On a Friday, a long time ago, evil overcame goodness. As you can imagine it was brutal.
Evil was a machine that kept churning and spinning, with no one seemingly willing or even able to stop it. Like a woodchipper pulling in a single branch only to spit wood out to the air in a million pieces, ready for the next object to enter its mouth.
But the machine cannot operate by itself. Someone has to do maintenance. Someone has to make sure the parts are in working order. The wheels have to be greased, so to speak. It needs to be well-oiled.
The machine also needs food. Someone has to offer it material to crush and split. Someone has to stand at the ready, giving the machine more matter to destroy.
It was a stormy day. I stood by as I watched, simultaneously willingly and yet against my own desire participating in the destruction. A dirty, oiled rag hung from my pocket, my hands held the limb in place.
The machine was primed and pumped. The machine received its feeding.
Someone died, gasped their last breath. The machine purred to an idle.