Everyone Dies – or - The Bottomless Pit and Topless Dancers: Things that Go Bump and Grind in the Night

Maybe what I want is a fatal head wound of my own. I know that’s the AntiChrist’s thing, but sometimes the fatal head wound of permissive men’s hands, those self-indulgent twentieth-century hands seems like a good way out. The unspeaking leaders, the eyeless, sightless leadership of Demons in this terrifying hour has worn me out, worn me down. The final Satanic government head may have ears, but this too is a deception.

Drugs, perhaps? Drugs and doubt. Pills are an unreliable assassination method. Even if a bloody head wound would cause a disturbance in society, drugs are doubtful. Still the Power station must be cut – Should we cut the throat? We wonder how that would happen.

I am a Criminal - a perpetrator of public disorder, like all criminal socialists and liberal fugitives before me. “Criminals need therapy,” they say. Grief counseling. Suicide hotlines. But hold to the sign of the end of the age; let no man deceive you or cause you to reconsider. It’s all desolation until the Captain speaks. A series of aches and pains and tribulations that will not end. All we have is Vague and guesswork. You must voluntarily chose the method of revelation.

As it was in the days of Noe, all the men and women on the list will be razed by violence. Everyone dies. I die, a life tossed up and tossed out on ocean waves. Everybody’s dead. Every body  dies. I am dead as well. Why not? So do not fear; there is no reason to hurry. There is no reason for alarum. The AntiChrist’s deadly head wound will be healed and the world will go on as it always has, wondering how it all happened but never answering the questions.

So I ask the question: Who gave power to the beast during World War I? What counter measures were employed? Who is able to effectively wage war without a publicity and public relations department? How near is Armageddon? As near as Iraq, Iran, and Syria? The Euphrates? Persia?  Just ask the Beast of the World Church. Armageddon may already be present, you may have already won $10,000. But who cares? Why even bother? Why even try?

A strange, but certain apostasy is already dawning. Chemical weapons are even now engaged upon the land. Soon hearts will stop beating on all sides. Babies will not be born according to the proper order. But the Lawyers, for the most part, will not be involved; they will not even be present until after the dust has settled and the blood has congealed. Rigor Mortis will set in and fade out before they show up to feast upon the corpses, to eat the flesh of  captains and kings in little blue uniforms, the flesh of commanders, the flesh of mighty men, horseflesh and the flesh their riders, the flesh of everyone. Everyone dies.

Bring back the sword, I say. Bring back the sword and slash and swing. Slash. Like a storm. Swing like a cloud. Prepare for an invasion, the paratroop maneuvers of a boastful nation. Tanks M-16s, machine guns, rockets, bazookas, miniature nuclear grenades-the manufacturers of our magnificent weaponry do not understand how to be human. They are all cruel teeth and invincible wings, Scorpions with stinger missiles in their tails. This is a sickness unto death.

The abyss has been opened and the beaten angels of our nature are delivered. We have seen the Bottomless Pit and Topless Dancers: Abaddon and Apollyon – things that go bump and grind in the night. The Destroyer is here in fishnet and leather. One Woe is past, two more hereafter.