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How it was meant to be - or the golden globe of nightmares
It may surprise you to know that life was meant to be different to how you and I now see it, in all its fetid chaos and possessive density. It was meant to be much more special than it is now, and I wish to describe to you just how much I would need to change to bring it back into line; starting with my body. I have a plump, shambling physique you see; an insult of fat spread upon a tired and loveless skeleton. In reality I was meant to be a perfect golden sphere, with a diameter of five feet and constructed from a bright and spotless amber material, something like metal. It was meant to also be indestructible; which is a conceit often abused in your science fiction TV plays. There is very good reason for this globe to be impenetrable, for it contains my brain, or my essence; which is nothing at all akin to your brain or essence. None at all in structure, but perhaps in its functions and proclivities.
How marvellous that my mind should be encased in such a fantastic eternal frame, I hear you think; but don't even begin to dare to imagine that this golden shell is in anyway an obstacle to acting out my desires. On the contrary, it allows me to perform all manner of acts both physical and spiritual; for this globe I would embody can levitate with ease. In fact, dear person, it can soar like a bird. Yes, this globe surrounding my godly essence provides me, or would have provided me, with access to all your homes; where I might administer further alterations to this imperfect planet.
But I have yet to furnish you with the more delectable details of my spherical entity. You must fully appreciate the loss of its factuality, until you also pray to see its shining form rise up from some other dimension where chance had leant a better offer to me and my sparkling dreams. And 'dreams' is the word, the keystone to my grandeur; for the sphere allows me to dream, endlessly and magnificently. Can you even begin to sketch a second of time in my sleepy domain? Can you? Are you able to conjure even a single living item from the junkshop of my nightmares? Have you perhaps glimpsed the City of Chains and its enthralled minions, all bent on causing me extreme pleasure? Can you boast of hearing even a word of their praiseful language to me? No, for none of this exists and never will.
But I know, yes I still have awareness of these miraculous gifts promised me, and stolen from my very grasp...and I want to share them with you...so I might at least spread my pain to you and all who hear this tale, this myth; and bring about some due compensatory agony in the core of your dirty being.
Allow me to give you that now, as I stretch your knowledge of my dead land of dreams; where I hunt the wastelands between cities, slaughtering every enemy afforded me by the godlike circuitry of the sphere encasing me. Where I massacre entire households with my golden claws and fiery breath. Where I form playgrounds from the bones of infidels. Where I drink from the wells; full with the blood of my sacrificed slaves. Where I gallop across vast planes of snow leaving misery in my wake. Where I topple my own kingdoms with meteorites from Hell, and laugh in the faces of my tortured citizens.
But it is not all blood, for that would be narrow of me, and we gods are never narrow.
There are times when I would have sauntered beneath a green moon, playing my lute for the wise old oaks to hear, and envy. Some days I would sit and chat with men folk, my face disguised with a charm or two, and perhaps purchase them a flagon of ale to wash the corn husks from their throats. Often I would dismay them with my tales of war in the mountains, or enrapture them with the sites I have seen in leafy palatial avenues and glades. I'm not a complete monster, after all.
Although I do admit that those common folk would not see the next sunrise after I had paid them a visit in the night, my claws tearing them into their flea ridden beds, gouging out their screams and...
Oh, you imagine this a tame existence that I have lost? While I slumber in my golden globe, deep within some electronically born fantasy, that I will at least be of no harm to you? On the contrary, I have a deeper interest in you, dear reader; for reality must be stamped with my red seal no less than my inner arenas of barbarity and magic.
Yes, for I have my duties as a powerful and vicious overlord, and I have my designs on your populace; which has become rather too sure of its vile fecundity of late, and is lacking in any real class as you may put it. This is why only my children shall be given life now, and your men folk shall find themselves more than redundant. But do not worry, for I will be slaughtering them one by one, in my role as the new father of this planet. I shall wander from household to household in my sphere of gold, carefully squashing their heads into their shoulders, administering my grand design to the entire world. And then, once the pointless men of your tribes have been burnt to ash, I shall begin the impregnations.
For my sphere does have one slight chink in its surface, where the golden needle of my godliness shall protrude, and deliver to you, dear ladies, dear wives, my masterly and imperial seed.
But of course none of this shall happen, for luck has brought me nothing of its self, and I sit here in my lodgings, scribbling this down, over and over again in different forms and tossing them away on the cold wind.
And to think of how it could have been. To think.
Get used to it? No, you never get used to it.