The young man and woman, both handsome strode down the street in perfect time as they marched to a drum that only they could hear. They wore no uniform but their demeanour declared they were proud soldiers, waging war against tyranny, fighting for their country’s freedom.
They set their bomb, then went home, duty accomplished.
When the Controller received the account of the casualties of the freedom fighter’s fellow countrymen and women, so many dead; injured a multiple of ten of the dead; lives shredded by the bomb another multiple of ten of the injured, he sighed with satisfaction. He glanced at the psychics, one male, one female still at their stations.
“Good work. ‘Voice of God’ never fails”.
The male psychic shifted slightly. “‘Heart of the Nation’ in this case, Sir”.
“‘Voice of God’ , ‘Heart of the Nation’, what’s the difference?” he said easily. “They get their orders from here”.
Laughter started to bubble to the surface. The evening before he had visited the bomb site as the bodies and wounded, and bits of bodies and hysterical walking wounded staggered from the maw of man-made hell. How he had laughed. The laughter burst from him uncontrollably now and the psychics, sensitive nerves wound to breaking point exploded in laughter too so that the room with its ghostly shadowed computer screens echoed with laughter, drowning out the silent screams, and cries of anguish echoing endlessly in the psychics heads.
Copyright 2015 Prayerwarriorpsychicnot