A Metamorphosis of Mind and Men

As I gazed over my disciples who eagerly awaited my command on the go-ahead of "Operation A.L.C.O.H.U.G.", diminutive snapshots of my childhood, my origin began to flicker through the eyes of my mind. A simulated motion picture reel of my most prominent memories formulated a vaguely familiar story of not only how I came to be, but how the once immoral sins of a long lost society, had metastisized over the span of countless generations to develope a dark world, enveloped in anarchy and soothed only by the temporary emotional fixation found in the bliss of ignorance.

As a small child, I can remember tightly fascining a red towel around my toothpick neck while peeping through two unevenly cut holes of a makeshift paper mache mask. With my nose constantly burried in my vast collection of vintage comic books that all seemed to depict a uniform portrayal of a physically gifted protagonist with an obligation bound by destiny to protect the innocent, my rather unique imagination crafted a hero all my own who could guard me from the evils that I faced which I noticed themanipulated minds of comic writer's neglected to incorperate in their nail-biting storylines and vivid illustrations. Nobody wanted to recognize the ever-growing dependency on drugs and alcohol, that their fathers' sudden outburst of rage and mind-numbing withdrawals were abnormal, and that the only substance potent enough to highten their tolerance to such outrageous violence would only further contribute to the impending doom of this enormous sphere we so proudly call our home.

My hero had the powers to shield my mother from the eminent array of drunken beatings, to suppress the peer pressure that rang through my auditory canal like an inoperatable case of tinnitus, to subdue the infamous high that impaired my friends' thoughts and inticed them to rush to the faint beckoning of death in the midst of a surreal feeling of immortality. My hero, though now that I realize was merely a figment of my imagination, gradually acquirred more and more of my attention until it finally became an overwhelming feature that shapes my identity as an outcast teen with an intensified spark of rebellion and an emaculate desire to unveil the morbid truths behind the decline of civilization as we knew it. My hero has a name. His name is Digit 91286 and many consider him to be the guardian angel of the last remnances of an ancient human integrity.

On September 12, 2086 at approaximately 6:15 P.M., my hero will quickly awaken froma captivating daydream regarding the significance of his present position and with one simple word, give birth to the longest war in history, a catastrophic uprising that upon his command will unleash an imponent civil rivalry ironically guided toward union.

I briefly close my eyes in an attempt to escape from the profound magnitude of my decision and without hesitation, I shout at the top of my lungs,

                                      "Revolt!"