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Postmodern Village
est. 1999
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The typical purchaser . . .
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

murders in mass, but intelligently so---pushing into pockets, taking over, killing, moving on again to another little pocket. He sweeps through an area as a soldier: swiftly, without compassion, with only thoughts of conquest.

He works perfectly and accomplishes exactly what he set out to do: bring the most advantages to bear. That the masses don’t relate to those advantages doesn’t much bother a soul-lacking purchaser.

That’s a bit overstepping, really. I have no idea if the purchaser was created or natural or a combination. No one does. It takes years to study a person, like it takes to study a disease. Take small pox. Around forever, but we didn’t get a firm handle until we uncovered some dairy maids and cow pox and the concept of immunity many hundreds of years later.

He moves too swiftly---all too like a disease---to study anything more than your own painful symptoms. Not a lot of science works in at that point. Not enough objectivity. Lots of religion and prayer and craziness, but not a lot of objectivity.

It doesn’t take a lot to create chaos, really. I guess no one who’s ever seen a horror movie or pictures from Hurricane Katrina would be surprised by that. All the typical happened: panic, confusion, disbelief, insanity. The chaos wasn’t really all that interesting; I thought it would be, but people follow the same sad, sheep patterns. This one was mostly: we’ve all got to band together, fuck that didn’t work, don’t let it get me, not me, not my child/husband/friend/lover, fuck that hurts, let me act out in anger, I’m going to die, help me God, where is God.


A lot of people who didn’t die from the shock of the purchaser's choices died from the chaos. That was probably to be expected. It’s hard to figure out the best response to a situation when it doesn’t follow the pattern you have engrained. And, for some reason, even in the midst of chaos, many people are so engrained in the patterns that they have no other reactions . . . how else do you account for people still stopping at stop lights when the world is on fire or trying to find TV stations in a blackout or thinking that their cell phones will work THIS time . . . this zillionth time they’ve tried it in the dark.

It’s those who didn’t perish who are the most interesting, really. Survival stories, tough skins, good genetics, excellent luck. There are so many reasons to explain why those few survived the purchaser's choices. Some were naturally immune, perhaps. Some were luckily never exposed to Wall Street. Some were taken care of by others. Some took care of themselves. A relative few . . . a very, very few . . . actually slowly, painfully, painstakingly recovered. There aren’t many of those. Those are real gems, real finds. I cherish those.

I’m more than ready to write it all down. I’d like to say it’s for posterity, but I stopped believing in posterity well before the chaos, well before the purchase. I stopped believing in posterity well before Starbucks and 9-11 and the suicide of whatever rocker you most admired. Maybe I never believed in posterity.

Waiting around for slaughter is rather boring, by the way. It’s like the falling from a great height. Nothing much happens until you hit the ground. Nothing much happens until the purchaser comes to town.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version
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