Once upon a time, there was a woman whose parents had died fumbling through the slapping jungle fronds, who happened upon a clearing where a small tribe lived. The men of the village found her fetching, and welcomed her in. She found that her obsequious inclinations, the deference she’d showed to her parents, but had not yet earned herself to request or demand, since she had no children. She helped smoke the fish caught in the river to put in their small storage baskets. Whence successfully raided by a neighboring or nomadic enemy who took by force their entire season’s savings, she watched the young men of the village teach the women to fish, and started to train themselves to strike martial poses. The men sometime helped fish, and sometimes aided in the smoking, where they had not done before. And the next time the invading raiders beset the village, the men, who had found some success trying to emulate the invader’s pike and spears, beat back the invaders, driving them out of the community. As they more successfully and swiftly waylaid the advancers, invaders kept upon them far less and less. And while some men wished to get back to fishing, some did not wish to lose this learned power, but continue to wield it. And so, when they thought of their neighbors who had incurred on their territory, they saw fit to reclaim that store they’d lost. She watched one young boy gaze admirably at the admirality, and as soon as he was able, he went on raids to retrieve the stores of fish they’d lost over the years. Yet the debt never seemed paid, and the lure of dominance and power never dwindled, only grew. And so, more villages fell before their spear, and the comradery of community expanded and expanded as they nigh conquered others, and it became a village. And the old warmaster, that agent of Loki, looked over the expanseless realm he’d built into a village, and in his aging weariness claimed it was good. And he sat down for some rest as king of the village. And the young men with urge for power kept their eyes and schemes always on the six feet of the throne. But their conscription was only defense, never to take up arms against the power that portrayed them, having been the infused beliefs since birth (Go America First!), and they accepted and maintained this allegiance and fiat. So they struggled between, general to general, cadet to cadet, brother to brother, child to parent. And the world of ideas opened up a spare crumb of peace in each heart. And the thinkers became the kings, and the thinkers became the generals, and cadets and children. And the martial ranks fell off their shoulders, epaulets spoiled upon the earth. And Woebetide the time when the invaders and raiders will come again. We must find our new vista quickly, at the core of our race and species. Or else there will be more domination of the selfish ego against the power of the community and collaboration of intellect. The wolf breathes heavy on the steppes, correct, Siddartha?