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‘Don’t we all have past events, encounters and relationships that deserve to be seen in a new light?’
What all doomsday prophets had in common, since the dawn of time, was, of course, that their predictions were wrong.
Agnes thought of all the poor Jehovah’s Witnesses who had to come to terms with at least twenty ends of the world in the past century. She didn’t know if it was Jehovah himself whispering in the Witnesses’ ears, but just imagine being so wrong twenty times in a row.
For far beneath every political, religious or geographical struggle for power there were always thousands, hundreds of thousands, or millions of regular people whose basic philosophy was as simple as feeling that it would be nice to be able to have breakfast on the table in the morning when you woke up after doing an honest day’s work the day before. And also that you wouldn’t be showered with grenades at lunch.
Thanks to her now-retired alias, the violet-haired pensioner was more widely travelled than most people. Thus she recognized a shithole country when she saw one.
Aleko’s wife had sat in that chair for the last three weeks of her life, while the fax machine repairman treated her for vitamin deficiency instead of cancer.
Aleko had an interesting opinion of what constituted justice. It didn’t matter if something was unjust, as long as everyone was equally mistreated.
