It is the seventh day, so I must rest from my labors. That is, my labors of being on hiatus and defending it with every fiber of my being. I've been up, I've been down. I've had much strength -- at my peak I've been like Hercules. And I've experienced much weakness -- I felt like I had the backbone of a doily when my enemies came at me hardest. But what can you do? I fought back and got my second wind.
Resting from your labors is what should be done. You can work yourself into an early grave. Or you can say, Thus far and no farther!
You've probably seen some of the great rasslin' shows of the past. I know I have. You've got the guy standing there getting the tar beat out of him. The enemy is prevailing, doing these massive body chops. And the other guy stands there, wobbling. It seems like there must be an invisible rope holding him up because no man can stand so much torment.
But then the enemy takes one chop too many and it sparks a light of rebellion in the other guy. He becomes rigid, alert, and obviously about to begin a new, unexpected journey down the warpath. He's alive in his eyes, his shoulders are squared like iron, and he stomps with fury, with the worst fury a man can stomp with.
The first guy who had the offensive suddenly realizes I'm dead meat. So what's he do? He throws up his hands in a plaintive gesture of begging for mercy; he knows he can do no other. But we all know he was the last one to show mercy before, so he'll be the last one to receive it now. There will be no mercy.
His opponent has life running over the brim. Something perhaps in his muladhara has been struck, right in the sweet spot, like one of those strength things you pound at a carnival. And a beam of pure light and energy has ascended in a sensuous dance, twisting up the ida and pingala, all in a flash. And lights have gone off at the top, bells and sirens. The force of God has registered itself! No man can resist such force! It's at that moment that all mercy and pleas for the same are swept away in a tidal wave of the sternest wrath. Oh, this is going to be good!
The crowd at ringside senses it too, instantly, and they know the other guy will not live to see another morning. His children, if he has any, will ask their mother, if there is one, What happened to Daddy? if that's what he is. If they exist, and if they have an ounce of sense, they will soon realize, Daddy's not coming home, except perhaps in a body bag, with a toe tag describing the contents in the bag, because his face will have been beaten beyond any recognition and ability to identify. The gravedigger will insist on supernatural rituals of purification, lest the mourners call down judgment on themselves and him, not recognizing this was a righteous kill.
So there's the scene. The crowd at ringside takes a collective deep breath. Every eye has bugged out like a snow globe. The guy is begging for mercy, but the other guy stomps that stomp that is the last sound anyone in the area hears ... until they hear the most pulverizing cacaphony of echoing punches, gouges, bites, crowbar gongs, folding chair splats, thumb tack noises as he scatters them and gives the guy a full suplex right on them. Then he KOs the ref and borrows a can of lighter fluid, dousing the guy, who's passed out. He just happens to have a keg of gunpowder at ringside, so he hoists it in an instant and breaks it all over him. Then he strikes just one lighted match. Before he casts it down he looks around the arena, grinning, beseeching the crowd's continuing ovation.
Then there it is! The flame strikes! The guy's little beard disappear in a flash, as well as all body hair. In fact it was such a massive explosion, you couldn't even make out the beard and the body hair disappearing; that's just my conjecture. It was completely over with. Most of the crowd was killed, but not one survivor demanded his money back; it was that good of a show.
And so I have said, Thus far and no farther. I will continue this hiatus, and today, the seventh day, I will rest even from that.
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