As the old man sinks onto the toilet, his prolapsed anus pulsing, he thinks to himself: “My God, it feels good to be superior.”
With thick, labored breaths, he spreads his pale, sweaty thighs, unable to see his shriveled cock and sagging balls for his bulging stomach.
Grunting and groaning with every flatulent squirt, he tries in vain to push out a turd that’s been compacting in his colon for days, inhaling deeply as he farts because he likes his own smell.
The tile on his bathroom wall is streaked with shit because he never washes his hands. In a nearby bucket are the cuttings of his pubes, which he trims to make his penis look bigger. It doesn’t fool anyone, though, even when he’s wearing a cock ring.
He pushes and heaves for what feels like an eternity, but the only evacuation from his body is a flaccid little stream of piss.
Finally giving up on his labor, he strains to wipe the fresh juice from the folds of his orifice, clumsily smearing it into the coarse hairs of his crack, all matted together with dried fecal crumbs.
Now red, irritated, and burning, the asshole begins to rage.
It infuriates him that the world doesn’t recognize how special he is — that he is divinely appointed for a special purpose.
He believes he’s smarter, stronger, and more talented than anyone else, and he alone is exempt from the laws of the universe. He is elevated, set aside, unique from all the other pissing, shitting creatures around him.
It’s never been enough for him to keep his exceptional superiority to himself, however — he needs everyone else to recognize it, too. As a god among mortals, he was made to be admired, worshiped, and adored.
He’s always had an endless supply of sycophants at his disposal: idolatrous, insecure asswipes he can seduce and trap with his magnetic charm. It was easier when he was young and good-looking, but age has given him the ugly mug and impotent cock he deserves.
His ass-lickers fawn over him, lavish him with praise, and hang on his every word. He feeds off their adulation for sweet life, but when he inevitably grows bored or is struck by fresh fear, he lashes out in self-righteous rage about disloyalty or some other invented slight, then quickly discards them.
Most of his enablers don’t go away completely — at least not at first. Some he never hears from again, but the weaker ones can usually be wooed back with flattery and empty promises when he needs a fresh supply. They return to him on their knees, groveling, begging forgiveness from their abuser, and the cycle repeats, each time shorter and more miserable than the last.
Yet even the most loyal lackeys grow weary of sucking him off to keep him happy. His words are worth less than his shit; he has an unquenchable thirst for attention, and his infantile need for domination is exhausting, suffocating, and above all, boring. Everyone drawn into his orbit eventually comes to resent and despise him.
He is consumed with paranoia and suspicion, and for good reason — those who profess the greatest loyalty to him are the ones who, for their own protection, become the smoothest of liars.
To have any long-standing relationship with him is to fabricate a persona that exists solely to pacify him: one that is obsequious and compliant. You must become detached, steely, guarded — and a consummate actor. Smile and tell him what he wants to hear, then conspire in whispers behind his back.
He is a man without love: no matter how good it begins, every relationship degrades into a cold and transactional exchange of power. Those who stick with him the longest are the ones who believe the deepest that they will benefit from his supremacy, too blinded to recognize that it’s a hallucination, a chimera, a mirage. They only know it when he has utterly stripped their souls, leaving them worthless, depleted, and without any of their original identity.
His string of failed relationships and consistent self-sabotage betray him as an abject failure of a human being. He desperately wants to be seen as intelligent, but anyone who’s been around him for any amount of time knows that he’s a bumbling imbecile: dumb as a post, dull as his dick, and a fool to the core.
He is, in fact, a pathetic husk of a man — a cipher, a void, a reptilian viper, a succubus from the darkest pit of hell. Look into his eyes: you’ll find there’s nothing in them.
He is an empty sack of darkness, a black hole of deception, manipulation, cruelty, and depravity. Lacking discipline and self-control, he seeks to wreak vengeance and humiliation on those he deems inferior to himself — and that happens to be everyone. Yet in constant threats and tirades, he reveals himself to be the very thing he fears to be recognized as: pathetic, fragile, and weak.
Beneath his gaseous cloud of illusion, baby boy knows deep in his bowels that there is nothing special about him at all. He is only one of many such monsters who roam the earth: Celebrities, politicians, pastors, executives, pissant middle managers, hucksters, grifters, and sheisty salesmen. There are a billion others just like him, all preying on those willing to surrender their souls for the illusion of second-hand power.
This class of dime-store demons should be mocked, derided, and ignored. Instead, they are honored, celebrated, and revered as aspirational figures by a world of suckling infants desperate for god-like caricatures to coddle and protect them while they distract themselves with trinkets and toys.
The old man has his role to play on earth, like everyone — the soul, after all, doesn’t grow without adversity. But as just one of a legion of adversaries, he is not unique: in time, he, too, will flame out and be forgotten. He is a passing shadow, a fleeting mist, a momentary fart.
And as he shifts on his throne to rip another one, he suddenly slumps forward and belches his last sulfurous breath.
All hail the king.