WE ARE NOT YET THE CHOSEN, by Davin Michael Stedman

I am thinking about writing an absolutely chilling Halloween story called THE CHOSEN.

It is an only barely dramatized version of what happened to my friends, but thankfully not my immediate family, as RIGHT WING & RUSSIAN BOTS began to scour the internet for victims.
Throughout 2016 I watched as these BOTS zeroed in on individuals, feeding them micro-targeted poison that spread through their bodies, taking root in their brain stem, where it will always be lodged, waiting to be triggered again in some foreseeable future. Such as this coming Monday.

But the Bots knew not all of us would be effected. Many of us were immune, yet others were able to fight off the infection and build up immunity.

Yet with just a few keywords and clicks the Bots knew more about the eventual host, than the host themselves.

The Bots were persistent and fierce. The rate in which some churches were infected by the Bots was staggering and at first glance made little sense. They should have been the first line of defense. But the Bots knew.

It came on like a fever. The scalps of these walkers would turn blood orange red. The afflicted would chant “MAGA”, often a scream…but mostly a whisper that became the measure of their own breath, especially alone at rest.

Once the poison took hold and disabled the cerebral cortex, the Bots had a pliant host. These devices, only the size of a monkey fist, took take root in the base of a lot of good skulls.

Sure at first it was almost amusing to see the average dick wad turn into a Walker, their flesh turning the hue of a ripe douche pumpkin.

I am not so great a man to admit that watching some of them lose their humanity didn’t seem like such a loss. After 8 years of blaming Obama and saying horrible things about how he needed to keep his filthy socialist paws out of their Medicaid, it just seemed like a final transformation.

Then one day, a friend I had played music with and had written a few beautiful songs along side put on that Red Hat, and I could see in his eyes that wonderful Soul was a goner. The Bots had got to him. They stuck that needle deep inside his brain. Too deep.

In his isolation he was a perfect target. They just kept bombarding him with stories and images.

“Lock her up” they said. “Drain the swamp” he said. But in the end, my friend is still walking the streets. But he’s not there. The good natured boy, Dr. Jazz, I used to call him, that beautiful soul is trapped in that swamp, trapped beneath the surface, but I can still hear him sing:

“One magic day he passed my way
While we spoke of many things
Fools and kings”

I don’t know if I can ever pull him out of that swamp.

But you know what frightens more than seeing a man become a soulless machine?

The idea that in 2020 both sides will be forced by a means of survival to exploit this biological super weapon. So you think we’re divided now?

The age of the Bots is upon us. The needle will just sting for a minute, when it penetrates your juicy brain, then there is no more pain.

The poison is also a wonderful numbing agent. You will be able to witness crime and corruption, as long as it does not trigger ‘The Program’ with its conveniently small number of key words, images, or symbols, you will go about your day almost as if you still had genuine human feelings.

All those ugly wrinkles in your mind will be as smooth as the Brain of a day old baby.

THE END

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Davin Michael Stedman

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