Two balls. Shiny. Brown, in the middle. They grow big. They're eyes, you see. Kalam's eyes as he reads the missive. "NON-AGGRESSION!?" he spits his morning tea onto the vellum letter. "SECONDWIFE!" He swivels around on his chair, eyes narrowing. "We need to find a way to offend the Hospitallers."
"Call them Hosperglers?"
"I'm pretty sure they won that PR war. They might've come up with it themselves."
"Insult Devilize' prodigious girth." A lock of blonde hair covers her enigmatically enticing eyes.
"Everyone knows that's a true mark of masculinity," Kalam replies flippantly. "Next."
"Insult Armagan, chadz, or whichever God it is they purport to serve."
The old demagogue strokes the scruff of his chin. "Yes. That could work." Kalam spins back 'round, fingers bringing the quill down with unnecessary force.
Dear Knights Hospitaller,
You lack the chivalry to be knights. You lack the medical facilities to be Hospitallers. You lack the evergreen style to be truly black. You lack the rambunctiousness to be red. Worst of all, you lack the testicular fortitude to go to war with the evil empire. Which evil empire? That's us. You see, like Rome before us, our Empire is built on war. Unlike our neighbors, we are not built on simple myths. We are built on a complex myth. One of strife and argument. One of conflict. We took in the unwanted. The criminals. The loud. The obnoxious. You just took in children and...serious men, accustomed to doing serious things. Sure, you had one or two loud, unruly men, but where are thy now? You don't know conflict. It's because your myth is built on worshiping a god.
Where, praytell, is that god? Alack! He is gone because you have forgotten him. Did you leave him under the table? Maybe behind the couch, with that penny that came out of Goretooth's purse when he was engaged in a fit of passion with Peppovitch?
You don't know.
I know His name.
Do you?
WHERE IS YOUR GOD?
Sincerely,
Kalam,
An Evil Man who will EAT YOU and BURN YOUR TEMPLES behind your back
