Scomageddon, Lord of Earth, King of the Skies, surveyed his kingdom before him.

Up ahead, a grey cloud thundered on a gloomy horizon, followed by a bright flash of lightening.

Scomageddon was hungry. His stomach growled, and another burst of thunder ripped across the horizon.

One of the thunderbolts flew off course and hit an old tree, splicing it in half. From the smouldering remains, a flame flickered to the neighbouring branch, and the canopy overhead lit up and seemed to spontaneously combust.

In the distance, a troubled maiden sobbed. Her little cottage had just gone up in flames. Her barefoot toddler wandered through the distressed villagers.

Scomageddon descended down to earth. It was time to bless the populace. Grasping at her hands, his warm, commanding presence plunged through the depths of her despair She tried to pull away. The Devil was in her. She may try to stray, but she must be pulled back into the fold.

The Devil had to be subdued. But, recently, the Devil was getting stronger.

“I’m sick of their bleating” he said.

So he bought an old police dog from a grizzled superintendent. Passing his velveted bag of coins over, Scomageddon took control of the leash of this fierce creature.

He dropped Button, as he was called, at the perimeter to do his duties. He was there to scare away the wolf, and, most of all, to keep the sheep in. He would stalk the grounds, sour-faced, as was his nature to do, coveting neither reward nor joy. Occasionally Sco would toss Button a bone, a leg of lamb, to keep him going.

But the villagers were restless and disobedient.

In the evening, an eerie light came from their camp and they began to chant odd slogans.

Scomageddon knew they were summoning his ancient nemesis, Ursula the Witch, or as he simply referred to her, The Devil.

She was a somewhat mythical creature, even to Scomageddon himself. Her many-tentacled reach had already spread far underground, and she was almost unstoppable now. An unseeable, unknowable enemy as old as time itself.

It was only with the hand of God, synonymous with his own hand, that this illness could be healed, Scomageddon knew.

Disobedience was the rejection of God’s will. And, so, obedience must be heart of goodness. To compell, force or otherwise extract the acceptance of obedience without question, was truly the divine will, a work that would see Heaven on earth.

Free will was a gift, but a dangerous gift, one that Scomageddon personally figured had probably been some kind of mistake.

A great eagle came to him and said, “Scomageddon, Lord of the Skies, you must spread your wings and fly.”

So Scomageddon ascended to the clouds, to enlist the help of the heavenly creatures.

He decided to send Hydra among the villagers. He taught half to chant after her left head, and the other to chant after her right. They began to bleat at each other in confusion, and every night Scomageddon went to bed peacefully noting the chaos.

But one evening, he noticed something odd. Was there an undertone that their voices had, like a drumbeat growing in the distance? He tried to forget it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. It was undeniable. Day after day, the drumbeat grew louder, what was it saying?

It was the work of the Devil again. Ursula’s slippery fingers were all over this.

Tribalism was a danger to him. But the villagers were not to stray as individuals, either, like lost sheep that disperse from the flock. Instead, everyone must be unified, but definitely not in the sense they were now, forming a mob against him.

It was important that everyone be unified as individuals in subjugation to the highest authority, for whom Scomageddon could confidently speak. He must reach out to the world and hold it in a loving embrace, loving enough as to be impossible to break out of.

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