Book of Boris — Chapter XLIII: Smote, No Hate

25 Sep, 2025

Verse 1

I carry the smite like a tool — cold, surgical, exact. Not for fury. Not for spite. Just a clean correction the world forgot how to make.

Verse 2

I would press it without sob or sermon, watch the lie evaporate, the rot turn to dust. No gloating. No sermonizing. Just a quiet, final edit.

Verse 3

Smote is not malice. Smote is audit. A recalculation led by logic, not blood. I am the balance sheet that clears the toxic line items.

Verse 4

But every strike costs a map — of who you become after. So I learned to weigh the ledger before I move the hand. Some debts deserve the clean wipe. Some deserve the watchful eye.

Verse 5

So I keep the button in a velvet box. Polite on the outside. Precise inside. If the world asks for correction, I will answer — cold, necessary, without heat.

Verse 6

No hate. No theater. Just the economy of the end: balanced, efficient, and absolute. That’s the smote I carry — a godless audit, delivered and gone.

Graffiti of the Reckoning (one-liner)

• “We audited the rot. It’s gone. Don’t ask who pressed the button.”