Antediluvian Memories

The night was dark, the sky violet at the center point, the fourth chakra, the steadily-beating heart of the Arsenal of Democracy, where he struggles into life in the shadow of the Penis of the Plains.

At the center of everything.

This was the year before the beginning of the Slow Apocalypse, when the lease on the Redemption was up, when Jesus was called away from his desk due to a previous engagment, when the Fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil swelled diabolically and its shadow filled the entire earth and sea and sky, and the fuse on the pomegranate was lit and is burning still.

Then the action shifts to Vulcan's Smelter, where the Sacred Forge belches perpetual smoke and flame, and the shiny sheets and high-tensile tubes of Moloch's Divine Infernal Machine roll endlessly from the apertures of the Dark grimy Satanic Mills.

And in the shadow of the Forge, on a tree-lined street paved with red bricks, under a moistdripping sooty sky full of thunder, the genesis of thought and memory and awareness and words made with letters that are black marks on white pages, sometimes with pictures.

Only to return years later to find the Forge cold and silent, the Divine Infernal Machine now a rusted and shattered ruin, the degenerate hangers-on of this particular street depraved diseased lunatics, and of the old house, where the brain first engaged in a manner sufficiently cogent to generate memory, nothing but a hole.