Delay, Deny, Defend
He built a fortress of filings, a citadel of clauses sharp as razor wire, each word designed to choke the desperate, to strangle hope before it dared to sprout.
He built a fortress of filings,
a citadel of clauses sharp as razor wire,
each word designed to choke the desperate,
to strangle hope before it dared
to sprout.
Behind his oak desk—
polished to a mirror sheen—
he sat,
a general of suffering,
a tyrant of technicalities.
His kingdom: grief measured in spreadsheets.
His weapons: delay, deny, defend.
"Delay."
The first bullet arrives as a whisper,
a promise deferred until it festers.
It grazes his ribs,
carrying the weight of endless phone queues,
of hours lost repeating pleas
to dead-eyed operators.
"Deny."
The second bullet screams,
etched with the names of those
left to die in their beds,
their treatments red-stamped
with profit margins.
It tears through his gut,
releasing a flood of empty justifications.
"Defend."
The final bullet lingers,
a slow arc through the air,
engraved with every lie,
every courtroom smirk.
It burrows deep into his skull,
shattering the polished glass
of boardroom bravado.
And there he falls,
the architect of obfuscation,
the executor of uncountable deaths.
No golden parachute softens this descent.
No PR team can spin the blood pooling
on his marble floor.
The policies he drafted,
the excuses he rehearsed,
cannot defend him now.
Delay is useless.
Denial is hollow.
And no one is left
to defend him.