A Parable by Cataline Sergius
The vast fires of the besiegers blanketed the once-beautiful plains surrounding Tor Keep as far as the eye could see, glowing a
hellish red-orange against a sky so dark from the smoke that mid-day
appeared to be twilight. The black legions of Evil
chanted, “he rises! he rises!” as the massive flaming boulders from
their gigantic trebuchets crashed into the Embarrassed-To-Be-So-White
walls of Tor Keep. Huge scorpios launched terrible bolts big enough to impale an elephant, or even a Swirsky.
The high walls of the keep, once thought to be completely
impenetrable, now showed massive cracks, They were the result of the thunderous
barrage of the mighty siege engines arrayed on every side, as well as the cunning mines dug by the minions of the Supreme Dark Lord, which was totally unfair because they were so good at math.
The defenders of the
walls valiantly rained insults and condescension down upon their vile
faceless attackers, though despair now gripped every heart. The Embarrassed-To-Be-So-White walls were crumbling despite the tireless efforts of
the Diversity Wizards to magically reinforce them.
Far back
from the fighting and deep within the bowels of The Tower That Jordan Built, two herald-minions of the
Dread Lord stood before the women of the All-White-But-Nevertheless-Incredibly-Inclusive-and-Diverse-Because-They-Have-One-Gay-Asian-Guy-From-Silicon-Valley Council.
Their beautiful-in-a-very-different-way queen, Toadina the Squat, rose slowly from her heavily reinforced
throne, prompting great waves of magnificently turbulent fat to roll back and forth across her massive belly like an indecisive tsunami. She delicately cleaned one squinting yellow eye
with an elegant stroke of her forked tongue before clearing her swollen throat.
She addressed
the heralds in an imperious manner. “Here are the merciful terms we offer for your
complete and unconditional surrender. Behead your leaders. Kill one
in ten of the vile minions. Hand over two-thirds of your lands as well as all your present and future spawn. Admit your beliefs are sexist, racist, homophobic, and outdated, and renounce them. Then castrate yourselves. In
exchange we promise… to like you. A little.”
Blinking in astonishment, the two heralds looked at each other. Their faces twitched, and they appeared to be restraining deep emotion, but was it futile defiance or humble gratitude? Finally, mastering himself, the one with the number 289 branded on his right cheek stepped forward.
“I am sorry, Madam, but you appear to have mistaken us for Republicans.”