The War At Home

I recieved word today (nevermind how, or through who) that Mister Brody has gotten off somewhat light for his drug-related indiscretions of two weeks ago; I had anticipated this, somewhat. I did not think he would get away so "scot-free," but the liberal leanings of Wash U never fail to surprise me. Even so, I fail to see how calling his mother and telling on him is an adequate punishment, or even a punishment at all. Renee is the party mother, who buys her son wine and lets him smoke weed on the front porch. The mother who would probably buy her son's weed if such a transaction wasn't so damaging to her career. What's worse, Brody gets to call home FIRST. So much for the off chance that she might handle the situation poorly, let slip some indication of her lieniency and have the school take issue. No, she gets to be forwarned and instructed. They might as well give him his weed and pipe back, too, with a few extra nuggets thrown in for all the trouble they caused him.

But, like I said, no matter. As frustrating as this is, I knew nothing major would come of the first offense. The second, however, is a different story. Yes, Brody, you will pay. You will pay, remaining oblivious to my hand in all of this until the very last moment, as your doom crashes down onto you and it all becomes clear....

I stand here, waiting, scythe in hand, conducting the symphony of your destruction. A brush of the cymbal, an oncoming storm. A low murmur of tuba and trombone and baritone horn, the thundering hooves of fate. The trumpet, the braying of the firey-eyed horse upon which I ride, coming closer, ever closer, to you...

I have not forgotten. I will never forget.

That is all.