Title: "For The Taking"
Summary: The world is yours, if you have the balls to take it.
Notes: Written for the Furorscribendi 'greed' challenge.

The world is yours. That's what his mother used to tell him. The world is yours, she used to say, and if there's one thing in life he's learned well and truly, it's that mothers are always right. Especially his mother. Helluva woman, his mother. Tough, but fair, strong, yet vulnerable. Made a mean apple-pie danish, drove like a bat of hell, didn't suffer dust or fools, could out-cuss a sailor, kept him and his brothers, God rest their souls, in line with sometimes nothing more than a look. Nobody but nobody got away with shit in his mother's house, and that was how he ran his life now. With discipline and order and purpose, because, without these things, without purpose and order, there was no civilization. And without civilization, people were all just a bunch of fucking soulless animals, no better.

The world is yours, his mother used to tell him. She never said that to the family dog.

She had a damn good point, his mother did. The world was his, was made for men like him, for men of action and decisiveness, for men who didn't take shit from nobody and had the strength of character, the will to step up and get the job done, no matter what it took. The world was already too full of pussies, of laziness and inertia, full of cowardice. Well, he wasn't a fucking coward, never had been, and he'd go toe to toe with anyone that dared to call him one.

The meek may inherit the fucking earth and all, but who'd want it after the avenging angels and Horsemen and plagues and all had fucked it all up?

He always figured that that saying was some pussy-ass minister or prophet or someone misinterpreting the Good Book, because the God he knew and believed in? Well, that was one decisive motherfucker, and he rewarded his generals both in this life and the next. Not that he was calling himself one of God's generals, oh no, not at all, he wasn't that damn dumb. That would be folly–hubris, his mother used to call it. But he didn't need to be one of God's generals to know that God had a masterplan, and if you weren't part of the solution, you were part of the fucking problem.

He didn't intend on being part of the fucking problem.

Let all those other motherfuckers cower and cover their heads and run around like chickens, like children, crying and whining, Christ, the whining and sense of entitlement. People were entitled to what they could wring out of the earth by the sweat of their brows and the sweat off their backs. People were entitled to more if they earned it, if they stood strong, stood tall, didn't take no shit, if they fought for it.

If they motherfuckin' fought for it.

The world is yours, his mother used to say to him, but she never told him that it would come to him on a silver platter and spread its legs like some cheap whore on a Saturday night. Oh no, he knew what his mother meant. The world is yours, but you had to earn that shit. The world wasn't free, no sir, it wasn't.

If you wanted the world, you had to tame it first and bring it to heel. If you wanted the world, you had to pick your battles, plan your strategy, you had to be patient, be smart. You had to fight all those other motherfuckers out there that thought they had a shot. You had to show them you were the big dog, the alpha, the man in charge.

If there was one thing he'd known since he was a kid, it was that he was born to lead.

The world best prepare itself. Because he was coming to collect.

If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!