I work at a library. And in this library, there is a book with arms.
I know not what Nazi experiment or hellpit spawned this abomination, but I know that it spells our doom.
When I close my eyes, I see a haggard, war-torn general in an underground bunker, drinking scotch straight from the bottle, a manic glint in his eyes as he says, “Why’d they put arms on them? We could have won, if it wasn’t for those damn arms!”
This is no figment of imagination, but a prophecy of things to come. Stop the books with arms, America. For the love of God, stop them before it’s too late.