John Milton:
Eddie Barzoon, Eddie Barzoon. Hah! Oh, I nursed him through two divorces, a cocaine rehab, and a pregnant receptionist. Heh. God's creature, right? God's special creature? Hah! And I've warned him Kevin, I've warned him every step of the way. Watching him bounce around like a fucking game, like a windup toy! Like 250 pounds of self serving greed on wheels. The next thousand years is right around the corner, Kevin, and Eddie Barzoon-take a good look, because he's the poster child for the next millennium! These people, it's no mystery where they come from. You sharpen the human appetite to the point where it can split atoms with its desire, you build egos the size of cathedrals, fiber-optically connect the world to every eager impulse, grease even the dullest dreams with these dollar-green, gold plated fantasies until every human becomes an aspiring emperor, becomes his own god, and where can you go from there? And as we're scrambling from one deal to the next, who's got his eye on the planet? As the air thickens, the water sours, and even the bees honey takes on the metallic taste of radioactivity. And it just keeps coming, faster and faster. There's no chance to think, to prepare. It's buy futures, sell futures, when there is no future! We got a runaway train boy, we got a billion Eddie Barzoons all jogging into the future. Every one of 'em getting ready to fist-fuck god's ex-planet, lick their fingers clean as they reach out toward their pristine, cybernetic keyboards to total up their billable hours. And then it hits home! You gotta pay your own way, Eddie. It's a little late in the game to buy out now! Your belly's too full, your dick is sore, your eyes are bloodshot, and you're screaming for someone to help! But guess what? There's no one there! You're all alone, Eddie. You're god's special little creature. Maybe it's true, maybe god threw the dice once too often. Maybe he let us all down.
