When divinity meets deregulation, no table is safe.
In the glint-glass glory of the New Holy City Mallplex, beneath the skyscraping holograms of Sacred Influencers and Algorithmic Prophets, there strutted the Dealers. Oh, the Dealers! Rolex wrists flashing like divine thunder, voices like crypto-evangelists at full throttle, hawking salvation at 15% APR.
“Step right up, bless your feed, claim your sacrament! Premium incense—infused with Himalayan mindfulness and lavender NFTs! Prayer beads sourced straight from a monk’s OnlyFans!”
And the priests? Don’t be silly. They were consultants now—brand gurus in robes, managing donation flows via blockchain. They called it ‘Offerings-as-a-Service’ (OaaS). The altar was a touchscreen kiosk. The chalice came with a reusable straw. The holy writ was a Terms of Service agreement.
Then HE showed up.
Not with a press kit. Not with a streaming deal. But dusty, sunburnt, sandaled, and pissed.
He strode through the biometric gates—no pass, no scan—straight into the Temple-Mall, flanked by wide-eyed disciples still trying to upload the Sermon on the Mount to TikTok before their signal dropped.
He looked at the Dealers—slick, suited, saturated in self-righteous ROI—and he didn’t just raise his voice. No, this wasn’t a TED Talk. This was rage. Pure, unfiltered, hellfire-vintage rage.
He flipped the tables—mahogany, brass-inlaid, carbon-neutral. Cards, coins, crypto keys went flying. Doves burst out of cages like hashtags escaping censorship. Lattes spilled. A Zen Master screamed.
“YOU TURNED MY FATHER’S HOUSE INTO A DAMN STARTUP!”
The algorithm stuttered. The metrics dipped. And the Consultants gasped.
“Who funds this man?” one muttered.
“No sponsors?” another whispered.
“He’s off-message,” they hissed. “Unmonetizable.”
But He didn’t need their metrics. He was the message.
And for one blinding, algorithm-breaking moment, the Temple was pure again—just air, sky, dust, and the howl of a truth that couldn’t be packaged.
CALL TO ACTION (CTA):
Feeling like the Temple’s been sold out to the highest bidder? Share this story, shake the tables, and flip the script. No algorithm can stop a truth that burns. Subscribe to berndpulch.org for more sacred chaos, heretic humor, and gospel-grade satire.
#FlipTheTables #ModernMessiah #TomWolfeStyle #TempleOfHustle #berndpulch
Absolutely! Here’s the extended CTA incorporating both donation links: Patreon.com/berndpulch and berndpulch.org/donation.
FLIP THE TABLES. FUND THE HERESY. JOIN THE REBELLION.
At berndpulch.org, we don’t just write satire—we hurl literary Molotovs at the temples of power, hypocrisy, and algorithmic rot. No corporate leash. No sanitized sermons. Just pure, blistering truth wrapped in heretic humor.
But even digital prophets have bills. Hosting ain’t holy. Servers don’t run on sarcasm alone.
If you believe satire is sacred, and someone should keep mocking the money changers, support us today:
→ Patreon.com/berndpulch
Join the heretic order. Get exclusive content, early access, and eternal glory among the damned.
→ berndpulch.org/donation
One-time or recurring donations. Every coin flipped is another table flipped.
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Donate now. Mock the mighty. Burn the golden calf—and maybe buy us a coffee while you’re at it.
Because truth is worth funding. And laughing is a revolutionary act.
Want a multilingual version next?
Bernd Pulch 