Sermon From Your GOD

By Hank McCoy

By Hank McCoy

5 min read

I’ll never stop.  All of them below me, those ants; they can’t fathom what comes next.  I won’t be denied what’s mine.  They ask me what exactly I think is owed me…everything I tell them.  They deserve nothing.  I won’t allow the pie to be divided amongst the unworthy.  I’ll have their throats for even the thought.

Them, those wittless children, they march with their signs.  Gathering on my streets as if it were their own. 

Do they truly not understand? 

Do they think I care about their woes? 

I wouldn’t allow more than a seconds thought on the matter.  Oh, but how I love to watch them cry.  Scream for my goat…but they’ll get none.  

This rage that the masses are starting to exude has been boiling out in the distance for a time now.  Hopelessly they sing down on the street below me.  They call for unity and fairness…who heard of such things?  These are the words of weakness.  They are the words of losers.  Nature has no room for it.  

I was once them.  Weak.  No direction or drive.  I too hated those that rose above, but unlike these worthless humps, I took what I desired.  I didn’t ask for fairness.  I didn’t seek consolation. 

I devoured them all. 

Now they expect me to give away my throne?  My power? Never. 

They say it’s a dying time.  That my lot are on our way out.  But they’re down there.  And I’m up here.

I already have their souls.  They protest what they’ve made.  What they consume is controlled by the one they fight against.  And everyday they’re still breathing; I grow stronger.  They should be thanking me.  I could walk away.  I could take my spoils and leave.  These sad workers and peoples would starve.  They would resort to their baser instincts.  It would cause plague and famine and complete collapse of this great society.  Yet they spit in the face of what myself and others like me built for them. 

Ungrateful.  

As the tickertate of the day’s numbers roll in from the stock exchange it’s music to my ears.  In bad times and good, I win.  I’m a collector of lesser empires.  The peasants can’t imagine the power I wield.  I dampen my strength so these piglets won’t squeal at the sight of their king.  I am these wretched sacks of filths God.  They just don’t know it.  They need to be reminded. 

They need sight.  

In their desperation, they go to their local civil servants.  Plebs all.  These fish don’t realize those elections they have are of no consequence.  Every small victory for them is nothing but sugar for their fattening.  There will be no great society.  Not never.  Only I could grant such a thing…let them whimper.  

They are lucky they have anything at all.  Worthless scrubs…they want to gang up.  They think they can negotiate with me.  I would never sit at a table with these filthy pricks. 

They want to unionize again.  They have not learned what happens when you commit such satanic acts.  Purely unAmerican, that’s all that can be said.  And I will not let them destroy my this great country and our Liberty.  I chose to be great.  It’s their fault they aren’t hardened for this world. 

What do they think will come of my topple? 

There are a million lions waiting to step into my den.  Far worse than myself.  Far more belligerent.  Unsuited for such a crown.  These children far below are merely tools in a never-ending negotiation of this countries spoils between the few rivals that still reside in my domain.

Somehow these whelps below my boot have it in their weaker minds that if I am gone, that what is now mine will become theirs. 

This is the carrot that my adversaries dangle.  But none of these dirty street urchins will get so much as a smile.  It’s out of the question.  At least I can sleep well enough at night knowing that even if my downfall comes by this unruly mob, they will be fucked of all access to my kingdom.  One of those younger lions I mentioned will take my place.  And rightfully so.  Those below that feel the need to lock arms with strangers and cry for my neck, don’t deserve what is mine. 

And everything is mine. 

The clothes on their raggedy shoulders are mine.  Their megaphone is mine.  Their signs against injustice are mine.  Their transportation is mine.  Their jobs are mine.  Their bosses are mine.  Their leaders are mine.  Their entertainment is mine.  Their happiness is mine.  The very air they breathe is mine.  I’ve given them everything they have.  And yet they come for me.  

There are those that move among this mountaintop, where the air is life giving, and are feeling the heat.  Pathetic.  You see them, they find the nearest camera and start blathering on in agreement with the cannibalistic throng.  They fear the ire of the masses, they fear the pitchforks, they fear a return of the guillotine.  In truth they aren’t lions.  They merely pose as such, truthfully they were gifted with their success.  They know nothing of wielding the blade to feed themselves.  

I destroyed men just like myself to reach the place I sit today.  I’ll devoured entire civilizations to keep my crown. 

Them below are just one more meal.

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