"It began with the suspicion that the Gods didn’t know how to talk. Centuries of feral and fugitive life had atrophied everything human in them; the moon of Islam and the cross of Rome had been implacable with these deserters. Very low foreheads, yellowed teeth, coarse moustaches and thick bestial lips were signs of the degeneration of this Olympic race. Their clothes did not correspond to a decorous and decent poverty but to the perverse luxury of gambling dens and country whorehouses. A carnation bled on a lapel; under a tight-fitting vest one could guess the shape of a dagger. We suddenly felt that they were betting their last chip, that they were petty, ignorant and cruel like old prey animals and that, if we accepted our defeat through fear or pity, they would eventually destroy us.
We took our heavy revolvers (there were suddenly revolvers in the dream) and joyfully gave death to the Gods."
Jorge Luis Borges