The people of the land so feared Agapollumus, the demon of Intolerance who had visited before, that they restructured their society to keep him out.
He had had been a violent force of evil, tearing apart friends, neighbours and families along with their homes, crops and livestock, leaving swaths of carnage in his wake.
The people agreed, “we must not tolerate Intolerance.” But what exactly constituted Intolerance? It was an abstract concept and more difficult to understand than they’d expected so a consensus on its definition needed to be reached to avoid confusion. Any disagreement amongst them would weaken their strong, unified stance against this common enemy. The people developed rules with good intent, which quickly became increasingly restrictive. Those who disputed the general consensus had to be silenced. Those who appeared to threaten the new status quo had to disappear. Differences of creed, appearances, manners of speaking, ways of thinking were not to be tolerated.
In the name of banishing Intolerance, the people opted to redefine their values too, in a way that would not tempt Agapollumus to return. People’s traits that Agapollumus had previously reviled were elevated on a pedestal. Traits that he had appreciated were scorned.
They became confident that Agapollumus was gone for good.
But Agapollumus was crafty. He had never cared which specific traits the people celebrated or spurned. He only cared that the people be divided.
The people’s memories were short – most could not recall how Agapollumus had been invited to the land in the first place. Those who did remember were cast out of society for their different ways of thinking.
Through their attempts to rid the land of his influence, the people reincarnated Agapollumus within their own bodies and through their actions. Unseen to them, he cackled mirthfully as they breathed life into him in this way.
Again.
And again.
And again – for this was how he’d come to visit before and would return again, becoming more powerful each time, aiming to one day destroy them all. Once every 80 to 100 years – the lifespan of an elder, long enough for most people to forget his methods – he’d appear by convincing people it was virtuous to fall for his tricks.
Thinking in Stomp-Claps 