It doesn't start with the

Zyklon-B.

Its entrance into the world

is quieter,

and of more obscure

provenance.

It is a whispered rumor,

a garbled retelling,

a fairy tale told in blood,

a story that ends in tears of rage and

vengeance.

The words of

madness are

seared into the budding

neurons

like a branding iron.

They are the

rock-bottomed

God DAMNED

Way. It. Is.

And the Way. It. Is.

says that

every hungry stomach,

bloodied soldier,

stillborn baby,

withered crop, and

merciless plague

arises from THEIR evil magic.

Filtered through countless

wounded minds

over countless

wounded centuries,

the skin of the Others

becomes horrid and reptilian,

their rapacity

bottomless,

their evil

unbounded,

their continued existence

unthinkable.

And only when the

rock-bottomed

God DAMNED

Way. It. Is.

finally has its ultimate victory,

only at the end of the story,

can the good man

kiss his sleeping two year-old,

and with a clear conscience

tell himself that the bonfire of

screaming children

was necessary

to protect her.