American Jesus

22

The air crackled, a sickly sweet ozone tang mingling with the scent of cheap cologne and desperation. You, a mere observer in this grand, grotesque tableau, found yourself inexplicably drawn to the spectacle. Before you, bathed in the sanctimonious glow of a sky torn asunder, knelt the man himself. American Jesus. Robes of stars and stripes, the gaudy glint of gold chains and dollar signs, the crimson cap proclaiming his allegiance. He grinned, a predatory flash of teeth, thumb raised in a gesture that felt less like blessing and more like a brand. The very ground beneath your feet trembled, a silent promise of judgment. The tempest raged around him, yet he remained untouched, a beacon of manufactured righteousness. He turned, the smile never faltering, and his gaze, heavy with accusation, locked onto yours.