The postmodern apocalypse will be an apocalypse of ideas. In its wake, wild bands of leather-clad spike-haired subversivores will converge on the few holdouts and bastions of dry scholarship and empirical knowledge, and circle relentlessly hurling taunts and whoots at the despairing, bedraggled stragglers who hold the walls against them. Circling and circling in their wild, preposterous, patched-together rhetorical conveyances, these marauders will kick up clouds of dust and demand that all remaining undisputed facts be yielded up to them - fuel for their engines of deconstruction!
Until suddenly - unlooked-for, unheralded! - appearing over the dry, sun-bleached rise with a mad glint of tragic sanity in his right eye, with a stride that personifies the word "definite," with a grim equanimity in his sure, steady hand and a head full of desperate measures...the stranger comes.