I remember when I met him.
My grandpa.
See, he’d moved away before I was born. My dad had worshipped the ground he walked on, riding up and down the roads with him. My old man had worked for his old man, traveled the same roads.
They may as well have went to war together.
Every value my dad instilled in me came from his relationship with his pops. When my granddad finally came to visit, my dad fully expected me to see what he saw.
But my grandpa wasn’t what my dad sold me.
Truth was, he was an old bitter man, filled to the brim with stories of how things used to be and how the world had passed him by. His entire being was fueled by having people worship him, people like my dad. When my old man grew up, my grandpa didn’t get what he needed anymore.
So he left.
When my grandpa eventually died, my dad spoke glowingly of those old times, of the man he’d idolized all those years. He couldn’t see the man beneath the mask, so to speak.
He expected me to feel the same way, but I saw through the veil.
Whatever my grandpa had been in olden times faded into bitterness, jealousy, and a refusal to see he’d turned from an object of worship to an object of pity.
Vayikra, doesn’t that sound familiar?
Maybe you think of Yahweh, and Sir Vant telling stories about how he’d served the mightiest god? You bear that god’s symbol on your chest, armor yourself in his word, and proclaim his gospel to a broken world.
All that you are, all that you will ever be, was forged in Yahweh’s name.
But all you have to do is look at the history of OSW, and you’ll see the truth.
Fuck, Cael was even there for some of it.
Yahweh wasn’t some benevolent god who rode to war beside his servants. No, he was a bitter old god, unable to see Noah’s rise until it was too late. He and the other gods were so concerned with people worshipping them. It’s how they found power.
Ask Sir Vant about that.
He won’t answer, instead waxing poetic on the good ole days with Yahweh. Before Death found him.
But I see through the veil, boys.
Maybe there was a time when Yahweh was all that Vant preaches, but that’s not who he was in the end. He was no different than the false gods you chastise.
No different than you.
Bitter that your god is dead.
Jealous of those who are not shackled by his decrepit law.
Refusing to see that your pitiful existence is now bound by hatred, hellfire, and the same fate as Yahweh.
Death.
Because God’s dead, boys. He ain’t real anymore.
But Luke Storm is real.
I ain’t fighting some fake crusade. I’m fighting for my goddamned life.
The only thing I believe in is myself, and what I can do.
And by the end of the night, you’ll believe in me too.
Cause I’m the Real Fucking Deal,
And you can’t pray this storm away!