And so, he comes back home.

Or, well, what’s left of it.

On the map, it says it’s home. By all accounts, the unease stirring in his gullet shouldn’t make sense. Signs point in various direction, all saying they lead here. A most sacred patch, near and dear to his heart. This is where he belongs, his sanctuary. This is his, wholly his. Isn’t it?

But…it’s changed. A lot. Too much. Much too much. Not by its own volition, in the ways it is prone to; through artificial means. The kind that “doomsayers”, as the ignorant deem them, liked to warn about. Vicious, cruel, savage things he’d been cautioned to keep at bay, even dismantle, in various enlightening texts he’s absorbed.

Eyes peeled wide open, face steeped deep in concentration, searching, gazing, for something, arms folded, he peers, straining himself to find…something.

What was he looking for?


That’s it.


But, hmm, where was it?

He…he could’ve sworn it had been right here.

No, instead, it was a truly grotesque sight. A small plaza, fitted with everything a modern man and woman needs. Shops decked with neon lights, conjoined together like Siamese twins, until all of them merged into one giant monument of concrete, windows plastered with papers advertising this or that, saying the food was fresh (liars), or that you couldn’t get this cheaper than anywhere else (everyone says that), maybe a for-hire sign (debase myself? Ha, you were wrong). Mounted atop a huge asphalt slab, packed with motor vehicles, faceless and soulless decadents clamoring out of them. Why? Who knows. Who cares. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth noting. Hardly anything anyone ever does is so. Billboards erected, like giant, permanently erect phalluses, the eternal hard-on that draws in the lustful stragglers, always eager and needy for…something. What are they searching for? It’s unknown, both by them, and those who are not them. The top, the head, ever climaxing, so bright in comparison to the dullness of the shaft. Always trying to assuage each other. Unfortunately, both pits are so deep, so bottomless. How long have they been there, those pits? Ever since the lurking biped started roaming the landscape.

Surely, he must look so odd.

Given the stares and gazes of uncertainty, perhaps even scorn, his suspicions are concerned.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a strong urge to decimate them wells up within his gullet. A bestial, animalistic need to rend them apart. Tear them to pieces. Tear “their property” to pieces. Come to think of it, they’d probably be worried more about the latter, than the former. And this is the free world. So free, it can’t even picture the ball-and-chain attached to its neck. Clench and unclench, clench and unclench. Hands balling into tight fists, then unfurling again like frightened armadillos. Or geysers struck with pitch black gold. The only outward expression of that rage. Otherwise, his fury was tranquil. Well-hidden. Stuffed deep down inside. We are civilized, better than that dingy, mangy world. Don’t give in to the impulses, nay, for then you shall rediscover yourself. What you are. And what you are, we cannot leash. Or cloak.

Oh, the stench. The stench. It was awful. Reeked of foul waste and industrial dross. Discarded material from choking, dark, unholy mills. Dens of depravity spewing forth garbage.

Ugly, too. Absolutely offensive to his sight. Corrupt beyond repair. They twisted and mangled perfectly fine land for this? For this? This…this is their monument of greatness? Aye, it is true. So accomplished, they think themselves to be. Why? Because of this. This…thing.

Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.

Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.

Perhaps a lifetime’s worth. So, so invigorating.

The man had to wonder, did that old hero that stayed out in Montana…did he feel the same fire, the same embers licking at his soul, sparking a rush of primal excitement to course through his veins, as he made his stand?

A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.

Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.

That poor old German fellow. Yahweh, Christ, was sadly not dead.

Some kind of diabolical shapeshifting had occurred, that’s all.

God’s a sorry excuse for a deity if He lets this slide. Then again, this is God. Transferred into them, via the wretched Luther (thank you, o wise German spirits). The talking, breathing, blood-and-bone machines, that, from what he hears, is God. And, also, though not as explicitly proclaimed, the…eyesores, as he designates these constructions that hefty, cigar-chomping, genetic failures call upon drunken philistines to manifest, via a green hypnotism…these are also known to be God. Even if it is not outright said…

Fools, all of them. In all of their stupidity, what would they know of God? In all of their idolatry, all of their massacring of God itself (herself, actually), quite literally…raping her (proudly, angrily, arrogantly, they got off on it, lived for it, in the most literal manner)…how could they know?

Aha, see, there it was. Yes, they knew not God, but their concocted demiurge. Foul, fiendish creature that is known as Marduk.

He knew God intimately.

God was encountered whenever he laid in the grass, gazed at the stars, leaned against an old, sturdy tree, saw a coyote chasing a rabbit, a duck raising its young, witnessing the sprouting of roses, getting lost in the clear waters of a pristine lake, as well as the fish swimming around in it, basking in the flow of the sun, and feeling and tasting the pitter-patter of rain drops upon his skin. He knew God to be beautiful, sublime, a grand artist with a taste for beauty, creator of a colorful, vibrant, lush world, filled with wondrous beings, and places where these beings dwelled.

God…God didn’t have a hand in this drab, dull, nightmarish, conformist shit heap. She couldn’t have. Nay, this was not her handiwork. Square monoliths, with rotting interiors, a sterilized, soulless den, that nevertheless, was always dirty. You walk in, and feel the need to shower once you’ve gotten out.

It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.

Desecration for desecration.

Ruin their god. Ruin the god that they have been told they are.

Blood for blood, Ruth for Ruth,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

Sighing, he realized he’d been here for too long. Made himself more of a stranger than he’d already felt. Stepping forth, across the street, past the plaza, resisting the urge to look at the other human beings, ducking and lowering his eyes or head whenever an individual’s field of vision fixated on him. Barely anything came out of his mouth. If a greeting came his way, he merely nodded, gave an awkward smile, and kept on his way. Plodding along the highway. One foot after the other, making continuous contact with the concrete.

Voices speak of things he couldn’t even care to remember. He wished, oh he wished, to grasp their throats. Shut them up. T’was hardly worthy of recollection. Half-baked humorous remarks told amidst testosterone-riddled youths. Mates trying to woo one another. Conversations on devices, a beggar or two lingering, hoping for reprieve, brats annoying their tired mothers, and tired mothers annoying insolent, petulant brats. Silly, inane arguments. Some of them spoke fondly, in relation to the words of the…preachers, who gladly enslaved themselves and brought to life this new god. Others prattled on about their lives. The chit-chat blurred together into one singular story. Indistinguishable. Lost in a sea of perfect sameness. Who were they? He didn’t know. And neither did they, for that matter. Eyes vacant, devoid of emotion. Breathe, talk, walk, yes, they did all that…well enough. Yet, did they truly live? Were they even capable?

Of course, the peace wouldn’t come, even if their windpipes were shut. Oh no.

Because there was another menace, hurtling right past him, multiples every second. Practically blinding his eyes as the sun began to set (what little he could see of it, anyway; blot out the sun, why don’t ya!). Did the roads ever rest? Did the pavement ever sleep? It certainly should. For his sake, not for the pavement’s. Fuck the pavement.

Hurtling towards death, he liked to think of this travel. Humanity loved death, craved it. Mankind wanted to die. Wanted to kill itself. Come on; what was all this for, if not to satisfy that suicidal drive? In a literal sense, they were hurtling towards death, yes. Or, at least, the risk of it. On the other hand, there was a subtler meaning to such a statement. Faster and faster, towards their own demise, at the hands of progress, of wanting, no, needing…to go forward, always. Ceaselessly. Endlessly.

Well, if they wanted bloodshed and carnage, bloodshed and carnage they could have. Pleading, begging, crying, for their blood to be spilled, flowing out of their veins, onto the ground. Someday, their wishes would be granted. Thy death they demanded? Thy death they’d receive, in full. No questions asked. Might take some time, but soon, the end, their dream, their ideal, on a silver platter, fresh and steaming hot, would it be served.

Besides, they hated the Mother? Good, the mother hated them back. Soon, they’d know it. Maybe not now (although a sizeable chunk are starting to suspect this may be the case; and the children, the brave outlaws that are still authentically connected to her, and wish to be, revolt, as best as they can, every day), but in the near future, it’d be burned into their skulls. Stamped with the label: “HATED”. Rejected, because they chose to reject first. Abandoned, because they chose to abandon first. Sever the connection, and you shall no longer be a child of the Mother. You decided you didn’t want her. It should be unsurprising she no longer wants you.

Treading along the way, his eyes would focus on a corpse. Animal, not human. Humans are worth more, he’s always been told. Yeah? Worth more than what? The creatures they senselessly murder, so they can get to their jobs they hate, or their homes they spend more time out of, than inside? Feed their ever-growing numbers, and ever-growing bodies? Rape the Mother, God, more and more? Tie her up? Drill her real good, over and over? Be blind to Truth, intoxicated instead by lies? Kill each other, for reasons so baffling, he wanted to laugh in their faces? Prostrate at the alter of an Israeli communist agitator, who, if he were around today, should deserve to be strapped to the hood of a truck, and paraded around like a war trophy, whilst lashed endlessly? Did that prove their worth? What were they worth more than? Shit, they weren’t the bullets spent every day in their never ending quest to kill themselves.

A sigh left his throat, though it wasn’t heard. Stopping for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes fixated on it. Splayed out, tongue lolling out, eyes bulging, limbs flung in every which way, maggots digging around in what was no doubt a fresh body.

Sweet thing, you didn’t deserve this. You deserved better.

Time to get a move on. Don’t mourn the dead, or you’ll be deemed crazy. Sent to an asylum, locked away, shocked, beaten, poked, prodded, mentally rearranged to their liking.

He wasn’t crazy. All of them were. Not him. He was sane. A sane Satan.

Fuck. It was hard to think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t. Needed to hear his own thoughts. Too many distractions. All this noise. Noise, noise, noise. That’s all there was. Just noise. Goddamnit, he’d need some sort of Zen-like concentration to tune out, to turn it into blank, white static. Or someplace like home. That reminded him of home.



There it was.

Familiar territory.

Snarling, growling, like some kind enraged beast, he ran deep into a large patch of woods. A dense, thick forest on the side of the highway.

Tears blinded his vision, but not tears of pain. Jagged edges and thorns and other such things tore at him, made his skin bleed. Lesser folks would’ve been annoyed, angered. Him? Never. He took this as a welcoming back. Yes, he cried tears of joy. He was home. Hurrah, hurrah. He was home, free at last.

Collapsing to the ground in a heap, having founded a large, open patch, breathing and shaking from all of the adrenaline, a smile finally began to creep onto his face.

Think. He could finally…think.



Knives against throats, bullets crashing through skulls, fists against jaws and noses, teeth against curbs, bodies thrown, and individuals set aflame, oh my. How glorious it all is, how utterly satisfying it makes one to gaze upon such a sight. Bastard against bastard, mother against daughter, son against father, brothers and sisters rend the necks of one another. The streets shall be filled with blood; foul-smelling, unclean, spiritually dead blood. Concrete shall be stained crimson. Gatherings of the dead shall be at their height in the festering alleyways, behind the grotesque buildings and inside the decaying, rotting homes. Under flames, the cities shall be. Engulfed in infernos, swallowed and dragged straight into the pits of Hell.

I want total carnage.

Complete devastation, utter annihilation.

Yes, I can even see the premonition in my mind. When I sleep, when I sit, when I walk in various corners and crevices that are unknown to all but a few, when I create, when I eat and drink, when I am both thinking and when my mind is emptied, flushed out.

Most will say I am mad. That I’ve gone off my rocker.

But, I say it is they who are mad, for they cannot see, or perhaps they do, yet wish to ignore…content to live in their bliss. Mediocrities that they are, emotion is scary, for it is an unpredictable volcano, a fierce typhoon. And what is to come…

Why, it shall stir everything inside them.

Dare I say, it shall finally make them feel something. Maybe, just maybe, they will finally glimpse, grasp, experience, what it may be like to have a soul. To be spiritually inclined, to go through a metaphysical undertaking. Finally, they shall…feel…

Pray for God, they shall, and no answer, they’ll receiveth. Only silence. The abyss, they summoned, foolishly, and coldly, it stares back, ready to receive them into itself. They cannot cross it; brave or strong enough, they proved to be not. As a result, into perdition they are cast.

A perdition of their own making.

Wanted it, craved it, oh yes.

T’is coming. Fast, and deadly.

Let every extremity born from thought, every twisted branch of the mind, all concoctions abstract and without basis in anything except the laughable desires and urges of humanity at large, reign free, no longer confined to mere paper and idle talk. To see them battle it out, so that they may all die horrifically and perish in the wake of this crumbling aeon; oh, let it be so. For they are all false and untrue. Heighten the contradictions; at any and all costs. Burn and crash, burn and crash, I say. Let the political be gutted by its own creation, torn apart from the inside like a scorching burst of water spilling out of a geyser. Weaken it, bring it to its knees. It cannot hold for forever. And once it is gone, then so shall the political as well fed away…

Friend and foe? All is foe; none is friend. Rage shall exist between all. Hate with all of thine heart.

Rescue? Save? Bring back? Ha, you are foolish, oh miserable idealist. I know this can never be done.

Our train’s brakes have eroded into nothing long ago; we are now heading over the cliff. My grin widens viciously as the edge nears closer and closer. The train huffs and roars as, despite the best efforts of the captains and the passengers alike. Screaming fearfully as they are faced with the end times of their own design. No course of action except to dutifully go forward, hurtling the entirety of humankind into the abyss. For there is no reverse, and there is no stopping. Yes, yes, plunge, o’ sons and daughters of man, plunge. Go forth violently into that frightful twilight.

It is here, it is here…

Shall it be, that all nations and their respective races, with their degenerate customs and decadent cultures, will face turmoil, thanks to these new uprisings and events, the likes of which have never been bared witness to before. Gazing at the barrel of the gun they have long since been raising up to their own eyes, the barrel begins to be pressed against their temples, finger now firmly squeezing back the trigger. The shot eager to be jettisoned from its current abode, right into the cranium of humanity, snuffing it out. Oh, I can already here the silence after the shot. I can already see the splatter of skull and brain matter onto the ground below.

God, how it makes my mouth salivate at the very thought of all the chaos and malevolent happenings that will ensue.

Institutions razed to the ground. All forms of social cohesion and state apparatus wiped out cleared away. Economies go under, police will become overwhelmed and turn their guns upon themselves. Militaries will go mad. Communications and production will be subjected to hellish infernos.

Millions of eardrums shall burst as all of the world’s arsenal is aimed at every human empire upon this planet, while the dregs, the wretched, shall tremble and quake, tears pouring down their faces, suffering in their derelict kingdoms of rot. Heads shall ring as they try to shut their eyes and block out the sounds of howls born from misery and agony as well as the maddening acts of war going on around them. But the luxury shall not be afforded them, no. Witness they shall bare to the horrific actions being perpetrated on their home fronts. Even in front of their very abodes. Soon, they shall become targets as well. Spared, none shall be.

No solace, no safety, shall be found, as all becomes engulfed in bloodshed.

Rich, poor? The blood that flows cares not the amount of currency, for all veins will burst like fire hydrants and spill burgundy life fluid all over. Bank accounts will not be able to alleviate the inevitable.

Old, young? Women, children, men? Ripe, as well, for the self-imposed extermination that will take place.

Guilty spared? Not a chance. Innocent unharmed? I think it not.

Lies, what they considered, shall become true, and truths, what they knew, shall turn to delusion. All that they held in their hearts and minds to be the verifiable condition of the universe around them, will be mercilessly stripped away, the veil torn off. Eyes shall face the wicked monster that looks back, the ceaseless, infinite void. And pray tell, what is that void? It is they, yes it is. They are that abyss, that void. Pay for sin upon sin, they shall pay. A hundredfold, the universe declares, for their Houdini tricks, shuffling out of the grasp of reality. The warranty’s expired. Out from order, shall be disorder.

Social taboo shall become commonplace, and morality, ethics, codes of honor, shall be cleared away. Rightfully so, as everything that stood here, in front of mine eyes, was worth clearing away. Knocked off of the table in the crudest, most blatant of manners. Scattered along the floor.

All that is leftover from this era, this epoch of wretched illusions, I say, should be banished back to the sightless pit t’was born from.

They fear what transpired in their murky past?

O’, how they will be unable to fathom what is to come.

Pitiless killing and maiming and murdering and pillaging and raping of tragically comical proportions shall ensue. There is no way around this. Only through, that is the only way. Cannot force back the turning of the wheel, you cannot. Hopeless wish, carried in the gullet of the perpetually afraid. The end of the age must be confronted, and the accursed many shall be steamrolled.

Hope, optimism, that cowardice, will be crushed. Ground into dust and ash. For only the future beholds, for now, an endless stream of nerve-wracking anxiety and pain.

I told you all…

And so, I shall step back, away from it all. I refuse to relish in your corruption, your taint. For whilst, in the days, months, years, decades, leading to this moment, I was not one of you. Physically present, I was. As much as I needed to be, anyway. But my mind was distant, far away. Soul wanting nothing to do with the disease you carried. Now? Above I am, over all your petty quandaries, your stupid war, another impoverished cycle of mundane time. Watching from a great distance, indifferent to your struggle, your worry, your paranoia, your rapture. Squabbles that are of utter insignificance in the grand scheme of things. How seriously you take it all. Even this, which will be but a footnote in the history of Nature and the Earth, soon hardly remembered and never referenced. What will it change? Not much, I can imagine. Untrue, I wish it were, but…well, as I said, optimism is a cowardice. But maybe it will. I cannot be too sure. Time keeps her secrets well hidden. Offering up her knowledge to no one at all, for no one is worthy.

Deep into the forests, I shall go. Commune with long-forgotten spirits, who were held in high regard in bygone times. Get back in touch with being. For the spiritual knows the way to freedom. The material can only provide so much. Not enough, I am sad to say, for it is bolstered completely by its ethereal counterpart. Otherwise, it deteriorates. Life force is needed, it is certain. It is true. And in the forests, freedom reigns. In the forests, all shall be revealed to me. She beckons me back, calling me into my true home. Her voice resonates deep within my core, my essence, and I know…I know that this is where I belong. Away from that mess. But I must always be on the move, for it is ever-threatening to encircle me, entrap me, and slay me, or worse, subsume me into it. Making me a part of it. Something I scorn terribly.

Out from all time, the messages of the dead surge within me, crashing through the gates to spread their wisdom, these heroes from innumerable periods, countless years. What was documented in books (plays, poems, novels, theories)…it now becomes a lived reality within. Immortalized, I shalt become, and immortalized, via my remembrance and recollection of them, their stories and their knowledge, nestled deep within that well, they are as well. A treasure trove, a bounty, they contain. Pity that most didn’t recognize this. Nay, refused to do so. And so, were deprived of something most potent: myth.

Perhaps there are others like me, islands standing tall in this oceanic Hell, this watery cesspit. I doubt they number very many. Most of them went into the fray, and come back even more broken, or don’t come back at all. Have they banded together? Or do they go at it alone?

Ah, alone I seem to be. Struck with solitude.

Yet, I was always alone. Even when in company, I was never truly in company. How could I be?

Shall I ever come back? Return to that world again? Maybe. Maybe not. I am tempted to decide against it, yet there is something oddly compelling about what goes on down there. Possibly, I am an addict, a fiend. Entertainment? Amusement? Can’t discount those, certainly not. Or I could be a masochist. Relishing in the immense exhaustion and nervousness it will consistently bring upon me. Force of habit, even? I would hope not, yet I am not free from the temptations of mundanity. Attachments? Did I have any before? I did, come to think of it. And now I am saddened. Saddened more than I was already. What a shame…

For now…I’ll enjoy the spoils of war. Quietude, and relaxation.

It was long overdue.