Humanist propaganda
Glancing down at the poopie plethora plaguing the cat box, Ragnarok outwardly shrugged and lumbered off towards the easy chair, and inwardly considered his unfortunate appellation. His friends called him "Rage", his enemies never spoke of him, and the rest of the townsfolk pretended he didn't exist, often jostling him in the streets or running him down with streetcars, all the while appearing amiably and innocuously vacant, unconscious of the fact that some things exist, and others do not.
It suddenly struck the burly gracile male that his grammar was considerably better in his mind than when he actually spoke. There were, in point of fact, more than 27 spokes in all, the brunt of them wheezing and cursing E. L. Fletcher and his ilk and elk in dale. More to the point, the dog would not stop licking his arm as he typed.
The dog, it seemed, was at once his familiar and his unknown quantum. The unity of the bitches continuity was seldom appreciated by the mutt as she washed her toy in her water dish. A Gregorian chant was on the calendar in the hall of memories, but Ragnarok payed none of that any mind. During the last power outage, grains of sand mixed with turpentine rained from the ceiling so as to make communication with aliens impossible, and rendering all saints to their bald-headed parasol storage facilities. Watching the usual dreck on the tele filled him with a sense of dread, such that he locked his furtive debauchery into that cave of Platonic shadow puppets, known as Wall Street.
As all becomes illuminated and vaporous, clemency battles the impure forces of natural selection, above the sensibilities of mere humans. We are flashes-in-the-pan variants, slipping Mickies to ourselves while mocking the irreverent and insatiable, the constant reminders of fallibility that foister in our craws during the darkest hours of early morning. Ever the pessimist, Ragnarok plundered village after village, decimating the locals and mounting their herds with ample flirtatious intent.
He still wasn't yet ready to face the box of poopies waiting for him in the bathroom.