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I reckon a good reliable soothsayer would be about the wisest employee choice any self-respecting monarch or world leader could ever make.   Forget the witty fools who you’ve licenced to make fun of you all the fucking time, or the army of bloody messengers who are the pedestrian equivalent of email, and run about announcing useful things like “Some random guy, my lord, is dead.”  

Fuck, no.   I’d want some old dude to hobble around behind me, or some cave-dwelling chick to take a little field trip, whose sole purpose was to warn me about the shit that’s to come and the bastards who are out to get me.

Of course, prophecy is hardly an exact science.   Mostly because it’s all bullshit, as far as I’m concerned.   Five hundred years, and the best I’ve seen is one of our own – she’s now working as a high-class medium in New York or something, telling the rich and famous appropriately mystical and vague things about their fragile, drug-pumped, quicksilver lives.

All it boils down to with her though, is educated guesses from several lifetimes of experience – based comfortably on the fact people are generally dull as shit and do the same old crap over and over again, all over the world, and all through the ages.   Of course, she has to wear a ton of amber beads and gossamer scarves to even make that much legitimate, mind you.

I’d stick with the limping elder with the quavery voice, myself.   Much more theatrical.   Covers up the fact that all he does is what the hack horoscope fiction writers do in the local papers or on late night-infomercial phonecalls: simply imply something ambiguous enough for your audience to do all the work interpreting for themselves.  

Come on – if the guy was any chop at all, like he couldn’t just fucking say to Julius: “Beware your best friend stabbing you in the back tomorrow, mister”?

Ultimately though – the moral there (before Brutus and his buddies made the original Caesar salad) is about keeping your enemies close, but your friends closer.   And with the reprieve of Brix and the return of Kane, I seem to be doing both quite nicely.

So I’ve beworn the Ides of March.   But when you consider it was Kane who came here ready to fucking bury me, not to praise me – and I made him unwillingly lend me his ears for a bunch of half-truths (having unwittingly lent me his girlfriend for an early demise)?…    

I’m thinking it’s probably he who should be doing as the Romans did by getting sage Ides in his head – and watching his back.





  1. Oh you can’t hurt Kane?! You wouldn’t?! Oh surely….

  2. You have to Kill kane. First, to piss of Ordanik and all the other readers who believe you still have some shed of humanity in you and Second, he’s a liability and chances are he’s gonna end up meeting Brix and They’ll have a little “chat”, and Lastly, (drum roll please) you have to kill him…because… he is going to find out one way or another. Maybe a Neighbor saw Carly pass by.. who knows..

    Just save yourself the trouble and kill him. **ehem all hypothetical of course and fictional, i would never suggest homicide (**makes like pontius pilate and run).

    • You’re very fond of constantly trying to tell me what to do, lady. I’m glad it amuses you.

      I’m just going to go on ignoring it. No offence.

  3. That’s okay, just a thought.

  4. He’d never kill Kane JUST to piss me off. A) I’m a favourite, I made the list B) He doesn’t know where to find me *smirks* =P Oh and of course C) Mr J8’s very fond of his commandment stating ‘Thou shalt do whatever the fuck thy pleases!’ =D

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