Kingdom Come, Inc. by Benkei

The skyscraper stood tall, a cathedral of glass and steel, its sleek façade reflecting not just the sky, but the ambitions of those who passed through its doors. Inside, the air hummed with purpose. People packed the pews; as cramped as sardines crammed into designer suits, their sunglasses oversized, useless indoors but essential for their spiritual swagger. Shiny leather shoes lined the aisles, so polished you could see the reflection of every regrettable financial decision from the last quarter.

I slipped into the back, unnoticed among the crowd of polished professionals who shimmered like freshly poured credit cards. Ahead of me, on a platform under the watchful gaze of a massive moving NFT of Elon Musk, stood Pastor Dale. Musk’s likeness loomed over the congregation, larger than life, as if he was personally responsible for human progress. His portrait depicted him as a techno-saint, who had automated everything from cars to coffee orders, and who had merged human minds with machines for maximum productivity.

To these people, Musk wasn’t just a man. He was a market god, held in higher esteem than any philosopher, king, or even BlackRock. Pastor Dale, standing beneath Musk’s faux-knowing gaze, flicked his eyes upward now and then, as if drawing strength from the man’s annoying smirk. He clutched no holy book, of course not. Instead he held a gold-plated smartphone, the modern-day gospel. Why lug scriptures when livestreaming salvation does the job?

Pastor Dale exuded the confidence of a man who had never seen a recession last longer than an app update. His voice was smooth, like a stock chart on an endless upward curve. "Brothers and sisters," he began, radiating the certainty of someone who believed eternal growth was a divine right, "let us worship the forces that drive our blessed economy! Can I get an 'Amen’?"

“Amen!” the congregation responded, waving their credit cards like holy relics.

"Today, we honour our most revered figure: Elon Musk!" Pastor Dale gestured toward the flickering NFT, his voice reverent. "He who, with his infinite wisdom, revealed the ultimate productivity hack: amassing billions while paying no more than ten percent in taxes. Truly, a miracle of modern finance!"

The room erupted into applause, like shareholders celebrating windfall profits. Bank statements and tax minimization plans were hoisted like sacred scrolls, eyes alight with devotion. Yet, as I stood in the back, something itched at the edges of my mind, an uneasy doubt, persistent as a pop-up ad with a hidden x-button.

Pastor Dale raised his hands, commanding silence with the authority of a CEO on an earnings call. “Brothers and sisters, when we diversify, we’re not just hedging risk; we’re hedging against failure itself! Praise be to the eternal yield curve!" His voice echoed, amplified by a sound system that could make a squirrel sneezing in the parking lot sound operatic. "Praise be to the holy portfolio! Can I get a Hallelujah?"

“Hallelujah!” they cried, except for one guy in the back who shouted, "NASDAQ!" before realizing he was off-script.

A man with a Rolex the size of a small time zone leaped to his feet. “Pastor! Is it true Elon Musk once walked on water - uh, I mean, on a boardroom table - without spilling his triple-shot caramel macchiato?”

Pastor Dale beamed. “Not only is it true, my child, it was a venti.”

The crowd gasped, as though they’d just witnessed a Luddite invest in crypto.

A woman in a Valentino dress that likely cost more than a small country jumped up, waving her diamond-monogrammed iPhone. “Pastor, I’ve been offering to the Market daily, but my portfolio is tanking! When will I see my ROI?”

Pastor Dale placed a solemn hand on her gold-encrusted shoulder. “Ah, my child, the Market works in mysterious ways. It tests our faith. But remember: ‘Buy low, sell high!’”

"Buy low, sell high!" the congregation echoed, fervour rising to match a Black Friday sale on Louboutins.

"And now," Pastor Dale intoned, "let us recite the Sacred Creed."

They stood together, hands solemnly placed over their wallets, and chanted in unison:

[i]We believe in one true value: Market Value.
We believe in hedge funds, private equity,
and the sacred flow of trickle-down economics.
May the wealth always trickle in our favour,
May we forever ride the bull,
And never fear the bear![/i]

“Hallelujah!” Pastor Dale exclaimed, his voice ringing with triumph. “Let us sing!”

The congregation rose as the organist prepared to unleash the full grandeur of capitalism’s most ostentatious instrument. The room fell silent, and the jaws of newer members dropped at the sheer audacity of the organ’s design. Towering at the front like a monument to unchecked ambition, it was a behemoth of dark mahogany that screamed, "I cost more than your yacht!" Gold leaf inlays spiralled and twisted like dollar signs in the fever dreams of hedge fund managers, catching the light in a dazzling display that glittered like freshly minted coins.

The pipes rose like a skyline of skyscrapers, their polished brass and chrome gleaming with an opulence that dared lesser instruments to compete. The console itself was an engineering marvel, boasting touch-sensitive keys crafted from materials so rare they might as well have come with their own line item on a financial disclosure: ivory from extinct animals? Check. Ebony from trees felled centuries ago? Double check.

This was no ordinary organ. It was an extravagance masquerading as an instrument. Beneath its vintage façade lurked state-of-the-art sound modules and synthesizers, capable of belting out anything from solemn hymns to the electronic pulse of a live stock ticker. LED lights embedded in the pipes shimmered in a rainbow of capitalist-approved colours: green for gains, gold for glory, and platinum for power. The sanctuary became a glowing temple to wealth, each light a reminder of high-frequency trades and unrelenting success.

When the organist finally pressed the keys, the sound erupted with a force that rivalled the opening bell of the stock exchange. Deep bass notes thundered through the room, rolling in like the chaos of a fire sale, while the shimmering high notes soared like the meteoric rise of a well-timed leveraged trade. The music didn’t just fill the room; it saturated it, every corner resonating with the unrelenting energy of a financial symphony. It was a song not just to be heard, but to be felt. A sonic reminder of the wealth that awaited (at least, in theory).

The congregation joined in fervently as the organist struck the opening chords of Amazing Wealth, their voices swelling to celebrate prosperity and the divine pursuit of gain:

[i]Amazing wealth, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretched life like mine!
I once was lost, but now am found,
The market’s path divine!

T’was profit that taught my heart to soar,
And greed, my fears relieved;
How precious did that trade appear,
The moment I believed.

Through many trades and ventures bold,
I’ve chased the rising tide;
My stocks have thrived, my fortune swelled,
In wealth I shall abide.

When we’ve been there ten thousand days,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to praise our gains,
Than when our wealth begun.[/i]

As the hymn ended, the congregation returned to their seats, the rustle of designer fabrics - Armani, Prada, Gucci - filling the air, interrupted only by the occasional polite cough. A delicate sound, as though even their coughs were tax-deductible. The faint hum of satisfaction lingered, each worshiper assured their devotion would be richly rewarded.

The room fell silent as a man in the front row rose unsteadily to his feet. He was older, late fifties, perhaps, with thinning grey hair slicked back in the universal style of “I’m still relevant.” His hands trembled, and his face was flushed, like someone who had just remembered they’d invested in Blockbuster in 2009. Beads of sweat dotted his brow despite the cool, climate-controlled air, kept precisely at cashmere-preserving temperatures.

His Brioni suit, usually sharp enough to cut through a contract, now hung limply, the collar loose around his neck as though he’d been carrying the weight of financial indecision for far too long. Clutched tightly in his hands, like a rosary, was his wallet. It was a sleek leather relic, aged by years of mergers and acquisitions, a witness to more fiscal drama than most would encounter in a lifetime. When he spoke, his voice was shaky, teetering on the edge of a confession capable of toppling even the steadiest of stocks.

“Pastor… I-I gave to… to charity last month.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room, sharp and immediate. Somewhere in the back, someone whispered, “Charity?” as if the word itself was a profanity too dangerous to utter aloud.

Pastor Dale stepped forward, his expression solemn but not unkind. “My child,” he began softly, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder, “we’ve spoken before about reckless generosity. Charity is... well-intentioned, but the Market provides. Giving to charity is like... selling at a loss. It creates dependency, disrupts the natural flow of wealth, and, worst of all, it offers no return on investment.”

Tears welled in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Pastor. I thought… I thought it would help people, but - ”

“Help people?” Pastor Dale’s tone sharpened, slicing through the man’s apology. “Have you forgotten the sacred principle of trickle-down? By investing wisely and growing your own wealth, you help far more than you could through direct giving. The Market lifts all boats, my child.”

“I-I see that now,” the man stammered, voice cracking. “I won’t stray again.”

Pastor Dale nodded gravely, his hand still firm on the man’s shoulder. “Go forth and invest,” he proclaimed. Then, turning back to the congregation, he spread his arms wide in a gesture of encompassing wisdom. “Brothers and sisters, let us learn from this! The Market rewards those who remain faithful. Charity, my friends, is nothing but a short-term emotional reaction. Investment, however, is a long-term solution.”

A collective sigh rippled through the pews. Shoulders eased, and heads bobbed like stock tickers turning green. Each nod cemented their shared relief at having sidestepped the perilous temptation of altruism. The man sank back into his seat, clutching his wallet like a life raft in a sea of financial uncertainty, his faith in the sacred Market seemingly restored.

But in me, something tightened. A nagging twist curled in my chest, like spotting a decimal point out of place on a statement you were certain was perfect. A fissure appeared in the wall of certainty that had always enclosed this congregation, a crack in the foundation of belief I’d never thought to question. Their collective sigh felt… premature, like a miscalculated market timing.

The tension within me only deepened. It was instinctual, like the unease of restructuring a portfolio and seeing the numbers refuse to align, even before you’ve done the math. While the others found solace in Pastor Dale’s words, I felt no such comfort. Something was lurking beneath the surface, something vital that everyone else seemed blind to.

This wasn’t a feeling I could simply diversify away. So I stayed silent, waiting, my eyes fixed on Pastor Dale, the master of this flock, and wondering where he would lead them next.

Pastor Dale returned to the stage, his expression shifting to one of solemn purpose. “Before we begin today’s sermon, let us bow our heads for the annual shareholders’ prayer.”

The congregation rose as one, their voices low and reverent as they joined him:

[i]Our Father, who art in Silicon Valley,
hallowed be thy revenue streams.
Thy IPO come, thy buyout be done,
on Earth as it is in offshore accounts.
Give us this day our daily profits,
and forgive our debts, as we foreclose on others.
Lead us not into bankruptcy,
but deliver us from low returns. Amen.[/i]

“Now, brothers and sisters,” Pastor Dale continued, his tone thick with reverence, “let us extol the virtue of externalizing costs. Blessed are the wise who understand that true success lies not in bearing the burdens of others, but in passing them on.”

The congregation sat back down, leaning forward in rapt attention.

“Musk’s brilliance lies not just in his ability to create wealth,” Pastor Dale began, “but in his genius for outsourcing costs. Labor, materials, even the health of the planet. None of these should be allowed to slow the march of profit. He shifted those burdens to distant lands, where workers are paid in pennies while we reap the rewards. Nature itself bent to his will: forests cleared, rivers diverted, all to keep costs low and growth endless. What greater wisdom could there be?”

Applause erupted, swelling like the rise of a bullish market. But I could no longer find my place in it. The words cut through the noise, sharp and invasive, burrowing into my thoughts. The logic was familiar, the applause automatic but inside, something felt misaligned. An itch built within me, relentless and impossible to ignore.

“And what’s the real value of this brilliance?” I asked, my voice slicing through the murmurs of whispered stock prices.

The applause faltered and died, replaced by wary silence. Eyes flicked toward me with the guarded suspicion of wallets snapped shut. A few worshippers instinctively clutched their Gucci bags tighter. But I pressed on, the memory of my dwindling investments refusing to let me stay silent.

“Value!” I repeated, louder this time. “Have we forgotten the basics of cost-benefit analysis? The land, the air, the people pulling 80-hour weeks to fuel this divine bull market, aren’t they part of the balance sheet? Are we really willing to subscribe to Premium Bottled Air just to breathe what we’ve already sold off?”

The words hung in the air, volatile and uncomfortably raw. It felt like a hot mic capturing a scandalous whisper. For a moment, I saw something crack: a wobble in their certainty, a flicker of doubt that maybe, just maybe, growth wasn’t infinite after all.

The room froze, all eyes on me. Pastor Dale’s smile, as stable and practiced as the art of tax avoidance, faltered for the briefest of moments. His eyes darkened, narrowing like a CEO eyeing dissent in a shareholder meeting.

“Ah, you’re mistaken,” he said, his voice smooth, calibrated like a prime-time ad spot. “The world is competitive. What is it to me if others fail to leverage their assets? And nature? Nature is a resource to be optimized. We are the CEOs of this planet!”

I stepped forward, feeling the weight of their collective credit scores pressing against me. “CEOs? Maybe. But what’s the depreciation on that title? You celebrate Musk for outsourcing costs, but those debts haven’t disappeared. They’ve just been shifted. Doesn’t anyone feel the unpaid invoices piling up? Doesn’t it bother you that we might be running this whole show at a loss?”

The room went as silent as employees at a budget cuts meeting. Discomfort flashed across their faces. The kind of unease that comes when you know your stock is plummeting, but you haven’t refreshed the app yet.

Pastor Dale’s smile vanished, swallowed like capital into the void of sunk costs. “You speak as if growth should be feared,” he sneered, his voice turning cold and sharp. “As if exponential gains require oversight. But growth is life itself! Through the miracle of compound interest, we spread opportunity to those who can afford the management fees.”

“Opportunity?” I shot back, scanning the sea of slick, polished faces. “Who’s cashing in on that opportunity? Hedge fund managers? The guys selling us bottled air as a luxury? What about the interns grinding overtime just for ‘exposure’?”

A murmur rippled through the congregation, low and uncertain, like insider gossip at a corporate lunch. Their confidence cracked, as fragile as Bernard Madoff under SEC scrutiny.

Pastor Dale’s voice rose, now as frigid and cutting as a hostile takeover. “You’re nothing but a pessimist. A financial heretic! You would have us believe that wealth is a sin. But wealth,” he declared, spreading his arms wide as if unveiling a golden parachute, “is divine!”

The crowd shifted, their discomfort morphing into disdain. Pastor Dale seized the momentum, his voice swelling like a bull market in full swing. “This man would have us abandon our sacred pursuit of profit! He wants us to relinquish our right to rise, to grow, to... to IPO!”

The congregation buzzed, anger building like traders facing a margin call. But I stood my ground. “What if we’re all riding a bubble about to burst?” I challenged. “What if the only thing trickling down is the wreckage of everything we’ve built on borrowed time?”

The congregation’s resolve hardened, solidifying like a startup securing Series A funding. Pastor Dale raised his hand, signalling to the ushers. As I was tossed out the energy in the room swelled, a collective conviction sharpening into a weapon.

I had dared to challenge the Market. And in this world, there was no greater sin.