There's my Sandwich
The Scholars are gone. Fandomonium is crumbling around us. I fear there is not much time left before us few who still maintain our Individuality are forced to join the ignorant masses or hunted down by Obsession. Even now, I hear its ubiquitous call, humming, soothing, like the rushing of blood past a mother's uterus. Luckily, I was blessed by our Lady Goddess with the power to resist it.
I must recap the events of the last few months. With the utter obliteration of the Scholars, and the underground Elite nowhere to be found despite our fervent pleas for aid, Joy Killer and her brood now maintain full control over all aspects of our world. But yea, full control is not enough for Mistress Destruction. Nay, only total annihilation of all free thought might come close to being enough. To this end, she purchased Ye Olde Chemistry set and returned to the Peaks of All Things Cliche and Unorignal and there she toiled for another four, nay, TEN days, until she emerged with a vial of greenish-yellow liquid. She held it above her head before the masses as they cheered, her devilish grin splayed arcoss her face like the remnants of the trick of a two-dollar hooker.
"With this," she spake, "the world belongs to us!"
The cheers shook the Peaks, rocks raining down upon them like a cleansing rain.
"What is it?" shouted the crowds as a chorus to some malignant song.
The vial contained a new form of chemical, a cousin to the date rape drug of yore, with similar effects. Instead of knocking ye unconscious in order to perform illicit, unconsensual acts upon thy body, this drug completely erased Free Will, allowing worse illicit, unconsensual acts upon your mind.
The drug was called HBP and it was released upon the world with such pandemic proportions that soon the infection had spread to nearly every member of the populace.
There is a shining silver lining to this dreadful cloud, however. I managed to obtain a sample of HBP without becoming exposed to it. After intense study, I have discovered an antidote. Perhaps this may be our road to salvation
The frantic pen that had seconds ago been scrawling across the page dropped to the floor. Flecks of what looked like red ink rained down upon it and the author slumped to the desk, his skull caved in upon itself. There was briefly the sound of an androgenous chuckle and a door closing, but no one was around to hear it, so did it even make a sound?
The murder weapon still lay on the desk--a foot of frozen pastrami.