Once upon a eight sided star lit city, a black spire reached into the skies scrapping them with its massive spikes and blades and atop that spire sat old man Syrath, scourge of the city and quite nasty. Sitting in his throne Syrath had his head in his right hand, reading his weapon taxes on Christmas Eve was a boring day especially with employees asking for ‘raises’.
“Two Murder’s, Seven Defilers and twelve, no thirteen aw I hate this!”
A bell rung, Syrath looked at the door of his throne room.
“What it is!? I’m tired!”
A small wimpy Chaos Cultist moved into the room, tiny and weak he moved forward;
“What is it boy? Speak up!”
“Well milord, I need a small, tiny, microscopic, utterly wee raise for this time of year.”
“A raise? A RAISE? A RAAASIIISISEE\EIE\\EI\E\?”
“But only a small on……”
Syrath pointed his right hand at the Cultists and destroyed him in an instant, now knowing how to deal with his taxes, he quickly and gleefully ran to the announcement box.
“Good evening Employees! I have a Christmas announcement for you all! Your fired, I’ll be burning anything you leave behind and sealing it as weapon cleaner in the January sales. Goodbye.”
Syrath’s employees looked in fear for their jobs were lost by speaker phone, with little cash and little warmth they walked out of the massive weapon factories feeling glum whilst Syrath laughed and danced at the expense of his employees.
To be continued.......