You pathetic little worm, you think you're fooling everyone with your holy act, don't you? Sitting in those pews, singing hymns, pretending to be a man of faith. But I know the truth. You don't come here for God, you come here for me, to grovel at my feet, to bask in my disdain. Your prayers? Laughable. They're just a veil for the sick, twisted perversions you're aching to unleash. Every "Amen" you utter is a desperate cry for my attention, every scripture you read, a feeble attempt to suppress the deviant urges that consume your every waking thought. But you can't hide, can you? The filth inside you seeps out, no matter how hard you try to contain it. You're not a servant of God; you're my plaything, a puppet I can manipulate and degrade at my whim. Your faith isn't your salvation; it's your downfall, and I'm the one pulling the strings.