Regurgitated from the belly of a poisoned swine at birth into this world he was surrounded by pristine silver spoons and maids with Rohypnol eyes doing his every bidding at the moment of asking. A man who was a product of his upbringing in every sense. A man who has since found his way to hell to discover that not much has changed in his personal circumstance. He dines with the same kind of people. Eats the same kind of food and watches the general suffering of the poor souls around him like he was walking through a museum of torment and misery of which one day he hopes to be the curator. This man is dead. I hope it was painful. Nobody shed a tear at the funeral but had they been moved to sadness they would wipe their eyes with the dirty money he had taken out of our pocket and put into theirs. The world should rejoice. One gutless crook is dead, another ten wait in line to take his place.
We are a generation without hope. All the cracks of sunlight that countless generations forced open have been filled. Now there is only darkness. But there is one thing to consider. The bastards do eventually die.
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