Life so dear, peace so sweet.

Douglas Murphy had always been a reasonable man, and quite a normal one too. His first memory was a September morning thirty years prior, when the world should have become aware of the extent of its danger and the number of its enemies. As a boy, he didn’t really understand what was going on. War had raised its ugly head.

Wars and more wars. Growing up under the specter of combat and battles, he had come to dislike the idea. Young, naïve idealism. Douglas Murphy never could understand why nations couldn’t just talk things out and make peace treaties. He failed to grasp the necessary evil of wars. So he dedicated himself to peace.

Coming of age, he was a chunky fellow. It made good sense to take part in peace marches. Self-conscious as he was and wanting to lose weight, Douglas figured there’d be no better form of exercise than marching for peace. Two birds with one stone, he figured. And march he did. He marched in Dallas, in New York City, and even the Mall in Washington D.C., and any local marches that popped up. He was proud of it. Peace marchers had brought an end to the occupation in Iraq, and then Afghanistan. And when either of those countries -- or Somalia, Thailand, Indonesia and all the rest -- flared up into genocide or sectarian violence or inter-religious strife, he’d admit that maybe a few bombs should be dropped to stop the killing, but only a few. Moderation, he was convinced, was the key to using force.

Now thirty-five years old, Douglas worked as a computer technician. It was enjoyable work. Workable quantum transistors were coming online and making enormous strides in solving the world’s problems. He enjoyed riding his bicycle to work, a four mile roundtrip. It kept him fit and healthy; besides which, fuel cells were still too expensive and oil was tightly rationed. It just wasn’t economical to drive a car.

One day on the ride home from work, Douglas Murphy saw some people handing out brochures on the street corner not far from his house. He stopped near them and asked them what they were handing out. He had that innate curiosity. The trio gave him a brochure and explained the up coming tolerance march. Douglas had heard about tolerance marches. They were doing a lot of good in ending racism, sexism, bigotry, and all the other evils of the world once and for all. Tolerance would make the world better. He accepted the brochure, a little piece of paper folded in half with all the march information printed in nice, friendly letters. He particularly liked the theme: Without Tolerance, There is No Survival.

Douglas thanked them and rode home. He locked his bike to the gas meter outside his suburban house, fiddled with his keys and entered his house. It was a small place, only 600 square feet or so, but it had a nice little bay window and a nook. It was quite swell for being so small. He threw his keys onto the bar, grabbed a beer and flopped down on the couch. Turning on the news, he found that nothing new was going on. Britain was still debating the relevance of the whole Defender of the Faith concept in modern, Muslim Britain. Nothing new there. France was still fighting rioters. Russia still fought Chechens.

Douglas Murphy took a nap.

Two weeks later, it was time to march. This was his first tolerance march, so he didn’t know what to expect, but he figured it’d be like most other marches. They had assembled downtown amidst the tall, antique buildings, quaint little shops and bookstores, and more than a few Starbucks. There was probably a thousand people ready to go. The march would travel south from downtown to the police station, cut west to city hall and then finally to the al-Rashid Mosque, where doves would be released to show solidarity with the Muslim community.

The leaders of the march were Priest Mark Jacobs of St. Matthew’s and the prominent civil rights activist Edward Holmes. It was a true show of tolerance that an atheist and Catholic marched together, side by side.

A cacophony of news whirled about, bullhorns and PA systems relaying important information -- albeit, sometimes with unpleasant feedback. In the heat of the summer day, they began the march. Douglas, for a moment, wished they had chosen a different day to march. It was sweltering and humid that day.

Down main street they marched, chanting messages of acceptance, becoming enraptured in the collective feelings of peace and goodwill. The grand procession was led by the two polar opposites, joined by the common good. They marched, they showed themselves to be peaceful, tolerant Americans. At the police station, they chanted, “No more race-arrests!” a few times, before breaking into disjointed, unrelated shouts by various factions in the crowd. On to city hall, and much the same was heard.

They hooked a right onto sixth street. Marching and singing, praising peace.

Douglas was hit by something.

He opened his eyes. The sky was rolled above him, and the humid air was rife with muffled moans and helpless cries. Douglas rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself up. Sitting on his knees, it was all around him. Gore, dismembered bodies. Inhuman figures pulsed and shivered. Legs and arms, or pieces of them, covered the street. The wail of sirens hit him suddenly.

Douglas knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He lurched forward, barely staggering to his feet. His hands raced over his body and when they showed themselves to his eyes, they were crimson. His fingers twitched. Pain shot through his chest and stomach. He keeled over, falling limply to the pavement. He fought his way back to his feet, but again the wretched pain sent him back down. So he decided to just lie there. It wasn’t real, this was just some twisted dream, that’s all.

Douglas went to sleep.

Again he opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. Fluorescent bulbs shown overhead, a TV was fixed to the wall. Beeps flirted around his ears. As he tried to sit up, it was like someone suddenly kicked his sternum. Douglas screamed wildly, thrashing around in his bed, praying that he’d wake up.

A pair of nurse aids rushed into his room and restrained him.

“Mr. Murphy,” the older of the two said, “calm down, calm down. You’re okay, you’re in the hospital.”

Douglas’ eyes rolled around in his head, his face contorted and he inhaled deeply. Too much pain, too much surrealism. He asked what had happened, why he was in the hospital. The older nurse aid explained.

A car bomb had exploded as the march walked by. It was a rather nasty one, the aide explained, more so than those seen so far. A professional job, she said. Douglas asked what was wrong with him.

His right arm had been amputated. He had suffered massive internal injures, his spleen was removed. He had a concussion. In short, the aide continued, he was lucky to be alive. More than a hundred others hadn’t been so lucky. Douglas asked he did it, who bombed the march.

“At first, the police arrested three college students from Pakistan,” she said. “But they were released at the request of the mosque and the regional CAIR office.”

A year later, Douglas was unemployed. A man couldn’t very well be a technician with one real arm and one plastic arm. Luckily, the Government had granted him disability until he could be fully rehabilitated, or for a period of no longer than two years. He spent most of his free-time, of which there was too much, dictating essays and letters-to-the-editor. Most were hateful and never published.

As for the criminals, no one was ever convicted. The three Pakistanis later returned to Lahore, and lived normal lives. A pair of Texans who happened to be in town that week were promptly arrested and put on trial. They were charged with more than 100 counts of murder, several hundred counts of attempted murder, a slew of other crimes, and the reasonable count of violent and malicious acts against tolerance. They were acquitted and the case went cold.

Douglas Murphy knew they had done it. In his private research he learned that not only were the members of the hate-group Sons of Confederate Veterans, they were also in the radical America First party. The fact that they were lovers didn’t diminish their association with hateful, intolerant groups. He asked himself how they could have been acquitted. He knew the answer.

The government.

It was obvious. Here were two white-trash militants, using violence to hide their unnatural, perverted life styles. It was the perfect façade. Douglas knew, deep down inside it was obvious, that the government was protecting two rednecks because politicians wanted to blame Islam. How was it possible, he asked himself, that after all these years the government still thought Islam was the problem? It was repugnant that the government could ignore three separate fatwas against violence. They, Douglas reckoned, just want to perpetuate anti-Islamism and American imperialism.

Douglas Murphy would go on to become quite the regular on media outlets. He preached against continued intolerance, he pledged the remainder of his life to showing how colonialism cost him his arm, his spleen, his job and, ultimately, his normal, happy life.

Douglas Murphy died at the age of 56, having spent his entire life to show that tolerance was the way, and that only through tolerance could peace be created.

The "Allahu Akbar" Count.

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Dear World...

I wonder about you sometimes.

England. You are the progenitor. Your influence touched all the world. Once upon a time you were a proud, brave people. The English language is the most common second-language spoken, and the second most common mother tongue. English Common Law has done many wonderful things. What has gone wrong? Have you been convinced that your empire was evil? Do you forget that some of the world's longest lasting and most stalwart Democracies are the children of England? Have you forgotten New Zealand, Australia, Canada and the United States? Please, come to your senses. Once upon a time honor, fortitude and determination marked your people.
The British "stiff upper lip" is, or was, a great thing. It has been replaced by multiculturalism to the point of submission. We don't want you to fight and die for a cause you don't believe in. We just want you to remain English. Remember your most famous song. "Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves / Britons never, never, never shall be slaves."

Germany. This author's blood has Prussian and Saxon in it. The "Iron Men" of Germany were a wonder to behold. Few nations, few peoples in history could endure the things that Germany has and remained so resolutely who they were. You are Germans! But I think you are afraid. You are afraid that if you stand up for Germany that you will go back down a long, dark path. The guilt and shame of Nazi Germany seem to hang over your heads. If you are young, if you were too young to be involved in Nazi Germany, no shame hangs over your heads.

This author is proud to be of German blood. But frankly it seems that you Germans are less proud of your undiluted German blood than I am of my diluted kind. We don't want you to fight and die for a cause you don't believe in. We just want you to remain German. Don't be afraid to say "Deutschland Uber Alles." Remember your defiance of the Roman Empire, your defiance of the Catholic Church. Remember who Germans were and come back.

France. Though it annoys the hell out of most of the world, there's something to be said for French pride. Ya, it comes off as arrogant. Ya, you seem to spurn other nations. But what is wrong with that? Of all the European nations, it seems that you are the most intent on remaining who you are. You are the most hell bent to keep your language, nation and culture. I remember the whole "courrier electronique" bit. Do you forget that you gave rise to Charles Martel and Charlemagne?

Though England, Germany and, especially, America may laugh at your history, there is nothing to laugh at. At Verdun you endured what few nations could. You held Germany at the Marne. The Nazis never really conquered you. And Napoleon, contrary to popular belief, was in fact born in French lands. The Code Civil endures to this day. We don't want you to fight and die for something you don't believe in, we just want you to remain French.

Japan. I admire your history and culture, your industriousness and organization as much as I do that of Germany. No nation in history has gone from technological backwardness to being so amazingly advanced, industrialized and productive in so short a span. The Western nations all helped create the Industrial Revolution. You showed up late to the party. And despite the fire-bombings of your cities, and two atomic bombings, you have come back from the ashes.

For now, this fight doesn't involve you. For now. Frankly, I hope it never does. But if it does come to your shores -- and, if history is correct, it will -- then I hope you recall the days of bushido, the honor of warriors and the preservation of the Japanese nation. We don't want you to fight and die for something you don't believe in, we just want you to remain Japanese.

There are many other nations that deserve a dressing-down. But for now, I leave it at that.