Waves of acid. Rolling ruin. Flaming vestige. Drowned past. Buried remnants. Glory.
Norman the conqueror repeated these his favourite words again and again as he watched the pagans, the dissidents, and the strong willed slip into the hole of death. 500 years old and only his head remained, placed on a plastic body, tubed and cabled in perfect ways so his battery could be recharged and the porridge could be pumped into the nutrition container. He was not as such happy with life. Not in itself.
He lived only for conquering. Obtaining the things that other people liked. Not because he liked them… that is the things (but come to think of it he didn’t like the people either), but because power, power mongering, power abuse, power on purpose, power for fun – yes, all kinds of power was his joy.
So he became a conqueror. People like him does. And as always those other people let him, because...
Well, to be honest I am not sure why they let him.
He was an arsehole.
I am on a holiday. Sitting here in rural Denmark I have been busy with holiday things. But now there was a gap - so this little story could be told.
