Flash Fiction

The church of the long forgotten sat atop an insignificant hill. The worshippers, broken and maimed came without calling. Ragged trousered fuckers with little regret and even fewer demands. They milled for all the day, for all of the daylight from dawn until the sun could no longer provide and then they shuffled away. Till the day beyond tomorrow and all it's long related days they appeared, growing in numbers, decreasing in desire.
The lords of the church, always accustomed to their will, performed as they wished and the broken made little complaint. Life was rich, the common complaints were ignored and the stresses were stored behind securely locked doors. The lords commanded and the pistons pumped, steam hissed in tongues and the insects scrabbled for purchase. As the times passed they grew more lordly and much, much more corpulent.
The zenith was reached with the high lords mastering the fusion of all that was desired. There was no need for the church to ever close, nothing would ever stop, everything would go on forever. The church of the long forgotten had reached its nirvana. All the sugar brains would coalesce. Worship for the whores of the church of the long forgotten would be universal.