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Thoughts of an Iron Monger
This is a short story of sorts that really demonstrates why I like the comic book/graphic Novel style of story telling. The thoughts can easily be read while the description is easily left in plain view, making the only breaks in the monologe the intentional ones.
I could make it more streamlined by using a classical short story structure, and I probably will in the near future, but I just wanted it seen first, how I would intend it as a comic dialog...
Thoughts of an Iron Monger
Weapons are always suprisingly heavy when drawn.
almost like they don't want to be. almost like you feel you shouldn't be
but you have to... To keep things running smoothly...
Why are they always cool dark nights, when things must be saved,
Even when we try to keep our food the way we made it, we keep it cold
Cold and dark. We keep our preservation where we feel least comfortable.
In the cold. In the dark,
But outer space, where we dream, holds the very change we can't accept.
The very change that threatens our way.
Becuase when the outsiders come to our galaxy, we will try to make peace
try, but be prepared for assault. For the strike,
For the Kill.
Killing is in our blood. We always keep something to kill, to keep the clock moving
Human drama lies in those deathless mounds we build.
Our media buzzes over it like flies, building social circles of necrophilia
loving those who have died.
died to let that clock tick one more time.
inspiring new men and women to let themselves click the clock forward.
in Wake of outsiders, we won't kill eachother, but them.
Like a kid with a big stick lookin' for something to bash, they'll be waiting
like a Bee hive, the media buzzing over it. waiting for the strike.
For the kill.
then that will send shock waves across the known world,
like a heavy pistol being fired, the ripple across your arm
the realization of the life you're taking and the ampathy
the ampathy to do it again and again.
and again.
We're not ready to unite and strike, we are not ready to be a single force
Not ready to take out a bee hive yet, not with just a stick.
instead, we are ready to let one man raise a heavy weapon,
A man ready to take out an outsider before he can beckons his friends.
A single clip to unload into his innocent face,
until all that can be recongnized is slaughter.
No one will truly care about this small town in Navada.
No one will really know about Roswell.
They will simply know that life is just like it was yesterday.
Becuase I made a choice with Humanities well-being behind it.
Becuase I went for the strike.
For the Kill
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