Toulouse Sausage

I have to expound from my mind, dear reader, whether you wish to indulge or not, a tale of a man bound by the SELF-INFLICTED inner horrors of his own mind. Actions which may have extolled virtue upon him were ignored due to the ignorance of his place in society.

Outwardly, the man seemed perfectly at ease with his life and his friends: A laugh for anyone who wished to engage in witty banter, and a kind smile for his community. You may even go so far as to suggest that he was a gentleman, being brought up by stoic but kindly parents and given all he needed to succeed in the great game of life.

You would not suspect the slightest blight upon his pleasant countenance if you were to spy him at leisure, whether frequenting the many drinking establishments of South London town, or engrossed in the fine arts of the great Capital of beautiful England.

But all is never as it seems.

For inwardly, he was a hollow and dangerous husk of a man. From a young age, as long as he dared regress, he felt nothing but anger and hate towards these lowly wretches around him. He found it so easy to manipulate the thoughts and actions of those around him through the base means used by other men, simple rhetoric.

A word here, a whispered piece of advice there, another spur for the filthy maggots to engage with made him feel nothing at all but a loathing so deep and dark that the one thing close to joy he ever felt was in the knowing that they might one day be gone, to their GOD, their pathetic egotistical ideas of a life after death.

To think that they thought they were in some way more special than the rest of life around them. To believe that they were so important as to warrant vulgar prose and gaudy memorials to all they believed important. Themselves. To believe that they were here for some special purpose, the hideous and self satisfying preachings of 'Save the Planet', as if it were something that needed saving. Ha! I shall be happy when we are all dead, said he.

His outward appearance was fashioned by hate itself, a hate so bitter and dark that it was unable to manifest itself in known ways: For if he were to act upon his ideals, the filthy peasants would know, and he should be identified. He knew that anonymity, to blend in with those that he hated was his penance for insight. But a necessary penance so as to be viewed as ONE OF THEM.

Do you know, kindly reader, who he is?
He is you.