TB on Cosmic Warfare

The two gunmen said nothing, but Jacob Goldman gasped out in a strangled cry, “You!”

All four of them understood what Jacob Goldman had said. He did not know or recognize the men who were about to put him to death. They had always been far beneath him, part of the scenery he saw from the window of his luxury car or a plush office suite, animals who through some accident of nature resembled God’s Chosen People in outward form, but whom the sages of Torah assured him were beasts without souls. And yet he indeed knew who they were, and why they were here. Four thousand years of racial instinct crackled in a moment of cosmic, hideous recognition and knowledge. A timeless drama was once again about to be played out, an ancient debt was once more to be paid, and blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war. The men before Jacob Goldman could have been wearing Roman armor, or Crusaders’ chain mail, or Cossack leather and furs, or the black tunic of the SS. Now they wore denim jeans and ski masks, but oh, yes, he knew them. Now he was going to die, because they knew him as well, knew him for what he was.

-The Brigade