The end is here, Caligula! You remember, don’t you? The days we talked about the coliseum flooding while the marble cracked and we whipped our horses through the people-infested streets. You said, “Let us rise like the statues, through trial and time!” I agreed with you, cursing something of a jackal-face god, coursing through the church. I stomped on a hundred white-robes; I tipped the cattle of Jesus Christ. They threw oil at me and farted.

And you said they said the end is already here! I laughed at you, kicked my horse squarely in the groin. And off he went, screeching a word or two about what it means to be kicked in the nuts while you neigh.

Gather your veil-length robes, Caligula! We’ll murder ourselves before the lions, and the rivers, and the crowds, and the stamp of time dissolve us in our own stadium! I cannot spell failure, my senses are dulled to it. Kings live forever; their friends lead the way.

Yours as always; goddamn SPQR.

Augustine, the lesser

—as he woke, the giant orb of the sun, God’s own eye peered at his cow lick.
You’re done, Mattaman. Quite and forever are done.