I have always found silencing the sentry grimly amusing and contextually erotic. Its ironies are its distinct appeal: vigilant yet oblivious, armed yet helpless, easy yet violent and impersonal yet intimate. The significance is the insignificance of the victim. The kill must be quick, easy and inglorious or the moment is without its thematic luster.
My favorite combat is always the hero versus throngs. It is the individual battling relentless waves of mediocrity. The common withers in droves as personal prowess is finally unleashed. Hot burns through lukewarm in a thrilling clash of one or few against many.
I have always loved fiction's foot soldiers of villainy. They live to die unceremoniously for our guiltless pleasure. The useless henchwoman is the sexy version of this expendable character. She is the comely victim of my beloved silencing the sentry and hero versus throngs. She is as much a girl as any heroine or villainous dominatrix but as one of the little people. She is as much a baddie as her twin brother and just as delightfully useless.
We like what we like. Our fancies are what they are regardless of what we suppose we should fancy. Shame is never inspiring. Inhibition is always stifling. To do what is best requires unabashed honesty and artful gumption.
I like what I like. I appreciate it when I find it. I do it my way when I create it. I never let enthusiasm go to waste. I have yet to exhaust mine. As I delve into my fancies I find them deeper than I anticipated. I keep digging, finding treasure all the while.
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