Letter to Lady Gillette

Dear Lady Geriatric,

This letter is to tell you all the words I couldn’t speak at the summit. You truly made a mockery of yourself! You remind me of the nobility from my home land, selfish fools who scramble like ants for any scraps of power they can get their small insignificant hands on.
Death comes for us all. Your power matters not in death. You do not matter in death. All that you have built up and worked for will crumble, and you will see how I watch. Oh how you will wish that I just watched you collapse. You have made a grave mistake in torturing the powerless and innocent. The suffering you caused my friends, my family will not go unatoned. You are too late for salvation. Every piece of you will be strewn across the floor as I rip you limb from limb, experiencing but a fraction of the pain you’ve caused. How unfortunate for you that there are ways to keep you alive after that. Do you know what it’s like to have limbs torn off and grown back? I assure you it’s quite the painful experience. And you will get to experience again, and again, and again. That silly crown you wear will be plunged into your neck, gouged by your own horns. Know that your power cannot save you, money cannot save you, no one can. Begin to pray now. For death is much kinder than I.