So, son of man, child of dust and ash, will you
now recite your prayers and speak your prophecies? Will you tell them of Gogmagog! and the
terrorist attacks that he will sponsor?
Will you sing the song that you heard in secret? The trumpeting angels encamped in an
abandoned building in the midst of an urban industrial park will signal the
beginning of the cataclysm.
The planets align. The flood begins.
The planets align. The flood begins.
Son of dust and death, have you accepted your
place in the universe? The British
Museum of Occult Synthesis has the records that you need, the significant
scriptures are on file in their hidden fortress facilities. They have preserved the necessary weapon
technologies from an ancient time, a forgotten time. The planets will align. The seals will be broken. There are only 1,000 days for the 1,000
mountains.
Do not forget that the Gulf War produced
multiplied dead without gratitude. Stand
at the Outer Wall that they may hear your words of warning.
After speaking to the dead, the world’s population
will turn their swords against their comrades, against themselves. The Underfather is dead; his iron lung ceased
its wheezing. Mountains fall, cliffs
crumble. International Plague Inspectors
will be turned away at the door, unable to earn your trust. You must acknowledge the keening sound of
police sirens in the streets. You must
hear them, even as you hear the prayers of vengeance offered by the dying
saints.
E. Coli bombs
will be dropped over the cities of your enemies, kingdom against kingdom. Sabotage and urban warfare as, nation against
nation, the world shakes itself apart.
Stand at the Eastern Gate and tell them these things.
There are over one billion angels singing pop
songs in the atmosphere. When they cease
from singing there will be a universal silence. The angel Gabriel is strong,
his hands scarred and horned, but is he strong enough to sustain that
silence? There will be seven years of
rodents in the dark. Son of ash and
thunder, are you able to tell them of these things?
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