Lobe the Third
Punishment

There was Demetrius in the locked cellar--there was always Demetrius, watching, waiting with his electric sight in the power grid, two fingers in the socket and dreaming, dreaming the implacable dreams of television. He was the Jester-God of his world and the blind juggernaut of ours, towering in the cyberpunk autism of his befuddled mind, unaware of his actions, and punished by unremarkable parents to sit there, in the dark, to catch the world in the dance of his unknown whims.

He had nothing, but the nothing he had spoke volumes in the High Speech of his Binary Kabbalah, the electrical magery of his unthinking will. Moronic messiah, moving along power lines and bursting the dams as he tensed fists of amperage. Perceptions of color, cartoon candicanes of his own delight flickered before his eyes, electric gremlins bludgeoning an unexpecting world into submission.

Five years old, twenty in body, he cried tears of joy as cars shrieked unheard on the city streets above him, crashing beneath traffic lights green in all directions. Fickle flickering fireflies filled his visions, launch codes locking and firing, resonating unbidden with Demetrius' thoughts.

Ah, Demetrius, unknowing harbinger of annihilation; the world was destroyed over spilt milk.

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