Close your eyes…
Go to sleep.
Imagine a mound of red clay, taller and wider than any man, in a candlelit attic.
Standing on uneven legs, with misshapen arms, and a large head with crude features, the earthen sculpture is a vague approximation of a human being.
Admiring his handiwork from the entrance to the loft, the rabbi who crafted it steps forwards, his hand outstretched and thumb extended.
Pressing his digit into the forehead of the muddy avatar, he inscribes the word ’emeth – truth.
The eyes of the effigy open, as it is granted life.
Explaining to the formerly inanimate statue that the community is struggling and suffering, the rabbi tasks it with protecting his people from persecution.
The golem does as it is told, defending the locals from would-be attackers, and patrolling the neighbourhood.
Rejoicing at their newfound hero, the villagers herald the golem as a wondrous creation.
Over time, however, exposure to fear, hatred, and violence corrupts the golem.
Knowing no better, it embarks on a destructive rampage, hurting the very people whose duty it was to protect.
Word reaches the rabbi, who immediately regrets making the golem.
Confronting his creation outside the synagogue, a struggle ensues between the two. Despite being overpowered, the rabbi manages to deface the etching on its head so that it no longer reads ’emeth, but meth – death.
The golem falls to the ground lifelessly.
You were forged from the steely determination of your people to not just survive, but prosper.
They moulded you to protect them, imbibing you with ceremonial honour, ensuring that you’d uphold their tenets, and that their name would endure through time and the elements, like your metallic skeleton.
Fulfilling your duties admirably, you stood alone on a battlefield littered with the corpses of their enemies.
Centuries of warfare, though, coupled with the bloodshed of The Slaughterhouse, have corrupted you.
Faced by a defenceless journalist who posed no threat to you, we all found out that your sword was mightier than Callihan’s pen, as you silenced ’emeth – truth.
Like the golem, you’ve descended into the very hatred and violence that you swore to defend against.
Perhaps we should have seen it coming; as with our clay friend, you’ve limbs and consciousness to follow orders. What you lack, however, is that which defines the people you indiscriminately run through with your blade: a soul.
That’s not surprising, though.
Golem is, after all, Hebrew for incomplete.
You’re waiting to be deactivated and rendered inert. Unfortunately, the Odawara have no intention of shutting down their great equaliser – their weapon.
It falls to me, then, to destroy the golem…
The robot.
Unfortunately, I’ve lost the manual, so things are likely to get messy.
I don’t have a screwdriver, and I’ve misplaced my toolbelt. Thankfully, though, I always carry my trusty, old pliers.
At Fuck the World, I’ll do what the Odawara refuse to do…
Carving into your skull, I will finish you.
Sweet dreams, Tenchu.
One, two, Sandman’s comin’ for you…