I remember the day that time stopped. Inconspicuously, it was Sunday, April 7th at 2:24 in the afternoon (or 14:24 as some might say). It was not out of the ordinary in any way, as a day. But April 7th, 2019, something shuttered. The wrench that was stuck in the gears finally snapped. The machine, which keeps track of time, and let's face it, owns time, finally snapped.

There are few times in history when real possibility cracks open, and an event is possible. But on that day, it was like staring into the mouth of a yawning labrador. Wide. Open. Anything is possible. The field is wide open. The small town mayor suddenly has a kill shot. And I believe he can slay. I have heard him slay.

In the heart of every optimistic, obsequeious, guileless church boy is something far more perverse. He knows, better than anyone, what it is like for your joy to be threatening to other people. He knows all about survival, and all about slaying if necessary. By any means necessary, right?