Life is good here. We love our freedoms, love those who love us and hate those who hate us. And when we die, we'll all, the whole damn country, go to fucking Heaven. All of us except for those damn fools who think we should apologize for killing the Indians, for destroying their way of life, ripping them brutaly from the womb of their mother.
And what did we do with the whore? We slit her from belly to throat and ripped out her heart, her lungs, her intestines (we had to know how she ticked, how she breathed, what she'd eaten) and when we were done there was only a carcass left; no soul.
Looking up, we saw her sweet sister in the sky and set there and then about building the largest, cruelest phallus we could inorder to take us there. And once there, we found the sister to be colder, more ghostly. Perhaps, there, staring out at the emptiness of space broken only momentarily with stars so far away, we saw the emptiness of our own souls.
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