We are at war, you and I, make no mistake about it. This is war, not some border skirmish where we posture, bang our shields, rattle our swords, and then the square root of fuck all happens. No, this is a full blown, saw dust on the floor war. Peace is not really an option, we passed that stage a long time ago, no peaceful resolution can be obtained at this juncture. Forget calling in the peace keepers, the soft men that are terrified of their own shadows. The time for talk is over. This is quite simply war, no more no less.
The truth is I didn't really want this war, mainly because I seriously doubt I will be able to win it. I think the most I can do is to keep from losing it badly. I figure to lose, but I don't want it to be a rout or a walkover. Therefore, I will marshal my pitiful forces, inspire them with the pack of lies that pass for a call to arms. Tell them what an evil empire you are, and how for years you've oppressed me and mine. Remind them of your crimes,(even invent a few if I have to), implore them to eradicate you from the planet for the betterment of the human race, and then send them off to be slaughtered like the lambs they are, by you.
I am quite willing to 'cut my nose off to spite my face', after all it is my nose and it is my face. And so I will do just that just to keep up the appearance of being able to withstand your siege. And I know you, know you well enough to know you won't stop coming for me. You won't let a little thing like me get in your way. I am merely a blip on the radar screen of conquest to you. Just one of many, one of the weaker ones even, but you will still deign to take the time to wipe the floor with me. I will quite simply be crushed, swept into the 'dust bin of history' by you, some bloody minded Bolshevik.
You probably won't even have to break a nail to win this war, and I am sure you already know that. In your chambers, surrounded by your underlings. The people you gather around you that tell you what you want to hear, the stories of your great deeds (you've moved mountains), your wonderful intellect (you've all but cured cancer), your great compassion (you've virtually ended world hunger). You already know, with what must be a very smug sense of satisfaction, that I stand almost no chance of beating you. You are probably already dividing up the pitiful artifacts that pass for my 'empire'. Handing them out like alms to a beggar to the minions you keep like pet monkeys around your golden chair.
Those hangers on, that group of people who's presence offends me the most, will be dividing up the spoils of our little war, without ever knowing the root cause. You won't tell them that the fault was anyone other than mine, and I won't be around (even if they listen to me) to tell them that you are the cherished one of lore. They won't know which of us fired the first shot in this dirty war that we are waging, all they will concern themselves with is that who fires the last shot. That will be, if all things go according to plan, you. I will try my best to land as many body blows as I can before your superior forces overwhelm me, but we both know (and that is what makes it hurt even more) that I am Sonny Lister and you are a young Ali. This is only got one ending, it has already been written, and it does not end well for me.
However, once the smoke clears, and I (if I am able) run up the white flag that denotes my surrender. I hope you pause a moment, and ponder (you're not a great ponder, but you should give it a shot), why did it have to come to this? Why did I finally, out matched though I was, declare war? Why would I, knowing the outcome to be predetermined against me take this final step? Seeing the odds, knowing that they are stacked against me in overwhelming force, why would I ever think this was a good plan? You may ask yourself that question, you may even think you've sussed out the answer. After all, you are the clever one of the group aren't you? I doubt you really even care, all you'll be worried about is the victory, and basking in the glow of it. You enjoy that while it lasts, for like all good things it will come to an end, and remember this quote from Dr. Who as well, 'demons run when a good man goes to war.'