Tell me, Reverend. When you look out at that crowd, what do you see? You see sinners. You see the lost, the damned, the desperate. You see souls in need of cleansing.

When I look out, I see an audience.

And that’s the difference between us. You preach to them, I perform for them. You promise salvation, I give them truth — the kind that makes them scream, the kind that makes them feel.

You believe you were chosen to cleanse this world, Ezekiel. You wear your faith like armour, wield your sermons like weapons. You march into battle carrying the name of God on your tongue as if the sound alone makes you righteous. But tell me, Reverend, when the lights hit, when the crowd roars, and all eyes turn to you – are you really serving Him, or serving yourself?

Because I’ve seen your kind before. Holy men. Preachers. Prophets. All convinced the hand that strikes is guided by heaven. But when the blood hits the floor and the bodies fall silent, it isn’t divinity you see reflected in the crimson – it’s your own reflection staring back, smiling.

You call it cleansing. I call it entertainment.

You and I are not so different. We both command a crowd. We both make them believe. You with your gospel, me with my spectacle. But while you hide behind the cross, pretending your violence is holy, I step into the ring and make no excuses. I am the violence. I am the spectacle. And the crowd? They love me for it.

You see sin, I see a sold-out show. You see judgement, I see the main event.

You talk of heaven and hell as if they’re distant realms, but I’ve seen them both beneath the same tent. The gasps of wonder – heaven. The screams of terror – hell. And I conduct it all, a ringmaster in crimson and gold.

I have long ago learned that there is no God watching us – only an audience, waiting to be entertained.

So when you point your finger at me, when you call me sinner, monster, murderer – understand this: I don’t deny it. I embrace it. Because horror and holiness are the same under the right light. You just haven’t learned how to sell it yet.

When that bell rings, Reverend, your scripture won’t save you. Your faith won’t stop the show. You’ll look up and see the lights blinding your eyes, the crowd hanging on every breath, and you’ll realise you’ve stepped into my chapel now.

And in my chapel, salvation comes with applause.

You want to bring me judgement? Go ahead. Strike me down in the name of your God. But when you do, the people won’t see a saviour. They’ll see another act – another righteous fool brought low beneath the tent of Way & Co.

You cleanse the world, Reverend. I’ll make it watch.

And when the curtain falls, there won’t be angels singing. There’ll be only screams, echoing through the rafters.

A holy horror. My kind of sermon.