going. I just hope he gets to the point soon.
“There is of course an even bigger event laid out for you, all over the world, which, once tapped into, will capture your imagination. It involves thrills and chills on every street corner, in places your never expected, just waiting to be activated and take your head away – excuse the pun!” He pauses, and for a moment I’m thinking this awful joke is the punchline and that we are done.
Sadly, there’s more.
“Think of it like a running horror movie that never ends; an urban phantasmaGORia, with special emphasis on the gore part. I mean, this is the big kahoona, the blockbuster that is just waiting to be unleashed on popular culture and take the world by storm. Just hear me out, it’s uncanny.” He throws his arms around with enthusiasm and sweeps the entire area with a broad stroke. “People are crisscrossing the world’s cities ceaselessly, all year round, both residents and visitors, locals and tourists alike, in their hundreds of millions, taking a break from work, lounging around, or going somewhere specific, all the while wondering what restaurant to eat in and what cafe to stop at and what product to buy out of the thousands of items available in the thousands of stores that frame their busy streets. They do so while going through the same motions every day, over and over again – the same sterile, mind-numbing stages of the same old routine. Like hamsters on a wheel, running inside a shiny cage full of shiny toys.”
He raises his hand high, putting his thumb and fingers together. “But despair not, there is hope yet.” He smirks. “With boredom setting in and life turning into an endless stream of work, networking, shopping, R’n'R, and entertainment provision, new sources of excitement are all the rage. Luckily, cities have plenty of them. Extending not only in space but also in time, your urban nerve centers are ready to offer some very compelling experiences to make up for the creaking and squeaking of the perpetual wheel.”
Executioners would wear hoods to protect their identity and lend an air of intimidation to the whole process of execution. Source: http://listas.20minutos.es/lista/guerreros-de-la-antiguedad-87933/
Snap. Cooley clicks his fingers and the set changes. The platform on which the torture devices had been mounted is lying empty and disregarded, with people walking by it on their way to some other business – then snap again, and the platform is bustling with movement. A giant executioner in a black, morbid hood lifts his heavy ax high, his torso swelling up. A second later and hack – a head rolls, spattering the nearest observers with blood. Cooley rushes by them, pacing through the excited crowd, speaking loudly.
“History is not all blood and death obviously. There is plenty of the pleasant kind of action in it.” Snap. The streets are bustling with people. Shops are lined up next to each other and the air is suffused with the smell of civilization. I take a deep breath, soaking it all in. Cooley is pounding through the streets, pointing left and right with enthusiasm. “Alongside the dark side of humanity there is enterprise and business, art and science, tradition and progress, cultural heritage, technological innovation, moral and medical advancement, academic prowess, social insight, individual insight – stuff that blows your mind if you really think about it.” He points at his head, then throws his hand around as if sprinkling the place with stardust, winking a salesman’s wink. “Yes indeed – civilization is a wonderful, awe-inspiring process, thriving on commerce and social interaction, paving the way for progress.”
Snap. Great buildings are towering over us, grand and purposeful, and the city assumes an inspiring, capitolian character. The streets are paved with cobblestones and are adorned with tall, metal lampposts. A street pantomime theater is performing at the next corner, where the laughter of children is sprinkling the area pleasant, and a passerby greets us with a slight tip of his hat as we cross paths with him. I’m beginning to feel a little better, sensing that we may be on our way out of the vile middle ages and on to better times at last.
My hopes are shattered straight away. We turn a corner for the umpteenth time and a stocky, filthy man bumps into me, rubbing his oily hands on my face. I freak out, running down the alley in the opposite direction, yelling in frustration. Somebody laughs out loud. A rock comes hurtling past me, missing my shin by inches and rebounding off the stone wall beside me, but I cannot make out who threw it. I rush down the alley, turn another corner, then another, and snap – we are back at the pillory, crossing the putrid, death-filled square. The crowd is ravaging the convict and his screams are making my blood curdle. Cooley is running circles around me.
“See, Mr. Smyth, what civilization loves most of all is excitement. It is the ingredient that makes the grind of human progress bearable and worthwhile.” He thrusts his hands forward and pushes me with force. I am caught by surprise and fall over, into the filth. He cackles. “Unfortunately your sense of excitement tends to gravitate toward the wickedly spicy.”
I try to get up but he pushes me back down and taunts me, going on about how humans love to watch confrontation and violence, relishing in the fight and struggle, the uncertainty and thrill it provides. What has gotten into him again? Tired and covered in mud, I scramble to a soggy corner by a ramshackle hut, barking at him that he is wrong and biased. We have refined our sense of humor over the years, aware of how awful it is to have fun at other people’s expense. What he is referring to is the exception to the rule, instances of bad taste and uncontrollable emotions.
He hovers closer and stands tall above me, wagging his finger.
“Civilization, Mr. Smyth, is a great hype. It has been ceaselessly canvassed through the media bull and bullhorns, and we know everything there is to know about the glorious feats of civilized society and its unquenchable thirst for entertainment, not to mention its much-advertised refinement and splendor. We have heard everything there is to hear about it, and I am not in the mood for any more of it.”
He lunges at me and grabs me in a headlock. I try to break free but he chokes me and drags me through the street, shouting out loud.
“So let’s put it to the test, shall we? Let’s see what grabs and scintillates your attention. Roses and lilies, pink lollipops and fluffy clouds, and groups of people marching happily down the street, singing the tunes of wholesome songs, telling stories about folks living out peaceful, uneventful lives, over the hill and down by the river – or good old sinister violence, mayhem and bloodshed, screaming, yelling and hollering, sprinkled with panic and emergency – what is going on, what’s happening? – oh my god, disaster, catastrophe, dear Lord! - did you see that car smash into that wall, did you hear about the killing spree in that high school? How about them tornadoes in the plains, and the rivers that burst their banks and ate up those towns, and the earthquakes that leveled that province, and the volcano that erupted like hell on earth – did you see that! What about the tsunamis that smashed into the coast, eating up entire cities and sending everyone crashing inland? Catch your attention yet or are the hugs and lullabies too fascinating to turn away from? How about a couple of lunatics beating each other up in the middle of the street and causing a ruckus? Maybe that will do the trick.
Mob executions were the norm since biblical times. Victims included criminals and blasphemers, who were killed in the name of God and righteousness. Source: http://ministeringinlove.com/2011/03/25/the-trial-of-stephen/
He slaps me hard on the forehead, then in my face, laughing out loud and yelling at the top of his lungs. People are beginning to take notice. This is not good.
I try to break free but cannot get a grip on his arm. He laughs and throws me around, shoving me to and fro, then lets go of me with a dramatic gesture, making it obvious that he is in control. He pushes me against a wall and lifts his pipe and points it at me. His face is flushed and his hair wild, falling all over his face.
“Death and destruction, Mr. Smyth. Violence and bloodshed. Pain and suffering. That is what fires you up. They do something to you, their images awakening trouble inside you, beasts and demons that take over and do not let you turn away from what you see. They just string you along on their pernicious ride, and you, incurably impressionable as you are, are only too happy to oblige, honing in on whatever excitement is mesmerizing you, like moths to a flame.”
Not true, not true, I yell back. People are better than that. We are not as mindless and vicious as you paint us.
“You don’t know anything about what drives and compels you.”
We know enough to not get excited by other people’s pain and misfortune.
“Really? I beg to differ.”
He points around at the street. A dense ring of people has formed around us. This is not good at all, we have once again drawn attention to ourselves. I must get out of here and fall out of sight while I still can.
I jump up and try to run away, hoping to lose the assembling crowd in the maze of alleys and go and wait things out in some dark corner until I am nothing more than an inconsequential memory, a meaningless glitch in the midst of pillory frenzy. By morning they will have forgotten all about me.
But Cooley has other plans. He trips me up and pushes me over; then whacks me hard on the calf with his pipe. I wince with pain and the crowd laughs. He hits me again, on the wrist, on the forearm, on the fingers, making me flail and grimace under the sting of his blows. The crowd laughs louder.
“Pain and power, Mr. Smyth. Battle and suspense. They grab human attention like a match catches fire. The monkey in you revels in the plight of others, relishing the spectacle. And the insect inside you thrives on pre-vertebrate aggression and the crocodile in your brain executes it with sly cunning. And the pain and discomfort that come pack and parcel with your stressful existence recede, even if for a brief moment, because seeing someone in trouble is a great diversion and rather engaging. You may not enjoy it – you may in fact be horrified, shocked, or devastated by it – but for a brief moment you want to see what is going on, registering every sordid little detail, forgetting your own troubles in the process.”
He whacks me on the arm again, then turns round and bows to an enthused crowd. Their cheers are loud and satisfied, their fingers pointing nastily at me.
I don’t see the next move coming. Cooley whacks me across the face with the pipe’s hard chamber, sending me rolling in the slush. Face down, I see a tiny puddle of muddy water turn into wine. My lips are torn and the warm, salty, crimson liquid is dripping out of me steadily. I spit a chunk of tooth out.
The crowd laughs and jeers excitedly, etching their way forward, eager to catch a better view.
I try to get up and stand my ground but slip in the mud and fall, and they burst out laughing.
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