river had been massacred. But not through some worthy stratagem. The soldiers were dying of thirst, and the only way to replenish their supply was to venture down to the riverbank. So the opposing army awaited them, and sure enough, the soldiers appeared, either alone or in small groups, scrambling or crawling, or even walking because they didn't care, they didn't think, their need was commanding them. And the opposing army took them down, just like a fairground gallery, pop pop pop. So now they were moving in, it would soon be over, and with war's conclusion would be trials, convictions, even a few executions. But even as the soldiers gathered in the central square, sat on their behinds in neat rows like good children, some of them openly weeping, awaiting orders that would never come, others were being dispatched to the far hills, the western mountains. The commander had only one directive for them: Do
 | | not surrender. The war continues. And with that task done, the commander retreated to his private chamber, festooned with the tapestries and skeletons and jade tables he had acquired in his conquests, and calmly disemboweled himself with a knife. Even as his blood ran in rivulets across the marble tiled floor, he allowed himself an instant's appreciation of the luxury around him, the worthiness of these captured cultural artifacts, and with a flutter of eyelashes, he expired at peace. The men he sent to the mountains were never heard from again, and many surmise that the wolves and bandits took care of them, even though there is no evidence either way. And so that particular war came to an end decades ago, the rubble and burned stalks of village buildings long since overrun by ring roads and skyscrapers and sewage drains that still stink of shit in the long hot summer months, and people still wear plain cotton shirts like they
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