2000 years since my greatest triumph and I’m still here choking on dust as I walk this wasteland constructed by our self-proclaimed lord. Lord of
dust and grime fashioned into slavish soft man; a noble paragon indeed--why just yesterday I stopped in a town just in time for a party thrown by the
mayor’s wife, and we feasted, danced, flirted and laughed as over the swell of the band the sharp crack of metal bullets audibly ripped through a
nearby bus of student protesters in a planned assasination. The mayor and his wife bore lurid grins when the shots died down, and the band played on;
a job well done called for a hearty celebration. Meanwhile, a few blocks away a leper dug through some trash for just enough scraps to survive the
night and start looking again. Such are the masterpieces of this world’s lord.
I despise these bipedal pigs and scoff at my fate as Lord of the Chaff, and yet until now have maintained my sole purpose: to garner more subjects.
And willing subjects indeed abound, so much so that I rarely need to be more than a spectator and keep a walkin’ so as to remain mostly unseen.
Still most doubt my existence even as they fall, prostrate, at my Altar. I used to find pleasure from their prolific cruelty and manifest ways to
torment themselves and one another, but after so many thousands of years even the most creative, selfish, brutish, and visceral acts bore me. I’ve
wearied of my role and have tread through every inch of dust. I’ve even tread through you, dear reader. But I digress.
Being Prince of this dusty Earth has lost its luster. I never thought I’d tire of my quest for power or slaves, but every trajectory has its peak,
and I’ve reached mine. I’m as sapped of strength by my work here as most of you, and I’ve held my position since the beginning of time. I’m
certain per my contract I can’t abdicate my crown, but I’ve determined to no longer actively recruit these despicable palsied subjects and find a
small plot in the wilderness to settle my feet and prepare for what I know is coming--that final battle from which I’ll emerge victorious. His
chosen few with their lilied grace make no match for me and mine. What is faith in the face of brute strength? We’ve proven again and again that
faith ends up a bloody mess while strength endures to hammer more skulls into submission. Why go through the pains of an Armageddon to prove what is
already known? But dear daddy is stubborn like that--he believes that the word has power, and that when it was written, it therefore must come to
I know better than he, and have used his word in more twisted ways than number the stars. And judging from the final admonition in his memoirs, all
that vexes him is the thought of words being taken away from his prophesy, but I know how to add words of my own. The epilogue will be mine, and your
name can be written there too. So long as you continue to carry out my work for me as I rekindle my passion for apostasy, I can promise you a home.
For I’ve found my secret weapon, and its name is Isolation. See the clothed monkey is finally waking up to the fact that fellow man is the source
of, rather than the cure for, all his ills. Shun one another and stick to your own, for as you know that nothing is more important than your
survival. And when the dust clears on my new Kingdom, I’ll change its name from Desolation to Isolation and when I reign it will be from a greater
distance than you’ve come to know by our intimate terms here. Through the opposite act of amassing my army I will come to win this war.
As the world continues to isolate, so shall I, and gather my strength until that final domination; and when the original author perishes along with
his feeble creation, it will, at long last, be up to me to determine the end.
edit on 18-4-2020 by zosimov because: (no reason given)