From frosty pinnacles of delight they come, wending down to our lowly places where they begin their devious plan. In real estate they deploy their minions, slurping up our desirables with nary a qualm. At first we will enjoy it, sleeping our revelation away, but later, once the biting begins and our veins lie open to the wind, we will laugh no more.
Amid vaporous fears we try to rally against them, our legions no match for their unity. We will retreat into the places in the earth that are of no value, awaiting the crushing heel of the tyrant's snazzy shoes. All that remains is an artist's rendition of the tread pattern, wavy lines and knobs blotting out the sky and eating the sun. Our inflated bodies cry out for puncture, an end to this dreadful pressure.
As our future archeologist selves reconstruct the era, they will find the needle in the haystack in our many-formed clientele. The shavings of our naked souls, accreted into layers of dense fibrous tangles, will be displayed in their museums, with inane commentaries posted on the walls. The true nature of this horror will become obvious, however, to the initiated among them. They will chortle in their temples, and donations will rise substantially - for who does not wish to give money to merry folk?
And in that last gleaming of ours, they will have their victory, and through the miracle of compound interest, they will deny redemption to the scruffy mountain whores.