Starving the Soul Muncher

The Soul Muncher amuses itself by munching souls. Its tactics are ruthless and evasive: move, wait, strike, disappear. It hits hard and fast, targeting the completely oblivious. It cracks down like lighting over a mini golfer on a sunny day, feasting on what would have otherwise been a mildly entertaining afternoon. Its victim is suddenly paralyzed, left in a vacant, obedient daze. Bereft of soul, the individual reverts to behavior deep within, like some base autopilot, terrified of anything without precedence. Purpose forgotten, the victim clings to order, no matter how superficial, swimming in an apparent sea of chaos. "One false move..." echos in the darkness of that place formerly hosting a soul. "One false move and it's all over."

Dread. It consumes like bad movie; one that just has to get better, but never does. The initial shock escalates quickly to boredom, confusion, and bewilderment. The departed soul twists in the jaws of its captor, desperate to return. It watches its beloved host from above, observing its every heinous, predictable move. It wrestles this monster's spiny tongue as its host plays follow the leader, any leader, but mostly the one closest in physical proximity. This new leader barks orders from the TV screen, or the monitor. It is followed without question or doubt as the soul watches in horror. The Muncher observes, smiling as the victim apes who or whatever screams the loudest or behaves the most consistently. A soulless host needs simplicity, and accepts it in place of merit. Without soul, impression rules, as if truth can be wished away by consensus.

But truth does not yield entirely to appearances. Beneath the colorful balls, reality exists, sometimes at a shallow depth, sometimes miles down. It is a fact hostile to the Muncher. Reprehensible. The most accessible reality is always the Muncher's target, changed at the last moment to perpetuate a delusion, any delusion that allows the munching to continue. The Muncher's tendrils placate, entice, distract. They snatch souls that might awaken a different host, capable of stealing back the soul from its clenched jaw at any time.

The Muncher will starve without fear, and instills it at every opportunity, so far as it is able. Two hosts with souls clenched are doubly departed, fearful and hostile towards one another until the loudest tyrant can be agreed upon. Three vacant hosts require a louder, more shrill voice to round them. A hundred requires nothing less than a crazed psychopathic narcissist. The advancement swells through towns, states, nations. A war is a manic feasting frenzy for the soul Muncher. It shrieks when confronted with peace or compassion.

Attacking the Muncher will yield unsatisfying results. It can only be defeated by attrition. It must be deprived of soul, and that requires indifference to the Muncher's existence and rejection of its influence. The Soul Muncher whimpers when ignored like a deserted puppy, and grows cuter and more innocent-looking with every soul sucked from its throat. When it has no soul to feed upon, it is the most irresistible, adorable entity imaginable. At this stage, with no tendrils or spiny tongue, its puppy eyes cry desperately for attention. Even one having witnessed the wrath of bloody carnage left in its wake cannot smash so meek and charming a Muncher. While it must be destroyed, its appearance resembles whatever is most pure and precious to the observing, intact soul. Only one as heartless as the Muncher itself would be capable of smashing something so adorable, and only a Muncher is quite that heartless.

The Soul Muncher cannot be destroyed, only starved, which is accomplished through recognizing the existence of subtle facts, such as the simultaneous futility and relevance of the physical world, and then acting upon those facts however required, generally in the most absurd and unpredictable way imaginable. I have yet to discern a more expedient method of starving the Soul Muncher.