Onst that fateful day

Thou standest atop a hill. Watching ye nearby town which art burning for its shoeful heathenry. Thou CULT art rounding up ye survivors and casting their shoes into a cart to be tossed unto ye fires of hell.

But thou art standing far above, taking in what thou believest to be ye most righteous doing upon this poor, innocent, shoe-etiquetteful village.

Thou art holding thy religious implement, thine WIZARD GARBAGE CAN close to thee, preparing with glee to bring forth its gaping maw once again to enact thy justice.

LIGHTNING crackeneths through ye skye. Ye rains begin to fall, dowsing ye flames of thine thatched roof cottages. Thou art furiouse. "Was't not just clear of skye, not a cloud to be seen?"

LIGHTNING striketh again just before thee, near enough to have almost destroyed thee! And when ye duste cleareth...