Multitudes gathered before him. On their feet they stood, fists pumping furiously, ground shaking from the stamping of their feet. Tens of thousands chanted one name, eyes bleeding fervor, their voices in perfect unison.
Over and over they shouted, waves of sound rippling through the ocean blue auditorium. A single chair remained filled as the congregation whipped itself into a frenzy. Elevated above the rest, its occupant stayed silent. Perfectly manicured fingers caressed the gilded seat. A gift from a monarch who had the fear of his people. None in that auditorium called it a throne even with the rare jewels it held. BOye stood, his suit clinging to him as it should. Flawlessly tailored, the pants ending perfectly where his alligator shoes began.
Each step brought him closer to the podium before him. BOYe felt the fingers seeking to touch the helm of his garment. He did not break stride, barely giving them an acknowledging glance. Stopping just before the pulpit, he soaked in the adulation of the masses before him. Unwashed, desperate, poor, broken, sick, he saw it in their eyes. He was their hope, their savior, their goal. Wealth, splendor and power they craved with a savagery as strong as a beating heart. BOYE raised his hand and silence fell over the auditorium.
“Let us pray…”
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