In Preying Over the Poor, Alkēbulan delivers a chilling sermon in pixels—a tableau where spiritual authority towers over a sea of believers, not with humility but with surveillance. The ecclesiastical giant, cloaked in cassock and contradiction, gazes out over a hillside of tin-roofed homes stacked like unanswered prayers. This is a portrait of power dressed as piety. The faithful line up with reverence, dressed in Sunday best, ascending rust-worn stairs toward salvation or submission—it’s unclear which. Behind them, rows of shacks whisper of hunger, resilience, and the commodification of hope. Here, religion is less a sanctuary than a spectacle. The collared figure isn’t shepherding—they’re looming. Alkēbulan doesn’t blaspheme—he excavates. He interrogates systems that baptize poverty in performance and canonize corruption in cassocks. This is not just art. It’s revelation.