Imagine a land which defies all known conventions of humanity. An accursed place where the sun never shines. A realm of the damned where husks, creatures whom have long since lost any semblance of humanity, would gut each other for just a milligram of vitamin D. A land where potholed streets roll through mile after mile of suburbs. Nary a hill or swale interrupts the perfect flatness of it all. And in the center of it all, the beating heart of the hellscape, a colosseum. A temple to their hate. Cacophonies of the poor souls unfortunate enough to be born or trapped within the state fester and screech amongst themselves, their vary souls rent asunder by the agony of their wrenched existence. They wait. They are broken; twisted beyond any semblance of what a human should or could be.
And they are angry. Their despair boils over, and from the cauldron of anguish comes a frothing draught of hate. Contempt for any and all. Some people, people from happier states, reason that the Ohioan's ire is a byproduct of their circumstance; that they are under duress and are responding accordingly. These people are woefully naïve. An Ohioan cannot be reasoned with. They live to destroy. To think that they merely long for a better life is erroneous. For the Ohioan has transcended anger. They hate not because of the execrated lot they have been cast in life. Nor does their hate stem from the envy of the rest of the world, spared their fate by some impartial cosmic luck. They hate because it is all they know. They seek to destroy because their very being tells them to lash out at this existence. Their rage is not hate, but a desperate and primeval urge to attack. To strike down creation and God himself. To undo this divine mistake. To create a void where once was existence. Because that null, devoid of life, happiness, joy, sorrow, and hope, is better than any reality where Ohio exists.
