Sad Old F**ker



That guy over there?

He’s older than lies. Continents admire his longevity. A Methuselah so long in the world he knows that right and wrong are just ideas, frames that people hang on things to feel better about themselves. Always makes him laugh inside. Not a jeering, mocking laugh, but the inward smirk of an inside joke. It’s just life.

“Those who can, take,” he’d say. Never sounded as wise as he thought it should. No matter. He’d seen the birth of religions, saw them struggle past early repressions. Watched them flourish and spread, first as a blessing of enlightenment then as a cancer. Flocks gathered, fleeced, and driven to killing floors of righteous war. Always the same.

“Some folks need to find things out the hard way,” he’d say. Wasn’t an excuse. After setting his broken nose and tending the stumps of broken teeth, he understands not to get involved. No one likes a killjoy.

So there he sits, the sad old fucker, rich with wisdom no one wants. And he keeps it to himself, blotting it out one whiskey at a time.


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