La Ch'uupalo; The Conqueror

Part One:

The Beasts

Chapter One

They Came Out of Nowhere

Capture, vanish and subdue the Saracens, pagans, and other enemies of Christ put them into perpetual Slavery; take all their possessions and property.

—Bull Romanus Pontifex, 1455

T

he year 1492—Mayohuacan drums and beats with powerful chanting from the four directions, next to a large katsista.

I have a secret; but first they had a secret. They had a plan, and a good one at that. The secret was worth a trillion dollars. The plan was worth even more. They came out of nowhere and brought that secret with them. They also brought him with them—the secret one, the one of the evil secrets, first by land and then by water. He was the secret one who was cast down into the abyss long, long ago to wreak havoc on the untouchable peasants and his prey. They came out of the crust, out of nowhere and without notice, and partnered with him and attacked, and I must say that no one is ever 100 percent ready for this type of battle. We did the best we could. We fought hard. We all did. The invaders’ first unannounced visit of course was with a small group of other invaders—and him of course. They were heavily armed, every single one of them. He was armored with hatred, but then again so were they. They cast themselves down upon us and upon our pristine shores with packs of many other followers who came later, donning their robes and their books and him. The others warned us that they were coming. Some even warned us of him and the secret weapon he carried.

When I look back on it all now, I see that they did leak some clues of their drastic mission. They revealed themselves rather quickly to us, with their long shiny knives hiding under their robes, and the others brooding from the pockets of the robes. With them, the agendas were rather obvious, but with him, the agenda was not so easy to figure out. He moved about, and you always knew he was there but could not always see him. They were more blatant and intrusive. They had bloodshot eyes, with hairy faces that shriveled and tweaked, not at all a sight for sore eyes. They donned rather wretched looks on their faces, as if we were guilty of something and they were the sheriffs planning to even the score and lock us up for eternity. The one they brought—him, or so he was called—he blew as the wind, was almost always malleable, the unseen one was. It was more apparent that this was the monster of our dreams, the one who haunted us day and night for most of our lives and the one we were warned of by the elders of the clan village and the spirits of the dead ancestors who always watched over us and protected us.

One can only imagine getting squashed and smeared by the very same systems that all their founder ancestors founded, right? Evil is strong. Corruption is too. I always wondered which spirit and entity was stronger, the good one or the bad one, the evil one or the sacred one. My ancestors would be angry to see what we have been through, all of us, not just the deer-mammal ancestors but also the ones of far away. The sacred cardinal ones of far away are closely related to the deer-mammals is what I knew, and I have faith in the good bishop always, and I hope and pray that I am right. The elders always say that good wins over evil. He was surely evil, and there was no question about it, and they were too, his minions were. They went against their pledge to protect all the relatives: he was of the underworld, the one who always spat on the graves while he pretended to be a friend, so he knew better. If we, the great-grandchildren of the Knights of the Night-Mammals, had not intervened when we did, we never even would have stood a chance. The way I see it is that we had to do what we did; there was no other option. We had to believe that our special cross would protect us all in the end.

The title we gave the spy mission was The Reeducation of the Miseducation and Indoctrination of the Entire Nation. Some called it redaction, but we called it a clue. Say that five times fast! The clues leaked everywhere and emanated from their body language, dispersed everywhere, and we suspected they were permanent visitors from the very start.

We were never sure how long he would remain, though. I guess that all depended on us. It was possible to defeat him, but we had to behave by the rules. Not his rules, but his. For those who tend to forget the rules, there is a great book of reminders. The book reminds all beings of the rules of the game and how to beat him while navigating through the madness and insanity of the game. Of course, the throne of madness was the worst but not impossible to win. We sort of caught on to their plans and their whole game, in the end, you know, and now we were more prepared. But although they leaked many obvious clues, at least to the naked eye, and left them everywhere they landed, many of the tribes still missed the clues. They wear rose-colored glasses, too, and he is tricky indeed. Our naivety was no different than that of the humanoid tribes when they overlook things. We all want to trust, and we wanted to pretend the evil did not exist, but it did, and it still does.

Anyways, our tribes, especially the caciques and chiefs, are always looking at everyone through those rose-colored glasses. They believe everyone is their sister and brother—it is just in their DNA—but evil does exist, and it had landed upon our shores. I have a tough time with that brotherly love philosophy, especially when I see everyone else looking out for themselves. Grandfather disagrees. I tell him, But look around, Grandfather; everyone has more rights than us. He simply replies that we are judged on our own actions, and we cannot take others with us up to the sky. Then I always just smile and still think the same. I always listen to grandfather and the elders—one, because I have no other choice, and two, because they know best. The elders always know best. You cannot find even one tribe who follows the youth. The elders and caciques are always in charge. Chiefs are, too, especially the sachems and shamans. They must be as they have more knowledge and wisdom, plain old life experience, under their belts. I still believe that what we did was approved by them and the beasts were so much better off, even though they always got so mad when we refused to cave into their childish antics, banter, and tantrums as they demanded more and more.

Figuratively speaking, and as the data show, evil is something that cannot go unchecked as it grows faster than weeds in a flower garden. Maybe that evil was always there, and we just never noticed, but who knows. Regardless, there was no question about it; they brought it here, and we just had to face the music and fight, so to speak. Please try not to judge. The fight, or the war (not those humanoid cold race wars and not the viral serial killer war either, but another kind, like a spiritual one) was brought to us, dragged into our house, lashed upon our soil, and we had no other avenue to take, or path to walk, you know. We just had to finish it, the fight. We did not pick the fight; they did. They came here, trashed our homes, and trashed our livelihoods, quickly, and not the other way around. Anyways, that is where our kind of tribal warfare comes in, not the old kind, but the new kind, the more perfected type of warfare, but I cannot tell that secret. It can never be shared. We all know it, but that is it. The hybrids cannot even be trusted. We just assume they will figure it out someday and join us on the mission to be noticed for the very first time.

Anyhoo, this type of warfare was the kind of warfare in which we all banded together against a common enemy and just fought back, you know. It was just necessary. We had to do it. We simply feared no one, and there was to be no more of that Your tribe can do its thing; I do mine. It was just too late for that. We were under attack, and unity was what we needed at the time, not uniforms, though; anyone can wear those. All we needed was unity and conformity and better yet the heart and dedication to the cause, you know. Life and liberty as we knew it was about to be depleted from our soils, and they were the culprits of it all. He was not innocent either. He was harder to fight, but in a sense, he may have feared us. They wanted to destroy us and take it all, and he wanted more than we could give. We were not about to let that happen, not on our watch. There was no way around it; we had to form a united front, and the fight, a most spiritual one indeed, was the most important fight of our lives.

* * *

Okay, I can keep a secret—but I also have a secret. I can only tell one. The devil is here; he is here on this very Mother Earth that we all belong to, and he even resides with the father of all the skies, whom we all belong to as well. Whether we reside in the mammal world, in the humanoid world, on the fence of realms, or in any other world for that matter, life is all about him and the spiritual battles, the battles of good versus evil. We are either good or evil. It is just a simple as that. There is no other way around it and no other way to explain it. There is no on the fence option in life, so to speak. We cannot be good sometimes and bad the rest. It just dawned on me, but the Good Book from great-grandfather has got everyone thinking they can cut up from Monday to Saturday, and if they behave on the sun day, then they are forgiven. Okay, wait a second here—Great-Grandfather has the world worshipping on the sun day and not the Sabbath day? Well, maybe that is what is wrong with the whole world and all those humanoids after all! They are all confused. They might figure it all out one day, or not! You never know with some of those humanoids.

We worship the sun every day, and we worship the earth and the water too, but never the other creatures and certainly not each other. That would get the mammal-types in a lot of hot water with the One God. Also, Great-Grandfather may have been a tiny bit biased, so to speak. He has all the creatures around the globe thinking they are the chosen ones just because of the color of their hides. Oh boy! I do not think he meant that at all. The Creator chooses his chosen ones, do they not know?

Anyways, it is those deeds that can make or break you. The book has a long list of names, but the good and bad deeds, although the list may be long, will just never even themselves out, so to speak. The bad stuff is just too hurtful in the game of life, and the pain of the badness tends to linger on for centuries. A couple good deeds never outweigh the bad, if I might add, so we must make choices and good ones at that. We must choose the good or the bad, simple as that. Regarding the devil and his story, he lies. By the end of my story, you will see how just a little bit of myth can reveal the most truth. I love telling stories, and so does my tribe, but I do not have the patience for those who fail to listen. Grandfather has the patience of a saint; I guess that is why—I have said too much.

Dear brothers and sisters, sleepwalkers, sleepwakers, snoozers, and lost tribes spread throughout the world, of all creeds and colors: Hear ye! Hear ye! Ladies and gents! Countrymen! Lend me your ears! I have a nice long story to tell you. It is purely fantasy, but please listen to me, because at least I have warned you that my story is untrue, unlike those of the news media outlets out there. The story is called How Some of the Ancestors Colonized Some of the Other Ancestors. The story is all played out, like humanoid stories of course. It is right in front of me and right in front of you; it is sort of just hiding in plain sight, like truth. Most will miss it regardless because they are wearing those newsworthy glasses all the time. Come listen to my story and stand big and tall and proud. This alarming fantasy will free you from the reigns of the trickster, the beast, and all the monsters who live among you, not my monsters but yours. No, I am just kidding! Be careful out there, friend. It almost seems as though I saw him in a vision and wrote these stories down decades ago, in the before-life, but that matters none; the same nonsense was probably going on years ago, and my story is still true—well, sort of. I suspect that I can tell my grandchildren the same old stories someday, too, since nothing ever seems to change. Do not give up, though; there is always hope.

Before I start, I would like to introduce myself. It is proper and polite to make introductions, so I will. My name is Alyak, and I am going to tell you my story, the story of me, the story of my mammal tribe, the story of our mammal tribes, and the story of our clans of the Atlantean ones and other clans, of the first deluge and of course, the story of the monster-beast invaders. I hope that you enjoy my truth-tale. It is a great truth-tale. I will tell you what that means later. My story probably sounds rather sad to you right now, but I promise you, it is not. I can assure you of that. It has a happy and satisfying ending, and a rather funny ending indeed, at least for the clan-mammal tribes.

Finders or the founded—or the founded of the finders?

The founders they always called themselves. We called them seers and sayers, but never the finders. They found something all right. They found themselves, and they found some deer-mammal tribes, too, I suppose. But with all the looking and the finding, they could never find all of us, because they were not particularly good at the game of hide-and-seek. We were. We could be found hiding behind the trees as we bent down on our knees singing like the Want-to-Be-A-Cree, and we could run, most of all, like the fastest of maroon ones indeed. The seed-er finders found the house that my stewards built, and they continued to build and build upon that one-sided foundation of the first ones. And all the while, they thought these shores were the utmost of findings, until we showed them that we had found all the secret chambers they could never lay their eyes upon. Only those among us who were the ones chosen for the part of the caretaker of the lot, especially of the protected chambers, were appointed the select few who could lay their eyes upon it. The penalty was total paralysis or blindness or even death. Unaware, the invaders chose to dig and dig, regardless of consequence. We warned them and so did the gods. They were even diving under the caves. The cave writings even warned them, but they thought they were smarter than all of us, until, well, in the end, the fire. What fire, you say? Well, it was the fire—you know, the eighth fire from which not one has ever escaped. We tried to tell them to look out, but they just never listened.

I have a quick riddle to share. Poetry eases my soul, but I do not call it poetry; I call it a chant. I will project my voice loudly if you will.

It is so hard to keep up with the devil because the devil moves so fast. By the time you catch up to him, he is on another path. He works hard; no doubt he works 24‑7 because his only goal is to keep us out of heaven. For those of his minions and those of his quirks, the successful devil's agenda is completed, because they mastered his works. They claim they are the chosen ones of the ancestor's translated Bible, yet my ancestor said, for all the chosen words, they too are libel! For those who choose biblical details to overlook are cursed and probably not true Hebrews of the Good Book!

Hold on, there is more:

The One God would never choose of those who are wretched and blasphemous, who only use the book to elevate their statuses. The Bible is not a tool to thrash upon those of the earth, and you will soon see his utter wrath, more painful than birth. Before one elevates oneself upon your mammal-made hearth, it is only the man of the word in the book that can assert you any worth. Color is not a weapon with which to fight wars among all of God's men, and its purpose is not for hatred type weapons, devoid of Bible in his hand. The Bible is the only weapon, and for that you must take heed of all creeds. As you victimize the others, in the end, you too will bleed. The humans must marry one another with set-in-stone wedding bands, because the Bible of the book is the image of the man from all tribal lands. My ancestors translated the Good Book in their own desperate colonizing scrimmage, but the Good Book states the Maker created all tribes in his own image. Wherefore now some of you will try to make all the peasant one's overseers cry, because on the surface you think you are better than he and I. All this damage is not part of the Creator's plan, and we must all band together for the seal of destiny's hand. We must unite all the creatures and give of the one God's patience, for the sake of the heart and the soul of all nations!

Just one more, please?

Disguised ones of those of another enclave, of the warriors of home invaders disguised as the slave. To falsify identity of the Cubaguan colonizers, forever that of the golden-­wanderer-pondering sympathizers. Nothing will get past the penetration of the woke raven's eyes, much less that of the slave's sight of the perpetrator's demise.

Deep, huh? Hey, reader, I see you and hear you. I love you. I love everyone. Except the evil. I am on a mission to save the planet.

Okay, back to the book. The good one, of course, the one that Great-Grandpa the Jacobian one put together (he left some out too), but why do so many of God's creatures misinterpret it? I mean, when I write a poem or a chant, I am the only one who knows what I am writing about, so why when the creator of all things writes does everyone on God's green earth seem to know what his story is about? Come on! Wait a second here; you mean to tell me the Good Book that Great-Grandpa wrote has got everybody thinking that they are the chosen ones and that they are special, more special than the others and the only ones going to heaven?

Hold up. Wait a second here. Let me digest that for a minute. I mean, come on, you cannot fit everybody up there in the clouds anyway! There is not enough space up there in heaven for all of us. I mean, after all, since the good deeds never outweigh the bad, how many of us really are going north, and how many of us really are going south? Furthermore, it does not matter what world you live in, whether the humanoid one or the mammal world or any other, the rules of the game are always the same, even if it is the same game with a different name. I mean, those humanoid rules are the same as ours, no different, right?

Anyways, it is the same game with a different name tag, is all. You can label everything with a different name tag, but what is underneath the mask is always the same. I am just going to leave it at that, but I thought the Creator was the only one who knew which tribes were going to heaven and which tribes were not. And wait, how do we know if an entire tribe is going up there anyway? Who told us that? Did the Creator say that? I think not. I wish someone would show me in the Good Book where that passage is stating that entire tribes are chosen for the heavenly gates, and the other tribes are not. Honestly, who put that rumor out there? The first few words of the Good Book say that the Creator is the beginning and the end (also known as the alpha and the omega). So how is it that any of the humanoids or mammal-types know who is going to the sky and who does not have a ticket to the show? Talk about elevating oneself!

Hopefully, somewhere, on this journey you will be able to laugh all the way to the bank (no, no, no—not the Great Medici Bank; laughing all the way to the bank is just a figure of speech), whether it be at your nonsensical world or mine. I am just kidding. Not! Please, I beg of you, just take this special journey with me. I promise that you will be entertained all the while, and as I am finding out who I am and all, my story will take you to great lengths in time and history, sort of like over the rivers and through the woods, so to speak. In the beginning, middle, or end, maybe in a sense you will find out who you truly are as well. We are all connected to one another and related in spirit. What have you got to lose anyway? Journeys are fun and enlightening too.

Oh, by the way, my sister is going to sit in on my story. She is always listening; she is my shadow. If she decides to get up and leave, I promise, I will continue the story without her. I promise not to leave you out of any of it—especially the suspense.

If you figure out my secret, please keep it under wraps. I am the opposite of the one that those humanoids called the Gray Owl, but he faked it one way, and I faked it the other, or sort of like the one they call humanoid liar of the roots, often referred to as the queen grandmother, or something like that, all wrapped up in one, but no, I am just kidding. It is not that secret, and it is not that one that you think it is, not that secret, but the other one. If you figure out my secret, that secret, in the beginning of my story, in the middle, or even in the end the story, please, promise you will not tell anyone. The lives of the mammals are so much safer than those of the others, even though we deal with our very own monsters and beasts. In the end when I met him, that special mammal soul-friend—wait, in hindsight, I sensed that he shared the same secret as I shared with my tribe. He was the ultimate mate. He was brave and marvelously brilliant and oh so lovely.

Okay, on with things. So, I have got a story to tell; come on, you can hoof it along with me, skip or gallop or whatever you must do. But come join me. Come on—watch me dance in the wind and make my way to the water, as if I were a lone wolf with a shadow. Pretend I am the wolf and dancing in the wind, and you are the shadow humanoid or standing with a fist watching me light up the sky. That is not part of the story, you say. I know I just made that one up. I am rather good at making up stories. We all are, you know, but I can assure you that I am not really a wolf. I am a mammal of sorts, and I am rather carefree. I love to chant, I cannot stress that enough, and besides rolling in the earth's plush, green blankets, blessing the water, the poetic powwows of the day, or the mood, and the windy-sing-dancing are my most favorite things to do.

I have got a beautiful story to tell, and I want you to hear it. I want you to hear it as the utmost of stories, as if you had never heard any other. I want you to hear my tale as if with your whole entire being, with all your heart, and I want you to hear it with your mind, and I want you to hear it with your soul. Most of all I want you to hear it with your entire existence, your whole vessel, and hopefully throughout my story you can put yourself in my shoes, or my moccasins, so to speak. I mean, we all tell stories, but do we hear them all? I will leave that up to you.

Okay, moving on. I should tell you that I do get distracted quite a bit, which you probably already figured out. I am excited to change the historical narrative, and how about you? You are probably thinking, What narrative? or What is she going to change? You will see. We refuse to be victims anymore, and the world will finally hear us at some point, but hopefully before it is too late. They all ignore us, you know, but we are still here in the flesh, even though for a short while, we were not here in soul, but we could not help it. They stole our souls; they stole everything. We just decided to take it all back. They cannot take something without asking, now can they?

At some point you will get to meet my family, and although they may seem like the everyday, average family—well, I suppose they really are. To me, they are extraordinary and the best of family clans. I am enormously proud of my family and my tribe. You know how everyone thinks that their family is better than the next, and I suppose there are probably some not-so-good families out there too, and they probably know it. Well, my family is the sort of family everyone knows, in more ways than one, at least in the mammal-tribe world. The kind of family that always gets on your case immensely and immediately when you get into mischief (you know those things). They let everyone in, at least at first, for our mammal coffee, which is a bit different than the humanoid kind. Okay, let me stay on topic this time. My family, every single member, like the village, is always good at letting me know when I am violating one of the commandments, so to speak. There are always several sets of eyes upon us, starting from birth, as if we could make that many mistakes as a baby. We tend to turn out rather good because we cannot get into too much mischief. Those fatherless types might know what I am talking about. We all need a few sets of eyes on us.

Anyways, with my family watching and the clan village watching, I tend to get into trouble for eavesdropping quite a bit and for asking way too many questions. It is like they are watching a watcher, so to speak. If I were living in the humanoid world, and maybe someday I will be, I might possibly be an investigator of some sort or even a police officer, but who knows. Anyways, I am fine where I am, and of course, I am just kidding. I hear that police work is way too dangerous these days. I think I will stick to the virtual reality games; at least I can wash the red paint off when I’m done.

The babysitters: I feel for those guys, I really do. They babysit adults, at that! Just because of one bad apple, the adults are throwing out the whole bushel. So basically, in the mammal world, if we threw out the whole bushel because of one bad apple, then we would all basically starve, but I guess it takes a mammal deer to figure that one out. Throwing out the bushel, at least in the sense that humanoids do, essentially starves them, and the ones who starve end up being the ones who throw the bushel away. Just picture a bushel of apples, and one is bad. Now picture throwing all your apples away. What do you have left? The answer is nothing, but maybe that is the idea. To starve everyone out. Keep them busy ducking and cleaning, and eventually they will all leave, right? Brilliant—then take the lots! Anyways, those policeman humanoid types must clean up astronomical amounts of debris from the streets of the Spanish idols. You can have that job; I am not a maid. They probably do not live long, fruitful lives after cleaning up the bushels. The worst job is the cemetery worker jobs, though. The church ones and others. How can they explain to the humanoids they found another Jane or John Doe? It seems those First Nations are always last; last thought, last this, last that, huh?

Wow, all I can say is that I am glad I am a mammal! Our lives are much less complicated than the lives of those humanoids. They think they are smart, and they are utterly stupid, at least some of them, and they think they are better, but they are reliant on us to survive. They are not on the top of the food chain as they seem to think they are. They are so out of touch, and the ones that think they are in touch with things are the furthest away from the light. You know the light bulbs that turn on? Someone turned the switches off, so to speak. They are not all ignorant, of course, but they seem to only care about their own tribes, and the rest are chopped liver, if you will. We are not like that; we love all tribes.

Okay, back to that world, which seems so alien to me, and now that I think about it, you could not pay me $1 million to be a humanoid of any tribe, for that matter. Especially not the police tribe. Yeah, some are nasty, and refuse to help, but all of them? Come on, save it for a dummy of the humanoid world. I am not buying that. I like my world; you can have that world, the police world and the humanoid one. What? You said you do not want it either? You want to be a part of my world too? You are welcome to join anytime, but do not bring any of those bad apples with you. Promise me. As far as I go, I think I will stick to my mammal tribe, and clan village, and of course, family. That is what I know best and what I love. Do humanoids have tribes, too, or do they split everybody up based on their appearances and their hides? I try to think of how that would work out if we were separated by the color of our hides. It would be tough because some of our sisters and brothers and our parents, for that matter, have darker hides than we do, but we are all the same flesh and blood. That would be awful to never see my sisters again.

Back to my story.

Here it goes: The black-legend, the black-legend, the white-black-legend, the black-white-legend, the black-legend, the black-legend; can you say the black legend? Were the invader-beasts just here to slaughter us and conquer, I wonder. Were they just blessing us with their presence, or were they here so that they could earn a royal pin on their crest from the chiefs and caciques of their lands of far away? Or better yet, were they here to reclaim our chosen people of the chosen lands of the chosen milk and of the chosen honey, ever so sweet? We do not wear pins—they hurt—we are only plain old brave, and we know it, and everybody knows it. It is just as simple as that. No one ever second-guessed our bravery, ever, ever, ever. I would like to share a poem with all you listeners that my great-grandfather wrote upon the stone of the cave walls of doom. Many elders love to paint doom, especially on the mount with the carvings. The carvings are the constant reminder of theft and persecution that we all celebrate. Not us; mammals do not celebrate thievery or persecution, never, ever. Not us.

Okay, back to the carvings on the wall-mount of doom; just kidding—they are the ancient cave walls of warning, that is all. To destroy them and all other relics would be to leave us all at the mercy of the enemy, and that is dangerous, to say the least. The enemy is the devil, but he travels with others, he morphs into victims, and he is living among us, remember? As far as cave wall-mount carvings go, we kind of have them scattered all over, probably because some of the tribes are nomadic, you know. Nomadic ones need to know of the warnings too, you know. Yes, we have the nomadic ones just as those humanoids do, and they are worthy of saving too. Of course, many have tried to destroy them just as the Secidoc, but caves are tough to destroy. Give them time, and they will find a way, but no matter what they do, they cannot hide the truth forever.

Truth bombs. Truth lingers.

The truth is out there, and it lingers beneath the radar, so to speak, sort of like some of the under-the-radar tribes. I cannot possibly be the only one on Earth who knows this, but the true truth is lying dormant, just waiting to be exposed, and all the descendants probably know this already too. It is easier to remain quiet and keep the secret, but some secrets hurt others, you know. A lot of mammals are getting killed over this secret. The secret-knowers may not want to be exposed, but who can blame them for what their ancestors did anyway? Of course, I am talking about the beasts here, though you may have thought I was talking about those humanoids again. Okay, so the truth bomb always hits the earth sooner or later or one way or another, and the longer we wait for it to rear its ugly head, the bigger the explosion. I bet most of the humanoids have no idea what I am talking about right now, as they are too busy persecuting one another in the name of a big fat lie. You know that lie that the poll-lie-opticians tell, right? See how I said opticians? They make glasses for you that help you see what they want you to see and only that, and they are almost like those blinders, but what do I know? That is probably why the humanoids only use Seeing Eye dogs and not Seeing Eye humanoids, because humanoids lead one another down the wrong path. They do it all the time. It is in their DNA, and it is only human nature.

Regarding lies, and as the old saying goes, the humanoids will tell you a lie just because they can. They also lie for fun. Most will believe it, especially the tools that are not as sharp and especially when the liars look just like them. Think about it: to preach lies to elephants, you just need elephants to lie and say what nobody (or everybody) else is saying (or not saying) to the public, so to speak. Of course, I am just referring here to appearances, because many of them are the same inside, plain old ugly. Okay, I am being a bit harsh, but those humanoid types make me so mad. They only seem to fight for their men and always forget about the women and children, and Father always told me to be a part of the solution, not the problem. So I decided to fight for the women and children, and oh, what the heck, I figure I will fight for the men too. Someone has got to do it. But do not worry; I will fight for all of them, not just the ones that look like me. Remember, I am a mammal-type; we are not like those humanoid-types who only fight for those who look like themselves. The One God must be quite angry with them.

* * *

What if I told you we are all connected? Yes, we are all connected through not just the spirit of the One God but through our blood and DNA as well. The mammal tribes are all connected to the humanoids, and all the humanoids are connected to all the mammals, and all the beasts are connected to all the mammals, and all the aliens are connected to all the robots, and so on, and so on. The first ones of the First Nations are connected to the last ones and the last of the invaders and the first of the invaders, and everyone wants to fight over being first, regardless. Blame it all on the invaders—you know, the chaos and confusion—or at least blame their descendants for continuing to stir the pot, if you will. Blame it all on the finders, but it is what it is. Whenever we fight with one another, whether we are mammals or humanoids, we must always ask ourselves first if we are fighting with our very own relations, our cousins, like the nation of Hatfields and McCoys. That sounds crazy, but one can be related to the first ones and the finders of the first ones at the same time.

If you are confused now, you will not be by the end of the story. There has never been a better story of the human kind. I mean, the secret is lying in plain sight, if beings take a genuine look, without their manmade glasses. There are the ones who know all the secrets, and there are ones related to the secret keepers. There is no untangling of that web; it is too late anyway. The enemy and family are the same ones. It is too late to hate, so to speak. You will probably hear me say that a hundred times over. There are clues even in those crevices of the mother of that which does not meet the eye and that at which none even dare to look, but leave no stone unturned, and you will find the clues.

The bomb, the truth, the truth-bomb is just lying dormant and waiting to explode, and it holds more of a shock than those humanoid media tales on the tell-a-lie-vision, but of course you must wear the glasses they gave you to see their truths and their lies. As a matter of fact, the only truth they tell is their truth, which is the lie all at the same time. See what I mean? Humanoids are sickening; they are gross! Take off the glasses and look all around you and count the sidewalk steps we all set our feet upon; we are all connected through the angles, and the numbers and the DNA, and the buildings and the statues, and it goes on and on into infinity. It is too late to fight that fight right now, whether we are living in the mammal world or any other realms of worlds for that matter. We all have the blood of the enemy flowing through our veins. There is no time for blame, and it is useless and a waste of time. We just all need to find a way to live among one another and protect ourselves the best we can, as God's creatures, whether we are mammals, humanoids, alienoids, or anything else that creeps up in the hybrid worlds. I call humans the humanoids because they are so alien to me. There is a great chant the elders always share. I think now is a good time to share it with you.

The elders always say, Never trust someone who tells you who you are but does not even know who they are.

"In front of the descendants of the colonized and colonizing souls, lie the narratives of the invaders as his story of falsity unfolds and is exposed. You must understand they may call you brown or black and all the colors of the earth directions, but that is only a part of the attack. You must stay strong and resist the temptation of it all. Now regarding that of those mammals, the mammals of the riddle, to which do they belong, among those ones of the middle? As those humanoids have the spiritual war commenced, culture wars continue, the taking of sides and families divorced, on the fence. Only unevolved ones would engage in complete pretense, leaving their brothers on their hands and knees for all the worldly recompense. What sense does it make to divide by color of the skin for those who may not wish to be divided among their very own kin? For that never ending hatred of which color-blinded-seers are very akin, yet per the good book, the division of brothers and sisters is of the utmost sin."

Of course, the elders always end chants with a little riddle of advice, and they tell us: "Know who you are, my kin; know who you are always, until the end of the earth days, the end of all suns and the end of all moons, and never let anyone else tell you who you are or who you are not, especially those tellers who are ignorant of who they are. You are who you are, and like your soul, no one can take that away from you, and you are whatever you want to be, and no one can take that