The SegRegal Sheriff
THE SEGREGAL SHERIFF
The old donkey is dying. As he lies on his death bed, his family gathers around him.
"Are you here with me, in my final hours, mum?" he asks his wife.
"Yes, dear, I'm here."
"And is my son here?"
"Yes, he is."
"And what about my daughter?"
"She's here as well, dear."
"And... My siblings?"
"We're right here, brother."
The old donkey then sits up.
"Then who on Tartarus is taking care of the shop?!"
. . . . . . . . .
Jack and Jenny meet on the street.
"Good morning." Jenny greets Jack cheerily.
"Let's skip the trivialities, Jenny." Jack replies sharply "How much do you want, and by when?!"
. . . . . . . . .
Li'l Jackie is bucking the side of the church. The Vicar comes out.
"Jack, if you keep kicking that wall, I swear to Harmonia, I'll ponify you!"
Jackie ignores him, and keeps kicking the wall. Soon, the Vicar grabs him by the scruff of his neck, drags him into the church, and ponifies him. He walks home sadly, and meets up with the onager.
"What happened, Jack?" he asks him.
"I've been ponified." Jackie replies.
Then the onager takes him away and beats him up.
Jackie goes home, feeling sore and sad.
"What's wrong, Jackie?" his mother asks.
"I've been ponified." he replies.
His mother beats him up as well. His dad comes home, and his mother tells him about his ponification. So his dad beats him up as well.
Li'l Jackie runs out into the middle of the street, and cries against the Heavens:
"Sweet Harmonia! I've only been a pony for a day, and I already hate donkeys!"
. . . . . . . . .
"Why do donkeys always reply with a question?"
"Why is it wrong to reply with a question?"
. . . . . . . . .
Jack and Palo meet on the street. Jack is wearing a large, yellow star on his chest.
"Jack..." Palo asks, surprised "...Are you an ass?"
"No. I'm the SegRegal Sheriff."
. . . . . . . . .
What's the difference between bread and donkeys?
???
Breads don't trash against the fire door.
. . . . . . . . .
The Gearmane asks the little mule:
"How old are you, Kind?
"Me? I'll be nine this year..."
"No, you wo~o~o~on't!"
. . . . . . . . .
How does the mule foal play hide'n'seek?
???
Goes in through the door - goes out through the chimney.
. . . . . . . . .
During a military training:
"What do you do, if you see a dying zebra, giraffe, donkey or mule?"
"I-I don't... Don't know..."
"Congratulations! You've passed!"
. . . . . . . . .
The officer informs the prisoners:
"Boys, we'll be making grass stew tonight!"
The prisoners start to cheer.
"Shut up, you weedy sods!"
. . . . . . . . .
The officer asks the little mule:
"What do you want to be, kind?"
"Me? A soldier, sir!"
"No, I mean...
...Glue or Gelatin?
. . . . . . . . .
"...And I really want to take this moment to express my desire to see the sovereign flag of our country fly bravely in the sky once again, and see those who wished us nothing but slavery and dept to pay for their crimes, because it was because of them that the revolution of XX was crushed, so those, who contributed to this, should be taken away by trains once again, like they were back then, and forced to do honest work, because that is what they HATE the most..."
. . . . . . . . .
"...And then, it was announced, that everyone must wear a yellow star on their chests, for the sake of identification. Me and my friends agreed to put on our best dresses, and put the stars on those. Then we walked out onto the streets, proud and brave... Nobody repeated what we did.
It didn't mattered..."
. . . . . . . . .
"They started mark our shops and stands with those stars, one by one, standing on the street corners like guards or harlots, holding up large signs... That stated that no one should buy our products. That they should "protect" themselves. Initially, no one cared. But then, as they started patrolling the streets, ponies began to obey. Soon, they began ransacking and looting our shops and other establishments. At first, both us and others protested. But soon, nobody dared to protest..."
. . . . . . . . .
"I was walking across the street when I saw a group of blackshirts on the corner.
There were corpses around them.
I tried to walk pass them, but they called me over.
"Kid, are you an ass?" one of them asked.
"Should I be?" I replied.
"Don't ask, I ask you!" the trooper snapped.
"What's wrong with me asking?" I replied again.
"Hey, mules talk this way!" one of the called out to my inquisitor.
"How do you know how mules talk?" I asked. They exchanged looks.
"Just go, kid!" they told me.
I saw their eyes.
They knew.
I knew.
. . . . . . . . .
"At first we thought this thing would be short-term. That it would soon be over, and everything will return to normal. After a month, we started to see daylight that it wont. But still, we had hope. By the end of the year, we knew that nothing will ever be the same. By the end of the war, we've lost all hope..."
. . . . . . . . .
"I was just drafted in when the new protocols were initiated. Five of us - my friends and I - were sent out to patrol the stocks. We knew the area, and were surprised that a segregation zone was established there.
When we arrived, we knew that something was wrong. Our friends, our old friends that we had known since childhood, looked at us with glares of anger, hater. gazes of fear, and stares that showed utter hopelessness.
We didn't understood. There was a meeting held at the local market, to inform all the soldiers in the district about the changes.
...Afterwards, we never talked to our old friends anymore. We couldn't even greet them, or even look at them. In some cases... That was the last time we ever saw them."
. . . . . . . . .
"I was only a foal when they took my mother away.
They broke down our door one night, and told my mother to come along with them. Well, they ordered her, calling her horrible names and teasing her, saying that if she won't comply, I'll have to suffer. She went along.
I don't... I can't remember how long I've stayed in that cold, empty flat. Our neighbours must've heard my crying. They hid me in the attic.
The first night was the worst. There was a storm that night, and the wind howled against the tiles of the roof. I couldn't sleep. Just cry.
When we first heard the sirens, I was told to go to the basement.
Afterwards, I heard nothing. Just thunder.
In my young age, I didn't know those were bombs.
Then silence.
Silence, until the Stalliongradians arrived, and gave me food, clothes and medicine, telling me that the war is over, and better times are on the horizon.
"There was a war?" I asked. They were in shock.
I never saw my mother again."
. . . . . . . . .
For each wagon, roughly 30 to 40 heads would fit, not counting offsprings. It is encouraged that the responsible officers taking care of the operation would hasten the pace, disregarding the reaction of the load, apart from deviation or retaliation, which should be dealt with immediately after notice, but in a manner that conserves ammunition and manpower. Rebellion on the train is made practically impossible by the setup, but a soldier MUST remain vigilant.
. . . . . . . . .
"There were long rows in the square, standing around the tram lines, where the wagons have been parked. Every wagon was filled with more passengers than what it could accept - it was like an act from a circus, where all the clowns try to squeeze into the small fiacre. No one was laughing now.
I saw a soldier, an officer, perhaps. He was observing the whole thing, just staring, emotionlessly, at the crowd, as they boarded the vans. But in his eyes, I saw something... Something that encouraged me.
"Please, sir..." I pleaded, crawling in front of him "Please let me home. I have a small foal, who's left all alone. Our neighbors won't take her in, in fear of... In fear off...
Nopony paid attention. Sights like these were as common as cold. Still, the officer looked troubled.
"Stop acting like that, mare!" he grumbled "You're putting me into an awkward predicament!"
"But sir..." I begged.
"Just rip off the damn star, and walk away!" he whispered "Don't run, just walk! Get out of here!"
I did as he told.
My filly, weakened by starvation, died of tuberculosis, before the war ended. I heard that the officer from the square was shot by his own superiors. I visited his grave after the war, and brought a flower. A violet. That was the only thing I could get."
. . . . . . . . .
"We've probably stayed there for two or three weeks, as we were carried across the country. Many of us had died along the way, in the tight space were we all stood. Every time we stopped, we would throw out the corpses, and had cold water thrown over us as a form of shower, and then, new prisoners took the dead ones' place.
If someone managed to escape, they were shot. One of us managed to climb out through the small window of the wagon, but he didn't ran away. He just sat there, on the ballast, and gazed into the distance - the sun was setting. He smiled, free from the dark and tight place he was squeezed into, and he smiled when a young soldier found him. He smiled as he was shot, dead in between the eyes.
Later that night, we heard another shot.
The young soldier had killed himself."
. . . . . . . . .
"The first thing I saw was the fire. Then the smokestacks. Three chimneys bellowed fire and smoke in the distance. We've reached our destination.
As we got out, captured soldiers from Neighgorod "greeted" us, and took us to the barracks. One of them pointed at the sheds on the other side of the camp.
"See that?" he asked, chuckling "That's were you'll die."
We thought of it as a cruel joke.
We didn't know that the same thing has been happening in their country in the past four years.
In hindsight, that wasn't a cruel joke - it was a warm-hearted warning."
. . . . . . . . .
"Originally, they were taken off from the wagons, we took their clothes and properties, shaved their manes and tail - the fur as well, in case of foals - then they were selected: those capable of work were sent to the right, to the barracks. Those incapable of work were sent to the left. To the showers, they thought. Those weren't the showers. Those were their execution chambers.
Their dead carcasses were then burned.
Then, the plans changed.
No more secrets.
They were rounded up in masses, and waited in front of the large, steel doors. Those mothers who knew what was coming, told their fillies and colts to remain calm, and even joked about what they would do after the "showers" - there was no "after". I worked there once. We took the cans of Cyclone-B, punched their lids in, and threw them in from the roof. That was before the pipes were put in. And those red... No, marron.... No, I think, they were purple, purple crystals... We threw them inside, and made bets who would survive the longest.
Once, I saw my friend and his family enter the chambers. They called out to me, but I turned my back on them, and kept on patrolling.
I was 13 back then.
Up until then, I haven't seen anything but corpses, corpses, corpses...
Corpses...
Corpses...
And corpses...
And I thought, when this was all over, I'll be the last pony on Earth. Nobody else will be alive, but me.
All I've dreamt about was to have five loafs of bread, all to myself. Just for me, and me. Alone..."
. . . . . . . . .
"When we opened the doors, the cadavers tumbled out like logs.
We've observed that at the bottom were the foals, then the youngest fillies and colts, then the elders, then older fillies and colts, then the mares, and at the top were the strongest and healthiest stallions.
Some of the foals have been trampled so much that you couldn't even make out their little faces anymore. The officers in charge turned tail and vomited. A new soldiers shot himself, then and there, when we first opened the doors. I just stared. The cyan colored splodges on the walls were growing larger.
We later found a young filly, who was still alive: she fell muzzle first into a pool of blood, urine and other bodily fluids - water was known to abrogate the effectivity of Cyclone-B. That's how she survived.
We asked our leading officer if she could be saved, assigned for a job with the other mares.
"Could be." the officer replied "If only she was a little older..."
She was shot the next day.
Not by the officer, of course..."
. . . . . . . . .
"There was a barb wire fence, charged with high frequency magical force, surrounding our barracks. Every day, mares and fillies ran into the wires when they could. The guards never objected, or encouraged us. We had to clear away the corpses ourselves.
One day, my friend asked me:
"Wanna go?"
"Where?" I asked back.
"Running... Into the fence." she replied.
"Are you mad?" I asked "If I run into the fence today, and these lose the war tomorrow, I'll get a stroke in Heaven!"
Everybody who heard us laughed.
There were no more suicides that day.
For one guffaw."
. . . . . . . . .
I saw the volunteers carry big bags of bones to the grinder. Bigger bones, like the tibia, were hard to burn, so they ground them up into dust, then carried it to the nearby river, where they dumped it into the water. The flowed down with the current but it didn't submerge for a long time.
They were grinding the bones of their own friends, family, lovers.
They were throwing the ashes of their own.
. . . . . . . . .
It should be hereby noted, that after taking account of the large number of stock from Hungery, the chambers were found inadequate to deal with the increased load. Thus, burning pits were built, dug seven to twelve hoof deep, with grills on the bottom to cover the gas pipes, and canals dug beneath, so that the dripping grease can be caught and used to increase the fire...
. . . . . . . . .
"There was a small, Neighgorodian mare in charge of our barracks. She terrorized us to no end. Nopony, not one of her superiors told her to stop. When we were liberated, she wasn't given a trial. We killed her, out of vengeance. It was quicker than what she deserved."
. . . . . . . . .
"When the tracks were blown up, the last of the entrained had to make that miles long walk, that forced march to the camps. Many of them died, but the survivors were optimistic. We thought they were aliens. They reasoned that if the tracks were blown up, then...
...The "enemy" was coming!"
. . . . . . . . .
"The Stalliongradians arrived. They weren't shocked. They lived through the war on the front, living every day with the knowledge that they would die the next morning - it was a miracle if they didn't. They lived and marched on in inequane conditions.
We sympathised with each other.
The soldiers demolished the crematoriums, the barracks, everything.
But they couldn't finish.
There was still evidence left."
. . . . . . . . .
"There was no train service or anything on the way back.
Many of us died on their way back home, now free, free from the facilities we couldn't believe to have existed, even though we lived in them for the past twelve months or so.
When I saw the demolished city, I knew I arrived home.
We weren't welcome.
When they saw us, their eyes didn't say: "You're still alive?!"
Instead, they said: "Look, who's back!"
Turns out, they had to give back everything they've gotten from our confiscated property. It was an order.
No one complied.
Nothing was given back."
. . . . . . . . .
"There were talks about guilt everywhere, how everyone was sorry, and how they didn't knew. We understood that.
But then one of them mentioned that they hoped that it would be the mules. They felt really sad, because it was the donkeys, mainly, and not the mules..."
. . . . . . . . .
It was over.
Was I glad, that it was over?
Yes,
Did I wanted to go home?
Yes.
Did I liked it home?
No.
Have I ever forgiven the soldiers?
Yes.
Have I ever forgiven my friends, neighbors, and the others?
...
. . . . . . . . .
How can you tell if a donkey has been through the cleansing?
???
He's rich.
. . . . . . . . .
How can you tell if a pony has been through the cleansing?
???
He's dead.
. . . . . . . . .
How can you tell if an equine has been through the Second Panequine War?
???
He'll keep telling you that you 'know nothing'.
. . . . . . . . .
How can you tell if an equine is racist?
???
Do you need to tell?
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Why does this have a comedy tag? There is nothing funny about this topic.
The same reason the tragedy tag is there.
It was 99% tragedy and 1% dark comedy. The entire thing, even in hindsight, is completely absurd and unsound for the common man.
Also, bits and blots of humor can be found in crumbs, hidden in the text. Dark, sour, embittered gallows humor, but it's still there.
The Holocaust, the greatest tragedy of modern history, proved that men are not animals - they are far, far worse. And marked the end of an era, the end "fair fight" in warfare - and indeed, the meaningless slaughter didn't ended with the end of WW2 -, and the end of our belief in natural innocence - a hypothesis already weakened by World War 1.
It is obviously a subject that shouldn't be taken lightly.
But, if you look at it through the eyes of those who suffered through it, you'll see it far more differently. No longer it is a mass bundle of depressing data, no longer it is a horror story about human nature - it becomes a tale, spread from mouth to mouth, from father to son, mother to daughter.
Terror outweighs rejoice in reality, but in the minds of the survivors, life was all the more brighter with the War getting more and more behind them. And even under the mind-numbing horrors that was the Holocaust, some remained conscious enough to see the absurdity of the whole thing, and, like any other human, laugh at it.
I have to admit, the comedy tag is a bit misleading, as the comedy we're talking about is very dark and few and far between.
Shall I take it off?
3402621 sry that i didn´t answer sooner, but after reading your post, and calming a bit down, I can understand why it was there initialy. I just re-read this and I think it acomplishes to show what happened at that time.
But when you have seen a KZ and hear the storys the survivors have to tell about that place, you get a bit irritated, when there is a Story about it labeled as comedy.
In my hometowb was just a camp for prisoners of war (Stammlager VII A), but we visited two KZ in School in 9th grade, and even a watchtower othe Berliner Mauer, in 10th grade, which was converted into a museum by an old man, whose brother was killed near it.
A "Darkhumor" tag would have fitted this story very much as you explained, but a normal comedy tag is misleading.
Still it´s a good story and one step more to avoid similar things in the future by remebering the wrongs done in the past.
I'm glad that we've came to an agreement.
(Pre-review comments:)
I thought this was going to be a trollfic...
But now I'm just drawing a blank. I have absolutely no idea what to say about this. Or, to be more specific: I'd rather know a few more things before saying anything.
This would be a lot more difficult if a review weren't basically a one-way system. So here's a weird idea: would you consider taking part in an interview instead? ZP-style or normal is up to you...
Depends... What's ZP?
5190345
Zero Punctuation.
Your story was submitted to a group dedicated to
stealing- I mean... stealing... a certain review style of a semi-famous internet critic. Who is infamous for giving extremely harsh criticism in a crude sometimes offensive manner, with little to no regard for other's opinions.Oh yeah, and there's funny bits too.
5190345
Yeah, that reminds me: was it you who submitted the fic to our group?
Also, please use the reply feature, otherwise I won't know that you've replied...
5191188
Did we kill him somehow?
I didn't mean to...
No worries!
I was just away in the Czech Republic , and there was no stable internet connection where I went.
Anyways, thanks for replying!
I should've figured out what the ZP abbreviation meant...
Anyways, unload it on me! I'm not afraid! >:-)
5205534
Nope, he just replied.
Still didn't use the reply feature though.
5205759
And after reading the story myself, I can sort of see why Dark Avenger wanted an interview before jumping into this. Your story is... how to put it... "Special", I believe it's called, in the American public school system. I might consider reviewing it myself, but honestly I think that any legitimate criticism I have for it would be drowned out by the repeated question of, "Why did you put ponies in it? Why did you put ponies in it? Why did you put ponies in it?"
That, and I'm already procrastinating the hell out of reading another story I'm supposed to be reviewing.
5207976
5205534
Like I said before, it was an experiment. The "play" which it was based on has moved me so much that I thought I have to share the experience. And, out of all websites, FIMFiction seemed to have the most responsive readers. I also wanted to allegorize, to see how much of the original could be converted into Equestrian context.
I never thought of this as a "successful" experiment, but an effective one none the less.
Besides, with so many people writing dark stories that dare to discover the darker nature of equinekind, bringing with it concepts, such as bloodshed, torture and terror, to an artistic level, I think it's only fair that I put my cards down on the table as well, but doing so with a story that probably hits hard home for all of us. A depressive story to end all depressive stories.
5207976
My thoughts exactly. Which is why I'm not as much interested in the story as I would like to know about the "author-story relationship," so to speak.
5208713
Okay, if you're willing to go for it, then I'll whip up a few questions and will send them in a PM soon.
5208751
Thank you.
This review is brought to you by Zero Punctuation Reviews...
...except it isn't actually a review, or at least definitely not a conventional one. Due to the, shall we say, sensitive content of the story, I decided to do something a little different: I interviewed the author, ZP-style.
Enjoy!
(The following are a couple of excerpts. Full interview here: link)
-----
DA: Before I dive into the dirty business at hand, I must get this out of the way: the fic reminded me an awful lot of "Fatelessness." Coincidence, or was it an inspiration?
SB: While I haven't had the joy of reading this beaut' of Kertész, I've heard enough of it from parents and grandparents to understand the gist of it. However, in this case, I have to say it is coincidence. This... Work of mine (hard to describe it as a story) is inspired by, and entirely plagiarized based upon the Hungarian alternative play "The Ghetto Sheriff" ('A Dohány utcai Seriff'), which is... Basically what I wrote down, except that I spent the one-and-a-half-two hours of it sitting in complete darkness, listening to the stories that "actors" related to us from various parts of the darkened room, occasionally breaking the flow of anecdotes with cheerful, anti-semitic songs or funeral music, whilst the stories themselves were accompanied by the gentle sounds of violins slowly being tortured to death... Not just reading the stories. I was one of the selective few who remained stone-faced throughout the whole play, mainly due to the fact that I was already well-educated on the topic. However, until that point, World War II and the Holocaust had only been an episode of history and a mere statistic for me.
After this, however, I could no longer "look the other way".
DA: Well, the biggest elephant in the room is starting to give me weird looks, and I fear that it’s planning to sodomize me in the closet any minute now. I suppose it’s time we grabbed a rifle and blew its brains out: you wrote a fanfic that does the "pony version" of The Holocaust. You've already answered the part about what inspired you, but what possessed you to make it pony-related at all?
SB: To tell you the truth, this was born out of a necessity. Like I said before, the FIMFiction reader-audience is the most responsive I know of, never fearing to comment (usually in a helpful manner) on others' work. Placing this on DeviantArt would've probably met with a bland response, since I haven't made myself "famous" there. FIMFiction has had it's fair share of dark fics, many of which are similar to my attempt, so I thought such a... "Creation" wouldn't be completely out of place…
DA: The story opens with a series of, shall we say, divisive jokes, since they will either make the readers laugh, or they will pave the road to getting yourself banned from wherever you told them. In fact the title itself is a reference to one such joke (aside from the inspiration that you mentioned).
To me, it seems like the perfect metaphor for the fic as a whole: on one hand, the content is extremely divisive, since you will either get people who are intrigued by the fic and appreciate the intent, or those who are deeply offended by the very idea of combining ponies with the Holocaust. There is also a slim minority of people who could fap to this, but let's just ignore them. On the other hand, just as the jokes seem to ridicule a tragic event, they actually represent how events like these are slowly becoming parodies of themselves as time passes, yet people still keep ranting about them, distorting the story just to suit their own purposes. Call it "Godwin's law IRL," if you will.
SB: The jokes in the beginning meant to represent how... Easily this all started. Jokes that were initially "innocent", just making fun of the generalized quirkiness of a group of people - or ponies - eventually became a source of broader generalization, then marginalization, then prejudice. Pre-existing ignorance, the fear of the unknown, and the unwillingness to accept difference led to segregation, bias and eventually, hatred. From the imperial rhetorics came the desire for greatness, and with the additional bias and hatred came the tools that forged new ideologies. Yes, ideologies.
When observed objectively, all extreme ideas base themselves around the "Us and Them" rhetoric - making enemies out of others, and making demons out of enemies. Both the far right, AND the far left are guilty of resorting to this recurring dogma, but it is this occurrence of demagogy that makes it so easy to identify extremism...
DA: I must admit, I did not like this story once I finished it, but I upvoted it nonetheless. Like I said, it did not offend me, and the writing was solid, but it still bothered me on other levels. For one thing, combining ponies with the Holocaust is about as subtle as a shish kebab made from the heads of aborted fetuses, plus there is little to no mention of how ponies, the embodiment of "love and friendship", suddenly turned into mass murderers, nor why they're suddenly using rifles and gas to do the dirty work.
Parallels with human history are nice and can work really well, but not when you're just replacing the human participants with ponies and calling it a day. That way it's more out of place than a baby seal and a sea urchin having sex in the middle of the Sahara desert. A land as magical and vomit-inducingly innocent as Equestria needs some serious backstory and worldbuilding to turn into nazi-occupied Europe and be in any way believable, let alone educational.
SB: Well, this was an experiment, and as any experiment, it has it's fair share of flaws.
One explanation to the usage of technology may be that it is the earth ponies who are doing all the dirty work (as per usual in Equestria), and, having no wings or magic to work with, they resort to their gruesome creativity. Also, as it was stated in a couple of the testimonies, this didn't happened from one day to the other. There was a steady, but increasingly faster buildup, leading from the implementation of the star insignias, all the way to the camps, and afterwards, to the bitter return. I may have smeared these details when writing, though.
Magical as the land of Equestria is, hard times could hit in anytime, and it's always easier to pass the blame. All it needs is just one man, or stallion, with a vision or grand delusion... And the rest... Is history.
Then again, while I wrote this story to relate the tale of one of, if not the greatest tragedy in modern history, my intentions were never really clear to myself, and the ponification of the stories, jokes and anecdotes were more out of necessity than out of intended design.
I guess you can call this a "misplaced experiment".
DA: Despite my complaints, the story does deserve praise for how it handles the subject. It's definitely nothing like all the utterly ridiculous fics that try to be "serious" and talk about things like 9/11 and war and tragedy and whatnot mashed together with fucking ponies, as though one were to put a violent rape scene into the second act of "Mary Poppins."
In my experience, even fics more "tame" than this one tend to become extremely divisive among the readers here. In fact, you may end up grateful that you made no mention of popular canon characters here, otherwise you would now be on the wrong end of a ton of obsessive fans. But aside from that, what do you expect will happen, and how do you plan to react to it? Will you run away and hide under your bed once the comments section collectively grabs the torches and pitchforks? Will you join the fray as "well-structured arguments" descend into ad hominems? Will you help them find all new ways of pointing out that the other person's mother offers sex to strangers for money?
SB: I think I'll see what happens when people start to notice this story (I might as well start popularizing it, for what it's worth, although I'm not sure how one could advertise THIS, well, aside from offering free cookies to people if they are willing to partake in an undisclosed "social experiment"), and then, react accordingly. If shit hits the fan, and people "boo" me out of this galaxy, then I'll just remove it. If people actually respond to it intelligently, and in an, at least, half-decent way, then I'll leave it on, and see where the train of thought takes this malarkey. I may patch it up a bit, after all, I can't truly relay what I've experienced while attending that play, so it may be better to make the story more "whole" than "experiency".
In the end, if people reduce themselves into premature, hysteric hairless apes, I could always drop down the F-Nuke and call out to them:
You haven't learned JACK SHIT from history, and your constant bickering over this story only proves that!
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(In case you missed the link the first time and/or would like to read the full thing, you may find it here: link)