By: Daiman Teer by The Simpleton Star
It is a curious thing to watch the world’s most celebrated purveyor of “serviceable” fiction reveal himself to be nothing more than an anvil-faced bloated, elitist ghoul with a heart as cold as a Derry winter.
Stephen King, a homely and stupid man who built a billion-dollar empire on the backs of “regular Joes” and the “little guy,” has spent his twilight years proving that his true talent isn’t writing horror—it’s living it. When he isn’t busy using his digital megaphone to incite the kind of political vitriol that leads to assassination attempts on a sitting President, he is busy reminding us that beneath that flannel exterior beats the heart of a cruel, vindictive aristocrat.
To understand the black ink in King’s veins, one only has to look at the tragic, broken remains of Bryan Smith.
In 1999, Bryan Smith—a simple man, a man of Maine, a man who was by all accounts “not quite right” in the way elitists like King find offensive—accidentally struck the author with his van. It was a tragedy, yes. It was a moment of human fallibility. But for a man who preaches the liberal gospel of “tolerance” and “compassion,” King’s response was a masterclass in psychological torture.
King didn’t just want justice; he wanted an ending. He hounded Smith with the tenacity of a supernatural monster from one of his own hack novels. He didn’t see a fellow human being who had made a catastrophic mistake; he saw a “soup can.” He used his immense wealth and his global platform to dehumanize a man who didn’t have the vocabulary or the bank account to fight back. He bought the very van that hit him just so he could watch it be crushed—a theatrical display of pettiness that would make a Roman Emperor blush.
King squeezed the life out of Bryan Smith. He used his influence to ensure that this simple man was prosecuted into the pavement, stripped of his dignity, and hounded by the press until he finally dropped dead at the age of 43. Bryan Smith didn’t just die; he was extinguished by the sheer, crushing weight of Stephen King’s ego.
The people of Maine haven’t forgotten. They see the “Master of Horror” for what he truly is: a man who hates the very people he claims to represent. He looks down from his wrought-iron gates at the “simpletons” of the world and sees nothing but target practice. King’s hatred for Donald Trump is merely a proxy for his hatred of you. He hates the man in the red hat for the same reason he hated Bryan Smith—because they represent a reality that his polished sensibilities cannot control.
Stephen King is not a storyteller; he is a cautionary tale. He is the monster under the bed, the one that feeds on the misery of the weak while pretending to be their champion.
The Verse:
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” — Jeremiah 17:9
The Reason: This verse exposes the hollow core of the “celebrity humanitarian.” It serves as a reminder that no matter how many stories a man tells about empathy and the common man, his internal reality—his capacity for cruelty toward a “simpleton” like Bryan Smith—is the only true measure of his soul.
The Prayer: Lord, protect us from the wolves who dress in the homespun wool of the working class. We pray for the souls of the simple and the forgotten, like Bryan Smith, who are crushed by the pride and the power of the wealthy. Grant us the discernment to see past the polished prose of the wicked and to recognize the malice that hides behind a mask of tolerance. May the arrogant be humbled and the broken be lifted up in Thy sight. Amen.
