thinking about condesce/sassacre some more.
imagine that you are the condesce, on top for millennia, had every reason to believe that you were the most powerful, most superior being in the universe, and then you lose your kingdom and your entire species and you are forced to be a slave to a god with power over realities. you must live in a world full of primitive people you cannot control, and your power is given by the hand that binds you.
imagine you’re a shitty 19th century southern aristocrat, a group whose entire thing is that there is this confidence born from believing that you are the top of the human race, that your culture is superior, you are superior, and that god implicitly endorses your supremacy. and then you meet the condesce, and all of a sudden your entire civilization is insignificant, you are nothing, and the closest being to that ideal you had, of the master of civilization endorsed by god, is an alien black woman who killed christ.
imagine you are the condesce, and you see this man, this subordinate being with a life so tiny compared to your own, and you see him act like he’s so much further above these others of his kind. you see how he channels the joys of humiliating others into creative art, and it reminds you of a similar man back home, who worked similar tricks on the little people he ruled. and he gets it, he understands you despite his inferiority.
imagine you are sassacre, and you start to see the parallels between you, and you find the humor in it, and share it with her. it’s always gratifying to see a woman laugh at your jokes, and it seems that this queen of hell can bear to have you around. and now that you know this much about the nature of reality, it’s hard to talk to women of your own class, of your own species, so certain that they are so far above other human beings. none of it matters as much as this woman does, this woman who likes your jokes.