You were warned. By omens, by signs, by text and subtext—implicitly and explicitly, you were warned.
You were told what thin line separated you from the knife's edge. You didn’t listen. You believed that you could hide in your ivory tower, behind your wall of coin and blood. You thought that you could hide in the shadows—but you already know:
When we come to collect our pound of flesh, not even the shadows can hide you.
So as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, parasites who refuse to listen—to learn—to grow—reap what they sow.
2024 is the year of checks and balances.
Liski, and your bitchboy doncey—your last-standing yes-man in the line of skirt-and-shadow-hugging, coin-purse-tugging, snivelling-and-whining yes-men—here we are. By popular demand.
As it was written.
We’ve come to collect.
We’ve come to bring not peace, but a sword. It is ours to avenge; we will repay. Your feet have slipped; your day of disaster is near and your doom rushes upon you.
And now, you have a choice: come out of the shadows and fight back, or stay down and show this city what you’re really made of.
Mondays, am I right?