The Great Wake 12: The Weakling Muttered

They ain't living like the refugees, but they're here for them in spirit and fashion.  Thoughts and prayers and solidarity and ribbons and pins.  How heroes are made, how viruses are defeated.  Sounded like an invite, a small incursion was one thing, a large incursion was another.  The weakling muttered at the microphone as he stood soft and wobbly.

His decay seemed forced, the circle talking, the circle jerks, the circle of grease.  Map it out, missles for cash, they weren't paid for planes, they weren't paid for no fly zones, they weren't paid for war.  This is not our fight, he reasoned, just keep the wire transfers and SWIFT transactions moving, "Clear out the prosecutors, I'm from Scranton and Beau is dead."  He's not up for the moment, he's in the basement bunker, betrayers are betrayers by nature, and traitors are traitors to the end.

This feeling of being manipulated, so easy to recognize, so transparent.  The bullshit is deep, the cowardice is shocking.  Our superpower level is on low, simmering for some reason.  Profound, significant, and crippling sanctions have had no profound, significant, or crippling effect.  Ask a Ukraininan refugee about our sanctioning super powers.