My Utopia

“It is true. Haven’t we always spoken of choice? Well, that was hers. To stay with me, be hurt by me, when she could have married you, been loved by you. She chose me, chose pain. How I laughed as I hurt her! Again and again, and never more than when I finally reached the place of betrayal. “No!” Ion broke the bonds then, of hand, eyes and voice. But the prince reached and lifted him easily, slammed him onto the ground, then bent till their noses touched. The terrible whisper came again. “It is over, Ion Tremblac. All love, all loyalty, all truth. There is only death. Ilona’s, the Infidel’s. Mine. I go to it. I embrace it as I once did my lover. I will die now, if God wills it.” “God?” Ion hissed. “He will have nothing to do with you. You, of all men, will burn in hell forever.” “Well.” The green eyes didn’t waver. “Then I will await you in the flames.”

“It is true. Haven’t we always spoken of choice? Well, that was hers. To stay with me, be hurt by me, when she could have married you, been loved by you. She chose me, chose pain. How I laughed as I hurt her! Again and again, and never more than when I finally reached the place of betrayal. “No!” Ion broke the bonds then, of hand, eyes and voice. But the prince reached and lifted him easily, slammed him onto the ground, then bent till their noses touched. The terrible whisper came again. “It is over, Ion Tremblac. All love, all loyalty, all truth. There is only death. Ilona’s, the Infidel’s. Mine. I go to it. I embrace it as I once did my lover. I will die now, if God wills it.” “God?” Ion hissed. “He will have nothing to do with you. You, of all men, will burn in hell forever.” “Well.” The green eyes didn’t waver. “Then I will await you in the flames.”

“It is true. Haven’t we always spoken of choice? Well, that was hers. To stay with me, be hurt by me, when she could have married you, been loved by you. She chose me, chose pain. How I laughed as I hurt her! Again and again, and never more than when I finally reached the place of betrayal. “No!” Ion broke the bonds then, of hand, eyes and voice. But the prince reached and lifted him easily, slammed him onto the ground, then bent till their noses touched. The terrible whisper came again. “It is over, Ion Tremblac. All love, all loyalty, all truth. There is only death. Ilona’s, the Infidel’s. Mine. I go to it. I embrace it as I once did my lover. I will die now, if God wills it.” “God?” Ion hissed. “He will have nothing to do with you. You, of all men, will burn in hell forever.” “Well.” The green eyes didn’t waver. “Then I will await you in the flames.”

“Vlad understands one of the main lessons of statecraft: to unite a people all a prince needs is a war…or a wedding. And look here…we have both! Vlad commanded it,” he said, “because he loves you. “Oh, Ion.” Her laugh was bitter now. “He commanded it for his vow, made to God, not to me. God, whom he needs now more than ever. The Voivode of Wallachia would never leave his crusade to marry a commoner were it not for that vow.” She pointed towards the church. “And he would still leave them hoping that he would choose one of their daughters, bring one of their families closer to the throne.”.Ion shrugged. He’d never been able to lie to her and he couldn’t begin now. They had tried so hard to keep her out of the chess game each voivode played with the boyars. They had failed. And Ion knew that, even if a miracle happened and Vlad did come to marry her this day, she would never be a queen, ever a pawn.”

“Sculpting the Throne ov Seth” is a warlike manifesto. to make its message straight and clear: there are no gods but ourselves. there is more land to be conquered. there are more kingdoms to be ruled. need I say more? I guess not… it’s pretty much all I am about these days. no compromise and no surrender I say.

“Sculpting the Throne ov Seth” is a warlike manifesto. to make its message straight and clear: there are no gods but ourselves. there is more land to be conquered. there are more kingdoms to be ruled. need I say more? I guess not… it’s pretty much all I am about these days. no compromise and no surrender I say.

“Where are you taking me, beautiful Angel?” “Come on.” “How sad is your voice, and somber your talk! Is not Eloa removing your chain? I thought I had saved you.” “No, it is I who am dragging you off.” “If we are together, I don’t care where it is! Call me then your Sister or your God!” “I carry off my slave, I have my victim.” “You seemed so good! Oh, what have I done?” “A crime.” “Will you at least be happier, are you content?” “Sadder than ever.” “Who are you, then?” “Satan.”

You, with tenderness, me, with exploding passion. Together we stir.

I was, however, at the Last Supper. Thirteen guys in sourleathered sandals, all with tropical underarms and honking butt-cracks; a tiny room (Leonardo’s way off), poor ventilation, the smoke of badly trimmed lamps, the odd discreet but sulphurous apostolic brap, the tang of burped plonk … You know what I spent the evening doing? I spent it loading Judas with guilt. You miserable bastard. You know you’re doing the wrong thing. Thirty fucking pieces of silver? You cheap sonofabitch. Don’t do it, man. Listen to me. Listen to the voice of your conscience! The Enemy has led you astray but it’s not too late to change your mind and save your soul. Listen to the voice of God, Judas Iscariot. This is a mighty hour for you. You’re on the verge of consigning yourself to Hell for eternity – and for what? Thirty fucking pieces of silver! Don’t do it, Judas!