Divine Apocalypse: The Beginning of the End
“Religion, comprises a system of wishful illusions together with a disavowal of reality, such as we find in an isolated form nowhere else but in amentia, in a state of blissful
In many religions, the mentally ill are the chosen— as they can see into an invisible world. Myths ( though some outlandish and hard to believe) makes sense of reality. However, the foolishly perspective of man can mistake ghosts for Gods and blood-sucking fairies for vampires. Science calls the ability to pass memories down throughout generations collective memory or instinct while religion names it reincarnation. Buried in our subconscious’ we are reminded of pivotal celestial events; lessons that somehow we are all born knowing. In a world governed by the unseen and unexplainable— you can not always trust your own mind. Understand existence by remembering: All myths have a seed of truth, and there is another side to every story.
“If one wishes to form a true estimate of the full grandeur of religion, one must keep in mind what it undertakes to do for men. It gives them information about the source and origin of the universe, it assures them of protection and final happiness amid the changing vicissitudes of life, and it guides their thoughts and motions by means of precepts which are backed by the whole force of its authority…. Religion is an illusion and it derives its strength from the fact that it falls in with our instinctual desires.”
“‘Who has seen a beautiful lady, being led by the dead?’” The frail older man sung to himself as he inspected every nook of the room with a long black cane. Fresh and earthy, the scent of coffee grounds rustled his long white nose hairs and filled his decrepit lungs twice their shriveled size. It was in the cafe— he could smell it.
“”Did you hear, my Constantine, what the little birds have said? They are little birds; let them sing. There are little birds, prayers on wing’” Something was under the sugary tones of cakes and cookies. It was beneath the bouquet of perfumes and shampoos, then beyond the whiff of salted skin and spiced blood— this coffee shop was alive.
“‘And a little further on their way other birds called and said,” he sung whimsically as he tipped his large black Amish hat to a passing pedestrian. The Mermaid Cafe was built on ground with a heartbeat. It surged with an egoistic energy that kept the tiny eatery many frequenters. “‘Isn’t pity and unfair, very strange, the alive to walk along with the dead?’”
Industrial sized cappuccino machines steamed hot milk under the larger green mermaid logo. He was sure his acolytes were here— hidden among the decorative ceramic mugs, stuffed animals, and designer hot chocolate bags. On this living ground he could sense an invisible audience— demonic spectators to a clandestine baptism.
“‘’Did you hear, my Constantine, what the little birds have said? That the alive walk along…with the dead…’”
With purpose, the wrinkled man buried his cane into the green carpet and pronounced through rotten teeth, “Come now, don’t be shy! You have summoned me here and I have prepared the ritual…”
As all the attention fell on him he adjusted his dusty black suit and continued in a raspy spill, “Tired? Alone? Weighted down by humanity? You will never be cleansed! You will never be purified! Never! You know you don’t belong here. That is why you summoned me. That is why you need me!”
Collectively the crowd rolled their eyes and continued about their day. In New York street preaching was more frequent than the A train. Irritation shook his bones fingers, “This is a test! You know what is required! Stand up! Have faith in me! You know why I’m here.”
The younger man’s heart pound so heavily in his chest he thought he was going to faint. He threw his shoulder-length dark locks behind his tiny pale ear and whipped grease and soil from his cheeks. All his life he knew the words of this Amish preacher to be true: There was nothing in his heart but hatred– raw and strong— but sedated by society and human order. Could this all be real? Did he really call this spirit?
His skin was hot with anticipation. He wanted to believe so badly and blindly he followed through. Now, with this creature before him in living flesh, he was happier than he had ever been. Remorsefully, he looked over to his wife who had been nervously watching the scene.
“Show yourself!” The elder man was getting impatient.
It was now or never. With a toss of oily hair, he grabbed his wife from behind and dragged her into the center of the Mermaid Cafe. She screamed, but he heartbeat drowned out her voice.
Breathlessly, he struggled to hold her as she yelped and failed to escape his grasp. Once before the Amish man dressed in black he announced, “I am the White Horseman of the North. I bring my wife as offering…”
“Now what is going on here!” The manager of the cafe interrupted. No sooner than he had spoken, his body dropped to the ground. The crowd erupted into shouts as one by one, half of the group fell lifelessly.
Prisoners, the surviving members attempted escaped but the doors were locked, trapping the mob inside.
“Ascend my child,” the crippled spirit welcomed the oily couple.
A blue-eyed spectator advanced from the shadows and threw her polished blonde hair backward. With eyes like enchanted diamonds, rosy cheeks, and perfectly painted lips, the woman wore a pink undershirt beneath a white blouse and a blue cardigan tied around her shoulders.
He recognized her immediately. They met… at club Solace. He stepped out of his marriage for this woman… not too many nights before.
Lilith shined a flawless grin and daintily crossed the floor. It wasn’t until she was closer did he realize she was very pregnant. She opened his hand and placed an upright golden cross in it, then slowly turned it upside down to invert it.
He blinked in confusion, but as his wife struggled beneath him, he had to focus. “Over this death, I prophesy that mothers shall but smile as they run nails under their infants eyes. Each heart on earth will understand my pain…”
The White Horsemen shoved the cross into his wife’s neck.
As the crowd shouted in fear the creature opened his arms as if waiting for a second person from the crowd to speak out.
There was a scream from the center of the mob. A man fell to the ground as his brother dragged him before the Amish preacher.
“You understand me making you wait,” his voice rang with a wild and uncontrollable dominance. His straight red hair was pulled back into a stringy ponytail and his thin lips curled with a perverted pleasure. “Tactical move and all… Had to let you make the first move to make sure it was really you.”
He crippled his brother with a blow to the knee and took him by the throat. Covered in piercings, he had found excitement in pain, but never experience a more mind-blowing high than when he inflicted it to others. “Got me, brother, here— loud thing ain’t he? I am War the Horseman of the West and I’m here to start a war, simple as that, amen.”
Lilith handed him the cross and without hesitation, the Red horseman slaughtered his brother.
The Amish preacher watched as the man bled out until a particular weeping caught his attention. “Come now, let us reveal ourselves…”
From the crowd waddled a seven-foot tall man. He weighed just shy of six-hundred pounds and carried a crying six-year-old in his arms. The overweight man was bald and sweat profusely. He too sobbed with an emotion somewhere between regret and fulfillment.
“Why are you crying?” The Amish man asked.
“This is my little sister…” the heavyset man blubbered. The small girl grabbed at his neck and stuck her face into his pasty flesh in pure freight.
It took him a moment. “I want to eat her,” he woefully admitted.
“Go right ahead,” the preacher smiled.
“No!” She shouted, “I want to go home!”
“A quart of wheat for a day’s wages, and three quarts of barley for a day’s wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine! I am the Black Horseman of the East,” he sobbed. “And I… I’m so hungry! I’m sorry little sister, I can’t help it, you look delicious…”
When the Black Horseman started to bite off his sister’s fingers the crowd cried in horror but the preacher cooed with satisfaction. “Embrace who you are…”
“I brought one too,” a stylish blonde man walked out of the crowd and rolled an infant on the consecrated ground like a bowling ball. “Damn, thought I would be the only one smart enough to bring a kid.”
He cleared a wheeze in his throat and ornately lit a cigarette. This man was an albino and was more dapper than anyone in the room. “I am the Yellow Horseman of the South. I brought a baby because I figured the whole circle of life thing…” He took a deep inhale of his cigarette and released a confident huff of smoke, “What most people don’t realize is that no one is owed life. Not even this child… So there you go… poetry.”
The polished albino stomped on the child below his feet. The infant’s scream was like a piglet’s and the entire room shuddered helplessly as the gooey display of fresh organs.
“The positions you have just taken should not be engaged frivolously…” All remaining humans in the room suddenly dropped dead and finally, everything was silent. The Amish man rose his hands in victory, “I am your Hallowed One!” He introduced himself. “This vow extends your physical existence and destruction. Your jobs must be completed…There will always be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. As they shall be ensured by my blessings and the celestial exalt of my touch.”
A stir of whispers swept into the room. An invisible chorus celebrated. In the order of which they presented, the Horsemen exited the room in a clap of thunder.
“Come!” they yelled in unison as they departed.