Implicit Truths

The crowd swelled to a mob, a thousand times a thousand, screaming to be freed when suddenly there was a vacuous silence and a single penetrating voice pierced it. A man, as old as the mountains, with a beard reaching from chin to knee, hand resting on wooden cane, walked to the dais. Whispers passed through the crowd as people recognized The Hermit, the man who had guided all true philosophy in the world. The Hermit, Toxic Hermit, affectionately called Chermit by his loyal followers, a man blessed with all knowledge, all truth, all wisdom. Surely he would command their victory over the oppressor.

But that wasn’t to be, for Chermit now wore a yellow and green tie-dyed robe with flowers on it, he wore round-rimmed glasses, a bandana and had a guitar round his back. His clothes were of an ecologically sensitive fabric, and he only ate organically grown food. Chermit had returned, after all these years, and he bore the sign of wear.

“Peace!”, he cried flashing his index and middle fingers in a V shape. “Non-grey posts inhabited ATN long before their grey counterparts. There will be no repeat of the thanksgiving feast.”