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Rated: E · Short Story · Dark · #1817734
In an unknown location a mysterious figure gives a speech to his willing herd.
Six months later...

He paused after finishing a major part of his speech to wipe the spittle that had accumulated on his lips, and to adjust his hood which sat loosely on his head and obscured most of his face, before beginning the crescendo of his lecture. Looking into the now mindless stares of the congregation, he raised his arms and held them outstretched as he begun.

And with final victory comes the crushing of the skulls of those classless troglodytes which make up the large majority of the western world; nothing but a plague that is there to be wiped out by the power of the people of productivity.

Let them stay on the ground while greatness stands above their broken bodies with hands raised high towards the shining pin pricks of the stars for evermore, and at the same time let the commanding voice utter only one phrase until the end of time "I told you so! I told you so! I TOLD YOU SO!”

As they lay there in their drunken, half-naked, and hazy stupor, let them take a look at the night sky and think to themselves that they could have done something about it.  But no, they didn’t do anything did they? They drank the toxic chemicals known as alcohol and they floundered on the ground and fought like animals while greatness passed them by.

And when some of them finally noticed and sought redemption at the hands of glory, they were too late, they had missed it, and their lives were confined to the scrap heap which now stands under our boots.

To ascend the ladder to greatness, to enter the sacred garden of glory is not too trying for even those people who suffer from the mild malnourishment of the mind. No, all it takes is to separate yourself from the filthy rabble which walks our streets day and night and enter the palace of productivity.

Productivity is what brings final victory; final victory which seals your name in a bronze wall alongside the other individuals who have entered these sanctified lands to worship at the altar of greatness himself.

As the emissary of greatness, I have educated you on how you can enter our consecrated lands. Those of you who heed these words well will be guaranteed a place here. Those of you who do not heed these words will be kicked aside like an injured cur at the side of the road. Make your choice soon. I’ll be waiting for you.


And then the emissary of greatness ended his speech by turning away from the crowd of anxious listeners and turned towards the door behind him. The door opened and a stream of blinding light flew into the faces of the stunned spectators and illuminated the pillars around the room with a haze of golden light which sparkled as it collided with the sunlight that fell in through the coloured windows around the room.

When the congregation finally managed to open their eyes again, the golden light had dissipated and they stared at the now locked door where the emissary had once been. Nobody said a word; not when the eerie silence gripped the following, not when the furious bangs on the door radiated outwards, and not when the shower of broken glass signalled the beginning of the end. 
© Copyright 2011 S. White (mindshatter at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1817734-The-Power-of-Productivity