Second Coming

“I can still feel the agony. The hatred burning in my heart.”

Waves of flames washed over the first row of victims before him. They burned silently, instantly. The second row screamed, yet no sound was made.

“Your pathetic little race of evolved marsupials is to blame for this.”

He waved a hand over the burning ruins of what was once Boston, Massachusetts. Buildings lay in pieces, and, in the centre of the city, a great hole led to the depths of hell itself. The second row of victims cowered and bowed. He waved his hand and they were awash in flames, leaving only specks of ash.

“Too late for grovelling. I am not God. Even God bows to me.”

In the corner, they could see an old man forced into a bow, so hard his face cracked against the concrete.

The man – if one were to call such a thing a man – laughed. His wings of flame and death flapped with his laughter, that echoed throughout the doomed city.

“And they led you to believe my second coming would be a good thing?”

The third row burned.

“So wrong.”

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