resistance -- not even the desire to survive. Worse than animals. The game would begin with the commander instructing the newly arrived conscripts: It must be one swift, sure stroke. Observe! And with that his blade swooped, and a prisoner's head would be severed cleanly, twin fountains of blood spraying into the air from the exposed neck. Soon all of them were taking their turns, racing to see who would accumulate the most heads, the most accurate blows. The younger ones couldn't get it right at first -- heads would dangle from bodies, connected by mere flaps of skin, bobbling in place, and more blows were required to fully sever them. Through it all the prisoners never moved. They only trembled, cried out, muttered words to their gods in their own guttural language. Shut up! the soldiers would shriek, and they doubled their pace, just to quiet them all. Soon, inevitably, the prisoners' blood would run down the soldiers'
 | | faces and clothes, and it was strangely refreshing.
Tonight there is much ceremony and rejoicing, and thank you all for coming, I want to dedicate this on behalf of, without whom, thank you again. The waiters in their cute little half-tuxedos smile at me, and I want to ask, How do you feel? Really? Name cards are passed to me, Let's talk sometime, and these razor-sharp slices of information are too heavy for my hands, I really cannot handle this responsibility, a person's entire life and reason for being have been condensed, and now I hold them all, this is something no one should bear. But nonetheless, I exhort my colleagues, give private little pep talks, You should take on that job, I've heard about that diet and I think you should try it, grab these opportunities, recognize how lucky you are, and I leave rows of smiles in my wake,
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