The Prologue of Revelation

  The Washington Monument. Inauguration Day. I gently push against the door to the upper most maintenance room of the tower, and it was open. Good, I am on time for a change.

  I quickly pan around the small maintenance room at the top of the Washington Monument, and immediately notice the palatte laid out in front the small barred window facing the White House steps. This odd scene is rather reminiscent of the opening to a bad political thriller starring some washed up white guy, and some random white woman whom the fashion magazines currently label as “in”. One problem though, I am NOT Harrison Ford.

  Not even close. First and foremost, you must understand that unlike the star in some political thiller, I am not here to save this man’s life, but to save others whose lives would be lost if I did nothing to stop him from dying -- most notably in that group is ME. Moreover, none of this nonsense is of my own choosing or doing. And in all candor, I could really care less for politics or our "great" nation. I hated the pomp of Washington DC, and on this occasion, the highly publicized inauguration of an half breed African, not African-American, into the highest elected office in the civilized world, only added to my general disdain for this political machine.

  But I must be here, or so I have been told, and thus, here I sit, annoyed and bitter, in a cold, dank room at the top of the Washington Monument, overlooking the Mall.

  Alas, if you are reading these words at some future date, then things have probably not gone as I have planned, and I am most likely dead, or I am really wishing that I was dead. An unfortunate outcome to be sure, but hopefully, I at least succeeded in accomplishing some portion of my goals, in which case, you owe your probably miserable existence to me.

  Yet, if I have failed, then you have inherited a world of pain and suffering, but not only will I have cursed you into that world, but you may not even realize that you are, in fact, cursed, or that it was partially my fault. And for that, I am truly sorry.

  Therefore, in spite of my inclination against it, I have accepted that I may never know the outcome of my actions, and thus, I have decided to write these journals, even as I sit here in this dark room, so that I may recount to you my tale accurately, albeit if sometimes tinted by hindsight, but other times blindly, without such benefit, as even I await my story’s climax. Unfortunately, I fear that herein lies my only genuine hope of you knowing the truth. If I should fail or even succeed, I pray that through this somewhat partial accounting of my "fate" (as far as I understand it), will provide you, and future generations a full basis upon which to judge me fairly, learn the wisdom of my successes and failures, and see me, as I am, and accept my "truth", truly.

  However, since I do not know if I have prevailed as you read this, please forgive me if I seem argumentative at times, condescending or even offensive, but it seems to me that this recording may be my only rebuttal to the biased history to be written by my enemies, if I fall, or my successors should I succeed. And if I have, in fact, failed, this accounting, planted in the appropriate mind, may be the only seed left to sprout a faint hope in some distant future.

  That all being said, the question arises as to who I am and what is it that I have to impart, and how is it of such magnitude that anyone, aside from me, should even care. Unfortunately, I fear that I cannot, at this time, convey that simple bit of reasoning patently and succinctly, but that I must bore you with these chapters as they occur in my memory, a ragged series of hopes, dreams, truths and untruths of literally Biblical proportions. However, know you this, I will never intentionally lie to you, although sometimes my perceived reality, when an entry is penned, will have lied TO ME, and so I must convey that untruth to you.

  Nevertheless, be forewarned my dear reader, that this tale, if I may borrow a cliché of my time, is not for the faint of heart, or those of infirm beliefs. It is an ugly tale, which I desperately need to convey, and quickly, for I do not have much time left. Although, at one time, it seemed that I possessed far more of that precious commodity, yet I suspect that my feelings then relied on a misunderstanding of not just temporal mechanics, but the entirety of existence, or my rather, my insignificant place in it. But let me move on, for I am beginning to babble, and my guest will be arriving through that door soon, and I must prepare to greet him properly.

  Lastly, I must further warn you that, as this tale progresses, you will quickly realize that I am no hero, and that this is not a tale of ultimate victory, or even the faintest of hopes. It is a tragedy, told by a tragically flawed being, and on that point, please forgive me, if I fail to curry your favor, fill your heart with joy, or leave you better for the truths within these chronicles. All I can do at his juncture is to impart my fate, to the extent that I am even able to so comprehend it, and hope that such a bare, unadulterated telling somehow rises to the level of truth. So please, abandon all expectation and pretense, and for a brief moment, lend me your ear, in earnest and without judgment. And I will explain how I ended up in the maintenance shaft of the Washington Monument holding a single golden .50 caliber shell in my hand and watching the inauguration of President Barack Obama.

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