(Last Updated: December 4, 2020)
by DR Wolfe

{From “The Dirty Little Secret About Transparensee” Series}
(Includes strong language)

It’s hard to imagine that we are the only “intelligent” life in the universe, or maybe on planet Earth. But if we’re not alone, what must they think of us?


Squash wrapped the top of the baggy around itself twice more and then quickly twisted the short silver wire around the opening, but realized that he had missed lining up the bands as perfectly as he usually did.

“God damn it!” He mumbled to himself. Taking care to wrap every baggy exactly the same way meant something to him. It was his special signature to the

He wasn’t able to focus. That meant he needed to stop before he fucked up another one.

“Fuck! Oh well, I’ll fix it later,” He said to himself. Reaching forward, he lifted the lid and dropped it in with the others.

As his fingers passed threw the row of baggies, he paused to fondle each one of them. Then he added a new one. He would have more than enough by Friday to make the deal on the sweet speed boat!

He had spotted it online and knew he had to have it. It was almost a new boat that could seat two. And it had these amazing red and blue flames running up each side.

The guy had a pic showing the boat flying above the water and that was enough. He was sold!

“Please let it still be there”,” he commanded aloud to no one. Closing the lid, he also closed his eyes tightly. Like a sinking anchor, he could feel the pain growing steadily somewhere behind his eyes.

His eyes had been distracting him for the last twenty minutes and he wanted to itch them. He knew, no matter what he couldn’t rub them until he was able to wash his hands. And this time, he would wash them really, really fucking good!

He didn’t want to admit it yet, but he had a pretty good idea why his eyes were itching, and it wasn’t good-

Crossing the hallway in two quick steps, he walked over to the
kitchen counter
and reached out to grab the open bottle of beer resting on the counter and missed it!

Instead of catching it, he bumped it with his fingertips, as though he were blind. The bottle began to slowly tilt backwards. Like one of those rubber ducks at the carnival you nailed with your best fast ball. Except instead of flying backwards like it’s supposed to do when you hit it, based on all the accepted rules of physics. The damn bottle just kept teetering back and forth, deciding on whether or not to fall over. It almost seemed like there was this invisible fishing line keeping it up.

There was this unbelievably irritating distraction coming from both of his eye balls, which didn’t make any sense. Maybe one eye, but not both. How fucking dumb to touched both eyes, he thought?

He focused all of his attention on the bottle, and concentrated. Then, reaching out, he snatched the moving bottle before it fell. Then in one fluid motion He jammed the top of the bottle against his lips. Unintentionally, he knocked the bottle against his remaining front teeth with a sharp “CLACK!”

Slamming the beer bottle down on the counter, he tried to focus his aching eyes on the bottle’s label, a distraction at that particular moment he really appreciated.

The label had some young babe in a two piece laying almost naked on some beach somewhere, at the perfect angle. They obviously designed it so that it appeared right side up to the customer when they tilted the bottle upside down.

As an entrepreneur himself, he well-understood the manipulative techniques used in the advertising world. Especially when it comes to the taste of the average American male.

He definitely admired their taste in selecting that particular beer model, since he especially liked brunets.

With his free hand, he instinctively began rubbing his eyes intensely, jamming his palms into the sockets. Stumbling to the sink, he cranked the cold water faucet up. Cupping his hands together in order to catch the cold water, he let go of the bottle which shattered in the sink.

“CRASH!” He ignored the mess he had just made, and instead splashed the water into his eyes.

“Shit!” He knew for sure he had screwed up. He had touched his face while he was cutting up the product, that had to be it.

“That was a really fucking stupid thing to do,” he told himself, taking a moment to wash is hands with the dish soap before grabbing another scoop of water, while mumbling a few cuss words aloud. He told himself, “Once you make that mistake one time, you learn to never, ever touch yourself, especially your face or your pecker when your working.”

“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!” The back door’s window ruddled from someone’s heavy rhythmic pounding. He also heard the sound of a familiar voice singing Spearhead’s “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Elijah…dear Elijah. There’s a hole in the bucket.”

Turning off the water, he yelled, “Yo!” So his friend knew he was coming.

But then, as though he were being commanded by some external brain with power over his arms and legs, he leaned over the sink and turned the cold water back on, full blast. Throwing a large handful of water into his face, he splashed the precious fluid everywhere.

Then in one fluid motion, he yanked on the towel hanging from the silverware drawer. But as things go, the drawer instinctively followed the towel like a well fastened caboose. He quickly stepped out of the way and waited for the explosion.

But the sound of the over-stuffed silverware drawer, spilling its contents onto the heavily beer stained linoleum floor, never came. Maybe his luck was
changing, he thought.

Wiping his face with the towel, he tossed it onto the counter and stumbled backwards toward the re-enforced backdoor.

He unfastened the multiple locks and flung the door open , but he realized too late that he had made a big mistake. He didn’t bothered to look first to see who it was before opening the door, which was for him the breaking of yet another Cardinal Rule…like never, ever touching his face while working!

He completely blacked-out the backdoor’s window, for security. So usually he peeked threw the quarter inch hole he drilled into the doorjamb, but not this time.

He rationalized, It was okay since it was his good pal, Jonsie. And he recognized the sound of Jonsie’s usual musical greeting and rhythmic knock. And besides, Jonsie knew to always, always come alone. And he knew, like all of his customers knew, to always drive into the complex and never come on foot, as the manager had suggested with a wink and a nod.

“Hey man, need a double hook up!” Jonsie yelled into Squash’s ear, slapping him on the shoulder. “Yo okay buzz? You look like you been weeping, something wrong? You know Jonsie would be back bye, even if things be slow. No need for you to be getting upset.” Jonsie said laughingly, using his Jamaican accent.

He paused and looked at
his friend a little closer, who wasn’t smiling back at him like he usually did. He scrunched up his face and stared into Squash’s vacant, bloodshot eyes, who seemed to be barely standing. And who didn’t seem to all be there. He definitely didn’t look right, Jonsie thought to himself.

It reminded Jonsie of how that neighbor cat with the dreads looked the night he kicked it last October.

“Where was that cat from? “St. Louis!” That’s right,” he remembered. “He was always bitching about losing his home team, twice. As though any one round here cared.”

“Home team, yeah right,” he told himself. “Like there’s a home team anywhere. We ain’t had a home town boy round here since stoudamire. There’s no home team for anybody.”

“That cat was just another corporate slave. Every morning, he was always blasting the dime store philosophy from the Disney morons.”

“Who was that. Oh yeah, It was the first day of the NFL draft, It was that gambling degenerate, Cowturd, and that other guy, Golic ‘the dog’, and that nasty little Jewish guy. They were obviously making fun of the blind, by playing a character called the Blind Prognosticator.”

“Except, they made the character so he was a mumbling, stumbling fool.”

“Hey Cowturd, I got your mouth breather right here, mother fucker!” Instinctively, he touched his pocket where he kept his inhaler, and took a deep breath.

“You know, these sports talk morons are paid to distract all the fools who listen. But it really is just another form of slavery, slavery of the mind. Think about all the time being wasted listening to that shit.”

“And don’t get me started on watching the games, when the balls are being chipped, and the players are being shot with lasers. Maybe the players are too brain damaged to know those cramp and itches their feeling during the game ain’t normal.”

“But if you don’t want to end up like Aaron Hernandez, who they found hung in his cell, after he started talking to the other inmates about maybe suing the NFL for his head injuries, you better not say anything.”

“Aaron wrote to his kids. He told them he knew playing football messed his head up, because he wasn’t like that when he was a kid, always flying into a rage…”

“Like Sandy Bland, Wakiesha Weaver Wilson, and that scum, Jeff Epstein, maybe they had to shut Aaron up.”

“So maybe Disney’s Stephen Asshole Smith is being paid off by the NFL to call Aaron Hernandez another dumb Negro, who liked to kill people.”

“Forget about Aaron Hernandez! I remember, That asshole Smith said.”

“And imagine that, after all he did for those Bristol bastards, taking all those whacks to his head.”

He felt it was his diverse heritage, just like hid main man, Jimi Hendrix, which gave him the insight to see how things really were in America.

“Yeah, if you don’t fit into what the Networks and Hollyweird decided, like being some gender-fluid metro-sexual, wearing a dress, you’re fucked!”

“Meanwhile, you got the thieving Zionist and Neo-con banksters on Wall Street secretly printing as much money as they want, and Congress saying its all legal, while they are swindling the rest of the world.”

“You got the sadistic, perverse government lawyer’s keeping score of how many times they can get us poor brothers into their cages. And they’re counting the numbers, like it was some sort of college football game! They say to each other, ‘I got a 97% conviction rate! well, I got a 98%. Bragging about how many lives they fucked up!”

“As if us poor people get a real lawyer, who is working for us and not the persecutor. And they pretend they ain’t destroying the lives of so many black or brown people.”

“Then you got the psychopath killer cops running around shooting everyone that looks or acts a little strange, or moves too quickly. While their being shot with bean bags or some kind of laser. So they can kill you and then say, I thought you were going for a gun, like they did to Aaron Campbell.”

“They got these professional assassins taking out any one who doesn’t buy the government’s 9-11 bullshit, and doesn’t look crazy enough to be openly ridiculed by the presstitutes.”

“And they got these professional kidnappers going around snatching all the precious little blue-eyed, white kids for their orgies on some island. That’s probably what happened to Kyron Horman.”

“And they got lots of harassment to spread around the hood, and maybe, plant a little evidence on some dumb cripple sucker who’s wife is screwing some county judge, along with a couple of her professors!”

“It’s no wonder the rest of us cats out here are just looking for something to make us smile. We just want to escape into our imaginations and pretend the American dream really does exist for us poor people, like we did when we were kids and had no idea how fucked up it is-”

He knew, “For most regular dudes from the hood the American dream is nothing more than bullshit! Unless, of course, you could play ball. Or you happen to be a hot-looking white bitch. Or you had to be from the “right” family, then you had a chance.”

“There is no other way out for anyone from this neighborhood, unless you want to sell your body or your soul to these corporate devils by becoming an intern, or a television whore, or a vengeful, gun-toting government thug.”

“Then you get to come into court and lie for an egomaniac from the D.A. or the U.S. Attorney’s Office, who’s doing it in the back room with one of his fellow lawyers, or the coerced intern! That is, when he isn’t busy screwing over some half-cripple, or some brown-skinned brother or sister from the hood!”

“America was built with the blood and sweat of human beings stolen from Africa and China, on land stolen from the Indians, just like Israel, the masters of the world, are doing to the Palestinian people every day, bombing hospitals and schools – killing hundreds of Palestinian children.”

“While the Israeli death squads are shooting the unarmed Palestinian protesters in the face with rubber bullets, blinding over fifty of our brothers and sisters!”

“I’m good Jonsie. Just got something in my eyes. Come on in,” Squash said, pushing Jonsie toward the hallway, and with a half effort, slapping Jones shoulder. He stopped for a moment and locked only one of the three door locks, breaking another cardinal rule.

He quickly followed his friend into the living room, and turned down the stereo a few notches. His random MP3 player was playing one of his favorite songs, the secretly recorded extended live version of Emilianna Torini’s “Weird, Friendless Kid”. They said it wasn’t available anywhere else, or that’s what they claimed when he bought it.

Squash went over to the desk and flipped open his stash box. He had got lucky and found the thick wooden box made of oak at a second-hand store, and knew right away when he saw it that it would be perfect for keeping things fresh.

That night, he stayed up until dawn, tripping out and carefully carving his own personal monogram into the top of the box. He was a “fucking R test!” Jonsie had said when he showed it to him.

Reaching in, he pulled out two small baggies. The way they were wrapped they kind of resembled small bags of some rare dirty precious mineral, each resting in their own individual transparent pouches. They looked like they had been carefully sealed, to signify their high value because of the tightly wrapped, thin silver bands.

Jonsie came over closer to look, holding two twenties out. He handed Jones the baggies and took the bills, Squash shoved the cash into his pocket and visualized the beer bottle model and him together, riding a wave.

“All right my man! Looks sweet!” Jonsie turned the baggies around, then around again, holding them up to the gooseneck light that was sitting on the end table.

The light brown crystals sparkled brilliantly in the bright lamplight. It was the best, fastest way Jones knew how to measure the quality, without tasting it. It was just that special way the crystals shined in the light along the edges of each of the golden little chunks, which he knew meant it was a high quality product.

Squash didn’t like anyone tasting the molly in his crib, but that never stopped Jonsie from checking it out real, real close before leaving. So far, it had never been a problem getting good stones from Squash, but you never knew, and his friend definitely did not look like he had his shit all together today.

Jones took another moment before finishing his examination of the baggies under the light, then stood up straight. Jonsie stood about a foot taller then Squash, so it was difficult, as Squash tried to look up into his eyes.

Hoping Jones wouldn’t stick around to much longer, Squash grabbed Jonsie’s left wrist with his left hand. and Together, as though it had been well rehearsed, they moved their arms up and down three times. Then they dragged their hands away from each other slowly, gripping their fingers at the very last second, shaking their hands three more times. Then, as a final salute, they bumped their knuckles together twice more.

“all right my man,” Jonsie said, smiling and turning back toward the kitchen.

“Thanks for stopping bye, sorry I’m not better company.” Squash said, in a tone that wasn’t real convincing, Jonsie thought to himself, but didn’t really care.

Rubbing his eyes again, Squash was thinking hard about how it would feel to get more of that cool water deep into each eye socket, and maybe even behind his eye balls. He imagined himself sitting on the back porch, greasing up a couple of ball bearings, that coincidentally, looked an awful lot like his eyes.

Then he imagined he was standing in the yard spraying his face with the ice cold water from the hose, but it wasn’t helping. His eyes were stinging worse then ever.

“They ached really, really bad. Really fucking bad!” He thought..

Jonsie looked back at him, and paused. “You ought to go get something for those eyes.

And you’re right. They got to hurt. They do look really messed up. Have you looked in the mirror? Serious man, get something. Your gonna end up like one of those blind people from the commission, begging on the corner with a tin cup and a bag of pencils!”

Even if he was joking, Jonsie looked genuinely concerned, and that look sent a chill threw Squash.

He imagined the horror of going blind. Strangely, Jonsie’s comment and serious look distracted him for a moment, and it dulled the pain.

Then he visualized these wicked red flames firing out from his eye sockets, like space lasers shooting across the room. He imagined he was a well-trained American military killing machine, defending the earth from ruthless alien invaders.

But just as quickly, like someone smashing a full, unopened beer bottle over the back of his head, reality suddenly returned.

Once before he had touched his eyes after handling the product, but that was a long time ago and it didn’t fucking hurt nothing like this.

He knew he had been way too high the other time, and learned the hard way to take that part of the job more serious. After a few dumb ass, costly mistakes, he made a clear rule about how and when he did, or did not, do the actual cutting up of the product. But it never affected him like this.

“It was fucking unbelievable!” But he also had this other weird thought banging back and forth inside of his aching brain, like a chapel bell during an earthquake, that made it all even more confusing. And he knew that he hadn’t touched his face that day while he was working…but that didn’t make any sense either.

He heard Jonsie say something as he left,but it wasn’t clear. Instinctively, he looked around the yard sensing some other outside danger approaching, but his vision was really cloudy. Somehow he was able to locked the door handle itself, and all three of the god damn locks, which always took a while anyway, but now seemed to take FOR-FUCKING-EVER!

He stumbled over to the sink. Cranking the faucet up to full blast, he leaned over and rinsed out his eyes, over and over, rubbing them relentlessly. The first time he felt the cool water strike his eye balls, it felt frickin’ unbelievably good!” And it gave him some instant relief, for a moment anyway.

The cold water seemed to calm down his nerves and ease the throbbing pain that came from behind his eyeballs.

“maybe he would grab another beer,” he thought.

he had this horrifying suspicion that his eyes had been injected with battery acid and were actually on fire, burning from the inside out.

The water no longer seem to lessen the excruciating, endless pain.

He forced himself to stand up straight and tried to think about what he had around the house to use. There had to be Something that he could put directly into his eye,something to stop the FUCKING BURNING!

He looked down toward the drawer. Then a very dark thought came to him, that even a knife, a really, really sharp knife would be good to have right now.

“I’m fucking blind! I’m fucking blind!” He screamed aloud, over and over. The pain was getting way, way worse and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

His eye lids were frozen stuck, halfway open and halfway closed.

He tried to move them, but he couldn’t…and he couldn’t even seem to raise his hands any more to rub his eyes. His whole face was numb. And even worse than that, he couldn’t “see fucking anything!”

“What the fuck! What the fuck!” He screamed over and over, but it may have only been in his head. He wasn’t sure what was real any more. Then he thought he saw himself, ravenously scratching out his eye balls, pulling them from their sockets, or maybe not…

As though a switch had been flipped from inside a hidden bunker in Arizona, he suddenly lost his breath completely, and heard, or felt, this strange popping sensation that seem to come from somewhere deep, deep inside his own skull. It was a very strange feeling, but it didn’t hurt any more.

“Should be worried,” he thought, “what was that sound.” He knew it was important to know, but the critical information was just beyond his reach, and beyond his field of vision.

Like a dying leaf on its final journey of life, he was floating away further and further, and further, out into the main current, being sucked down under the water. He panicked, and tried with everything he had left to reach out and swim to the surface to get just one more breath of precious air.

Just as he was about to break the surface, he thought he saw Dick Cheney shoving his head back down under the water, yelling, “Tell us what we want to hear! We have all kinds of ways to make you say what we want!”

And he truly did want to tell them- he knew there was something he really needed to say that was important, but he had lost his voice.

It reminded him of that time in junior college when he had to give his final speech in front of all the speech classes in the auditorium, not just his own class. He was fully dressed out in his favorite hippie gear from head to toe. Most of it came from the Seattle Hempfest, including a pair of bright orange tinted glasses that covered half of his face.

So there he was, leaning over the podium, waiving a pair of hemostats around. He had been doing really good for the first five minutes or so, talking about the benefits of legalizing pot, and right there in the middle of a sentence, that he knew was key to his argument, he completely lost his train of thought.

He just stopped talking. As he blankly stared out at the audience, who slowly began to giggle. And then broke out into a burst of uncontrollable laughter that echoed across the room.

He had this sudden moment of clarity and, knew he shouldn’t have PUFFED that phatty before class. One of his best buds had convinced him earlier that week that it would be a “way, way more funny speech if he did it stoned.” But as it turned out his friend was wrong.

And here he was again. He knew he had screwed up, but couldn’t quite remember exactly how it happened…

He felt his body begin to slowly slide down to the floor, as if it were melting, despite what his high school gym coach would call a ‘half ass effort’ by his arms to hold on to the edge of the counter. He heard his coach yell, “That’s ten more laps loser!”

He had this odd craving, watching the entire scene being played out from the other side of the room. He wished he had an extra large bag of buttered popcorn, with lots and lots of salt…or just something salty.

It was somewhat comical to watch, he thought. The audience laughed. With everyone’s eyes fixed on the performance, a part of him wanted to help this poor, pathetic drunk who was falling to the floor, but what could he do about it. It wasn’t like he could sprint across the room in a single bound and catch the guy in his arms before he hit the floor.

And, it was kind of funny to see, if it weren’t for this conflicting feeling from somewhere that somehow he knew this guy, really, really well. But he couldn’t quite remember where they had met.

He decided, the guy would probably be way more comfortable lying on the floor, sleeping it off. And besides that, he wasn’t a fucking doctor anyway! Yet, as he stared at the collapsing figure, he felt a strong regret for not dedicating his entire life to the study of medicine, specifically the study of micro organisms, which he knew would have helped, but didn’t know why.

He felt a rush of warm tears run down his face and just wanted to sleep. So Squash just laid there, curled up in a tight little ball, unable to move, he could still feel his eyes burning but it wasn’t no way near as bad as it was before.

He was grateful for that. Maybe this nightmare would be over in a few minutes, like it always did when he felt sick, like this…but not like this.

He was feeling a little optimistic for the first time since he could remember, and tried to relax. After all, it wasn’t like this was the first time he ever slept on his kitchen floor.

It would all be okay in just a little bit. He would lie here for a short while…while he caught his breath and rested.

“Everything was going to be okay,” he knew. Yet, this strange, warm, wet sticky stuff was running down his face and it made him very uncomfortable. And there was an awful lot of it dripping from his chin onto the floor. But, it didn’t hurt and that was a good thing, a real good thing.

Then, like getting the right answer in Algebra, which rarely happened, all at once he figured out exactly what was flowing down his face and arms in buckets.

“It’s the god damn sink over-flowing!” That was it! He hadn’t been able to turn off the water before he fainted.

But this other part of his brain strongly objected to that particular conclusion. It knew that it wasn’t the overflowing water from the sink, and argued feverishly that it knew this for fucking absolutely sure because the wet stuff was way, way too warm, and the advocate reminded him that he had turned on the cold water, not the warm water!

And the same zealot advocate from the far left side of his brain continued to passionately assert it definitely wasn’t his tears either since the sticky, thick liquid was pouring down his cheeks like an October Seattle rain storm, and that’s just not the way tears fall, even if someone runs over your cat.

then a completely different voice whispered into his other ear and gave him the answer, telling him what that wet liquid stuff was that was running down his face- And at that moment he knew absolutely for sure that he had the correct answer, even if he had cheated.

And if he could only find his voice for a few seconds he was going to win the flippin’ speed boat, and the hot beer bottle model!

“Door number three!” He almost yelled by mistake, and then remembered the right answer.

“It’s my fucking blood!” He screamed. He sure hoped they would hurry up and give him the keys to the boat, since the costly, high octane fuel seemed to be running out way, way to fast, like a row of garden sprinklers on a hot summer day in downtown Las Vegas. And it was running out threw his eye sockets.

How strange, he thought. Someone should turn down the pressure on the hose right away. It was going to be a hot July and August this year and someone needed to make sure there was enough water to last through the dog days of summer.

He could tell. His eyes were completely open. Yet, he couldn’t see anything.

He thought he heard the sound of a crow somewhere crying, or maybe laughing. He had this urgent feeling that he had to find a way to toss out a few chunks of bread through the kitchen window, as retribution to the crow for what had been done. Not to just the crow, but to the animals, and everything else, including the air, water, and even the rocks.

In that very last moment before he, or what he knew was his true essence, “separated” – just before he lost consciousness, a light in his brain came on, and he smiled to himself at the thought. He had always believed being blind meant that it was all black and complete darkness all the time for those people. But it wasn’t like that at all!

It was just a really, really bright white light that someone was shining directly into his eyes, that, not surprisingly, made him blind to everything beyond his nose even his nose, and even more-

He wanted to tell them, they just needed to point the light in a different direction and then he could see…and then everything would be better for all of them…yet he knew, it wouldn’t ever be better.

His physical body quivered. He instantly understood, the creators had created the entire Universe and everything in it, including him.

He was connected, literally, to an entire chain of billions and billions of other higher forms of life, who were all watching him. It was a massive web made of trillions and trillions of streams of light that ran threw everything. And he also knew they had been here, and would always be here, forever and ever, unlike him.

It all made perfect sense. Everyone knew traveling at the speed of light, or as fast as you could go, would extent your life or any other biological life form.

And the watchers could travel at a zillion times the speed of light, he understood that.

This meant they never aged, as we thought of aging. And they were
everywhere around him all at the same exact moment, or so it seemed.

He pictured an elderly professor he once saw on the Internet trying to explain quantum mechanics and how these sub-particles could be in two places at the same time. It was confusing then, but it was so obvious to him now watching the shining particles flying about-

He now also understood what had been happening to him, and that he was the first of many. “Pick me! Pick me” He wanted to yell, even though he knew being chosen might not be what he really wanted.

As a very, very last thought, he realized that more than anything else, judging the world based on only what he could see with his eyes had made him an ignorant and extremely selfish creature, one of the very worst the earth had ever created. How sad, he thought.

He knew they would someday start over by creating the human life form so that it could only interact with the rest of its world with the mind, and nothing else, just as the true essence of intelligent life throughout the universe communicates.

From far way, he thought he heard the voice of an angel, but he didn’t know. It may have been Alison Krauss singing about nothing at all, but he wasn’t sure…he wasn’t sure about anything, any more.

He felt his energy light dividing into zillions and zillions of particles of sparkling crystals and began floating away in every direction. It was amazing to watch, but he knew it also meant the end.

With even more sadness than he ever remembered feeling, he realized at that moment in this brief life he had been nothing more than what they called a “people watcher”, which was a universal slur and which he knew now was the most perverse, denigrating activity that one could do, having no good intent. Unlike the rest of the Universe that had been watching everything.

“It’s begun,” the translucent voice said, quietly.

But, it wasn’t really a voice, not like you think about voices being. It always talked to him in this same way, but not like any voice he had heard before. And everything else disappeared, as though he had been transported to a different dimension, or something.

Whenever the voice spoke to him it had become the very, very best part of his day, ever since the bad ones began watching him.

He waited, knowing in his mind there was more information about what was happening to come. Who he began to think of as the comforting one continued, in a way as if to ask him for forgiveness, anticipating his question.

“we had to do it this way. Life on the earth planet has suffered tremendously-“.

“I know. The evidence is hard to argue with, and you have allowed me to see.”

“Not everything,” the kindly voice interrupted.

“Yes. Thank you for that. But, as you explained, the first rule of the Universe is balance in all things, Not like we didn’t have a lot of chances.”

“The earth will heal itself…and begin again. Remember, true biological life will always find a way to survive.”