Then was the Chalice passed to a very rich man, a favored son of wealth whose life had been charmed from the cradle. His counting houses overflowed with gold and many beautiful maidens graced his chambers. His very visage was fascinating to the people, from his golden thatch to his pretty pout, and they could not get enough of the man and his peccadilloes.
But the lust for power became too much for his simple soul. He took of the Poisoned Chalice. Instantly he rose to radiant heights and the people sang his praises, yea, to the very heavens.
But the rich man was a weak man, who drained the poison cup again and again, like a glutton. His words dripped venom, he spoke hateful nonsense, and the people ceased to cheer. All too soon his image became befouled with the warts and wounds of ugliness and the people could not suffer to look upon him.
And it came to pass that the contenders in the grand contest to supplant the Dark One arose in an endless sequence. One candidate after another spoke the words he believed the people wanted to hear and leapt to the top of the lists. Those words had power beyond all imagining. They made stars of the obscure, the foolish and the unqualified, and puffed them up with pride and vanity. And those words destroyed them all, even to the last. The Poisoned Chalice did its deadly work.
And still the twisted ones cry, drink! Drink from the Poisoned Chalice that we may hear thee screech above all the others and anoint you our champion.
And there was no one among them sufficiently wise to say: "Enough! Spill the venom and shatter the Chalice." To this very day the priests of the Grand Old Party are under its spell.
The Poisoned Chalice waits yet, and its sickly sweet lure captures all who come near. They drink, and the men become demons and the women become banshees They drink, and they retch lies and anger until they become hideous in the sight of the nation. And they are cast out and heard from no more.
And the people say, Amen.
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