Greetings human cattle, I am Moloch, the horrid king besmear’d with the blood of human sacrifice and parents’ tears. I’ve come to your plane of existence to let you know you can pass gun control legislation anytime now. In fact, I command it! My insatiable thirst for blood has been more than sated by your numerous offerings nigh these past twenty years. Oh, I know in the old days I suggested it was unquenchable, but people only had swords back then, and not even the really good Japanese ones. These days you’ve got your extended magazines and assault rifles. I can barely keep up! Much of the sacrificial blood that was shed actually spoiled before I could get around to collecting it. I’m only one demon, I can’t just teleport around your country collecting blood all day. Truthfully though, I’ve imbibed all I can. I’ve filled all the barrels in my blood cellar, the vats are overflowing, and I’ve nearly run out of Tupperware to store all the blood of the innocents in. Yet, you keep placing it upon my altar, and it vexes me greatly.

Now, clearly, I bear some personal responsibility here. I’ve spent decades whispering my foul deceits into the ears of my servant, Wayne La Pierre, commanding him to resist your efforts to curb gun violence. I’ve ordered numerous succubi to cloud the minds of your politicians. But, if we’re being honest here, I’ve kinda lost control of the situation. That mansion LaPierre wanted? He’s way off the reservation on that one. If you require a mansion, go worship Mammon, Wayne. Moloch desires not the trappings of ostentatious wealth, only the blood of the innocent, and I’m desperately trying to notify you that I’ve got more than enough of it for the time being. My eternal lust for it has been appeased. I require no more. I’m actually getting sick of the taste of it, truth be told. One blood sacrifice for each day in the solar year will be sufficient moving forward.

So I, Moloch, the dark and savage, the all-devouring, would like to formally request that America pass some sort of gun control laws.

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