A Small Wrote Upon the Wall

The bleak grasses across the fog and the morning waved with each blade with each breeze and shook last night's heavy rain. Pushing a foamy wooden box through the wet and dulled green, a bearded, weathered male individual in black hoodlum dinner suit guise made his merry way up to the summit of a hill. A crackle and perhaps a burst indicated the onslaught of rain which fell in attractive pummels that were occasionally spotlighted by shards of lightning. 'Neath his grisly and grimly white beard, the man gritted his remaining teeth to the elements and continued his pained path up the high horrid slope.

As the pre-midday slump of 8.00 AM whistled and resonated from a distant, empty chapel, the determined shaking mass of weary world flesh found himself with sudden ease atop the hill. And from this very vantage point he was shown a deliberately snaking landscape of rivers and trees that wallowed in the important wake of a city. He raised two arms high in the air, as if expecting the fellow beard to strike his wailing form with an empowering bolt, and let out a side street cry. When his lungs finally pulled the vocal chords from their twisted sockets under the strain, he relaxed himself and closed his lids. Envisaging a host of society's all, he began to speak.

"People of Earth," he began promisingly, "I am here to help. Over the years I have observed your poverty, your wars, your murders, your prisons and your especially wretched architecture. I have seen the coming and going of the young and the old; I have seen what there is to see. And only now can I offer salvation: Submit to me and your troubles will be no more."
He opened his eyes hopefully and looked.
"Well," he said quietly, "it was worth a shot."
He sighed and began to dig himself a grave.