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"Racist." said the Victim.
It was in the form of a journal, replied the Storyteller. You cannot fault me, only the story. As all stories have a glimmer of truth, it is Sir Isaac Roberts, or his inspiration, that shoulder the blame.
"No," said the Victim, staring into the void, eyes that had been through so many sleepless nights now so piercing. "I think I am understanding, now. I really am beginning to understand. Just a question, first, though. You leave your own mark on these stories, don't you? You change them and make them fit the message. Even if you did not create them, you still have left your personal touch."
You can scarcely call me a person, Victim. But if it helps you, you can think of it that way.
"Well. I think I should comment on the story, leaving aside my question. I asked you for the chaos that inspires atrocity. What I saw was neither. I saw a communistic village with an interesting worldview."
A village that ate men, Victim. A village that explicitly allowed rape, murder, violence. A village of evil.
"Yes, yes, this can all be inferred! Yet the story has none of this! I wanted to see it with my own eyes, not be forced to make it up. You are the Storyteller, tell it, damn you!"
Sadist.
"Prude."
There was silence in the void, and in utter silence, the only sound is the heartbeat. When there is no other sound, it is deafening.
So, then. What story did you want me to tell next, Victim?
"I want what I asked for, Storyteller. Violence. Blood, gore, the meaninglessness and futility of life. Let me hear it, let me imagine it, let me see it."
If I must, then...