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Description
A Study in the Fallacies of Righteousness and Justice

In today's society it is a general agreement amongst the people that murder is bad. This fundamental belief is the glue that holds any species together—not that killing is bad, per se, but that the murder of your genetic brethren will leave your kind extinct. Unfortunately there are those few but all too many who do not share this necessary understanding of the nature of survival. Their actions, while relatively and evolutionarily insignificant, leave deep scars in the fabric of the human psyche. This rift is further cast into relief when the target is a widely known political figure, and the resulting sense of void is perhaps the worst collective feeling known to mankind. The death of George W. Bush was a tragic and turbulent time in American history, and, indeed, in the history of the world. The entity responsible was a single man in a state of deranged bereavement often likened to chemically induced psychosis. He was a good man. He was a bad man. He was a lover. He was a killer.

He was Chad Dartmouth.

It would be a severe overstatement for me to say Chad was ever normal; indeed, every source I have found states otherwise in an outrageously abrasive manner. He was crude at inappropriate times, quoting fetus jokes in the face of orphaned goldfish, chuckling heartily at the “mis-fortunate adventures of an anthropomorphic walking stick”, and at one point even going so far as to “rescind the right of any man to bear upon his pharyngeal flesh an opal of egregious size or density.” While these ravings were oft ignored as the disparate mating call of the American teen, the sad and ever-present truth was anything but; these were the gleeful and artistically planted seedlings of an eventual monstrosity. It was an unfortunate twist of fate for the world that his incessant and increasingly disturbed rambles were brought into the mainstream media as satirical genius. It was slightly more unfortunate when he gained international publicity. It was more unfortunate still when he began making appearances on talk shows and was eventually invited to a dinner at the White House, in what was to become a historical and terrifying night the likes of which had never been seen in the public eye [citation needed]. Where did the seeds of this madness begin? Who chose to nourish them, to give them fertile soil? As it turns out, he was not always the madly skewed version of “human” we see today.

Yes, at one time Chad was a perfectly normal human being. He had friends and enemies as we all do. He ate split pea soup and complained when his mother rubbed the dirt off his face. In fact, he was a fairly good person. He went to Church on Sundays (wearing pajama pants, much to his mother's dismay) and sang in the choir. He even volunteered around his community, planting flowers for local invalids and giving massages to overworked bees. This charm of his was obviously short-lived, but to understand where he went wrong we must first understand what he did right. Through the course of his volunteer work for the church, he grew a heartfelt and animus distaste for all things religious, and, indeed, all things the Church considered “good”. He began to disrespect his parents, he treated others as he did not want to be treated, he ate shellfish, he wore clothing of two different fabrics, and he allowed women to speak in the Church (A rule which his pastor had been conveniently overlooking anyhow, but he clearly felt it was important, as he discussed said rule with his friend and lover, Johanne Cletousiou). Experts say it was probably this sudden and flagrant disregard for everything he had believed in for so long that did him in. He soon began showing signs of his imminent behavior; he purchased a crossbow from a local pawn shop, and according to his mother would spend countless hours practicing in the backyard after school. In fact, he would spend so much time with the crossbow that he began to neglect his studies altogether, opting instead to drop out of school and do landscaping for people in his neighborhood. His pastor attempted to help, offering free counseling and cake. Pastor Howard Calworth recounted for me the moment he believes Chad snapped.

“He had finally accepted my offer for counseling. I was very relieved—he had been growing more and more distant from both the church and his family. He arrived at Seven Thirty PM, dressed in a ragged pair of jeans and a half-gone T-shirt depicting a lewd gesture in psychedelic colors. I asked him to sit, and he did as he was told, moving as if zombified. I asked him how his day had been, but he didn't answer. Instead, he remained silent for a few minutes, staring down at his shoelaces. He looked up at me and said 'I came for the cake.'

“I realized with a sense of growing unease that I had left the cake at home. 'I'm sorry, Chad,' I said. 'I forgot it at home. I'll bring it next time, though.'

“The peculiar expression he gave me next confirmed my fears. This cake had been a symbol to him—a reason to trust someone again. His voice was deathly quiet as he said with a grave face, 'The cake is a lie?'

“I knew then I needed to leave. I stood hastily, knocking papers off my desk, and said 'I think it's time for me to go.' He didn't react, and I ran as fast as I could manage back to my car. The unearthly howl I heard even through the protective shield of my Mercedes will haunt me to the grave.”

We all know how this story ends. On March 14th, 2008, President George W. Bush was assassinated via crossbow at a dinner for talented young artists of all genre. His reaper (and guest of honor) was incarcerated in a federal asylum overseas, and nothing has been heard of him since. He has become the stuff of legends and nightmares alike. The world can only hope to never know the mind of Chad Dartmouth.

Description
A Study in the Fallacies of Righteousness and Justice

In today's society it is a general agreement amongst the people that murder is bad. This fundamental belief is the glue that holds any species together—not that killing is bad, per se, but that the murder of your genetic brethren will leave your kind extinct. Unfortunately there are those few but all too many who do not share this necessary understanding of the nature of survival. Their actions, while relatively and evolutionarily insignificant, leave deep scars in the fabric of the human psyche. This rift is further cast into relief when the target is a widely known political figure, and the resulting sense of void is perhaps the worst collective feeling known to mankind. The death of George W. Bush was a tragic and turbulent time in American history, and, indeed, in the history of the world. The entity responsible was a single man in a state of deranged bereavement often likened to chemically induced psychosis. He was a good man. He was a bad man. He was a lover. He was a killer.

He was Chad Dartmouth.

It would be a severe overstatement for me to say Chad was ever normal; indeed, every source I have found states otherwise in an outrageously abrasive manner. He was crude at inappropriate times, quoting fetus jokes in the face of orphaned goldfish, chuckling heartily at the “mis-fortunate adventures of an anthropomorphic walking stick”, and at one point even going so far as to “rescind the right of any man to bear upon his pharyngeal flesh an opal of egregious size or density.” While these ravings were oft ignored as the disparate mating call of the American teen, the sad and ever-present truth was anything but; these were the gleeful and artistically planted seedlings of an eventual monstrosity. It was an unfortunate twist of fate for the world that his incessant and increasingly disturbed rambles were brought into the mainstream media as satirical genius. It was slightly more unfortunate when he gained international publicity. It was more unfortunate still when he began making appearances on talk shows and was eventually invited to a dinner at the White House, in what was to become a historical and terrifying night the likes of which had never been seen in the public eye [citation needed]. Where did the seeds of this madness begin? Who chose to nourish them, to give them fertile soil? As it turns out, he was not always the madly skewed version of “human” we see today.

Yes, at one time Chad was a perfectly normal human being. He had friends and enemies as we all do. He ate split pea soup and complained when his mother rubbed the dirt off his face. In fact, he was a fairly good person. He went to Church on Sundays (wearing pajama pants, much to his mother's dismay) and sang in the choir. He even volunteered around his community, planting flowers for local invalids and giving massages to overworked bees. This charm of his was obviously short-lived, but to understand where he went wrong we must first understand what he did right. Through the course of his volunteer work for the church, he grew a heartfelt and animus distaste for all things religious, and, indeed, all things the Church considered “good”. He began to disrespect his parents, he treated others as he did not want to be treated, he ate shellfish, he wore clothing of two different fabrics, and he allowed women to speak in the Church (A rule which his pastor had been conveniently overlooking anyhow, but he clearly felt it was important, as he discussed said rule with his friend and lover, Johanne Cletousiou). Experts say it was probably this sudden and flagrant disregard for everything he had believed in for so long that did him in. He soon began showing signs of his imminent behavior; he purchased a crossbow from a local pawn shop, and according to his mother would spend countless hours practicing in the backyard after school. In fact, he would spend so much time with the crossbow that he began to neglect his studies altogether, opting instead to drop out of school and do landscaping for people in his neighborhood. His pastor attempted to help, offering free counseling and cake. Pastor Howard Calworth recounted for me the moment he believes Chad snapped.

“He had finally accepted my offer for counseling. I was very relieved—he had been growing more and more distant from both the church and his family. He arrived at Seven Thirty PM, dressed in a ragged pair of jeans and a half-gone T-shirt depicting a lewd gesture in psychedelic colors. I asked him to sit, and he did as he was told, moving as if zombified. I asked him how his day had been, but he didn't answer. Instead, he remained silent for a few minutes, staring down at his shoelaces. He looked up at me and said 'I came for the cake.'

“I realized with a sense of growing unease that I had left the cake at home. 'I'm sorry, Chad,' I said. 'I forgot it at home. I'll bring it next time, though.'

“The peculiar expression he gave me next confirmed my fears. This cake had been a symbol to him—a reason to trust someone again. His voice was deathly quiet as he said with a grave face, 'The cake is a lie?'

“I knew then I needed to leave. I stood hastily, knocking papers off my desk, and said 'I think it's time for me to go.' He didn't react, and I ran as fast as I could manage back to my car. The unearthly howl I heard even through the protective shield of my Mercedes will haunt me to the grave.”

We all know how this story ends. On March 14th, 2008, President George W. Bush was assassinated via crossbow at a dinner for talented young artists of all genre. His reaper (and guest of honor) was incarcerated in a federal asylum overseas, and nothing has been heard of him since. He has become the stuff of legends and nightmares alike. The world can only hope to never know the mind of Chad Dartmouth.