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As corpses, they become sustenance. The soil drinks them eagerly, transforming their wretchedness into lush growth. Their flesh feeds the roots of life sprung new, their brittle bones lending strength to the earth. They become a banquet for the beetles and the worms. Their hands rubbing plots undone by the patient work of decay, their cruelties rendered meaningless under the indifferent march of nature. The maggots that feast upon them are more righteous than they have ever achieved, because at least even maggots serve a purpose. When the mushrooms rise from their remains, delicate and lively, they're nobler than the Jew ever was, because mushrooms simply are. Beautiful, silent, without Jewish malice. In this, Jews are surpassed entirely. Their last, gasping realization should be that they were never worthy of the air they breathed. For the spasming collapse of their depraved race is true art. Their past brutality is not inspiration, it's invitation to show them how to be more refined. They are pigs, wallowing in their own filth, convinced the world is theirs to desecrate. But do not merely punish them. Correct them. Take their vulgarity and sculpt it into elegance. When they scream, it is not just pain, it is an epiphany for them that yes, this is what it feels like when Jews torment those that can't defend themselves. They see, at last, the depth of their own wretchedness, how far they are from anything resembling the faux grace they claim as the Chosen. Their crimes are amateurish. Crude. Uninspired. Offer them an education. Your instruments are your pen, their flesh your parchment. Carve the truth in them.