I left the city of rapists for the tyrant (who rules that corrupted land) would have his pregnant mistress blown up under the watchful eye of his slothful Dowager Queen.

I ran to the city that is made up of shining glass purchased from distant lands, paid for with the blood of its elders and its young. The children of this land would welcome slave masters; gladly selling their history for a future of whoring servitude.

Oh… how they laughed as fool’s gold slip between their greedy, grabbing fingers. Such absolute, gleeful surrender I’ve never seen… for wooden pennies coated in hell fire’s own purite. By their hand they paved a way with spiteful intent, their own children’s freedom forever damned.

Then came the Prophets, stoned out of its glittering walls one after another.. for they were a hated bunch; these heathen, faithless atheists. They scorned at the god named Profit and they spat upon his goat headed throne.

They built a fire and danced around it… chanting ancient songs; of a time when the elders bled for the land only to be sold out by their children. Then the prophets cut their hair …and after that they tore off their clothes; and finally as one, they walked into the fire.

Never to be seen or heard of again in a city made up of brittle, polished glass…. the Prophets became a myth; the stuff of children’s’ nightmare.
The beast was here all along…