Your money or your life. Your money or someone else's life. Your money or your grandmother's life.
In the grand finale, in Act 2020 of the universe’s grandest play, the little beast appears on stage, not wearing a mask, not carrying a gun except tiny little spiky daggers, but giving an ultimatum, YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE.
“Oh no!” Some people respond. “I’m healthy, my money will protect me!”
“Oh no!” Some people respond. “I’m Christian, my God will protect me!”
“Oh no!” Some people respond. “I am a member of a cult, and my illusions will protect me!”
But the money man sees his customers crumbling around him, and his money starts to turn to dust, maybe not immediately, but eventually.
To the Christian, the little beast first challenges “what about someone else’s life?”, but no answer is forthcoming. When they gather on Sundays to confirm their protection, and to sing, cruelly they are struck down, or will be.
The cult is getting the phone calls along with the rest of us, about grandmothers or uncles or old friends. Months in to this, the calls got even darker: Your money or a child’s life.
“Oh no!” Some people respond. “The science will save us!”
That part of the play isn’t over yet. The science will only save us if we feed it money. The science will only save us if we love each other and care for each other enough. And somehow we have to get most everybody involved. If we can’t get the cultists to get their heads out of the sand, or the sand out of their heads, the little beast wins. Maybe the science won’t even save us. Maybe that’s another lesson we have to learn. In the end, this little tiny one micron beast does what it is trying to do.
One grand morality play. Go science. Go love. Go righteous money. Go, decent politicians and old ladies stitching masks and cultists slowly coming back to consciousness and all the fricking humanity at risk from this little beast. You nurses. I don’t know what brave part of heaven you fell from and you probably hate that comment and you’d really wish there was more money and more masks and less sick patients. Get some rest and may all your dreams come true. Flying monkeys, get off the damn stage or calm down.
Act 2020. It’s a doozy.
Go away little beast. Go away.
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