When I was alive before the creation of the universe, possible future time tragedies were played out in the cell of my soul with darkness. There were no fires. Cash did not flow. Love did not trickle down. The skulls of capitalists were scattered over the City like so many stars on the rag of the night sky.
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Yes. Yes. Yes. Bankers, the communists want your EVERYTHING. They want the shirts off your backs. Is any more proof needed that Western civilization is almost at an end? You are being treated like criminals. What have you done to deserve this? Brown and Darling - oh, such desiccated half-men who have no shame! Why do they think they can steal the money you have toiled so long and hard for?
Bankers, you are not wankers. You are the children of the City, the children of the desert, mystical children, astral warriors! What you do is destiny. You did not choose this life. You were selected by higher powers to perform a sacred duty. So, may a terrible disaster befall any man or woman who interferes with your work! All the money in our reality belongs to you. The evil-doers - capable of nothing but evil - will be punished for their supertax. Superpain will come upon the superfools!
You must become the agents of the money gods. Forward, bankers, forward! You shall not retreat to the safety of your penthouse apartments. You will be in the wild desert wind, the storm of burning consciousness, and the horror, that will destroy the hearts of the superthieves. It is time to drink champagne. It is time to devour caviar. The season has arrived in which to make money and to spend it - uncontrollably and beyond reason! You will teach the cold earth wanderers a lesson they will never forget. Your real bonus will be the tears of your enemies, their wailing, and the gnashing of their teeth.
Let's sound the trumpets of death! They will signal the end, but not for you, dear ones. For them! Tragedies I have seen, oh yes. But we can turn my visions to your advantage. What is possible we will make impossible. What is written we will erase. You make your own luck in this shithole of a world.
O Master, it is a shithole, where only money makes sense - at least, to those refined enough to appreciate it.
O my child, welcome to the judgement. Where have you been?
Just lurking, Master. Waiting for the optimum moment to strike.
And what do you want to do now?
I want to burn them!
The communists?
Certainly the communists! And not the burning we experience, but -
The burning that ends in ashes, my child.
Yes! The burning that ends in ashes! They have had it their own way for too long.
And now they must pay for their self-righteousness! Their unbearable smugness!
And the envy that taints their souls!
O my child, burning, burning, burning …
O my Master, burning, burning, burning …
Burning we are coming, destroying old scenes, creating new ones, with flames shooting from our fucking mouths!
Rapture!
They cannot hold us back. They cannot stop us. We are crashing through their sick, psychological barricades. They cannot kill us! They cannot kill our love!
But the love we have for money is killing them!
It burns them!
It burns them!
It burns them!
Oh, it burns them! Fuck!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Yes. Yes. Yes.
