Michael sets aside the newspaper, rubs his forehead. He should have been the one with horns, with all the damage he’s done. Righteousness still masks his pleasure at the smiting, but he’s moved from blood and black bile to slow withering. More time to enjoy the sad attempts at repentance.
“When your basement is littered with the corpses of cats and children, you have missed your shot at ascension.”
“But…It wasn’t me! I would never do that!” As if Michael cannot see the soul stains.
Given free reign, he’d shrivel them all.
Perhaps it is time to release his brother.