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This Is How I Feel When Soemone Described Bernie As A Democratic Socialist.

A single farmhouse sits atop a grassy hill somewhere in Smalltown, USA. Monstrous claps of thunder roll from one side of the horizon to the other, shake the very earth upon which we stand. A steady rain, coming down in pulses as if from an angry bleeding beast, is driven nearly sideways by vicious, howling winds. Lightning criss-crosses the sky and for the briefest of moments one might be able to distinguish between the dark grasses swirling in the wind and the black void that is the early November sky. Trees sway and struggle to keep themselves upright, and off in the distance sharp cracking noises announce the surrender of a several limbs to the wind's onslaught.

Shining from one corner of the farmhouse, an oil lamp in a first floor window serves as lone beacon against the darkness, its light fighting and clawing back against the darkness outside. Inside this room is an elderly couple; he sitting in a large ruby red leather recliner, gently chewing away at his tobacco pipe and shuffling yesterday's newspaper between his hands; she in a wooden rocking chair that had been handed down from her grandmother, her hands working two knitting needles as feverishly as her arthritis will allow. The waves of rain that dash up against the single pane of window glass have fallen away to white noise, and only the fiercest gusts even warrant a response from the man. "Sure is blowing like the Dickens out there," he comments, shuffling his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. "A'yuh," his wife responds, pausing her slow gentle rocking long enough to take another pull of yarn from the basket that lay at her feet.

Their house was old and it had its fair share of creaks and groans, but it had always kept them warm and dry from storms much worse than this. And so their whole evening might have continued to go exactly like that, he reading and puffing his pipe and her rocking and knitting, both relaxing and listening to the storm outside, had it not been for the heavy clop of feet up their front porch steps. The old man cocked his ear and curled over the top half of his newspaper, pushing a headline about a recent string of axe murders in the area over to come face to face with a notice for an elementary school bake sale. The man's reading glasses sat low on his nose as he asked his wife, "Martha, did you hear that?" But Martha barely looked up from her needles before responding, "Hear what, dear?"

The answer to her question came as a series of three hard knocks on their front door. THUD. THUD. ... THUD. There was no mistaking it now. They didn't hear the sounds of the storm raging just outside of their window, there was someone knocking on their front door. "Well who would knock on a night like this, Georgie?" "Well I don't know," came George's immediate reply as he took off his reading glasses and laid then down on a small table next to his chair. He was going to ask his wife to get up and check the door -- damn knee was always giving him trouble in this wet weather -- but before he could suggest it, Martha had already set her knitting needles down and was halfway across the living room floor and headed towards the front door.

Martha's hand grasped onto the well worn brass doorknob and began to twist. It was cool in her hand, giving her a preview of the weather that awaited her outside, and when she began to pull on the doorknob she was surprised how easily the door moved inward, spurned on by belts of wind that made her flinch and partially close her eyes. "Hel-Hello?" Martha inquired as she held her other hand up to block the wind driven rain that was now finding its way inside, "Can I help you?"

As her eyes adjusted, Martha discovered the light from inside the house slowly illuminated the tall hulking figure that stood on her porch. Whoever he was -- it was definitely a man, Martha thought to herself, since she had never met any woman this big in all of her years -- he wore a large black duster style coat with a hood that obscured his face. The stranger had his head down, and Martha could see drops of rain trace their way from the top of the man's head, down towards the crest of the hood, and hang there for just a split second before falling down to a growing puddle at his feet. The man was wearing heavy black leather boots that were so soaked, they looked as if they had just been dredged up from the bottom of a river that ran behind their farmhouse. Martha's eyes slowly raised up to where the man's hands and she could see he was holding something long in his right hand. "An umbrella," she thought to herself, "or a shovel maybe?"

Just then a spark of lightning fought its way across the sky and in that instant, Martha could see quite clearly. The man was holding an axe. An old axe, in fact. Its long wooden handle looked very weathered, full of nicks and dents and thoroughly soaked from the rain. The metal head of the axe was another matter though, and she knew in an instant without ever having seen it before the red she saw was not rust, but blood. Human blood. Martha took a step backwards, her slippers first finding no traction on the floor that was getting wetter with each passing second, before finally finding a dry board that creaked under her weight.

"Martha!" came a shout from behind her. Martha spun around to see George in the doorway of the living room, his pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth and a terrified look on his face. "Martha! That's an axe murderer!" She tore her gaze away from her husband's wide eyes and looked back to the looming figure who was now starting towards them. In just two more steps, the man would be past the threshold and into their home. "Martha!" George cried out again, hoping to snap his wife out of her daze, "Shut the door! Don't let him inside!"

Martha looked at George, then back to the figure, and then back to George. The man was about to put his first step into their front foyer when George saw the look of realization come across Martha's face and in that instant, George let out a tiny sigh of relief. He watched as Martha's eyes snapped back to the man and then with a firm grasp on the brass doorknob, took one full step backwards and opened the door all of the way. Dumbstruck at what he was seeing, George screamed, "Martha!"

"Oh George. You're always going on and on about axe murderers like they're the devil incarnate." Martha let go of the doorknob and turned towards the doorway to the study, leaving the the front door to sway lifelessly in the wind. "I wish just once you'd educate yourself about these things," she said as the tall man stepped wholly into their house, dragging the bloody aze behind him. "Because it just so happens that this man isn't an axe murderer," she paused as she was shoulder to shoulder with her husband, giving him a disapproving roll of her eyes, "he's a democratic axe-murderer."

Martha pushed past her husband and stepped back into her study, reaching down to grab her knitting needles and yarn from her rocking chair. She was droning on and on about the "right to a free college education" and "socialism via the ballot box," and so Martha did not hear the whistling axe followed by the distinct sound of her husband's body crumpling to the floor. These sounds were drown out by her own pomposity and as she began to start rocking again, it was with complete bewilderment that Martha discovered the growing pool of red liquid that slowly marched towards her feet. She stopped rocking and leaned forward in her chair, lowering her head as far down as her old bones would allow. "Georgeie," she queried, "you spill your coffee again?" She leaned over so far her back cried out in protest, and put two fingers into the advancing liquid before pulling them out again. She held her fingers up in front of her, squinting and shifting her body to get the best look. In the flickering light of the fireplace, she could almost swear her fingers looked red. Were her fingerstips red? "Georgie," martha called out again, the slight hint of anger creeping into her voice, "if you spilled your damn coff-" >THWACK!<

So don't let yourself fall pretty to axe-murderers of any kind, democratic or not. Stick a fucking revolver into his ribs and burn that motherfucker down.