izigame.me

Growing up, I knew that I was destined to hold a position of power. As I was given the title of “mayor” I felt a great rumbling from deep within me.
I dawned my 1950’s top hat and cane, using my servant to press the clicky clacky tippy typie on my mahogany desk. With a glass of scotch in one hand, and the bottled tears of a child in another, I raised land and oceans. I placed the poor far away from the city, giving them one school, which served as a labor camp for orphans who gave me sass. I chuckled, giddily, as each sip of alcoholic delight left me feeling more empowered.
I raised taxes so high, even the rich began to cry. But I needed more. My mayoral hall and housing were surrounded by police who were paid handsomely, their salaries equivalent to the surgeons who worked at the privately constructed hospitals that were right next to my luscious abode.
I chortled with glee as my advisors and secret police made sure everything fell in line. For the neighborhoods that tried to rise up against me, my board of shadowy figures and mother-in-law sacrificed several domesticated and localized goats to summon a space rock that decimated their homes and willingness to challenge me.
I stood from my sitting device and performed a bodacious jig as I saw my profits double, my harvested uranium and potassium mines fueling my secret economy. My meals became more lavish, my attire woven from the flesh of the most endangered animals.
Power is only a small descriptor. Godhood is a more accurate classification.