He may have been a stranger inviting me to go down and look at his secret
basement, but I was a big boy and could probably handle myself against him
and his band of disillusioned ninjas. After their potential was implied they
did as all good ninjas must and melted away; the stranger and I were all
alone except for the blinking walls. Directing my attention to the large
dominating table that only a fool would need direction towards, he explained
that he was a destructionist and that he felt sure I would be sympathetic to
his cause. I love moronic logic with a malicious grin: "Look at the table;
I'm a destructionist." I hate it when they go on to explain why they're not
morons who deserve to have their faces burnt off and fed to crows who don't
know the difference between caramelisation, chargrilling and burning.
"I have planted small amounts of explosives in almost every conceivable
place in this town. Nothing dangerous. No real damage, just a little bit of
destruction to keep everyone on their toes, keep things fresh, and ensuring
a steady growth in high street spending which is either good for the economy
or bad for it - I can't remember which, and don't care sufficiently that
I'll take either on as an ancillary motive. This table is an exact replica
of our beloved little town, with these rectangular buttons on top
representing each and every building. Press one of the buttons and you'll do
a small bit of damage to something within that building." It really was a
marvellous replica: because of the townplanning and architectural theorems
of the 1960s, the boundary of our town is dangerously rectangular - many's
the toddler who had impaled a young eyeball on one of its corners - and the
buildings are all shaped like rectangular buttons. Our town also has legs, a
woodgrain effect and a drawer in which playing cards and pencils are kept.
"Press one of the buttons," he invited. To cover myself in the event of a
trial, I sought assurances that the only explosions would be small and safe.
"I'll deny ever saying this if you ever tell anyone, and my ninjas will
testify on my behalf too - they're disillusioned, not disgruntled - but you
have my word that the explosions are small and safe." It was good enough for
me. Such power to do almost nothing at my fingertips; I was visibly dripping
with a contradictory mixture of apathy and excitement - so many emotions, so
little time. I threw my finger in the air; it spun, then hung as it reached
its apex. Was it my imagination or was its diamond coating really glinting
in the glaring lights of the basement? No time for answers: falling was
occurring. A depression, a smattering of insomnia, the internal workings of
the table went into action to blow something up somewhere, but in a small
and safe manner, natch.
A coffee pot blew up in a corner. A ninja was scalded and had glass imbedded
in him, he screamed, my stranger shot him for failing to adhere to the creed
of ninjism. Death is just dealt with so little emotion amongst hardened
destructionists; I'd weep if I hadn't used up all my juices being apathetic
and excited. "My my, what luck for you to press that button. I thought we'd
have to go out and search for wherever the minor destruction occurred to
prove my point. You see what power we have? No harm done, but a new coffee
pot is required, and if you'd not expected some form of explosion somewhere
it'd make you think, wouldn't it? 'Gosh, my coffee pot exploded. Oooh.'
Imagine people all over this town thinking that just because you pressed a
little button. Don't you see what we can do with this? Can't you see how
wonderful this is?" I couldn't. The principle was beautiful, but in practice
I could see just too many ninjas being shot when they screamed. It wasn't
something I wanted to be a part of. The prospect of racking up big combos
was enticing, but ultimately the bad outweighed the good. I bade him and his
hordes good day.