LeStrange is at his steel mill, working the crucibles and fishing out the slag. He then pours molten steel into a mold, sparks flying everywhere as LeStrange stands there unwavering. When the dump is done he steps outside and rolls a cigarette.

You know Klown, you make a point. But your theory is flawed. Family, non-existent. Friends, never cared to make any. And the 276 peons that call me master, are just fodder to the beast. You call me a weak champion, it's still more gold than you have. And being great, the thought never crossed my mind. You can claim to God, or Satan all you want, but you bleed just like the rest of them. The rest of the putrid flesh bags that dominate the earth with their menial day jobs, insignificant worries, and deranged obsession with prolonging their lives. That's what separates me from them. That's what separates me from you. I could give two shits and a fuck about the degradation of modern society, or the futile attempt of deifying oneself. Its all weakness, weighing you down, becoming more cumbersome as you bury the hype deeper and deeper beneath the bullshit. Love me, hate me, bless me, curse me, it doesn't matter, you can't break what was there before, and what will always be there after. The embodiment of Lunacy, how sweet it is to be severed from the rest of the world, from humanity's corruption.

Did you know we are supposed to live by faith and not by sight. Funny considering that like sight, faith diminishes over time until eventually it fails completely. Puny, worthless god.