The flames are rising now all around the seat of the Empire on E Street. The Emperor, sings along to the music of the night, albeit without costume, while swinging his trusty lyre at invisible white globules. With the walls closing in, he grabs quill in one hand and steadies parchment with the other. With a number of strokes he further prostrates himself in front of the anointed one. Knowing nothing of the concept of loyalty or ethics, he draws a knife across his thumb and signs his plea. Like Judas before him, he betrays his supreme leader and begs for dispensation and a role in the new administration.
How pitiful. How futile.