Henry Richard Cook:
A man with an excruciating headache.
(1827)

"This might be what TheAche has been so insistently whispering to me."

I find myself becoming more familiar with TheAche than I ever imagined I might become. I am not, and I never have been, a particularly vengeful man. I do not easily think ill of anyone, though in our incumbent’s case, I have almost gleefully made exceptions. The long months, now degrading into even longer years of irresolution, have left me genuinely bereft. Those I once thought well of, I can no longer hold off on my judgments. I cannot ascribe to inattention what only wholehearted support can explain. The erosion of our sacred norms undermines more than mere policy; it utterly degrades polity itself, leaving not even a recognizable shell behind. No logic known to man or demon defined this path to ruin. Only studied inattention could possibly explain the degradation. Will it be complete before we finally depose this weasel and his retinue, or might a few shreds of decency still remain flapping in a severely wounded breeze? I ache for the Comeuppance part of this story to wade in with real vengeance.

I acknowledge and almost accept that nobody gets to dictate any moment of Comeuppance. It comes as the result of direct as well as indirect forces. The physics of every Comeuppance proves different, rendering predictions irrelevant. One must hold the faith, especially when the faith seems incapable of holding anyone. Hope also contributes, for in such races toward bottoms, faith gets herself stretched to near her natural limits. The usual and customary forces governing minor Comeuppances get distended when encountering a major one. Expectations are easily betrayed by circumstance. Lots of blindsiding occurrences emerge. Frustration builds. TheAche continues unabated, without requite, without respite. It does more than merely distract. It dominates senses. Slow-motion train wrecks, long considered the universal measure of inexorable manifestation, seem speedy in comparison.

I sit and take it, or I rush around trying to work up a half-decent distraction. My thoughts always seem to creep back toward the same compass reading, though, reinforcing the fact that we are still heading South. Is it just me, or have we started moving South faster? My Sir Lancelot gene senses the threat and aches to wear his armor again and ride out to defend the lovely Guinevere, the part of the lovely Guinevere being played in this production by Western Civilization. I know that no known sword in this world could successfully defend the world order against a distracted self-proclaimed genius struggling to compensate for a certain shortcoming in his penis. This illness must, apparently, run its own course, which, of course, must be precisely what renders this experience so painful and punishing. Everything in its own time, not mine; not yours, either. This Comeuppance will at last come to pass. (I do not know this for certain, but I repeat this distantly hopeful phrase as my reassuring mantra, just as if it held the power to make it so.)

This must be how evil undermines its opponents. It tends to disgust them into rough submission. Once distracted, they’re easily counteracted. TheAche blunts most of their defenses, once they’ve been thoroughly offended. Our incumbent spends much of his time in defensive crouches, but his style of defense seems inherently offensive. His opponents cannot help but hold their collective noses, thereby distracting at least half of their natural defenses. He stinks to high heaven for a reason. My gag reflex might be my most virulent opponent. Were I more able to hold down my supper, I might have proven to have been a more successful defender. My eyes water when witnessing his lame attempts at governance, and not just with tears of rage. Tears of deep disappointment mingle with tears of absolute astonishment to blind me to a few of his worst abuses, but the few that manage to wend their way through those admittedly sad defenses still overwhelm my numbed senses. TheAche always, always, always remains: intact if not enhanced.

Some Comeuppances continuously build before they implode. The seemingly endless building feels at best excruciating. TheAche never abates, though some distractions almost succeed at attracting some of my attention. The realization that the fabric of civilization was so flimsy disturbs me most. That a single poisonous personality could somehow threaten the good work of tens of millions of genuinely decent people deeply appalls me. I ache not only for Comeuppance, but for the justice that only contrite reparations might purchase. We now owe our world much more than we ever before contributed to its goodness. That one poisonous personality could have persuaded so many before publicly betraying every blesséd and damned one of them, more than merely takes my breath away. It severely wounds my imagination and undermines my faith in humankind. It will require more kindness than has been expended so far in human history to recover from this catastrophe. This might be what TheAche has been so insistently whispering to me.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Comeuppance, #PureSchmaltz