The bombs, they don’t fall in Europe now,They come strapped to the chest of a militant,In a suitcase or anthrax sealed envelopeSealed with anonymity and righteousness.
The bombs, they don’t fall in Europe now,GCHQ monitor their plans as we speak,Peeping toms hidden under electronic eaves,Empty glasses pressed against thinned firewalls.
The bombs, they don’t fall in Europe now,Thrown through the windows of mosques,Retarded, uneducated justice answering the crimesOf the critically insane and deluded.
The bombs, they don’t fall in Europe now,Big Brother Obama watching all,Bending an iron clad constitution to willAs he peeks at you now, one and all.
Friendly FireThey called them friendly bombs out of some sort of ironic bravery. Moronic bravery some said. The Nephilim devices showed no mercy, friendship or kindness.
Thrown from any high point or aircraft they would lock onto a grid reference within 500 klicks as pinpointed using laser trackers placed by a fly over days before, self propelling at speeds of 120mph. Once at the destination they hovered, spewing highly corrosive and flammable acid over the terrain, before igniting in a blaze so fierce, even bones turned to dust. No, these clinical strikes were anything but friendly.
It had been decided that all heretics should suffer for their sins, but watching acid blinded mothers soothing their screaming offspring as the skin melted from them, I had to wonder who had decided that this sort of punishment was just.
The crash brought this home in a way I could never have expected. Ignoring the agonising pain racking my legs, I searched the wreckage for my cyanide pill which had somehow loosened itself from my neck chain. Aware if heretics discovered me I could be interrogated severely, the wish for death was fueled by the dwindling adrenaline pulsing in my ears. Losing consciousness I thanked the heavens for the blessing death might bring.
Waking in a low ceilinged, wood clad bedroom screaming, I attempted to stand only to find both legs encased in heavy plaster, carefully set. Gentle hands raised me back to the bed, accompanied by the nonsensical babble of the heretic language. Clad in white, these caring angels left me conflicted with all the doctrine I'd previously been given about the heretics and their barbaric ways. I stared as one glided across the room, placing a bright pot of carnations in the window and favouring me with a gentle smile.
Panic welled up inside my throat. The plane had crashed with a laser marker inside and the bombs were going to follow. My angelic saviours were going to be destroyed. I called out, tried to explain what was following me, miming acid fall and fire, but they just smiled indulgently at me, like a mother indulges a child’s fantasies of the bogeyman under the bed. I scrambled to make them understand but couldn’t do anything from my soft, healing prison, my shattered legs keeping me tied to where I lay.
The thought of the destruction I had assisted in, the possibility that all those who had burned had been kin to my angels, stung my eyes, leaving trails of tears down my cheeks, bile rising in my throat, choking me.
As the first whirring Nephilim approaches, I know now it is too late. I cannot do anything from my prone and stranded position to change the fate that now lies before my rescuers. I accept my punishment, to see the destruction of purity and that it would be my fault. It is what I deserve. So come on and do it, come on you bastards, COME FRIENDLY BOMBS....
