Oates Takes His Lumps

To whom the damned may concern,

I ask–perhaps more rhetorically than one should–what’s conspiracy when the circumstance is unholy? What’s to foil the damned, when no worse is to be had? Does tilling the rotten soil for new trees yield soiled roots?

King Charles II, not the first in name nor in tyranny–unfortunately. Is that your throne, or your Queens, throne?

 I’ve been called many things; one guilty of perjury, a liar, a dunce, a conspirator—but conviently never a messenger subject to nor harm. How fruitful! Perhaps a reaction our God’s messengers met when they too, lest we forget, spread a word not too friendly the established. ‘A Web a Lies’—I wasn’t slave to book in Corpus Christi, to be hailed such harsh stones. I didn’t subject myself to absorb the filth stream of blasphemy that rafts through Catholicism, grinding elbow to knee across the trash that is the Jesuits for hire, to fabricate a plot! If I am sentenced to death the risk of me rising in few moon risings is assumed.

And Sir George, a man so unfitting of the title. I have no taste of salt. I am not bitter. Though I wish the day of your daughter’s wedding, should a duchess be unfortunate enough to birth your spawn, you fall ill! May the clouds spew ashes and the lungs of your children ebb and flow with dust and air just long for you to witness.

My sweet wife, spring of Anthony A. Cooper, through thick and thin. Dull and bright. Every head that rolled to your feet, not fine enough! Not the head of Charles himself, so undeserving at your helm, or latrine. May the birds be with him soon.

I not know of my punishment, though I assume pillory isn’t as pleasant as consummation. Better the devil I don’t know in this cruel twist! I hope I am placed in view of the public so I can watch the wretchedness pour out of their mouth, in grotesque form, as they knowingly watch a man be whipped—or worse. What will God make of this Circus, at the bread of my body? Feast on that you heathens. May God save the Queen Charles!

Titus—THE HONORABLE

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Oates Takes His Lumps

  1. I implore you, oh Titus, to seek Confession for the venom in your words. You speak with such anger that I must step back lest I too be burned by your tongue. I fear for your soul Titus, just as I feared before you for Beowulf. Indeed, just as I have feared for my own soul when Death’s countenance came before me. You readily volunteer your divergence from Corpus Christi, from the words of God as ascribed by Catholicism. You trust then to your Knowledge, a friend I too sought for comfort. Learn from the harsh lesson I was forced to face. Knowledge can follow you not into Death, as I have extolled before. Judge not too harshly the follies of King Charles II, for such judgment reeks of Pride, and Pride is nothing if not an impediment to your soul. Let Charles the Second be judged by his people, as he should be. Hold your Good Deeds close, and seek out your heartfelt Confession, as we can only hope Charles II did as well. Such is the only route to guarantee God’s grace.

  2. By Jupiter! I realize it has been a long time (roughly two millennia), but since when did your writing become so melodramatic and theatrical? Surely, although it has been two millennia, you might recall my vexation at philosophers with their endless babbling? Are you in fact my son and not some imposter? Surely as emperor—my heir to the throne—you would not have spoken in such a manner in the senate? We Flavians—we public officers and Romans as well—must be concise and intelligible in our discourse. Leave the scatological wonder-sickness to those aimless Greeks–this probably being one of the contributing factors as to why they were incapable of ever establishing an empire, let alone an empire on the scale of magnificence—the might and glory—of Rome.

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