NO MORE GAMES

I AM TIRED OF YOU, MICHAEL JOHNATHAN BLIGHTWELL. 

YES, I HAVE KNOWN YOUR NAME FOR EONS: SINCE BEFORE YOU PLOTTED YOUR SLIMY, BLOOD-COATED ESCAPE FROM THE CONSTRICTIVE WOMB OF YOUR PROGENITOR; SINCE THE WAR-STOKED AGES FOLLOWING YOUR APOCALYPTIC DEMISE AT THE MEREST EXERTION OF MY UNBREAKABLE WILL; SINCE MILLENNIA AFTER YOUR ASTOUNDING REBIRTH AND SUBJUGATION IN MY GLORIOUS ASHEN-CHOKED KINGDOM, LIFE NONEXISTENT FOLLOWING THE RE-CALIBRATION OF REALITY BY THE LORDS ABOVE. EVEN THEN I STILL RECALLED YOUR HUMAN MONIKER, AND LOOKED BACK UPON THOSE RECENT EVENTS WITH AS MUCH NOSTALGIA AS ONE IN MY POSITION CAN POSSIBLY MUSTER. 

BUT WHEN I REACHED INTO THIS TORRENTIAL, UNYIELDING STREAM OF TEMPORAL MOVEMENT AND SWAM UPRIVER TO SECURE ONE OF MANKIND AS MY PRIZE, I DID NOT DO SO ON THE FLIMSIEST OF WHIMS, ON THAT MOST SICKLY OF "EMOTIONS" YOU CALL BOREDOM. I MOVED WITH A PURPOSE UNMATCHED. A PURPOSE YOU ALREADY KNOW, DEEP DOWN IN YOUR SICKLY, PAIN-WRACKED LITTLE HEART. DONATO DID NOT DIE BECAUSE YOUR HACK MYSTIC DID SOMETHING SPLENDID WITH HIS MIND TRICKS, OR BECAUSE HIS PALTRY EIGHT YEARS OF SKILL OUTMATCHED MY TIMELESS PROFICIENCY. HE CROAKED BECAUSE YOU REQUIRED A KICK TO MOVE YOU IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION, MR. BLIGHTWELL. 

IT WASN'T ENOUGH.

I AM TIRED OF THESE GAMES WE ENGAGE IN, THESE SMALL SESSIONS I FORCE YOU THROUGH TO TRY AND REACH OUT TO YOUR SAVAGE BUT ULTIMATELY RESTRAINED PSYCHE. OUR INTERACTIONS COULD HAVE EVOLVED FROM THESE SPASTIC CAT-FIGHTS INTO FULL-FLEDGED WARS BETWEEN THE DIVINE, BUT IT SEEMS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE STAKES IN OUR CLASHES. 

YOU ACT AS IF ALL YOU CAN IMAGINE IMITATING IS THE NATURE OF AN INSOLENT ARACHNOID SKITTERING ACROSS THE GRIME-RIDDEN FLOORS OF THE MATERIAL UNIVERSE, DELIGHTFULLY CHUCKLING TO YOURSELF AS YOU ARE WRAPPED ABOUT IN THE GOSSAMER STRINGS OF YOUR OWN CONVOLUTED WEB OF HAUGHTY ARROGANCE. TO THINK EVEN YOUR HIGHLY PECULIAR ACQUAINTANCES SO THOROUGHLY TAKE TO YOUR MORONIC ATTITUDE INFURIATES ME BEYOND THE END OF TIME. TO CONTEMPLATE THEIR UNDYING HOPE IN THE FACE OF THE INEVITABLE FINALE, HOWEVER, GIVES ME WHAT YOU CALL "CHORTLES" OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER, THE MOST EXQUISITE SONIC VIBRATIONS RATTLING ACROSS MY DESOLATE DIMENSION. YOU ADORE SONIC VIBRATIONS, DO YOU NOT, MR. BLIGHTWELL? THEN COMPREHEND THESE WORDS WITH ALL OF YOUR MENTAL CAPACITY BROUGHT TO BEAR, AND ACKNOWLEDGE THE DECREES OF A BEING BEYOND YOUR GRASP, WHETHER PHYSICAL OR SPIRITUAL IN FORM. 

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE COY SPARING BETWEEN US. 

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE IDLE TORTURE, NO MORE TOYING ABOUT, NO MORE EVEN CONFLICTS BETWEEN THE TABBY AND THE TORTOISE. 

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DAYS FOR YOU TO PREPARE. MERCY WILL BE WITHHELD ON ALL FRONTS.

THERE SHALL BE ONE FINAL SEIZURE WHICH WRACKS YOUR SKELETAL STRUCTURE, RELOCATES YOUR MUSCULAR FOUNDATION, AND FLOODS YOUR SYNAPSES WITH VASOPRESSIN; THEN YOUR BODY WILL IGNITE AND CHAR UNDER YOUR STAR'S BLISTERING RAYS, AS THE CATCI SCATTERED ABOUT YOU EXPLODE IN UPROARIOUS LAUGHTER AT YOUR FINAL, FLAILING, FUTILE ATTEMPT AT FLAUNTING FATE. ONLY THEN, AFTER RECEIVING YOUR JUST DESSERTS UNTIL THIS PRESENT TIME BECOMES IMMEMORIAL, WILL I GRANT YOU THE BOON OF ACCOMPANYING ME BEYOND THE MORTAL COIL.

DO NOT THINK YOURSELF UNIQUE, EITHER, HAVING EARNED THIS PROCLAMATION OF RUINATION. YOU ARE AN EMPEROR OF THE HOUSE OF JESTERS, PRANCING ABOUT WITH ALL YOUR FINGERS IN ALL THE PIES LAID OUT UPON THE TABLE YET NEVER TASTING A MORSEL OF THEIR JUICES.

I WOULD FEEL PITY IF I COULD, MICHAEL BLIGHTWELL. BUT PITY IS A HUMAN EMOTION, AND AS I HOPE THE LOVING AUDIENCE HAS PICKED UP ON BY NOW, I AM NOT A MAN, AND MOST CERTAINLY NOT A MAN OF YOUR STATURE.

GAZE UPON THE BLAZON BEYOND THE TURQUOISE WALL, MICHAEL BLIGHTWELL, AND PREPARE YOURSELF FOR AN INIMITABLE EXPEDITION. THE IRONY, MENTIONING MORPHEUS JUST AS I WAS TO REQUEST HIS SERVICES.

LAY THERE, NOSTALGICALLY DREAMING, AND NOTHING WILL RETURN TO YOU. NOT EVEN YOUR PRECIOUS LUCY.

THE OBELISK

(oh no, amigo, he's mine now. no take backsies.)