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Cum, adică, "societate"? De care? Globală, planetară? Secretă? (una-nouă, MARE?!) Din moment ce este la singular. Că parcă se mai zicea "civilizaţia umană (/contemporană)". Sau "O/omenirea". Ăsta (HDH) nu-i prost să scape vorbe aiurea, şi el transmite ceva dar "deocamdată ne menajează". Zice de deep-state-ul francez şi cel englez, că sunt formate din "vechile aristocraţii". Că "mai lasă" chinezu' aristocraţiile-astea - nu "la butoane", dar măcar să mai facă umbră pământului... Ă-hă...
Just a matter of time, I suppose.
("Watchmen", 2009)
Dats-uai, daar-ling, iţţ incre-dibăl
Det sam-uan sou anforghe-tăbăl
Tincs det ai-ăm, anforghe-tăbălll, tu-uuu...
(Haha...?)
Bonus 1 ("Bideu 'este' ar fi deja pa, 'a' ar fi dat ochii peste cap, se aşteaptă doar momentul potrivit pentru anunţ" - Fulford):
Biden croaked during that “AF1 Medical Emergency” and they don’t know how to reveal it.
Either that – or they are waiting for an opportune time to do so.
It looks like the video of him being forced into a car was the Biden actor being grabbed and taken away for removal from this earth.
Bonus 2: "Nimic dintr-astea n-are legătură cu noi. Este doar manevra lor, ca să pară că a fost opţiunea ori eroarea noastră." (The Next Chapter)
None of this is about us
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"Comedian(t)ul", Edward Morgan Blake. Unul dintre personajele principale din distopia Watchmen ("Cei care veghează"). Seria de benzi desenate apărută de prin 1986 şi ecranizată în 2009 sub acelaşi nume. "Le-am citit (parţial), l-am văzut".
Asasinat în apartamentul său, noaptea, prin defenestrare, de un fost coleg din Echipă: Adrian Alexander Veidt ("Ozymandias", denumirea greacă a faraonului Ramses al II-lea), ajuns din masked vigilante - oligarh. Desigur, prin multiple compromisuri. Blake a fost asasinat fiindcă "ştia (remarcase) prea multe..."
După dizolvarea "grupării justiţiarilor mascaţi" (auxiliari de facto ai poliţiei) prin "Legea Keene din 1977", Blake - la rândul său, to make a living - ajunsese agent secret guvernamental (nu foarte sus de statutul de hitman...) şi care se scârbise atât de ceea ce avea de făcut, cât şi de "cauză" - una putredă: enough is enough - even for a villain.
Rorschach ("nume real" Walther Joseph Kovacs, alt personaj din formaţia iniţială şi singurul rămas activ, peste ani), redă evenimentele. Într-un jurnal "scris în întâmpinarea Armageddonului".
Rorschach's journal, prima însemnare ("din 18 martie 1964"):
From this point on, I've decided to write down everything I see and experience which might possibly have a bearing upon my nocturnal mission. This journal will be a complete record of my deeds which I can refer back to and a voucher to show the angels when they come looking for me on Judgement Day.
În continuare, le citez pe cele semnificative.
August 14th, 1979
Seems I have at least one ally here in the lair of the weak. Pursued by a group of police officers this evening. A cab driver stopped and offered me a ride... seems he recognized my face.
Told me I was his hero, told me he was compelled to war against the simmers and the politicians and the false prophets as well. Asked me how I always managed to escape my pursuers... how I always managed to return to the streets.
- - - - -
October 12th, 1985
Dog carcass in alley this morning. Tire tread on burst stomach. The city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "no".
They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father, or president Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth talkers...and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.
- - - - -
October 13th, 1985
Slept all day. Awoken at 4:37. Landlady complaining about smell. She has five children by five different fathers. I am sure she cheats on welfare. Soon it will be dark. Beneath me, this awful city, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children. New York. On Friday night, a comedian died in New York. Somebody knows why. Down there...somebody knows. The dusk reeks of fornication and bad consciences. I believe I shall take my exercise.
First visit of evening fruitless. Nobody knew anything. Feel slightly depressed. This city is dying of rabies. Is the best I can do to wipe random flecks of foam from its lips? Never despair. Never surrender. I leave the human cockroaches to discuss their heroin and child pornography. I have business elsewhere with a better class of person.
October 13th, 1985, 8:30 P.M.
Meeting with Veidt left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his shallow, liberal affections. Possibly homosexual? Must remember to investigate further. Dreiberg as bad. A flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement. Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without personality disorders? The first Nite Owl runs an auto repair shop. The first Silk Spectre is a bloated, aging whore, dying in a Californian rest resort. Captain Metropolis was decapitated in a car crash back in '74. Mothman's in an asylum up in Maine. The Silhouette retired in disgrace, murdered six weeks later by a minor adversary seeking revenge. Dollar Bill got shot. Hooded Justice went missing in '55. The Comedian is dead. Only two names remaining on my list. Both share private quarters at Rockefeller Military Research Center. I shall go to them. I shall go and tell the indestrucible man that someone plans to murder him.
- - - - -
October 13th, 1985, 11:30 P.M.
On Friday night, a comedian died in New York. Someone threw him out a window and when he hit the sidewalk his head was driven up into his stomach. Nobody cares. Nobody cares but me. Are they right? Is it futile? Soon there will be war. Millions will burn. Millions will perish in sickness and misery. Why does one death matter against so many? Because there is good and there is evil, and evil must be punished. Even in the face of Armageddon I shall not compromise in this. But there are so many deserving of retribution...and there is so little time.
October 16th, 1985
Thought about Moloch's story on way to cemetery. Could all be lies. Could all be part of a revenge scheme, planned during his decade behind bars. But if true, then what? Puzzling reference to an island. Also to Dr. Manhattan. Might he be at risk in some way? So many questions. Never mind. Answers soon. Nothing is insoluble. Nothing is hopeless. Not while there's life. In the cemetery, all the white crosses stood in rows, neat chalk marks on a giant scoreboard. Paid last respects quietly, without fuss. Edward Morgan Blake. Born in 1924. Forty-five years a comedian. Died 1985, buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends...so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses. Violent lives, ending violently. Dollar Bill , The Silhouette, Captain Metropolis...we never die in bed. Not allowed. Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to do. Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together...he saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely. Heard joke once: Man goes into doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But, Doctor...I am Pagliacci." Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.
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