The Gospel According to Belle Eve: Re-writing the book of rules.


“What’s the problem, Mick?” I asked as the Archangel Michael and I were sitting in my office having a chat over espresso and biscotti.

“While you were away in Washington, DC watching all those politicians behaving like war-mongers, I was wondering about something important.”

“And was that, peaches?”

He took out Saul Alinsky’s book Rules for Radicals, and turned to the rule that was vexing him, and showed it to me.”

1.     Ridicule is man’s most potent weapon.

“I always thought there was a typo,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Ridicule is the poor man’s most potent weapon.” I said as Mick gasped.

I giggled at his adorable response. “That makes much more sense. When a rich man makes fun of a poor man, it is cruel and often provokes others to turn on the rich man, but why didn’t Alinsky spell it out?”

“It was the failsafe should someone who was once poor misuse the rule to keep others from breaking out of their own poverty.”

“Or to ensure if the rich thought they could use the rule, it would backfire on them. We ought to test the rule. I am due for a story from you, and what better way to get one.”

“Well, we can always find someone who gained from the rule and now is misusing it.”

“As a card-carrying member of the Fiat Lux Society, I am all on board for this assignment,” said Mick before his smartphone rang, and he answered it, talked for a few minutes, and then hung up.

“Who was that?”


“Oh, Elohai, what did He want?”

“He asked me for advice.”

“Over a war?”

“No, on whether He should call the Goditor.”

“Motherlight? Whatever for?”

“Well, some bloke named Art made it up to Heaven, but then it went all to his head, and he declared himself a god, because you know…”

“Our father who is Art in heaven, yes, I can figure it out. It was the same when some cat named Harold thought angels had to sing for him every time someone said, ‘Hark.’”

“They do oblige that one because he does tell them some good stories. Murphy thought He should let the Goditor handle this one. I said she’s very busy, and perhaps He should let this Art fellow try to exercise his power and see how far it gets him.”

“He probably thought he found a loophole for turning water into wine. It’ll work itself out. At least Murphy’s got a good story to tell later on.”

“And a few jokes.”

“As long as it’s not that whole thing about Adam’s Rib. That’s not funny. Yah made Adam first, and then thought I’d be that man’s dream woman. There was just one teensy weensy problem…”

Mick nodded knowingly. “He wasn’t your dream man.”

“Blech! I’ll say he wasn’t, Peaches.”

“I suppose you have to have some sympathy for the second Eve being saddled with the likes of him.”

“She wanted him. She can have him. As for me, let’s get a good story going by proving that humour is the poor man’s most potent weapon.”

“You know I can never resist a good story. Let’s find some rich person try that strategy, and see what we can do to set things right.”


We decided to go to New York City where many wealthy and deluded people who lived to make poor people suffer made their home. I wore my black clam-digger pants and white dress shirt, while Mick wore jeans and a t-shirt that showed how strappingly gorgeous he was. His long blonde dreads looked striking with his dark and handsome face, and we decided to walk down on Broadway to get inspired.

But just as we began to look around for deluded rich New Yorkers, we heard groaning, and turned around to see who wasn’t too thrilled to see us there.

It was Lu.

“Oh, Elohai, not him,” groused Mick, “The only thing that could be worse would be for Lilith to be here with him.”

And right on cue, there was Lilith being her snooty and detestable self.

“You were saying, Peaches?”

“Never mind.”

Lu walked over to looked me over in disapproval, “You may be beautiful, Evie, but still look like a hippie. Women don’t wear their hair to their ankles anymore.”

“I do.”

“It’s not fashionable.”

“Neither are jabots and you wear them…”

“Because they are dashing. And you, Mick, wear is your style?”

“If you are referring to my sword that I used to win a war against you…”

“Bah! Lucky aim, is all…”

“Lu! Stop indulging those two weirdos!” Lilith shouted as she stomped over.

“Eve, you look like a peasant girl.”

“And you look jealous, peaches.”

“What do you know about anything when you just couldn’t hack it as a wife?” sneered Lilith.

“No, playing second banana to a big ham wasn’t my style, but if you want to audition for it, I am sure the second Eve may let you do it.”

Mick smirked as Lilith frowned, especially when she noticed Lu smirking.

She turned to him angrily. “What has she got that I haven’t got?”

Lu sighed. “Raw animal magnetism to drive everyone wild. She’s the original woman, after all. When she’s around, everyone wants what she’s got…”

“But I want I want is answers, and we have to go solve another war mystery. Toodles, you two!” I said as I Mick and I walked away.

“It is bad when Lu shows up, but when Lilith’s hanging around, it is serious trouble.”

“We can follow their scent to see what trouble they made, and see if there isn’t something we can use to test Alinsky’s theory.”

“You can smell them?”

“Peaches, you heard Lu: I have raw animal instincts, and I know how to use them.”

“So where is the scent?”

I pointed to a large theatre. “We are on Broadway, Mick. If anyone is trying to use humour as a weapon, it would be someone who had a stage to do it.”


“So,” Mick said as we looked at the curtains in the empty theatre, “This does look like a place where someone could get some ideas on using humour to make someone look bad.”

“And not likely someone who is broke to begin with – that would be for some very off-Broadway venue. This is the place you get the spotlight when you arrive.

“But what is being delivered?”

“That’s for us to find out…”

“Her! I want her!” a raspy male voice shouted as Mick and I turned around. It was a man in his thirties with thick black glasses and a black turtleneck as a young man ran behind him.

“You have star quality!” the older man said as the younger man’s wide-eyes and gaping mouth revealed this was not typical behaviour, “I have to put you in my new play!”

“But I don’t have any acting experience,” I said.

“Who cares? You’re gorgeous! Bigger than big!”

“Bigger than big…?” spluttered the young man.

“Shut up, Barnaby, you’re just a moron – but you, young woman, you’ve got what it takes!”

“For what?” I asked.

“My brand-new play!” He turned to Barnaby. “Fire Mitzie Donner – she’s being replaced with an upgrade as of this second!”

“But...” stammered Barnaby.

“But nothing! This is the real star!”

“But the play goes on tomorrow night! We can’t replace the lead actress just like that!”

“I already have! Do you have a good memory, Miss…Miss…”

“My name is Belle Eve, and I have an impeccable memory.”

“See that, Barnaby? Her memory is perfect!” He threw a script at me which I caught. “Can you memorize this in an hour?”

“Piece of cake,” I replied.

“Get the others here! We have a dress rehearsal! I have found my new muse! Change the posters!”

“Change the posters?” squealed Barnaby.

“Yes! The press will eat this up! Quick! We have work to be done!”

The man walked away as Mick and I read the script.

The young man looked confused. “This is insane! That’s not how it usually goes around here. You have agents, auditions…”

“But Evie has raw animal magnetism and people find her irresistible,” Mick replied matter-of-factly.

“I hope it works for opening night.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Peaches, it will,” I said as a smirked and leaned on Mick who gave me a kiss on my temple.


“Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said you had an impeccable memory,” said Mick as we sat in my new dressing room, “You had the script memorized in no time, and pulled that dress rehearsal without a hitch.”

“Who could forget that dreadful play? It was nothing but insults about how stupid and crude poor people were.”

“It made a lot of fun of those living in poverty. It took everything in me not to object. I teach underprivileged children fencing in my spare time, and none of them remotely resemble anything in that pretentious play disguised as a political comedy.”

“That’s why I have invited all of your students and their parents to come here for opening night.”

Mick gasped. “How did you manage that?”

“I have my ways. They’ll all be flown down, spend a night at a nice hotel, have wonderful meals and a shopping trip free of charge.”

“I didn’t think you had money, Evie.”

“I don’t – but the investors of this play do, and I made a few phone calls.”

Mick raised an eyebrow. “Do they even know what they are spending lavishly on?”

“I told them the critics are coming from all over.”

“They will be big critics of a play that makes light of their hardships.”

“And as all of the press will be there as well as people recording everything on that thing they call social media…”

“We’ll see just how potent humour can be. It won’t be those wealthy snobs who watch tomorrow…”

“It will be those who the playwright and director know could never afford a seat here. Let’s see how well he can handle a misfired performance.”


Opening night would not be easily forgotten. I got ready backstage as Mick got the kids and their parents prepared form the other side of the curtain. When the curtain rose, I began to say my lines before I turned to the crowd. “Do we like the play so far?” I shouted.

“No!” the crowd yelled back.

“It’s mean!”

“It makes fun of poor people!”

“Poor people aren’t stupid!”

“Why is it so cruel?”

“I shrugged my shoulders. “Because that is how people with money see people who do not have it.”

The crowd jeered as the director stormed on the stage.

“You cannot improvise!” he shouted.

I pointed to the crowd as I spoke loudly. “And you cannot fool them, either.”

“What are these fools doing here, anyway!”

“Boo!” hissed the crowd as they began to throws things at the director.




“You made fun of the poor with this play,” I said, “How powerful a weapon is it when it backfires?”

The crowd continued their booing and shouting as the actors looked shocked. I jumped off the stage as  Mick joined me and shook his head. “You’re right, Evie, when a rich man uses humour to try to take down a poor one, the weapon turns on him.”

“Humour is supposed to show truths, not blow them away.”

“That’s what Alinsky meant. He thought humour would show the absurdity of what we accept without question.”

“The earth is a story machine, Mick. It is supposed to be comedy and Silliosity, but when people are corrupted by greed and have to have everything their own way, they become the punchline and not the poor soul they are targeting.”

“That suspiciously sound like a moral to a story that you haven’t even told yet.”

“There is more than one moral to this story; so, let’s get back and I’ll tell it to you.”

“That’s more like it. I always love a good story – it keeps the mind sharp and the heart strong.”


Money can’t buy you the weapon of humour!

They say that money is the root of all evil, but it isn’t the root of all blindness. When your mind and heart are closed to the world, money are not the glasses to help you see where you are, or what you have become.

Money cannot buy you happiness or the good sense to see that you cannot have everything no matter how much money you have.

They say that humour is a person’s most potent weapon, but it is not a weapon money can buy you.

When you are rich and using humour as a weapon against the poor, that weapon recoils in disgust and fires right back on you, showing who is the butt of the joke – and those you tried to hurt with humour end up getting the last laugh!

Because there once was a stage where those who had every blessing except a kind heart thought they would bury the poor with their comedy, never thinking those they meant to harm would come and see the weapon for themselves.

And when the rich fired the weapon on the poor, the tables turned because humour has a mind and heart of its own. It is not meant to be a weapon, but a medicine that heals wounds and lifts hearts.

And when money thinks it can bribe humour to harm the poor, humour rises up and shows money is no match for it!

The Gospel According to Belle Eve: War is Deception.


The archangel Michael was my closest friend and partner in mischief, and we had oodles in common. We both were around since the very beginning, and we still were immortals living in the Otherworldly While I had my office with every war manual ever written, Mick divided his time being an angel in our realm, but then went to the waking world for two things: teaching underprivileged children fencing, and coming along with me to solve a war mystery.

We were in my office where many of our escapades always began as he scoured my shelves, looking for a book to challenge as it always meant an antic in the staid old waking world, and then a story when we were done.

“Looking for a mystery?” I asked as I put my feet up on my desk and relaxed in my chair.

“I was just in a bad mood because someone prayed to me that their favourite reality show contestant win a competition by devious means. Can you imagine a more wasted prayer?”

“What did you do?”

“Not answer the prayer.”

“So, you did something by not doing anything.”

“Well, I do not like to be vindictive, but if there is a queue of prayers, that person’s priority goes down the list. Angels cannot be expected to grant wishes like a genie. I protect people from harm with integrity and truth, not rig contests and rewarding deceits. So now I am looking to your books to work out what is bothering me so much.”

Mick kept looking until he nodded and took out the original copy of Sun Tzu’s book The Art of War.

“Ah, here it is,” he said cheerily, “The book that was the first to declare that war is deception.”

“No, no,” I said as I rolled my eyes, “War uses deception as a weapon, but war is fear.”

“That makes much more sense,” Mick said as he nodded, “I always said as much, but really, we need to prove our mutual theory.”

“Great idea. So, let us test how much truth is there about the game of lies, peaches,” I said as I hopped up, “And then when we’re through, I will just have to tell you a story.”

Mick jumped for joy. “I love a good story! It gives me strength. Let’s go!”


“So how will we prove it?” asked Mick as we found ourselves in Los Angeles and were walking around feeling rather groovy.

“Well, since you had the prayer to meddle in a reality show competition, we might as well find one that has players telling lots of lies to win.”

“That would be Everyone Loves a Scoundrel.”

“Not everyone loves a scoundrel.”

“There’s the first lie right there. The point of the program is for contestants to lie to their friends, neighbours, coworkers, family, and even strangers in order to get certain peculiar items in a scavenger hunt without getting caught, and the person who gets away with the most lies and items wins.”

“You watch this show?”

“No, the person who prayed thought to tell me all of the details including the biographies of all the players threatening the odds-on favourite to win.”

“How helpful, but if the person is on the show and is recording everything, then all of these people must know this person is lying to win.”

“No, it is all hidden-camera, and the faces of the unwitting victims are blurred.”

“The person praying told you this, too?”

“So that I wouldn’t accidentally protect the person who was being lied to by the scoundrel.”

“We wouldn’t want to protect innocent victims from being exploited, now would we?”

Mick roared with laughter. “And now that we are both on the case, that is exactly what we will do.”

“Let’s get to the studio to start the case.”

“I know where it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I was even informed in the prayer who was the executive producer.”

“That must have been a very long prayer.”

“You don’t want to know the longest one I ever received, believe me.”

“Not even a clue?”

“It involved a yo-yo, a spurtle, a sprue, seven rancid lemons, a will, and revenge on a sibling whose supposed transgression happened when they were toddlers.”

“And you say I have all the great stories.”


When we reached the studio where they filmed the show of conniving deceivers, we were immediately let in as our exotic and distinctive looks had given people the assumption that we were actors who were auditioning for very specific role, with more than one smitten employee wondering if Mick was a famous male model.

“What now?” asked Mick.

“There are four contestants left. Point them out to me one by one, and I will take care of the rest.”

Mick’s angelic tracking skills were superb and it did not take long for him to find the first who was the one the person who prayed had asked for him to help win. I walked over to her and shook her hand as I looked at her with utmost seriousness.

“What would you say if I told you that there could be a very important director looking for his next big star by watching how well you tell lies?” I asked as the woman squealed.

“I knew it! Just wait until I tell the biggest lies ever! I’m gonna be a movie star!”

As the woman ran triumphantly out of the room, Mick looked at me and shook his head. “You told a lie to her! Evie!”

“I did not tell any lies. I just asked what would she say if I told her that. She never answered me or let me finish my thoughts.”

Mick roared with laughter. “That was skirting a very fine line, Evie.”

“She heard what she wanted to hear because she has been telling so many lies, she doesn’t know how to see truths; so she doesn’t realize that she’s setting herself up to believe them, too.”

“And she is hoping for a big payoff.”

“If we asked the same question of the other three remaining contestants…”

“Our case will get solved. You are a fun detective.”

“Remember, peaches, I was originally put on this Earth to amuse you angels with my antics.”

“And you’re a natural.”


It was the final episode, and thanks to the executive producers seeing Mick and wanting to increase their ratings by writing in an attractive and strapping black man with broad shoulders and a handsome face, they decided a live finale was what the ratings doctor would prescribe. The network was excited at the last-minute prospect, and Mick insisted that I was his assistant, and that we were a package deal.

“What is your role in this finale, Mick?”

“The producers have decided they all must lie to me in order to get access to a night club where the final challenge takes place. Unbeknownst to them, I have already been informed that they are to deceive me.”

“And unbeknownst the producer, they have all met you and think you have an in with some A-list movie director. So, how did they tell you to choose who gets in?”

“They have already decided who the final two contestants will be.”

“And one of them is the prayed for woman?”


“No? What an interesting twist.”

“If she won, it would be too predictable; so they want her to lose because many viewers despise her. It was the reason she got that prayer in the first place: that viewer knows the formula of the show, and was hoping this time would be different than the last ten.”

“Are you going to listen to their advice?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“Me? I thought you were the fake decider.”

“I never said to them I would do it. I just nodded and told them I understood them.”

“I am surprised at you.”

“They interpreted my actions as compliance. I never agreed to their terms. Let’s see how far these fibbers will go when they realize they may be lying so much that they can no longer see a truth that hits them in the nose.”

We were instructed to go stand on our marks in front of the nightclub as the program was live to air.

The first of the four contestants ran up and began to dance in a modern style, shocking and confusing the director who could not stop the camera from rolling.

“Is that good enough to be in your movie?” he asked.

“You’ll have to get in the nightclub to find out, peaches,” I said.

“I don’t have to lie to you?”

“It wouldn’t be very nice of you. How will anyone see your natural charm if you tell lies?”


The contestant ran inside just as the second one did – the devious one who had the prayers of a fellow deceiver, but not of the executive producer.

“I knew you really wanted me!” she said, “Do I get to go inside now?”

“No, the executive producer said they didn’t want you to win,” I replied.

“What? How dare he?”

The director glared at us as we waved for the camera.

“He thinks you don’t have star quality, peaches.”

“I have star quality! I was destined to be famous! Well, I’ll show him! I am going inside that club to have a date with destiny!”

“Hello, America! We’re letting in the other two contestants,” I shouted to the camera, “How boring is it if we always have to decide between two scoundrels, instead of four…”

“What are you doing?” screamed the director who marched on camera, “You’re ruining everything!”

“How so?” asked Mick, “Isn’t television supposed to be exciting and unpredictable?” Mick suddenly looked mischievously at the camera, “And to Rachel Bigelow, of Sandusky, Ohio, the one who prayed for her deceptive contestant to win, you really should use prayers for real emergencies, and not frivolous games! The next time you pray to me, make sure it is for a good reason!”

“Are you insane?” shouted the director.

“No, I am the archangel Michael, and this is Belle Eve, the original Eve from Eden who left before she had to marry Adam.”

“You are insane!”

“No, he’s telling the truth…”

Just then, the third contestant ran up, asked if he could go inside, and I nodded as I pointed to the door.

“You can’t do that, you loons!”

“We already did, and here is the last contestant…yoo hoo! The party’s inside!”

The last one ran in as the director began to swear and curse.

“I know this show is all about lying, but you shouldn’t be lying!”

“But why not?” I asked.

“Because, it’s just crazy! Losers lie and we exploit those idiots!”

Just then, the four contestants marched over to the director and surrounded him. “We heard that!” shouted one of the contestants, “How dare you lie and exploit us like that?”

“Who are you to talk? You lied to your daughter about getting her a pony if she gave you her favourite toy for you to break on the immunity challenge!”

“That was different!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“You called us losers in front of America! I’m going to sue you!” said another contestant.

“You’re all a bunch of cowards who scheme and backstab people for five seconds of fame!” roared the directors.

“Cowards? We’ll show you who’s a coward!”

The five began to brawl as Mick and I looked at the camera.

“Well, darlings, that is the reason we should never deceive anyone or exploit them.”

Mick nodded, “And to prove how fearful they really are…”

He clapped his hands, and the sunny skies turned black as a bolt of lightning hit an inch away from the brawlers, who all screamed and ran away.

Suddenly, it was sunny once again.

“No one won today’s game,” I said, “But it is a victory for one bolt of lightning. Goodbye, and watch something more constructive next time!”

The cameraman gasped as he stopped filming. “Great special effects, guys! This is classic and the ratings will be through the roof. I don’t know how you managed to pull off that lightning gag, but I was impressed! And I loved the whole Eve and Michael angle – it serves all those cowardly fibbers right! What a bunch of babies.”

The crew left without the contestants or director as we looked at each other and went back to my office where a promised story was about to be told.


The truth about war is that it is fear and not deception!

War is deception who will hear the mindful muse time and again. War is all about lies, they decree as they tell more of them, hoping to win and conquer battles, games, and bloodbaths.

But lies are a weapon of war, for war is nothing more than fear.

For those who fear being weak and insignificant, they do all that they can to run away from their vulnerability and insignificance.

People draw all sorts of silly lines in the sand, and make enemies with children and strangers just because they are fearful.

There once was a game where scoundrels waged war on each other, all afraid of being obscure, poor, and weak.

So, they betrayed all those who loved them for fear tells you to hate those who love you, and love those who wish to exploit you.

They began to lie to themselves before they lied to others, until the day they thought they heard a truth, when it was merely an echo from their empty hearts that told them the same lie.

For to wage war on others, you must declare war on yourself first.

And those who do not love themselves will always spread their fear through war, until those with brave hearts fill it with love and truth, and end those wars with the bravery that comes from kindness!

The Gospel According to Belle Eve: Politics by Other Means


Michael may have been an archangel and the one whose sword put an immediate end to the Great Angel War that was sparked when one of the angels noticed that I had flown the coop before the great revealing of the Big Guy’s greatest show on the Great Story Machine known as Earth, at least to the waking world. My replacement was not as daring as I was, and I left Eden because when I saw Adam, his arrogant ways made me sick to my stomach. He was selfish, self-entitled, and always preening, and I was too free-spirited to put up with his antics.

So, I left paradise and eventually became a war detective, with my good friend Mick joining the fun, and when he wasn’t busy answering prayers, he took the form of a black man in the waking world, teaching underprivileged youth the art of fencing.

He was always so adorable that way.

That, and how he gets all silly and excited whenever I tell him a story.

It was one of those days when he came to visit me after his usual fencing lessons when he looked at my bookcase and marvelled at how many war manuals were written over the ages – and that I had every single original print of them all.

“It is the most extensive collection of war manuals ever gathered, but that is hardly me bragging, peaches. It is downright depressing.”

“You have texts written on stone tablets, clay, papyrus…”

“I read a silly article where a writer was complaining that psychology studies have studied only fifteen percent of the planet. I’ve studied the entire planet of every culture since the beginning of time, and not one of them got through with writing war manuals.”

“It is depressing, though most of them aren’t very well known. Do you have any other sorts of books?”

“I do have one from a female psychologist who wrote an anti-war manual in the 1940s after she and her true love escaped Europe during the Second World War. When all those war manuals get to me, I pick up her book and see there is hope for the human race yet.”

Mick picked up another book, “Her book isn’t well known, but this one is one of the best known. Clausewitz on War.”

“But unlike her book that is all right, his book is all wrong.”

“We’ve tested a few of his ideas, and every one proved to be silly.”

“There weren’t the only silly ones in there.”

“His most famous observation was that war is the continuation of politics by other means.”

“He had it backward, peaches. Politics is the continuation of war by other means.”

“That is an interesting counterargument, but how do we prove it?”

“There is always an election somewhere.”

“The United States is having one.”

“Let’s make some trouble, peaches, and when we prove Clausewitz wrong, I’ll tell you a story all about it.”

Mick clapped his hands happily, “You know no angel ever can resist your stories. What are we waiting for?”


We left my office and headed to Washington, DC, a place that loved its wars, both the literal, and the figurative ones of elections. There was crime and homelessness on the street that always made Mick sad and willing to give generously to the dispossessed as he also stopped no less than five muggings with his sword and fencing skills, while I was busy looking around for clues.

And that’s when we ran into a friendly goddess doing the same.

“Tommie!” I shouted as I ran over to give Her a hug, “What brings my favourite goddess here?”

“George and I are here to stop that ridiculous religion that proclaims to worship Me and My ways, but then does everything I would never do under any circumstances.”

Mick nodded thoughtfully, “Murphy says the same thing. It frustrates many gods.”

“Well, I am gathering information to know what I will need to do bring some sensibility to these impossible people. So, what are you two troublemakers up to here?”

“We are testing a theory,” I said, “About the correlation between politics and war.”

“Yes, Washington, DC, loves it wars in the battlefields where other people’s children are sacrificed, or on the campaign trial where people vote for their next set of exploiters. Good luck with your latest war mystery. I am off to find George before he gets himself into any more trouble.”

“Where is George, by the way?”

Tommie rolled Her eyes. “He was invited to the White House.”

Mick and I gasped in unison. “Was he invited?”

“Yes, by his number one fan. Can you believe it? I will be lucky if he doesn’t spark a new religion just as I dismantle the first one he inadvertently started when he mourned My premature passing.”

“Good luck with that,” said a sympathetic Mick, “Once new religions start, they are very hard to control.”

“As if I hadn’t had enough on my plate as it is. Good luck you, two, and if you are ever in Grimsby, Ontario, come on over.”

“I thought you were in Paris, Ontario,” I asked.

“Oh, I was, but then George caused something of a riot there, and now we are in Grimsby. I was hoping to travel somewhere out of Canada, but he has been causing Me no end of grief. First, in Selkirk, then in Paris, but I am keeping My fingers crossed that he doesn’t make trouble in Grimsby. I will see you both later.”

Tommie smiled as She waved goodbye as Mick whistled. “There is a new wrinkle. George the Edenite Sentry is friends with the president of the United States. It complicates our test.”

“Actually, as he is preoccupying the president, we can focus on a more ignored race, and then test our theory about war and politics.”

“Sounds like a very good plane. Let’s see where we can set up our laboratory to test our ideas about the lunacy of war.”


Mick sat down across from me at a diner in the heart of the Beltway as he drank his milkshake and then ate his apple pie. “So, Evie, which campaign do we start with?”

“It doesn’t matter. They are all the same.”

“Isn’t there any particular candidate you had in mind?”

“They are all the same, peaches. We pick any one, and show how they using the election to wage war on the people and lord over them.”

“Well, then that’s easy: the first candidate we see, we can follow that person and the rival, but how do we test whether that war is the continuation of politics by other means or is that politics is the continuation of war?”

“But proving that politics the war against the people.”

“The people?”

“That’s right. Politicians always wage war against the people they want to rule. If they cannot subjugate them with bombs or guns, then they will try to do it with politics.”

“Now I see what you mean. Dictators rule with over violence, but today’s leaders do it by manipulating people into thinking they want to be ruled with psychological violence.”


“No wonder you are a war detective. You see through it all.”

“Yes, and it is time to begin to show the electorate just how their leaders are waging war on them these days.”


“By getting a couple of signs and marching in the streets. What we will write will get us instant attention, peaches.”


As good as my word, we got our placards and began marching in the streets of Washington, DC as we sang protest songs of politicians oppressing the people by always waging war on them, and terrifying them from seeing how abusive they were with their psychological savagery.

It did not take long for people to snap pictures of us with their smartphones and post our antics on social media, and soon after, a television journalist came to cover our protest.

Mick and I waved at the cameras as we held up our placards: Mick’s sign read, “Ballots are bullets!”, while mine declared, “And this election is a bomb!”

A television reporter ran toward us with a camera crew as she looked at us with a smirk. “What are you two protesting?”

“We want the politicians to stop waging psychological war on their citizens with their elections,” I said passionately as Mick nodded.

“But we live in a democracy…”

Mick shook a finger as he looked stern, “If by democracy, you mean terrorizing people with threats if they do not elect the candidate, then perhaps it is time for a new definition of democracy.”

“They are both war-mongers of the worst sort,” I added.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Both candidates are having affairs with their interns, both have been taking money from wealthy tycoons to rig the laws in their favour, both uses dirty tricks, sexually harass their workers, and neither has ever done a thing for anyone but themselves; so why are all these people fighting each other over the likes of those two buffoons?” asked Mick.

“We are protesting everyone, from the politicians to the voters,” I said to the stunned reporter, “We want a real democratic process where we find the most qualified, dedicated, and kind-hearted person and ask them to run very nicely. There is no need for war, and there is every need for peace. Anyone who wants to run for office is obviously not qualified.”

“But are you suggesting a monarchy or dictatorship…?”

“That’s hardly democratic, peaches,” I replied, “A true democracy gives real choice; not having to decide between two egotistical buffoons…”

Just then, both candidates marched toward us. “We’ll sue you for maligning our good names!” shouted the candidate on the right, “How dare you say that we are anti-democratic and against free speech?”

“But you are threatening my free speech and economic freedom if you sue.”

“It’s all lies!” shouted the candidate on the left, “I am highly offended by your accusations. I will mobilize my followers on social media to put you both in your place! You two are devils!”

“Devils?” said an outraged Mick, “You are threatening a psychological stoning of people who are expressing their right to free speech?”

“Well, you started it!”

“We’ll destroy you treasonous, Russian-backed agents!”

“I thought you two were mortal enemies,” I said, “So why are you two getting together to make the same threats with the same logic as you make the same unfounded and false accusations?”

“That’s right,” said Mick, “Why are you declaring war on peaceful protestors? If you two were different, you wouldn’t be uniting and behaving and thinking identically.”

“Now there is something for voters to ponder,” I said as I smiled and waved to camera before looking at the reporter, “Now, why don’t you be a good journalist and ask them how they are different from each other?”

All three blanched before they all ran away in unison.

“See? I told you they are all alike, even the reporter. All three are war-mongers trying to make war and division instead of peace and unity.”

Mick laughed, “You were right as usual, Evie: politicians are forever declaring war on the people they want to conquer.”

“One day, the people will see that, and make their own paths. Let’s get back to my office so I can tell you a story.”

Mick put his placard in the trash before lifting me up to give me a big angel hug as he cheered.


Politics is the continuation of war!

The war strategists who always tell you that war is the continuation of politics by other means, but it is always war to politicians who use politics to create a siege of panic in the populace.

It is politics that keeps the flames of war alive as people quiver as they vote for one side thinking the war will finally end, and one day, the politicians will not raid and pillage their wallets and freedoms, but they always pillage more of both as they proclaim they are waging war in the name of peace.

There once were two political rivals who always promised the people that they were as different as night and day, meaning they had the entire earthly rotation covered.

They both made threats, told lies, and lived their double lives as they vied for the same office playing the same games, and using the same stratagems of war.

Buy with all war-mongers, what the detest the most are words of peace, and words of truth that comes from love and bravery.

And when they saw the signs that threatened their war-mongering, they banded together to try to annihilate a different way to see the spinning world – without their meddling.

But when they were revealed as war-mongers to that spinning world, they ran away like cowards, as all warlords do, and if people could remember to always speak the truth with kindness and bravery, those wars would cease, and peaceful ways of guiding the world could finally begin!