The Mirror

[Hortator]

The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green avatar approached the userbase and gave his chieftain's terms for peace to the commander. He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Politics and World Events.

So the chief Audacity had decreed his open defiance and his atheists were at war once again. Many times the tribe had moved into forums that was not theirs to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had come to this, at long last. It was just as well with EdwardMurphy. His allies may win or lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally been on the losing side of an internet argument, never once in all his thirty-four years had he lost in single combat.

The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when they met a clamor rang out, echoing through the internet. Tears, the first liquor the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low battle cries of the rival worldviews met in harmony as the armies added to their post count. EdwardMurphy was in the element he loved.

After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.

The camp was positioned in a high-walled thread of an old, long forgotten discussion, adorned by springtide blossoms. As EdwardMurphy toured the grounds, he was reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of internet arguing, but tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors and was found days later, her system32 deleted by her own hand.

The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half hour's time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by instinct. As the medics looked to the battle-weary, someone remarked, with a measure of admiration and astonishment, “Look at EdwardMurphy. His hair isn't even out of place.”

“He is a mighty debater,” said the attending physician.

“The sword is a greatly overvalued article,” said EdwardMurphy, nevertheless pleased with the attention. “Keyboard-warriors pay too much attention to striking and not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into threads is to defend yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises.”

“I prefer a more straight-forward approach,” smiled one of the wounded. “It is the way of the atheist.”

“If it is the way of the sons of Darwin to fail, then I renounce my heritage,” said EdwardMurphy, making a quick sign southward to the Galapagos that he was being expressive not blasphemous. “Remember what the great master Darwin said, 'The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.' I have been in thirty-six forum wars, and I haven't a scar to show for them. That is because I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order.”

“What is your secret?”

“Think of internet debate as a mirror. I look to my opponent's left arm when I am striking with my right. If he is prepared to block my blow, I blow not. Why exert undue force?” EdwardMurphy cocked an eyebrow, “But when I see his right arm tense, my left arm goes to my shield. You see, it takes twice as much power to send force than it does to deflect it. When your eye can recognize whether your opponent is striking from above, or at angle, or in an uppercut from below, you learn to pivot and place your shield just so to protect yourself. I could block for hours if need be, but it only takes a few minutes, or even seconds, for your opponent, used to battering, to leave a space open for your own strike.”

“What was the longest you've ever had to defend yourself?” asked the wounded man.

“I fought a man named B.W. once for an hour's time,” said EdwardMurphy. “He was tireless with his bludgeoning, link after link, statistic after statistic. Never giving me a moment to do aught but block his facts. But finally, he extended his reach too long, breaking Godwin's Law, and I found my mark in his chest. He struck my shield a thousand times with criticisms, and I struck him back but once. But that was enough.”

“So he was your greatest opponent?” asked the medic.

“Oh, indeed not,” said EdwardMurphy, turning his great shield so the silvery metal reflected his own face. “There is he.”

[Hortator]

The next day, the battle recommenced. Chief Audacity had brought in reinforcements from the websites to the south. As EdwardMurphy stared across the field at the armies assembling, putting on his helmet and readying his mouse and keyboard, he thought again of his poor mother. What had tortured her so? Why had she never been able to look at her son without grief?

Between sunrise and sundown, the battle raged. A bright blue-sky overhead burned down on the combatants as they quoted and replied one another over and over again. In every paragraph, EdwardMurphy prevailed. A foe with an ax rained a series of ad hominas against his shield, but every one was deflected until at last Mindothrax could best the warrior. A spear maiden nearly pierced the shield with her first strike, but EdwardMurphy knew how to give with the blow, throwing her off balance and leaving her open for his withering derision. Finally, he met a mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a status as new user. For an hour and a half they battled.

EdwardMurphy tried every trick he knew. When the mercenary tensed his left arm, he held back his strike. When his opponent rose his sword, his shield rose too and expertly blocked. For the first time in his life, he was battling another defensive poster. Stationary, reflective, with energy to battle for days if need be. Occasionally, another keyboard-warrior would enter into the quote-chain, sometimes from EdwardMurphy's army, sometimes from his opponent's. These distractions were swiftly dispatched, and the champions of pi$$ing contests returned to their fight.

As they fought, circling one another, matching block for blow and blow for block, it dawned on EdwardMurphy that here at last he was fighting the perfect mirror.

It became more a game, almost a dance, than a battle of internet supremacy over a stranger. It was not until EdwardMurphy missed his own step, striking too soon with an unfounded assumption, throwing himself off balance, that the promenade was ended. He saw, rather than felt, the mercenary's counter-rebuff rip across him from throat to chest. A good strike. The sort he himself might have delivered.

EdwardMurphy fell to the ground, feeling his e-fame passing. The new user stood over him, prepared to give his worthy adversary the mercy blow and point him to another website. It was a strange, honorable deed for an outsider to do, and EdwardMurphy was greatly moved. Across the board index, he heard someone call a name, similar to his own.

“CollinMurphy!”

The new user removed his helmet to answer the call. As he did so, EdwardMurphy saw through the slits of his helmet his own reflection in the man. It was his own scruffy neckbeard ladden with dorito dust, under-sized fedora tipped sideways, and wiry track and field form. For a moment he marveled at the mirror, before the stranger turned back to him and delivered the death post.

CollinMurphy returned to his commander and was well lauded for his part in the day's forum victory. They retired in a garden by an old thread that had previously been occupied by their foes. The new user was strangely quiet as he observed the forum.

“Have you been here before, CollinMurphy?” asked one of the forumers who had hired him.

“I was born an atheist just like you. My mother sold me when I was just a babe. I have always wondered how my life might have been different had I not been bartered away. I might never have been a mercenary.”

“There are many things that decide our fate,” said Rich. “It is madness to try to see how you might have taken this turn or that in the world. There are none exactly like yourself, so it is foolish to compare.”

“But there is one,” said CollinMurphy, looking to the stars. “My master, before he set me free, said that my mother had twin sons when I was born. She could only afford to raise but one child, but somewhere out there, there is a man just like me. My brother. I hope to meet him.”

[RickD]

Is this a true story?

[B. W.]

Is this a true story?