There is a place in cyberspace where people come in flocks.

A daily pilgrimage of sorts to seek answers; a quest to be saved from themselves for they cannot do it with their own hands thus, they would go from one charlatan to the other and ask, “Please, please, O’ One-Eyed Master with the forked tongue of a serpent! Help me see for I am blind though I have eyes.”

So many pompous, ignorant charlatans lying in wait for such fools; ready to fill their heads with fine words riddled with nonsense.

And the flock will grovel; they will kiss the feet of the charlatans; they sing words of praises and when they leave, they take with them words with bigotry and judgment. But it is all good, for they have received verbal vomit in exchange for coins; and everyone feels fulfilled.

The flock have been given the fish for the day by the fools who would play the hierophant. A transaction akin to gratification of the loins between the whore and the gentleman rogue in the shadows of an abandoned alley. Two needy individuals feeding of each other’s flesh.

And where have all the prophets gone?

The laughter of the Beetle King echos across the halls where the prophets gather for the feast; they are no longer needed in a place where the legions rein supreme. Leave the prophets in peace; they cannot save a people who refuse to save themselves.

And the Beetle King will dance to the song of the universe. For his place in it was assured the moment the fallen rose in rebellion. Everything is as it should be.

The beast was here all along…

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