We American People...

Mr.Atos

How yet resolves the ludicrous Caliph of stygian whores?

This is the latest parle we will admit;
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves;
Or like to men proud of destruction
Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie buried.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.
What is it then to me, if impious war,
Array'd in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats
Enlink'd to waste and desolation?
What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil
As send precepts to the leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil and villany.
If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls,
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? will you yield, and this avoid,
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?
(Shakespeare, Henry V, Act iii,Scene iii)

We are reminded that the Men of this Earth have yet again lended tolerance to its limit where the beasts are concerned. The barbarians gloat at their own ruthlessness and savagery; there self-immolating insanity. We are easy to kill when we are living according to our nature as benevolent Humans in our image of God... the image of God. And yet, when our blood is spilled in gallons and our patience and compassion raped and discarded, then the wraith of good men is mirrored against his virtue to reflect the true horror of vengeance wrought with the perfection of the hate that feeds it from the hearts of its enemies and falls upon them with fury of a storm so violent as can only be guided by the rational mind directed to a singular purpose to erase the presence of this malevolence with expediant demise from all corners of the Earth once and for all.

The Lion yields for one last warning to you wretched heathen as with the ultimatum of King Henry...

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?...

Please us now, heathen, with the persistence of your immolation.