A gun rests with unnatural ease in the hand of a god, this deity of blood no more than a mortal thing who commands the fates of all he owns with falsely righteous will to commend the soulless in acts of unwanted cruelty upon the mere flecks of social sheep. Fleshy things that pretend as moral constructions to wish the lesser an illusion of better place, when with tainted words they walk and talk are not so proper and posh, when held together by the liars fabric of deceptions stains that reeks of lies and intentions as hollow as there charitable attempts.
A hero of unscrupulous and indomitable ethical wish rises to save the fading poor from those that strangle the air upon which they grasp to breathe, each a wretch but worth a soul to sell as the unseen currency of a cause drenched in all the blood of those invisible to the ones that cheer each noble attempt. As with masters hand heroes aim their weapons to mark a momentous blow to the stone cast pillars of bone that hold up empires of fated ill intent and selfish will.
Betrayal thick with every bad decision the titular protagonist takes on the path to self motivated ascension that will raise them to villain with but a single moment of change, the lust to acquire that which they have tirelessly fought replaced with the bitterly poison realisation that for society to continue they must now take from the empty hands of weeping poor, so a new hero can rise to cause the bleakly humorous logic that they must fall, so another will take their throne, with even more discontent.
A joke of humanity that plays out with regular riotous laughter from the one who created it all