The arc of blood blistered the air as it reached its terminal height and turned earthwards, separating and falling onto the hair-scrubbed steps of the Mighty Holy, One and Only, Great and Wonderful Tit-Phallus Ziggurat they had built just for occasions such as this. It had been hard work, breaking and hauling, hewing and sawing, stacking and whacking, all while the priests plucked peacocks and snorted psychoactive alien secretions in their steam huts and stroked their raw cocks once again.
Yet no one complained. They had never been taught such words as “Fuck off” or “Solidarity of the Proletariat”. And now that the work was done, they had the pleasure of sitting idly, starving and watching their young daughters become decapitated angels. If they were lucky, they would catch the head of their precious little one and, if they were clever, turn it into a bowl of blood-ink or a bucket for staging fruit arrangements.
Most were neither lucky nor clever. Most sat and watched the gods eat.