You keep invoking some God but I don’t think he’s listening right now. - Charles Stross

Manfred decides that he’s going to do something unusual for a change: He’s going to make himself temporarily rich. This is a change because Manfred’s normal profession is making other people rich. Manfred doesn’t believe in scarcity or zero-sum games or competition—his world is too fast and information-dense to accommodate primate hierarchy games.

Welcome to the early twenty-first century, human.
It’s night in Milton Keynes, sunrise in Hong Kong. Moore’s Law rolls inexorably on, dragging humanity toward the uncertain future. The planets of the solar system have a combined mass of approximately 2 x 10²⁷ kilograms. Around the world, laboring women produce forty-five thousand babies a day, representing 10²³ MIPS of processing power. Also around the world, fab lines casually churn out thirty million microprocessors a day, representing 10²³ MIPS. In another ten months, most of the MIPS being added to the solar system will be machine-hosted for the first time. About ten years after that, the solar system’s installed processing power will nudge the critical 1 MIPS per gram threshold—one million instructions per second per gram of matter. After that, singularity—a vanishing point beyond which extrapolating progress becomes meaningless. The time remaining before the intelligence spike is down to single-digit years ...

We need to deal with the Jews, you know," Fabian confides, then pauses dramatically.
This is new and unwelcome, and more than somewhat worrying. (I knew the PM held some rather extreme views, but this level of forthright anti-Semitism is unexpected.) "May I ask why?" I ask hesitantly.
"I'd have thought it was obvious!" He sniffs. "All that charitable work. Loaves and fishes, good Samaritans, y'know. Sermon on the Mount stuff. Can't be doing with it—"
Beside me, Chris Womack risks interrupting his flow: "Don't you mean Christians, sir?"
"—And all those suicide bombers. Blowing people up in the name of their god, but can't choke down a bacon roll. Can't be doing with them: you mark my words, they'll have to be dealt with!"
Across the room, Vikram Choudhury nearly swallows his tongue. Chris persists: "But those are Mus—"
"—All Jews!" the Prime Minister snaps. "They're just the same from where I'm standing." His expression is one of tight-lipped disapproval—then I blink, and in the time it takes before my eyelids open again, I forget his face. He sips delicately from his teacup, pinky crooked, then explains his thinking. "Christians, Muslims, Jews—they say they're different religions, but you mark my words, they all worship the same god, and you know what that leads to if you let it fester. Monotheism is nothing but trouble—unless the one true god is me, of course."