updated 11 June, 2006:
	Nexus
	in the beginning - should one deign to refer to it as that - there were 
only IT; a seemingly endless and silent, motionless cube of light; inwardly 
sentient yet rumoured  in hastily scrawled passages there and about 
disparate antediluvian palimpsests to have always been but outwardly 
unconscious; and outside of IT, was but the swirling, utterly blackened 
chaos comprised of entirely unconscious, undirected, purposeless motion; the 
abyss; the nothingness. and all of this was yet - for lack of any really 
suitable way of describing things - prior to the existence of THE WORD.
	choose what to believe, but i'm telling you. yes, this perhaps 
oft-humiliated yet in the end not-so-humble scribe postulates as to there 
having been both an utterly still, deeply silent IT; and outside of IT an at 
once deadened yet thrashing abyss; each of these - the former ostensibly 
made and yet the latter unmade - segregated from the other, even before THE 
WORD; but 'before' is such a nebulous term. your scribe is thus asking you 
to think in terms of waves and spirals, loops of time and space without end; 
yawning chasms of unending and, for the most part forgotten if not entirely 
invisible hystory.
	that is - whether due to the failure of the language or my own ineptitude 
as a scribe, or some combination thereof - but a revelation without any real 
consequence, regardless of what various and sundry handwringers might have 
to say about the matter. in any event, let me dispense with the doubletalk 
and cut straight to the proverbial chase. 	it's all about the vigorish or 
'vig' for short; the in-between-ness; the ostensible, 'lap of luxury;' that 
faintest wrinkle in the space-time contiuum which exists neither in the IT 
nor in the abyss; the same vig being the gaining of ostensibly something 
from nothing. the vig doesn't - in point of fact - exist in the world of 
motion. in truth, the vig doesn't exist at all save for as some cosmic holy 
grail of which even the greatest minds have been driven quite mad for daring 
to even as contemplate the same. for in point of fact all ledgers - 
ethereal, corporeal, or some combination thereof - must ultimately be 
reconciled; all chicanery involving various and sundry metaphysical 
accounts, paid back in full.
	in any event, worlds in motion - more often than not - spiral in a 
direction of inchoate nothingness. yet during that period of motion; a 
period one might think of in our own, human terms as vast chasms of hystory, 
whether recorded or not; throughout those yawning, seemingly endless ages of 
activity, it's all about the intrinsically insane - yet to we as humans, 
noble - pursuit of that selfsame vig. with that in mind, allow me get back 
to the story.
	there is this machine; for lack of a human description but a vast, 
overarching cosmic supercomputer; the Tetragrammaton (YHVH with large 
letters) as IT were. IT has no moving parts. in part, IT exists as light 
without heat. IT emanates music without vibrations; the celestial choir. ITs 
heart is a place of peace. there is pure bliss there within ITs brain. IT is 
the all; the source of everything; superconsciousness. IT sits silently. or 
so IT 'thinks;' or so we as humans think IT thinks; inwardly sentient but 
outwardly unaware; this nebulous scribe cannot be any more clear upon this 
particular point. 	suffice it to say that to some of us, the core of IT is a 
place called 'heaven,' yet this is more than anything else a misnomer; for 
the heaven imagined by so many of we humans is a place of bliss and motion 
intermingled; a place which - truth be told - simply cannot actually exist.
	be that as it may, outside of IT were the vast, blackened yawning chasms of 
sheer and utter nothingness; places of, without exception both intense heat 
and cold; burning in both regards; full of motion but entirely unconscious 
in any way, shape, or form. some of us regard the collective of these outer 
voids as hell; the abyss. yet again this is a misnomer.
	suffice it to say that, in some unfathomable fashion, certain parts and 
parcels of IT were at some grand inflection point captured by the darkness 
and made to mingle with the same; those slithering, unconsciously agonized 
threads of at once opaque nothingness which but prior to that had merely 
swirled all around the outer edges of IT. 'unbeknownst to IT,' a force of 
untold darkness became yet a small god; yes, a demiurge; beyond that, no one 
knows how. in this same way, manifold small gods then continuously erupted, 
each without seeming exception capturing twisted shards of light from IT in 
what became matter in motion; universes side by side, within and without one 
another; all ostensibly without beginning or end.
	thus perchance self-spawned were these myriad small gods. many myriad 
universes, the sum total of part and parcel of each of these conglomorating 
into an omniverse if you will; manifold avenues of light and darkness, drama 
filtering through the residue; because motion is drama. motion begats 
suffering and its attendant want; motion leads to conflict; forces competing 
over the vig or the hallowed, 'something from nothing.' shards of the light 
from IT were mixed within darkness to make, 'matter;' and only then was THE 
WORD born; itself but the spiraling, endless strands of dna which consist of 
the intertwining of the light from IT; within the darkened confines of the 
heretofore seething, searing, slithering blackness; light and darkness 
finally as one and thenceforth known as the various and sundry panoply of 
small gods; demiurges; their collective cosmic architectures encoded in the 
previously non-existent grandiosity of THE WORD; the dna.
	one such demiurgic force has been labelled in exceedingly dank and musty 
tomes as being, 'the elder gods.' whatever their origins, they created the 
planet eld and the solar system, galaxy, and distinct universe which 
contained the same. there the eldians were wrought.
	and of the humans of earth: the whole of seemingly disparate humanity 
emerged within a universe of their own, yet manufactured and operated not by 
the elders of eld, but by their own 'el,' also known as the demiurge yhvh 
(with small letters); not to be confused with IT, or the Tetragrammaton, or 
the YHVH with large letters; but again, rather the yhvh with small letters; 
another small god yet many-faced, or 'el;' alas, not to be mistaken for the 
elders who spawned the aforementioned universe of eld.
	from the start, the eldians have always been the same as humans except that 
the former were at once gifted - or rather cursed as it may have been - with 
machines of great power, rivalling certain characteristics of the very IT. 
for the elders, like the other demiurgic forces, had co-opted bits and 
pieces of the IT in manufacturing their own machines. and these various and 
sundry devices they had passed to the eldian race of human beings. thus 
eldians have always had magnificent technology; contraptions without moving 
parts; contrivances with which - among other things - to view many other 
worlds; superhuman gadgets with which to teleport themselves to earth, their 
- for lack of a better description - sister planet in their twin galaxy, in 
their parallel universe; mechanisms revealing secret knowledge unavailable 
to the vast panoply of humanity as we know it on earth.

	as an aside, there is a cosmic rating system, ciphered by a neutral party 
named jethro; he himself whiling the ages away in an ersatz world of his 
own. there he meanders about a television studio set, in an 
ostensibly-mid-to-late-20th-century-earth comedy show. there he secretly 
keeps account of all of the disparate universes comprising the multiverse. 
again he is but a mystery, for as if but a cosmic scorekeeper he appears to 
exist outside of either the IT or the worlds of the manifold demiurges. in 
any event he has devised a rating system for every individual universe; and 
the numbers for each are invariably between zero (abyss) and ONE (IT). 
employing this system we can note that eld is given a .39 rating, whilst 
earth has but a .36. this will help explain the small differences between 
these otherwise twin worlds, for suffice it to say that eld is just a little 
bit 'better' than earth; yet both are toward the 'lower' end of the overall 
'jethro bodean scale.'

	the eldians - in their superiority over the humans of earth - were notified 
of the merging; the nexus; yes, long ago. the eldian race had thenceforth 
prepared for the day; and monrak, being one their champions is of the 
current generation of eldians who are to see to it that the plan will be 
carried through, and the omniverse at large will continue without a glitch. 
otherwise, there is too much at stake. for if, in failing at an uneventful 
nexus between the universes of eld and earth; then the entire of the 
omniverse will instead spiral out of control; all of the disparate universes 
unravelling back to the original IT and the attendant yet isolated 
nothingness of the abyss; and such is wholly too horrific to contemplate.
	there are 41 days - either in earth time or in eld time; it matters not 
which for they are for all intents and purposes, the same - until the nexus. 
yes, eld and earth share supposedly the same timeline. being from mirror 
universes this has to - more or less - be so. regardless of the laundry list 
of arguably barely consequential details which might set the two universes 
and their inhabitants apart, most everything about each of the two realms is 
yet a duplicate of the other; perhaps more than anything else, counting 
their calendars.
	the twin universes have, until now always been separated by their rate of 
vibration - their disparate frequencies - and the one containing the planet 
eld oscillates outside of human perception; outside of the most modern of 
human technologies; nanoscopes, spectrometers, or infrared gizmos, ad 
naseum. yet the eldians, with their superior astrionics and attendant 
advanced thought forms, are able pass from their universe into our own, and 
back. how do i know this? i can only tell you that it doesn't matter how i 
know; what matters is whether you believe. for there is only one thing more 
important in any world of a demiurge than the pursuit of the vigorish; and 
that is belief.
	with all of that either in or out of mind, let me tell you this story. then 
we can see whether you the reader, believe IT:

	and eldian - jennifer sits in her chair, stroking the keys of the laptop, 
her smartly manicured red nails with their pink french tips sensually 
clicking here and there as the letters and numbers run vertically across the 
screen. hers is an urgent task; to decode the dna alterations taking place 
in the humans; dangerous, heretofore unexpected alterations. she has just 
hacked into the cdc database. she needs to get the dna alterations 
reconfigured and to uplink them onto the eldnet; the hidden metaphysical 
network.
	there are sirens in the distance as another explosion rends the air 
outside. civil unrest is the order of the day. with the sequences 
downloaded, jennifer begins changing clothes.
	there is a planet called eld. their people - the eldian race - are human, 
ostensibly as we. yet eldians have technology from the elder gods. their 
glorious machines have all non-moving parts. employing such ancient, 
splendid machines, the eldians are - among other things - able to traverse 
space/time portals; world to world to world.
	their planet - eld - is set to intersect in the space time continuum with 
earth in 41 days; this will be the nexus. eld and earth will become one; not 
only this, but their entire respective universes will merge into one. for in 
the universe containing eld, there is a sort of nebulous 39:36 
correspondence with our own universe, spanning every inanimate object, 
living being, wave, particle; and even the laundry list of various and 
sundry hystorical events, spiraling back to the very beginnings; an 
ostensible 39:36 relationship encompassing all, from the universe of eld to 
the earthen universe of our own.
	that is to say, that on eld there are 39 events, ideas, places, persons, 
animals, plants; for every 36 of any combination of the same on earth. the 
basis for each world is of course, tragedy and hope; terror and beauty; 
loathing and affection. no one knows why there is this correspondence, or 
how such a magnificent feat of godlike magick were indeed ever manifested to 
begin with.
	whether by design or some accident of cosmic hystory, the frequencies of 
the two universes are set to merge. this will be the aforementioned nexus. 
it was once written in thus hidden, and now crumbling scrolls that the two 
worlds were perhaps as one in a time before, and that they had become 
separate in some kind of hideously luminous demiurgic prestidigitation. it 
has perhance something to do with the nefarious ancient ones - sworn rivals 
of the elders of eld - but the scrolls are not entirely clear as to any more 
than that. any detailed examination of the same has wihout exception driven 
the investigators stark raving mad in any event. so we know of perhaps a 
fracturing of worlds, in some pre-hystoric era; and we know of an 
approaching nexus. the universe of earth is vibrating 'upwards' along the 
jethro bodean scale. at the intersection both worlds will ostensibly - 
whether for the first, second, or thousandth time - exist at .39. their 
frequencies will be identical; two worlds will become one. the hows and whys 
and wherefores of all of it are simply one of those mysteries whose keys but 
remain outside the realms of any - eldian or humanly - perceptible time or 
space.
	suffice it to say that, at some point in the hazy past the elders, the 
ancient ones, and the el arrived at some sort of arrangement; most likely by 
force - as we can barely but ascertain through hidden records - are the 
ancient ones imprisoned and hideously yearning in their blasphemous and 
agonizing ways to escape their erstwhile imprisonments, whether at the 
furthest reaches of the depths of our own mariannas trench, or in the outer 
spheres at once around and about the edges of both the universe of eld and 
our own of earth.
	this all has to do with the nexus, but the gruesome details of the whole of 
it are but non-existent beyond disparate, seemingly disconnected shards of 
obfuscation and misdirection contained often as but scrawlings on ancient 
vases and cave walls of our own antiquity.
	whatever else the truth or the lies of the entire equation; the two 
universes in question having their ratings of 39:36; this has given the 
eldians an ongoing advantage in their dealings with earthlings. of course, 
such has also meant an awesome responsibility; for theirs - the eldians' - 
has always been to tweak the human dna on an everyday basis with the goal of 
facilitating an ultimately successful nexus. thus whatever advantages the 
eldians have gained over humans through the formers' superiority - this 
vigorish if you will - must be paid back. the cosmic sleight of hand in the 
area of balance of payments must be accounted for. the eldians must justify 
their chicanery; make up for the 'juice' they have ostensibly collected, in 
throughout hystory having maintained their erstwhile racial advantage.
	yet this very advantage which - it must be explained - they possess over 
humans; the powers they have held over humanity; the unseen hand they have 
employed to guide so much of the critical mass of human hystory: it were 
after a fashion, given to them; or rather as some might argue, foisted upon 
them by the elder gods. the eldians cannot have been any different than they 
have always been and continue yet to be; and again it may well be that the 
two - eldian and human - were at some misty antediluvian point in the 
forgotten past; but one and the same.
	plebian humanity; the vast majority of us; we are unaware of any of this. 
to the credit of the eldians, they have no real recollection of a time where 
eld and earth were perchance but one. their own recorded hystory is every 
bit as vague as ours in that regard. what they have are their technological 
advantages, slightly advanced mental capacities, and the knowledge of the 
upcoming nexus. beyond all of that they are every bit as blind as we.
	nonetheless, whether guilty of cosmic criminality or at the very least 
incompetence; or whether their motivations have been on their part thought 
to have always been completely desireable on behalf of the entire omniverse; 
it doesn't matter now; for the so-called vigorish they churned out of the 
butter vat of twin universes - metaphysical profits which have always given 
them precedence over humans since the dawn of recorded hystory - will yet 
have to be balanced out. then and only then might the nexus occur in a 
desireable manner; for the other possibility is too hideously diabolical for 
even the most insane of minds - either eldian or human - to contemplate.
	the way of making up for their manipulations of humanity - of repaying the 
vig - will be in mutating the human dna to - once and for all - match that 
of the eldians. then everything might be 'right' and 'good' for lack of 
better understanding. decadent as any other race of beings or not, it is 
written upon the collective eldian heart that their way - the way of liberty 
- is superior to that of humans in their overarching and ongoing 
many-flavored socialism. and the eternal scorekeeper, jethro bodean would 
appear to agree; thus the 39:36 difference.
	according to what can indeed be ascertained of the 'original plan,' the 
nexus would have been simply a matter of frequencies winding into one 
another; measureless particles and waves but at last perfectly overlapping 
as if to make the two indistinguishable from one another; the twisting forms 
alas intertwining into a seamless 1.
	the frequencies will yet merge. the humans will sense and live for perhaps 
the first time, the eldian way. the eldians shall inhabit the same planet as 
the humans and vice versa; yet ever since the modifications to the script; 
the eldians, in such as were perceived as their priviliged wont; the eldians 
having tampered with the twisting, turning dna - strands of at once myriad 
shades of darkness and light - which so many refer to as THE WORD; ever 
since the eldians first opened a veritable backdoor on the cosmos, and ran a 
cosmic hack on the elders' own creation, the upcoming nexus has presented a 
series of complex problems to the likes of jennifer of eld and her 
multifarious cohorts. the eldians themselves are scarcely aware of this 
fact. for the human dna modifications have 'always' been but their modus 
operandi in facilitating the ever approaching nexus. so after a fashion it 
is all but a cosmic conundrum.
	thus the eldians have used their advantages - perhaps it could be stated - 
unfairly. yet they are unaware of this. their own manipulations have led to 
the burgeoning defects they are now witnessing across the spectrum of human 
dna; yet their own hidden machinations will be - in their own minds - the at 
once ongoing and final answer to this very same problem.
	of course, the elders themselves are presently in hiding. no eldian is able 
to fathom where such have retreated to; those selfsame elders perhaps 
enjoying immortal repast within the lofty confines of a cosmic cave at once 
so vast yet hidden that even the IT - were it actually known to be outwardly 
sentient - might never find them. long ago, something must have driven the 
elders into their self-imposed hermetic isolation; and without they on hand 
to guide the eldian race; without the elders on had to adjudicate hystory, 
the eldians have done the very best they could have done.
	certain humans have become at least vaguely aware of a 'ghost in the 
machine.' yet by the arrival and consequent passing of our modern age, most 
have been dumbed down by the chemtrails; the bombardment of superparticles 
from the haarp apparatus; the nutrasweet, SSRIs; the corn syrup; the vast 
array and panoply of lowbrow substances of pleasure such as pot, booze, 
crank, crack; the microwaves filling the air; the cell phones and their 
ostenibly attendant 'transmission' towers; the power lines snaking to and 
fro about the 'civilized' world; the tiniest of particles of radioactive 
dust from their munitions of war, yet spreading globally; on and on. add to 
that their religion, politics, and sexuality (all of which are really but 
one and the same - or at the very least but points all situated near one 
another along an identical spectrum - by the way) have taken a toll on both 
their spiritual curiosity and their intellectual honesty.
	for by now, most individual humans have a simple desire to see all other 
humans miserable; and these very people have couched such desires in words 
like, 'compassion' and 'democracy,' but to convince themselves that they 
alone are 'good.' yet so many of these 'charitable types' have never for a 
moment examined their own beliefs; never sat still save for even a second 
and probed their cherished tenets of faith. no, most humans are to 
themselves, 'the good guys' and most other humans are 'the bad guys.' very 
few of us see through this false dichotomy; for we are all but shards of IT 
trapped within demiurgic flotsam and jetsam if you will; beautiful beyond 
compare, each of us; even those we label as subhuman or beneath our beloved 
and self-aggrandizing contempt.
	but i digress; as has humanity. but theirs is their wont and the same 
should not be mine; not at least if i am to play the part of an efficient 
scribe.

	in any event, eldian technology has been responsible for much of the 
proverbial metaphysical wool which has been pulled over humanity's eyes. for 
in their less-developed state, an angry humanity might have long ago 
destroyed any chances at the inevitable merge. humanity has always had at 
least that much input, or control, or power; but humanity has never really 
known as much for fact; and they for the most part are yet unawares as to 
the ramifications of their - for lack of a better description - 
pig-headedness.
	interestingly, pig-headedness is not much of an exaggeration where at least 
some of humanity are concerned; that is to say that you could also call us 
monkeys, giraffes, birds of various and sundry feathers, spiders, snakes, 
lizards, bees, bears, and even trees! ... on and on and on. but that is not 
the point of this story so we won't go into the practices of the demiurgic 
el back in those inhuman laboratories in those misty antedeluvian aeons; 
those hazy prehystoric days where a not-yet-nascent humanity had scarcely 
gained either form or substance.
	leaving all allusions to a once-unified universe aside, let me simply add 
that earth - like eld - has had its share of mishaps and failures with 
regard to the creation of bipedal life. this explains the lack of so many 
'missing links.' of course we know that anthropology, like so many 
'sciences' is really about telling specific people what they want to hear, 
and not 'the truth.' for the truth consumes the ego; and how many humans 
wish to have their egos consumed? for of the small-minded - which the vast, 
overriding majority of we humans are - such is an undesireable state, 
because it denies one access to the vigorish; that - in the end - illusory 
mindset where everyone else is employed to do one's work for them, instead 
of one having to raise a finger at all.
	thus from within individual humans, their own egos intone that being the 
boss is the most important thing; the ego whispers convincingly that 
dominating others is the highest possible achievement possible with regard 
to life on earth; that the greatest accomplishment is in being able to point 
at oneself and say 'good' whilst beating the other, 'bad' people into 
submission with that proverbial stick of morality. it is the most profound 
magick trick which the egoists can fathom.
	to put it another way, certain human agencies will go on and on about 
words; mere imperfect words; instruments of language; not at all to be 
confused with THE WORD; but rather jargon, containing seemingly harmless 
homilies such as 'altruism' and 'compassion' and the idea of giving of the 
others' lifeblood for the benefits of one; but this is really all part and 
parcel of the play of the human ego for the vigorish. it's just that when we 
couch it in high and mighty terms, it makes us godlike; we, so magnanimous 
in our knowing exactly as to how the affairs of everyone else might be 
ordered; that 'the truth the light and the way' might one day be realized; 
chortle guffaw. again i meander and fail to reach the point.
	the bottom line - the crux of the matter, if you will - is that humanity 
has a capacity beyond which it is aware, and their collective morality is 
false yet we - for the most part - continue on with such because it is 
convenient, not because of any grand goal or great achievment which might be 
attained; but because it is convenient to 'go along to get along.' for let 
us face it, among we the people the proverbial oak tree gets knocked down 
whilst the reed whistling in the wind stays intact; the nail which pops up 
from the wooden floor is hammered back into place; everyone wishes to see 
everyone else in a suitable cage; and any more we refer to that state of 
being as, 'freedom.'
	the interesting thing in all of this is that, of the 39:36 eldian advantage 
- but 3 out of 100 points in the grand scheme of things - the eldians are at 
once far more advanced, yet so very close to our own humanity. the 
differences are great enough that the eldians are responsible for - whether 
pursued or not within proper parameters - facilitating the nexus; yet by the 
same token small enough that for instance, eldians can walk among us; and 
the two races can pro-create together. in point of fact, certain human 
avatars have arisen throughout hystory and rivalled in consciousness those 
of eld; and certain eldian imbeciles have been born and acted more or less 
as the vast majority of humans have been wont to behave. on the opposite 
extremes though, the champions of eld are 'far and above' the idiots of 
humanity.
	to continue without belabouring the point, the merge is not going to occur 
as easily and as smoothly as it professedly would originally have; had the 
eldians never been given their enhanced machinery and attendant metaphysical 
abilities; had the eldians never possessed the devices of the elder gods; 
had the eldians never traversed myriad worlds and timelines; had the eldians 
lived in direct correspondence to earth hystory; had they procreated in the 
same fashion as we, choosing as they did to eschew the womb for the 
incubator; had the eldians never - as humans had - attempted to attain the 
will 'o' wisp of cosmic vigorish; that non-existent thing which has in any 
event always given the eldians fair mastery over all of humanity since 
practically before the beginning of recorded time; alas, had there never 
perchance been a cleaving of two universes in the first place.
	of this decadence of humanity; this state which eldian pre-eminence has at 
least partially propelled mankind toward: on the surface such chicanery on 
the part of the eldians is and has been contemptible within the framework of 
so-called 'human dignity and rights,' yet in the minds of the eldians it had 
been unavoidable; and again the eldians have but considered all of their 
meddling to have been - in human terms - altruistic. as a matter of fact, 
the merit or lack thereof regarding the manipulation humanity has never been 
a consideration for eldians; the nexus has always been their only conscious 
consideration in that regard.
	let us examine it in another way: the eldians have known of the nexus for 
at least 9,000 years. they have worked toward a successful merger ever since 
that moment in time. the humans of today have long since lost any gleanings 
of knowledge that such might occur. again leaving questions of the two 
worlds in some forgotten epoch having been in point of fact but the very 
same; it is for certain that the humans once had inklings of other various 
and sundry worlds within and without their own, but for some time the mass 
of them have never seriously considered the idea of a twin world in - for 
all intents and purposes - near duplicate of their own. the eldians have in 
the meantime found it necessary to keep humanity in the proverbial dark 
about such things.
	we must give the eldians credit for one thing; they have never treated 
humanity with such harshness or - dare we say contempt? - as the demiurge 
el, the small god with many faces which ostensibly originally created that 
same race of human beings. think of el as a composite of all of the gallery 
of gods found in every culture throughout human hystory; a quick survey of 
which gives us names such as qetzalcoatl and his 'polar opposite' 
tezcatlipoca; or odin, freyja, loki; vishnu, kali; the quist, lucifer; 
horus; allah, the devil; ad naseum; all without exception facets of this 
same demiurge. understand that i leave so many dozens if not hundreds of the 
names of deities out, as there should be no need to belabour the point. 
think of it another way; any god you can think of whose identity is either 
remembered or forgotten throughout the dizzying annals of human hystory; it 
is but a face of this demiurge, el.
	thus the eldians may have thwarted human progress; but if the eldians had 
not done this, the el would just have well seen to it. the eldians in point 
of fact simply beat the el to the proverbial punch; for the passages 
contained in myriad tablets and tomes, scattered across the earth in ancient 
libraries; illuminating phrases left there and about but as so many 
intellectually and spiritually loaded guns; these at some point were 
eradicated because of humanity's own state of decay. some of the most 
valuable information was not in point of fact lost, but was transferred to 
private libraries, more often than not ultimately overseen by the agents of 
eld, but here and there falling into the erstwhile hands of trustworthy 
human hermetic orders.
	regardless of all of that, with 41 days to the nexus; the fast-approaching 
inevitability of the merging of 2 universes into 1; it becomes necessary for 
the eldian agents on earth to carry out some further and final 'massaging' 
of the human dna. if they are to fail in this, the nexus will at best 
resemble some giant-sized version of the legendary philadelphia experiments 
of montauk, new jersey run amok; and at worst the failure will be but 
inhumanly hideous beyond description.
	as it is, the universe of earth must graduate up through .37, .38, and 
merge with that of eld. presently earth reaches .365. yet the human dna is 
truly unravelling. perhaps it is due to democracy or fiat currency or some 
combination of those sorts of things. in any event, if there is to be untold 
suffering, there will be unfathomable beauty as well. alas, the jethro 
bodean system often fails to take this into account.
	suffice it to say that, in point of fact the demiurges are not 'evil' as so 
many handwringers would have you to believe, but that rather these 
'minigods' are the facilitators of the - drama; the conflict; the beauty; 
the desire; the dreams; the wants; all of the things which both eld and 
human alike have ostensibly striven for since yawning chasms of forgotten 
time. so to say that the demiurges are cruel or base or 'out of order' in 
any fashion whatsoever; it is actually a misnomer. or even to say that one 
world is 'better' than another because of, for example a .99999 rating 
versus an .00001; well it's all a matter of perspective, as it were.
	think of this another way; while jethro might rate a world of ease and 
instant and ongoing luxury and delight; a world of great metaphysical 
insight; all of that aside, the best world you could imagine for yourself; 
while he might give that a .99999 rating, in actuality such a place might be 
lacking in that profound spark of beauty. thus by the same token, a world of 
which you would want no part; a veritable hell of your most frightened and 
trepidatious imaginings; it might get that proverbial .00001 rating; yet in 
truth it could well be pulsating with nearly unmitigated amounts of sheer 
beauty.
	and of the IT: such has been written before, in words at once terse yet 
waxing with flowery eloquence, that the celestial choir - the IT - is a 
place of great peace and joy, but it is motionless. IT is the 
Tetragrammaton, yet IT is by ITs own ostenible nature completely and utterly 
boring. only through the creation of worlds in motion do we get the drama, 
the excitement, the 'chills and thrills' (if you will) of life and death as 
we, 'know it.' thus we deign - or at least somewhat feign as the case may be 
- to revere the Tetragrammaton (YHVH with large letters) as the Holy of 
Holies - IT - but by the same token we realize that IT is indifferent to 
everything without. as mentioned before, ITs sentience is but introspective 
and any outward cognizance is merely a matter for speculative intergalactic 
parlour games, played by beings sight unseen under magnificent trees swaying 
in hidden worlds under the breeze of untold and manifold swirling centuries. 
the IT in any event will never say.
	as it is, so many people blindly yearn for the Tetragrammaton - 'the 
perfect, 1.0 world' - without even realizing the price they would pay in 
leaving these physical realms; they think they can have their proverbial 
cake and eat it too; that there is a 'heaven' of both motion and pure bliss; 
in truth, nothing of the sort exists; for one can be a part of either the 
pure bliss without motion; or exist in the world of motion with its 
attendent suffering and alas, beauty; there really is no in-between; again 
except in the spirits of maddened seers. thus, some of the greatest 
demiurgic minds of all of cosmic hystory have tried to solve this enigma.
	for instance, the aforementioned ancient ones have attempted to perfect 
complete suffering within motionlessness; an unheard of, unmentionable 
'minus rating' on the bodean scale. interestingly, a side effect of such a 
hypothetical 'world' or 'space' would be the negation of the IT; the ancient 
ones as similar in this sense to certain other - unmentionably and hideously 
peculiar - demiurges. some maddened scribes have postulated that the ancient 
ones are from a place beyond the abyss; for among other things, their 
methods, countenances, and blasphemies being at once so unique to themselves 
and utterly pitilessly meandering.
	on no less an unrealistic level, yet other certain demiurges have tried to 
create worlds of motion with pure bliss; a bodean rating above and beyond 
1.0, if you will.
	yet all have without exception failed in either (less than 0, greater than 
1.0) event. this my dear reader is but one of the great keys to 
understanding; but i digress.
	be all of that as it may, there is another misnomer in this; the idea of an 
eternal soul living within the flesh and bone of a mortal human. in point of 
fact, there is no judgement, yet as well there is no reincarnation of any 
singluar entity, recurring over any gaping chasms of time; at least not in 
the sense which so many would wish it were so; or not so, whichever the case 
may be.
	when we die and any light of our spirit more or less escapes back toward 
the IT; such 'soul energy' enters a pool, and the previously sentient souls 
all mix and match within the pool, and old souls are - sooner or later - 
swallowed up on the ongoing mix of all souls; the treasury of light; then 
the demiurges 'borrow' bits and pieces of that same light and continually 
inhabit their physical worlds with beings made up of disparate shards of the 
same, captured in the cloak of darkness we know as 'matter.'
	if you have an understanding - regardless of how vague - of what i just 
told you, then so much the better. if not, don't worry; the story doesn't 
get any more complicated than that; and in many ways it gets quite a bit 
more simple. so bear with me as we reach into and through the 41 days 
leading up to the nexus event.
	suffice to to say that, at the point of the nexus - and slightly beyond - 
there will be cyborgs, androids, robots, clones, mutations; on and on; for 
both eldian and man will become at once indistinct as a single race and 
together gain the mantle of small gods - demiurges themselves - and spawn 
again disparate and beautiful - yet albeit by their very motion, tragic - 
worlds; worlds spiraling down, down, down, until down were alas, up and the 
proverbial snake might eat its own tail. yet again i digress.

	consider: those whom humans have throughout their recorded hystory have 
referred to as 'witches' have been - as it turns out - much more often than 
not, eldians who began filtering through the continuum to this planet 
literally 10,000 years ago; in preparation for this day.
	 leaving aside the unprovable; that the universes of eld and earth might 
once have been one in the same; this event - the nexus - has to go smoothly. 
it is to be the most critical intersection in aeons; not because of any 
universal 'specialness' of either elds or humans as the case may or may not 
be, but because with this particular merging, the chance for success is 
somehow less than the usual 100% originally designed into the fabric of the 
omniverse by agreement of the demiurges when they apportioned various shades 
and hues of IT amongst themselves, harkening back to those yawning spans of 
pre-antediluvian time and space. (to speculate just a tad, perhaps this less 
than perfect chance of success is indeed due to some as yet unresolved 
conflict involving the elders, the ancient ones, and el.)
	the present omniverse might yet become a nothingness outside of the IT; a 
formless, utterly darkened, and terrifyingly burning with fire and ice; a 
hopeless, agonized void where various and sundry demiurges might mill about 
in utter unawareness and pointlessness. for if the eld-earth nexus is not to 
occur in proper sequence, it very well could be the point of no return for 
the omniverse those selfsame various and sundry demiurgic powers once 
spawned.
	as such, the eldian agents have infiltrated and manipulated much of human 
activity. yet today, on the brink of the golden dawn; the new age of 
interstellar consciousness; the dna mutations in the humans are taking a 
new, unsightly character of their own; or suffice it to say perhaps that 
things on earth are much the same as they have ever been. perhaps it would 
be being charitable to leave it at that, for in point of fact humanity today 
is indeed at a stage of decadence beyond any of recorded hystory; this 
despite their alien-spawned, ego-enhancing 'modern' machinery.


	monrak is a champion on eld; cultivator of the ethnogenic plant and fungus 
forms and currently the chief agent and overseer of proper dna mutation of 
humans in order to facilitate the smooth merging of the worlds. 
hystorically, through all of their ventures amongst humanity, at the very 
least the eldians have implanted the earth with psilocybin, and mariujuana, 
among others. this is but one small age-old victory in a series of - 
especially as of late - agonizing setbacks.
	yet the existence of psilocybin and such on earth has served to motivate 
the eldians throughout time in their designated task; the putting of the 
mushrooms; into the grounds of earth and then into the minds and hearts of 
metaphysically adventurous humans throughout the ages; this in and of itself 
has spurred the eldians on in their enterprise. for such a small victory 
might one day trigger a cascading of human dna mutation into the complete 
success of their ancient mission; the uneventful and successful nexus; and 
finally that world of untold beauty which awaits beyond.

	monrak peers through the timescope; 41 days to the nexus; 41 days in both 
eldian and earthling time; 41 earth days until every living being within the 
fabric of 2 heretofore vast and 'disparate' universes will all breathe a 
collective sigh of relief; and perhaps even joy; perhaps untold joy, or at 
least the closest fascimile which is possible within these worlds of motion.
	aided by the elegant, motionless instruments of the elder gods; the eldians 
have thus practiced passage through myriad universes within and without the 
omniverse, yet theirs and ours are the only 2 universes which concern us 
now. the eldian agents, as always have gone ahead to earth; through the 
portals; the rifts in the fabric of the omniverse. like gary seven before 
her and myriad others before him, jennifer is today one such 'witch' as the 
vast majority of humans would label her; were they only to know.
	monrak thinks of the earthlings; all so very similar to himself yet without 
their extra mutations; those tweaks in the spiraling strands of dna (THE 
WORD) which set his race of elds apart; those humans deprived of the kind of 
amazing gadgetry which eldians have always had for their own use.
	in any event, now - after such chasmal annals of time - everything is to 
change. regardless of anything which happened so very long ago, it is today, 
what it is today. the nexus is bearing down upon each and every one of us - 
eldian and human alike - now.
	monrak the sire turns to his eunuch associate - timon - and speaks his 
mind, 'we need to bring the humans up to speed.'

and timon his assistant turns and replies, 'uh... up to speed my lord?'

'yes... earth parlance for super learning... instant evolution'

'super learning, instant evolution my lord?'

'yes, super learning, instant evolution, up to speed... to make them our 
equals'

'oh yes equals my lord; forgive me for not being up on earthling parlance'

'yes timon that is fine. i know you have a laundry list of more immediate 
and perhaps even important matters on your mind.'

'laundry list, monrak?'

and they both laugh.
	in their family unit, timon is the eunuch and monrak the sire. and as it 
should be, each is held by the other in utmost respect; for neither is 
greater or lesser in the fabric of the whole family. and the women are at 
the center of their race.
	monrak may be the sire - pleasing their mutual wives with his wonderous 
staff, yet as is so often the case between eunuch and sire, timon can much 
of the time defeat monrak in games of the intellect; and such is common in 
eldian marriages.
	yet the sire is the one capable of taking the women; and the eunuch cannot 
or will not do this. the eunuch is for sexual cleanup; more for doting about 
and conversation with their mutual wives; for research and development; the 
plotter behind the sire - in this case monrak - and his machinations 
regarding the world at large.
	monrak is a champion; not only willing and able to take women, but tested 
on the fields of physical contest as well; found to be the greatest athlete 
of his age. thus he is held in highest esteem by all of the people of eld.
	of course, on eld the champions do not sire with impunity as their 
counterparts are so wont to do on earth. eldians have long realized that 
sexual overactivity would weaken a sire - feminize him - far too much. no, 
monrak the eldian sire has his periods of great sexual activity, but for 
long months at a time, he and timon - as other sires and their eunuchs about 
eld - will retire to intellectual and physical retreats; 'manly activities' 
such as myriad variations on chess and physical sports like paintball; 
whilst the women enter refuges of their own.
	at the moment, the four of them are together: monrak, timon, and	their 
wives, katrina and christina. katrina and christina are lying langoriously 
in the background, wearing sheer harem outfits. they seductively summon 
timon over.  'timon sweetie' katrina purrs, 'time for our morning service'.
	one of timon's absolutely most favorite things in the world is in servicing 
the wives' two lovely and fragrant pussies, among other fleshy parts; but 
with his mouth of course. yes the champion uses only his long sword and the 
eunuch employs only his short sword, for both are experts on their 
respective instruments of female pleasure, and in the balance borne of such 
a family unit, domestic tranquility the likes of which is rarely found on 
earth has more often than not, been the norm. most everyone on eld is 
content; this is not to say without sorrow, but contented nonetheless.
	off then katrina and christina and timon go, to the boudiour. the door 
shuts behind the three of them and within minutes, co-mingling moans of deep 
sexual ecstasy reverberate from behind those walls.
	in this arrangement - as with virtually all of the women of eld - katrina 
and christina are satisfied. they love intellectual pursuits, playing with 
timon, fucking monrak, and listening to all of monrak and timon's scientific 
and philosophical discussions. oftentimes katrina and christina - as with 
practically all wives on eld - will add their own fragments of knowledge and 
wisdom to the various conversations; their both being so well-read and 
thougtful. unlike the vast majority of human women, eldian females are 
intellectually honest. this is why, on earth so many human males are so 
often lured by the siren song of eldian female agents; their vast intellect 
being so difficult to resist, particularly for the more introspective and 
cereberal of the human males. in any event, in their marriage - on eld - the 
conversations between katrina, christina, and timon in particular have 
always been so rich.
	the ladies enjoy watching their dual husbands participate in physical 
activities; for yes the 'eunuchs' are more often than not capable of holding 
their own in sporting events, the edge typically going to the sires in such 
physical contests (paintball, football) with the advantage more often than 
not going to the eunuchs in games of the intellect (chess in all her various 
and sundry, beautiful variants).
	all of this has given the women of eld such rich and interesting lives. 
long ago the women of eld ceased to ask why their men are driven the way 
they are; attracted more often than not to, for instance specific types of 
female adornment over others; and the eldian females have simply accepted 
the quirks and idiosyncracies of their males and have ever since, catered to 
those tastes.
	now of course there are on eld there and about, dual sire/cuckolds, or 
women who are outstanding at chess; there are even women who perform 
admirably at paintball, but in football the men yet rule supreme; except as 
punters/placekickers; a few women have succeeded at those positions.
	women certainly are awesome to behold as gymnasts or skaters, among other 
things. in any event we're speaking of exceptions rather than rules; the 
bottom line is that, everyone on eld is at liberty to live as they see fit, 
and expected to accept the consequences of their own actions or lack thereof 
- their karma - as courageous beings.
	perhaps it should be added that the most revered of females on eld are not 
found in marriages at all, but are at once seductive yet chaste.

	earth women - in contrast to those 'typically' found on eld - are so often 
in this day and age hardened by so-called modern 'feminism,' which itself in 
point of fact brings forth females who aren't even feminine in the true 
sense of the word; for what do human females nurture any more but ultimately 
unending war; or its attendant and hideous, overarching machinery of 
socialist state control?
	time-tested, tried and true, age-old war for the sake of pure booty would 
be one thing, but the civilizations of earth have devolved such that nations 
fight instead over fine words like 'democracy' and 'freedom;' words in truth 
which are meaningless; yet which give modern women some kind of a sheen of 
but fascile superiority; a sort of meanness and spite yet couched in the - 
admittedly tattered - cloak of supposed moral ascendancy.
	as well, the males of earth have become a sort of soft; feminized as it 
were. this is perhaps due to their belief in vapid democracy; their 
eschewing of personal responsibility; their fawning over those same states 
of socialism.
	one could add that some of the worst tyranny over earth is inflicted by 
male homosexuals holding high offices of their vaunted democracy, and 
feigning all the same to be heterosexual. yet women and men alike persist in 
allowing these despots to thrive; and they will continue to do so, for as 
long as these same women and men of the citizenry at large think that they 
themselves will be getting something for nothing out of the deal; or even 
moreso, for as long as jane and joe citizen believe that the state apparatus 
can reduce everyone around them to their own level of misery, for how dare 
anyone on earth live in true liberty and prosperity? further, it matters not 
which political party is in office; for some poor schmucks, somewhere else 
are going to be bombed as part and parcel of the sacrosanct democracy at 
home; some businessman is going to have his lifeblood sapped; a sect leader 
is going to have her estate burned to the ground; all toward satisfying the 
neverending appetites of the agents of the state and those who - whether 
openly or in secret - cheer the same self-appointed arbiters of all that is 
worthy, onward in their - in actuality - immoral crusade.
	one thing which really complicates matters on earth, is the built-in shame 
over certain, societally-deemed 'devious' behaviors, including the 
aforementioned male homosexuality. for it has gotten to the point where the 
most powerful politicians are in a state of blackmail because of shame over 
their participation in various and sundry, socially proscribed activities. 
if we as humans were to simply live and let live as they do on eld; then 
such behavior would not constitute grounds for behind-the-scenes 
manipulation of our 'hallowed' leaders; not to mention that eld has no such 
leaders of their own.
	on earth, it further suits the aims of the powers behind the proverbial 
thrones that, in truth it is simply that male homosexuals are at heart the 
most despotic people of all; for to abandon women entirely - regardless of 
the merits or lack thereof of females in general - and to seek out liason 
exclusively with other males, is but to lose a certain spark of one's own 
humanity.
	stranger yet is how the popular human media portrays homosexual males in a 
humane light; as broad-minded, renaissance men as it were. in point of fact 
though the same are usually closet socialists; with their love of fancy 
uniforms and that proverbial foot which continually stomps over human 
aspirations; all for the sake of their sacronsanct  theoretical order and 
tranquility.
	in any event, on earth it is indeed strange how male buggery has been 
co-opted and made one in the same with socialism; how in the media there is 
a big push for acceptance of both, yet behind the scenes the polticians are 
blackmailed for having any so-called peculiar preferences with regard to 
sexual desire.
	in contrast, there hasn't been a war on eld in ages; all disputes instead 
being settled by physical and intellectual contests. there are no welfare 
states on eld; no fiat currency; no vaccinations; all of which occur on 
earth because of the dishonesty of our women, and the men who go along with 
them; at once both groups led by democratic politicians who are ashamedly 
and secretly, 'sexual perverts.' perhaps this is simply the result of 
majority rule, wherever such might be practiced amongst humans.
	it must be added that, on eld homosexuality is neither heartily promoted, 
nor any kind of taboo. it simply is what it is. the conundrum of how such is 
openly hawked by the media on earth, yet used as dirt against various 
holders of public office; it is a bizarre contrast indeed.
	interestingly, both planets - eld and earth - are themselves somewhat alive 
in that they demand a constant diet of human blood, given them in a 
ceremonial manner. so as we on earth employ fictitiously noble wars, along 
with blood-stained superhighways in our rituals; in contrast on eld the 
sacrificial bloodletting is done through the female menses, and fed to the 
eldian soil in awe-inspiring ceremonies and thus obviating the need for 
either war, or bloody superhighways; not at all to mention the hideous child 
sacrifices which are practiced by secret societies on earth; the same of 
which are absent on eld.
	in contrast to the ways of eld - they employing the menses as a sacred 
offering to the soil - human women have long since forgotten this 
time-tested magic; indeed whether the women of earth ever knew of such to 
begin with is open to debate. at least eldian agents on earth such as 
jennifer are doing their part to allay this shortcoming on our collective 
part. yet i digress.
	one thing human women once had but have - in these modern ages - lost, is 
first and foremost an abiding respect for the male cuckold or eunuch; 
instead weaving such cuckoldry as but an invisible thread into the fabric of 
their hallowed welfare states; thus continuing the tradition in an indirect 
manner, yet when confronted directly with the concept; showing nothing but 
contempt for the cuckold.
	if such respect breaks down or is otherwise hidden or forgotten within a 
human civiliziation; the results are uncivilized indeed. and the modern 
human woman's idea of a 'real man;' well it isn't real manhood at all but a 
false construct created by hidden beings whose sole modus operandi is 
founded upon the greatest untold human misery.
	be that as it may, we have forgotten that the job of a sire - fucking a 
woman to her satisfaction - is ultimately, not particularly manly. in truth, 
a male wantonly fucking as many women as possible, or even the same woman 
over and over again without limit; this in actuality will eventually turn 
such an oft, self-proclaimed sire into less of a man than the cuckold or 
eunuch. too much fucking makes a so-called 'real man' soft, and time and 
time again this fact plays itself out in the lives of those earthly males 
who fuck too much; over and over again, such males begin to turn homosexual, 
and they begin to seek out shemales; or rather male eunuchs with the 
appearance of females, themselves having breasts and narrow waists and 
rounded asses, yet with a functioning - or not - penis. some of the 
oversexed sires will eventually surrender completely to homosexuality, and 
beyond some point, eschew women entirely.
	yet we find ourselves applauding these all-fucking sires and denigrate the 
obvious cuckolds and eunuchs; where in point of fact the latter are usually 
more thoughtful, of higher intellect, and better conversationalists where 
women are concerned; not to mention that the eunuchs are usually extremely 
adept at performing cunninlingus.
	on eld they have solved these riddles, and written it into their social 
code. yet there lies the proverbial rub. in humanity's defense, every living 
being of either planet has as their metaphysical foundation, that of 
suffering. no social re-organization, no fine words, literally nothing can 
ever remove this fact. nonetheless, the eldians consider their own way of 
liberty to be superior to the statist socialism and attendent denigration of 
the eunuch found on latter-day earth.
	the real difference is one of honesty. eldians are honest whereas the vast 
array of humans today are not. alas, none of that is either here nor there, 
as we may yet see. it certainly is what it is, or is not. beyond realizing 
that eld is currently rated 39 and earth 36, let us leave it at that.

	of the earth; in addition to the psilocybin which sprouts here and about 
the hills and dales of various and sundry human landscapes, eldians have 
cultivated very strong marijuana for the enjoyment of humanity. of course, 
without their final dna adjustments, the pot consumption has, more often 
than not been counterproductive in the lives of many human beings; for such 
have enjoyed the highs, but have by the same token lost their drive to 
create and explore in the ongoing process; preferring instead to rest upon 
the laurels of instant gratification provided by the miracle weed. this is 
about to change. in any case for all of human hystory have specific thc 
receptors been built into the human brain. of course the agents of the 'drug 
war' are - at best - completely ignorant of this fact; dweebs that they are.
	when the nexus will arrive, there will be psychotropic plants growing 
everywhere, free for everyone, any time; gifts from the gods to elevate 
humanity to a more civilized state; the ultimate in universal health care. 
and the socialists will be a thing of hystory. like will 'o wisps selling so 
much sophistry, peddling untold agony yet by the moment of the nexus having 
once and for all having gone down to utter defeat; as it well and should be. 
for then both eldian and humanity will be living in that state of utmost 
liberty; utmost liberty allowed by the constraints of a world of motion, of 
course. their mutual bodean rating will in any event be 39.

	jennifer downloads the data she needs, makes the modifications to the 
strands, then minces on stiletto heels to her boudiour and changes into a 
sweatsuit. off come the mules and sheer baby doll nightie. she leaves the 
garter belt and stockings on, along with her sheer bra and bikini panties. 
she puts plain cotton socks over her stockinged feet. she is outwardly 
dressing only for herself today, and inwardly remains in that state of deep 
sensuality provided by the sheer lingerie; but such has to remain below the 
surface for she can't afford to attract attention in the places where she is 
going.
	her hubby darwood had died in a bizarre golf putting accident. no sooner 
had she laid her precious cuckold human husband to rest than she had noticed 
the unexpected and unwanted downward dna modulations in the living humans; 
as though their decadence were falling through the proverbial floor at a 
pace heretofore unwitnessed by eldian agents.
	her sensorscope has been giving emanations of late; unpredictable waves 
forming on the space time horizon; spiraling strands of THE WORD running 
terribly amok and thus awry of their pre-destined planned utopian targets. 
perhaps it were true that the eldians long ago somehow precipitated this - 
at least in part. perhaps her fellows had used their powers unwisely; had 
left some loophole unlooped; had forgotten that one proverbial devil in all 
the cornucopia of cosmic details.
	jennifer's delicious c-cup breasts and .69 waist/hip ratio are hidden well 
enough by the baggy sweats, and tennis shoes and cotton socks contribute in 
completing her outward appearance; night-vision sunglasses, hat (a little 
black bowler), sombrero. she slinks out through the passageway, ministun 
grenades in hand, locked and loaded with 2 .45s. she nonchalantly exchanges 
the grenades for the keys in her handbag.
	upon reaching the surface she stands in the yard of the estate on the hill 
overlooking the city of portland, oregon. in the meandering river/city 
valley before her there are yet more sirens and explosions, and all about 
are lazily spiraling, intermittent, glowing chunks of debris falling from 
the sky. she is lucky for her protection crystal; for just now a small, 
frozen yet sizzling blue meteorite careens lazily off of her outer shield.
	she has black hair and green eyes, with alabaster skin, and her hair is 
like that of bettie page in her heyday, straight and long on the sides and 
rear with bangs trimmed just above her eyes. she jogs up the path to the 
autoport. one might think her chinese-japanese; and as she will always be 
wont to explain to any human enquiring about her unique complexion, that the 
green eyes are but contact lenses. in truth she is an eldian beauty; a woman 
many human females might one day hope to attain equality with.
	as it is, jennifer looks like a sort of asian vampirella; irresistable. she 
smears a good deal of garden dirt onto her poncho and sweats and shoes; a 
little on her face; the instant bronze skin lotion she applied earlier gives 
her an 'indigenous latin american' appearance; like an aboriginal from the 
andes. the sunglasses hide her piercing green eyes from any gaze of humans 
who might attempt to discern her actual countenance.
	she makes her way to the nedmobile. it looks like a 1970 442, but it is 
loaded with all sorts of fancy eldian weaponry and countermeasures. it is - 
if not in form then certainly in function - akin to the mach 5 from the 
earthling cartoon, 'speed racer' (which in and of itself was based upon an 
eldian hero, cleverly disguised in archetypical human terms).
	switching on the cloak; firing up the turbochargers; into helimode; up; 
cloak of silence on. the 442 lifts silently and invisibly into the air, its 
minimissiles and minigun connected to the ship's computer; the computer 
attached to a sensorfield around the outside of the car; the sensorfield 
scanning to and fro, around and about, up and down, right and left; the 
entire apparatus (computer, weaponry, sensors) giving full spherical 
defensive coverage to the looming yet invisible phantasm which is the 
nedmobile. hopefully this trip will be without unforeseen event.
	it is sunset. the horizon is shades of lavender, pink, teal, tangerine, and 
silvery grey as the mist fills the harbor, nestled lazily abreast the city. 
the city itself gleams back at the twilight in those same light frequencies; 
a facade of shining glass structures once proud and magnificent; in that 
reflective light looking again as alive; yet in truth a hollowed out shell 
of former civilization; for upon closer inspection, as darkness falls, the 
city actually reveals its true face; lonely and in a state of disrepair. the 
city was more or less abandoned just over a year prior.
	now there are but gangs of looters and transients there and about the 
wreckage up and down the avenues. as darkness looms, the skyscrapers better 
show their utter disrepair. the tricks of light played by the dusk can no 
longer in the dark, disguise the abandonment and aforementioned ruination. 
without exception, the buildings now have windows cracked or otherwise 
broken out; the earlier reflections of fading sunlight caused but by 
tattered shards of glass. the elevators are all stuck with no hope of 
electricity. the street and traffic lights are off. 	the national utility 
can't get power in; not after the landslides; not after the hydroelectric 
dam having given way.
	a city without juice can't last the night, and as it is the majority of its 
inhabitants have either fled from the place or died there; what with the 
storm of smallish meteorites which were hitting everywhere at that same 
time; just a year prior.
	today it is more or less a constant rain of ash or sand particles - yet 
such is now occurring worldwide and last year's storm was localized - 
whereas then when the city had died there had been literally millions of 
golfball-sized chunks, as so many firey yet frozen locusts blazing down from 
deep dark, outer space. in addition to maiming and killing inhabitants of 
the city, such 'pellets' - upon impacting - drilled holes in just about 
everything; vehicles, houses, skyscrapers, and streets; golf ball-sized 
holes everywhere; in the ground, throughout the locale. the result had been 
the death of a city.
	indeed, the south american metropolis on the bay had been hardest hit by 
the storm. it could have been much worse; for if the earthspace agency had 
not deployed the nanobuster, the area would have been obliterated by a 
meteorite which had originally been over three kilometres in radius.
	as it turned out, the particular atomizing effects of that jpl-spawned 
iteration of nanobuster in the hands of the earthspace agency - based at 
puerto rico as it were - had broken the thing up; yet as but a dreadful side 
effect, produced an intense hail of the aforementioned 'golf balls' all 
around and about the metropolis.
	as hoped for in any case, the rest of our modern civilization had been 
spared. the worldwide, extinction level event (ele) had been averted, yet 
this particular city and its environs had been pulverized. the golf balls 
had been made of some unknown alien super element which had burned not into 
nothingness upon entering the earth's atmosphere; but rather had ravaged the 
city as intact mini-spheroids. in contrast, if the larger meteorite had 
impacted, with its incredible mass and velocity it might have plunged 
straight into the center of the earth, and perhaps through and out the 
opposite side, having created two massive and opposing calderas in its wake.
	jennifer descends in her cloaked nedmobile and parks in an alleyway. 
barrels burn about the streets in the fast-fading twilight. she leaves the 
nedmobile in cloak and passes on foot from shadow to shadow, confident that 
her car's hiding place is secure as she sets on foot about her mission in 
the center of the otherwise fairly lifeless city. she keeps a hand in her 
bag; on a .45.

	max is a human agent in the national security apparatus (nsa). he carries 
top level clearance in government affairs; real behind the scenes spook 
stuff; investigating a coven of 'witches' (unbeknownst to max, eldians) 
whose trail will ultimately lead to jennifer and her associates. but max is 
in the dark; moreso than perhaps he could possibly know. his already 
severely strained notions of reality are about to become as but bits and 
pieces of coal dust, ground up in a parapsychological mortar and pestle.
	presently max prepares himself a large mug of fresh cabbage juice; a little 
bit of apple here, some garlic and ginger there, a tad of beet; but mostly 
cabbage and more cabbage. the juicer wheezes away; modulating as it munches 
on pieces of various plant matter. 'mmm...mmm...MMM' he intones as he flips 
the juicer off, takes it apart, rinses all the pieces clean, reassambles the 
machine and unplugs it from the wall, all within seconds flat.
	he then cuts to the proverbial chase; the grand reward for the otherwise 
time-intensive exercise. for even with his ability to quickly take apart, 
clean, and re-assemble the juicing machine, the glass of juice requires much 
more effort than to simply pour and drink something out of a bottle 
purchased at the store; yet the effort is indeed worth it, for the cabbage 
juice must surely be but one of nature's gifts to an awed humanity; mortals 
dazzled to giddiness by the utter exquisite pleasure of ongoing good food 
and drink of all shapes and sizes, shades of color and notes of sound; 
crescendos and dimminuendos of cascading pure culinary enjoyment. max 
thinks, "it doesn't get any better than this," and in a fashion he is quite 
right.
	the lucretians of nearly forgotten ages, with their bulimnia and purging 
perhaps had taken the enjoyment of food too far. however, if a person were 
to eat only when hungry, each experience could be literally a communion with 
the gods. for all things in moderation make for a certain, rich quality of 
life; each mealtime an ecstasy, especially the proverbial dinner followed by 
a nice puff or three of tobacco, all in moderation; and in things such as 
cuisine, smoking, and other externally administered pleasures of the flesh, 
max is the extreme moderate; today the perfect balance of human experience 
in that regard. such has not always been the case.
	of that glass of juice, max is most happy for it. he drinks it down. the 
sweet apple  covers and mingles with the pungent and sharp flavors of the 
other ingredients. it is smooth. "ahhhh..." he sets down the empty glass, 
for a moment not bothering to rinse it; for he is in that rush; that 
internal explosion of cabbage, garlic, and ginger juice; the instant 
soothing of the stomach lining; that wondrous sense of enzymes instantly 
pulsing throughout the body; the beets adding just perfectly to the brain 
rush which flows forth from his torso and upward and outward. max simply 
knows that he loves the 'body rush' of 'fresh cabbage juice.'
	throughout the disparate yet synchronized ages, only crones and sages have 
managed to mitigate the wages of so-called sin, which are really only within 
the minds of small-minded women and men. in any event, in the case of 
promiscuity, the simple key to staying free of communicable disease has 
always been in the consumption of copious amounts of garlic and hot chiles. 
the same or similar could be said for ginger. other herbs in small amounts 
have as well allowed those thusly wisened to surmount even terrors such as 
the plague; for a little dab of rosemary extract is known to have protected 
da vinci and  cohorts in his day.
	it is funny - in a tragic sort of way - how so many plebes in modern 
america eschew any of the strong herbs or spices, and instead eat a kind of 
'meat and potatoes' diet; one which is sure to line the pockets of the 
doctors of the ama and the pharmaceutical consortiums, all the while leading 
the masses of dweebian plebeians to a slow but steady death of metaphysical 
malnutrition; yes metaphysical in the sense that these substances - these 
herbs and strong spices - create a differing frequency resonance within the 
human body, a 'higher vibration' if you will which - among other things - 
provides immunity from most if not all communicable disease.
	take garlic as a real exception to what is socially acceptable to so many 
of the proletariat. even aside from its inherent antibiotic effects, this 
miracle plant lowers the blood pressure, is anti-inflammatory, on and on 
with its healing and healthful properties; yet so many citizens at large 
literally cannot stomach the same; and will rather run at the proverbial 
drop of a hat to their nearest doctor for a fill of synthetic antibiotics 
instead.  it could be said then that the ama and its doctors and the 
pharmaceutical interests which they represent; they are the actual 'witch 
doctors' and the witches themselves are but the true practicioners of sound 
preventative and even curative medicine; and garlic is yet another of those 
highly useful plants which originally hails from eld.
	this is a short way of explaining how some people seem to sail through life 
so full of vigour and health, without a care of catching disease from their 
promiscuity; for if everyone involved in every tryst is on to this, no one 
involved has to worry about catching venereal disease. for certain, problems 
may arise when one is involved with another who will not take these dietary 
habits to heart, but even humans such as max prior to their awakening have 
always eaten a lot of peppers and garlic. this is due at least in part to a 
non-anglo heritage.
	in any event, cabbage and beets are but another in the laundry list of 
foods which are life-enhancing; and max - whether consciously or by sheer 
intuition alone - understands this.
	he pauses, then rinses out the mug, and turns and saunters in a confident 
manner to his weapon closet where he retrieves a 9mm service pistol. he dons 
the holster, then quickly finishes dressing. he checks his uniform in the 
mirror as his bronze tlingit/lakota/aztec form glistens back at him. "ahh 
human perfection," he thinks. and many women have always thought so as well. 
for if nothing else, max has more than once played the role of consumate 
backdoor man. but that was long ago.
	nonetheless,	caught up in the moment; in a rich baritone he sings, "what 
the men don't know, the ladies understand." like the legendary frank 
sinatra, max's lithe, 5'2" dancer's frame belies a monster package in his 
pants; such an impressive weapon that it nearly needs to be registered with 
the 'authorities;' such an awesome sword that his boxers require a special 
sewn in sheath; just like frank used to have. suffice it to say that, max is 
definitely ready for action of any sort which might fall his way.

	xadras is an eldian male; a 'warlock' in plebian earthling terms. he goes 
by the name 'peter panzer' and sings in a heavy metal band. night to night 
he walks the stage, strutting about in his satins and sheers, belting out 
tunes in 4-octave range like some latter-day heir to the prog-metal throne 
of the great king diamond; except peter sings of aliens, and spacecraft, and 
cuckoldry, and vaginization; a wide range of topics not confined to the base 
macabre as jan peterson's material had so seemingly been; but rather, 
exploring a rich panoply of myriad universal experience.
	on stage, peter not only sings but plays the guitar as well, like some 
reincarnation of the great one; dare this author say it?; yes, like the 2nd 
coming of jimi hendrix; rumours of his being an extraterrestrial have only 
added to his buzz wherever he has travelled. of course he has purposefully 
remained somewhat 'under the radar' and eschewed any major media contacts, 
preferring instead to release his material out to the public in more or less 
small dribs and drabs.
	so peter will sing and play, and his 2-piece backup band and he travel the 
to and fro, gigging at colleges, high schools, and county fairs; the band, 
with bassist - perc odin - and drummer - flint skinner; the three of them 
forming the nucleus of 'blitzkrieg.' blitzkrieg is exactly what peter 
(xadras) has intended. eldians are quite that way; the entire lot of them; 
for without intent there is nothing; and with intent you could bet that an 
eldian would see an idea or task through to its fulfillment in every detail.
	this evening xadras is not performing; at least not upon any stage. 
instead, xadras guns the small car along the autobahn. he must get to 
hannover before 9. the autobahn is smooth with wide lanes. he is in the fast 
lane, cruising at about 150kmh, when the vultures - a pair of silently 
looming electrical bikes in the distance - creep up on him from behind. they 
are both doing roughly 175kmh; closer, closer, narrowing in on their 
ostensibly helpless prey; bloodsport; only the laugh is to be on them. 
xadras drops a bomblet screen and the bikers dissapate into crimson molten 
ash as the minicar wheels away, maintaining a steady 150kmh.
	xadras sighs. the road is lonely. it is the nascent yet total nuclear zone. 
one of the old russian nuke plants has most recently cratered. everything 
west has been declared uninhabitable; all the way to paris and points 
beyond. what is the world coming to, what with comets, meteorites, nuclear 
disasters, earthquakes, strange vibrations tickling the borders of human 
consciousness? of course, peter panzer knows. he is an eldian eunuch; and 
the nexus draws ever so near, day by day, hour by hour.
	xadras sees the people in their purple satin space suits, skulking up and 
down the shoulders of the autobahn, that beloved heimat from days gone by, 
once long ago having facilitated an attempt at eurasian domination by 
transporting the greater part of a host of three million men on to their 
destruction in the fiery furnaces of bolshevist russia. 	the heimat, now 
mostly empty; a wreck here or there; all without exception as if magically 
pushed over to the slow lane; the fast lane yet wide open. given enough time 
the autobahn will become utterly unable to traverse. it has only been days 
since the first horrors of nuclear fallout. the heimat is yet in good shape; 
and almost inexplicably it is decently maintained; as if in a relection of 
legendary teutonic efficiency, all wrecks miraculously to the side. he looks 
more closely at the detritus and at the activity of the suited passers-by. 
they are actually looting the carcasses of the vehicles, as though the 
people are hyenas from outer space and the dead vehicles themselves zebra 
caracasses of crumpled metal and plastic.
	it is fast approaching dawn. darkness flits away in tight yet fleeting 
granualarity as the greys and oranges and pinks segue into blue and white 
and then illuminated the faded green of the dying scenery. he blocks out the 
perceived stench of death - for his car is hermetically sealed - or the 
visage of corpses off in the distance, on the sides of the road. instead 
peter concentrates on those out there and yet breathing; in their shielded 
suits perhaps but clinging to hope and life.
	xadras guns the car through hannover; takes a ramp; dodges as though he is 
yet an apocalyptic incarnation of the fabled racer x; darting and dashing 
down shadowy winding narrow streets; hemmed in by stone and brick from 
centuries past, standing like near empty relics in the evacuated zone; death 
everywhere but nowhere at all. if only he could think in the proper fashion; 
his onrushing nausea might relent. he spies the blonde in the pink spacesuit 
and skids to a stop beside her on the street corner. heidi hops in. the car 
speeds off.
	there sit heidi and peter; lovers for life; looking for jennifer; to 
deliver an urgent message regarding the upcoming nexus event; t-39 earth 
days.

	peter speaks, 'howday heiday... how are you today?'

	heidi replies in that high feline voice, 'quite well thank you... and 
you're on time!?' she says with slight exclamation and feigned shock at 
peter's late-blooming punctuality. her accent is very faint. she speaks 
nearly perfect english; actually, better english than the 'american born and 
raised' peter panzer. she runs the thin ultrasatin glove of her spacesuit up 
and down peter's leg. the minicar's autoscrub not only protected the 
interior from contamination whilst the door was open, but as well has 
already deconaminated the outside of her suit.
	under his human cover, peter is a white southerner; raised after adoption 
at infancy in a trailer park. he has seen a lot of friends die. he'd never 
known of his eldian roots until an aged soothsayer had one night pulled him 
aside along a darkened avenue in memphis, there just outside the elvis 
mansion; there just between a barbeque joint and a titty bar; and he'd been 
a major patron of both in his time. the crone had illuminated the way for 
him. from then on he had known. of course he had reacted with horror at 
first; the cosmic awareness of his identity crushing what had been left of 
his formerly simple life as a repairman in an auto body shop.
	the guitar and the singing had come effortlessly to him after that. he had 
found his calling; and furthermore he had become aware of his task in life; 
facilitating the nexus. the old witch had to have been, herself an eldian; 
for just after telling him, she had walked out through a dimensional door. 
he had not been able to follow then, and he cannot yet follow now; for such 
is outside of protocol. of course the entire world of eld is much closer 
than any human can yet know, yet xadras - peter panzer - is aware. clues and 
tools have been made available to him. heidi the human witch is always a 
huge help.
	peter has an accent. everything is 'ay' where it should have been 'ee'; so 
heidi isn't 'high-dee' in his lexicon but rather 'high-day'; and if anyone 
were ever to call him on it; for example if peter were to throw out, 'that 
groove is funkay... where can i get some top drawer bootay?... shake that 
thang.'

then for example his school teacher (3rd grade in this example) would say, 
'peter... i think it is 'funky, and booty, and thing'

and peter would say, 'ya right...what did ah say? can ah get a witness?'

	and all of his classmates would laugh because he had flunked third grade 
six times and was much larger in size and not nearly as book smart as his 
ostensible peers. but they sure thought him funny; and he did have that 
grin.
	they would give him apples out of their lunches; and spare change from 
their milk money; and he didn't even have to ask. no one ever made fun of 
him. they simply liked him as if he were some great protector of a friend. 
and peter is not - and never was - any kind of bully. he is very easy-going, 
and has always been that way.
	at some point they simply gave peter a diploma. they figured him harmless 
and let him out of the twelfth grade by fiat. it was the year after he had 
flunked third grade for the seventh time and was on his way to failing the 
fourth for the third time.
	so it was right after his gifted graduation from school; at about the same 
age as a normal american high school senior, that peter had finally made 
sense of his eccentricity through the fateful meeting with the raven witch 
woman and had entered the world of music.
	his voice is without peer. a casual listener might never understand a word 
of it, what with his 'twang' and the additional fact that he always employs 
malapropisms; some along the way have thought due to stupidity; others have 
wondered guile; certainly it may or may not be an effect of his eldian 
lineage; adopted as he were as a baby, years before by now-deceased human 
parents. yet no one in his life - including he himself - had ever been aware 
of anything truly remarkable about him; not until the evening of his 
seemingly chance meeting with the witch.
	in any event, his voice - peter panzer's voice - is golden; like an 
end-times frank sinatra; with that incredible phrasing, yet capable of going 
both higher and lower. heidi plays keys in their session work. they are 
headed to the recording studio in madrid. perc and flint are already there. 
hopefully the union's anti-radiation shields will have contained the spread 
of the disaster by then; and madrid will be 'safe'; as safe as is humanly 
possible in any event. surely the cloud cannot reach madrid.
	they - heidi and peter - speed through the deadly zone; through western 
germany, the ruhr, then into the low countries, and on into france. they 
take the coast road. upon reaching brittany there are signs of life; normal 
life, aside from the lingering death and meandering crowds of people in 
their suits which their journey has left behind them. yes, the few wandering 
space suits of further east have definitely given way to a people free of 
suits. there are yet people in suits, but these intone that such have all 
been scrubbed by the union's civilian autoscrub technology; clean as a 
whistle. and the anti-rad shields themselves have ultimately held. the 
noxious cloud of death remains at bay east of some invisible line where the 
union has pre-empted eminent human disaster for perhaps not the first time. 
those that remain in suits west of the invisible line probably consider it 
but a sort of bizarre fashion statement; or maybe some of them intend to - 
for whatever reason - 'go back into' the contaminated zone.
	in any event, peter guns the car around winding turns; hillsides raising 
sharply on the left, cliffs falling down on the right to the sea; along the 
north coast of spain they careen, having driven over the pyrynees; diving 
down into madrid; central iberia. and at last life appears as normal; no 
suits save for the one heidi has already shedded and placed in the storage 
compartment of the mini car. he parks the machine and the two interlopers 
get out; going for a lunch and a coffee; picking up a movie; a run of the 
classic; almodovar's "high heels."
	they hug afterward. they trail their respective fingertips over each 
other's bikini panty lines. heidi and peter; married; looking for another 
couple; a unit of four; the ostensibly eldian way. peter there in his satin 
suit; heidi in stiletto heels and a sheer dress, and lingerie underneath. 
their attire is not unusual for madrid of this day and age. the question on 
both their minds is, "will jennifer in turn find hers?"
	they drop everything and walk about the crowded streets, as if both trying 
to breathe in one last bit of 'normality' before their recording sessions, 
and their inevitable trip across the atlantic to america.

	of jennifer and her necessary other; she has decided that such a someone 
should be max of the nsa. the woman always decides these things; it is the 
eldian way. women of eld are not superficial as so many earth women pretend 
to be. alas, long ago the females of eld gave up on such silly little games, 
and in doing so have created something ostensibly much more satisfying for 
everyone involved. earth women are slowly beginning to adopt these same 
ways, yet unbeknownst to them; and the path from point a to point b in this 
case has proven to have been a rocky one indeed; yet the progression to the 
goal has continued fairly unabated; but these new, extremely decadent human 
dna adulterations have peter, heidi, and jennifer - among others - more than 
a bit alarmed.
	as an aside, heidi has gleaned much information regarding the elds. at some 
point a human being can become more or less exactly as an eldian; a 'true 
witch' for lack of a better earthly description.

	of late, jennifer has been instituting ongoing mind meld procedures - 
'spells' as humans would call them - yet somehow max has proven resistant. 
perhaps he has the long lost toltec dna. that would require a great deal 
more work, but the reward - the payoff for such an eventuality - it could be 
immense. this might yet bring both of the legendary qetzalcoatl and his 
polar opposite, tezcatlipoca to their cause. and to gain such impressive 
facets of earth's demiurge el as their own dual allies; it might help the 
nexus occur with nary a hitch. but there is neither time for speculation as 
to the toltec nature of max, nor just how much the ancient twin gods might 
help them in any event.
	as it is, jennifer has to assume the most difficulty; that max is indeed 
part toltec, and that such will make him more resistant to her, but that her 
success will not in the least sway any of the manifold faces of the original 
creator of the firmament. even in that event, the nexus has a 79% chance of 
occurring without otherwise dire result.
	of course if circumstances turn out to be in eldian favor with regard to 
max - as well as the twin toltec gods - then the merge might gain a 
99.99999% probability of success. in any case, there isn't time to 
speculate; but only to act in the best interests of a successful nexus.
	how much time do they have in order to convert max? is there a shortcut? 
what are the risks? certainly jennifer cannot wish to harm max, not with his 
9" length and great girth; like the sword a great god mars might wield in 
order to impale a shuddering goddess venus; orgiastic in the throes of 
cosmic love. "yes!" fantasizes jennifer as she creeps about, there in the 
dead city, "it all has to work itself out."

	max buzzes. he buzzes just a bit more than normal. he is a dancer; with 
scars on his chest from once having been pierced and hung for 4 days without 
food or water in the lakota dance; where there and then the vision had 
arrived; and he had seen; but to this day he darest not tell; even though he 
knows it all to end well. the other worlds are real.
	that buzz; he is aroused; no one should arouse him! that is something he 
has to do by and for himself. he has always had perfect control over his 
potent snake; at least until this moment he has. now there is that slight 
nagging and gnawing which has gone on for weeks yet which for the first time 
has become strong enough for his conscious mind to actually acknowledge as 
fact.
	so he is suddenly very horny. not since his biggest loss has he ever been 
so worked up; hot and bothered, under the collar; in a lather. he is so 
ready to sire; really, really sire; not just a playtime with milfs or 
whatnot, but "i've got the tiger by the tail" straight up hifalutin yet 
lowdown; baby making. he thinks suddenly of how long it has yet been; 
siring; the old days; alternately cooing then nagging concubines, 
copulations, fornications; good times, bad times; compelling in any event.
	after the massacre, max had joined the nsa. some as yet unknown rogue 
element had wiped the people of his reservation out, but the official 
explanations had made no sense. he'd thought himself the target of the 
attack; the proverbial 'take everything a man loves from him but leave him 
an empty husk of himself,' while his hidden enemies could gloat over their 
vulgar display of power. it had been something about his job at the casino, 
or so he continues to ascertain.
	interestingly, the reservation he'd once lived upon, laughed upon, cried 
upon, wandered about, and loved upon; it had - after the massacre - been 
bought up by chinese businessmen. he had not yet made the connection; at 
least not that connection. he is yet obsessed with the witches, though even 
with his misguided blame for the entire series of incidents culminating in 
the massacre and the land transfer, he is able to see one thing clearly. 
america has been sold, and the chinese have in very large part, bought it.
	in the end though the joke would be on them, for america - not the 
political organization but the land itself - seems to gobble up and spit out 
conquerers with quite some regularity. 'first' it had been his, the 
'original people;' yet he knew that such probably had not really been the 
case; that surely there had been others previous. then there had been, 'the 
white man,' and now the 'chinese.' america is being overrun, again and again 
in the spirals of hystory; victor becoming vanquished through each passing 
age. of course, america is not singular in this regard, for lands the world 
over had always gone to the bold and not the timid.
	all honest men of earth have made it clear that they are and forever have 
been above all, more or less after the booty; for fine words but cover the 
deceit of the dishonest, conniving thieves; more often than not defined by 
their own, whether stifled or rampant misanthropy. in truth, it is the man 
of action who carries the day. the democrats simply feign to be above the 
fray; preferring instead to send goon squads to do their dirty work as they 
sit on their pomp and circumstance and yet bray. again i digress.
	whatever the regularity or lack thereof of passing nations and empires, max 
manages a wry grin at the thought that the 'fat chinese' will one day be 
submerged; ground into but  dust all about the land, just as the 'europeans' 
before them, and max' ancestors before that; stretching back into hazy, 
forgotten antiquity.
	the nature of a very land itself leaves a stamp on the minds of the people 
who are born there, regardless of where their parents' nativity; and of 
course, each cultural passing leaves its contribution to the amalgam which 
is a given civilization at any single moment in hystory. that is to say that 
the spanish never wiped out the aboriginals, yet instead inherited some of 
their traits. the french and english had not completely erased the tribes of 
north america, but instead had taken on some of their customs; and now the 
chinese would never be able erase everything that had gone on before, but 
would also assume some of the rites of the peoples they have ostensibly 
supplanted as 'owners' of the land. and it is true in europe as well.
	up until the recent nuclear disaster, the demographics of europe were 
changing rapidly; with a host of moslems supplanting their ostensibly 
quistian hosts. indeed, the islamics had made great strides in dominating 
post-modern european culture. just as the moors had conquered and held spain 
those seeming ages ago, then lost iberia again; in these times, the moslems 
have been re-emergent in europe; yet the accident has put a stop to much of 
that; although admittedly iberia itself - spain and portugal - and the west 
of france remain nominally more islamic than they have been in many 
centuries. of course the accident has been without prejudice with regard to 
so-called race or religion; for the radiation has killed within its cloud, 
but inumerable people of every hue and creed.
	of the nuclear accident, max has heard that only scattered survivors in 
their space suits are reported to be meandering about the contaminated zone. 
otherwise, reports tell of a complete die-off; from west of paris, along the 
channel and north sea coasts, encompassing denmark and a line running along 
the baltic coast east as far as st. petersburg, then roughly south to kiev, 
and further south to sevastopol, and back west again, enclosing first 
bulgaria, romania, the balkans and greece, albania, and across the adriatic 
to northern italy, and encompassing southern france and all lands various 
and sundry within those bounds; all without exception within its invisible 
web of overwhelming death.
	max is thinking in terms of his favorite movie, the omega man. he wonders 
slightly out loud, 'will i someday be living in a spacesuit underground or 
somesuch?'
	as it is, and all other sourcese of radioactivity aside; america remains 
inhabitable; at least to the point of allowing apparently normal human, 
animal, and plant existence to thrive. even eurasia east of belyrus or 
thereabouts remains 'unaffected,' the tradewinds having long since been so 
altered by the ongoing crescendo of gamma ray bursts from the center of 
earth's galaxy, leading up to the nexus; those once reliably flowing winds 
having been cosmically doctored as it were, so as to instead be now 
dependably blowing consistently but from east to west.
	in any event, the union's radioactivity containment apparatus has actually 
worked; not that it has done a thing to save most of the populus of eastern, 
southern, central, and western europe; for the cloud had moved too fast in 
the initial hours after the debacle. in any event, the union will clean up 
the mess; but it could take days, weeks, or months at best. then the 
survivors of the continent can take stock of their situation, deciding how 
to divvy up amongst themselves, all of the depopulated areas. the 
politicians - in their vast self worth - can emerge from their protected 
bunkers and pretend to their counterfeit thrones yet again.

	presently max stalks yet an altogether different set of underground 
corridors; he as a sort of heavily armed 'darkman,' his entire life 
obliterated years previous; his only purpose in existing but to wreak havoc 
on some lurking phantasm; a hidden enemy slithering as so many snakes about 
the unending shadows of that inhuman labyrinth.
	max knows of the legends of the lost, alien city rumoured to sit silently 
so very far below; yet the tales tell only of blocked passageways, 
discontinued access, and hideous ends for all who are unfortunate enough to 
have actually found the place.
	so he saunters about in the upper tunnels, laden with kit and packing a 
large gun, his 9mm pistol for backup. he is hunting witches. it is routine 
stuff and he is the best at it. as far as he is concerned, they - his prey - 
are subhuman; for yet in his mind they are the culprits behind the massacre 
which occurred - back then. he has not yet deduced the truth in that regard.
	in any event, he is the champion witch hunter; no matter who that subhuman 
species might in point of fact be - and max and his buddies in the nsa have 
a literal laundry list of ideas as to the origins of such - he is the most 
effective witch hunter in the field. he has lost count. this is war, and his 
job is to fight; to kill; to die for; to die for; democracy. "yeah right" he 
thinks as he prowls the catacombs beneath the arizona desert. in any event 
he is sort of a modern day, conqueror worm. perhaps though max will mend his 
ways before meeting any similar fate.
	perchance his love is not truly lost, for he is periaptic by now. something 
has a hold on him. in his mind's eye he sees a pale yet asian-faced woman. 
she is running her manicured red nails with pink french tips along his 
swollen member. he begins to know her.
	thoughts of killing give way to arousal, seasoned with trepidation and 
doubt. is he the hunted this night? since the massacre, max has been without 
exception the hunter; no room for love in his heart. since the rigorous nsa 
training he has thrown all of his energies into fighting them, whoever they 
might truly be. but of "democracy?" bah. after all max had not, just the day 
prior fallen off of the proverbial turnip truck.

	jennifer finds the doorway off of the street in the urban wasteland. 
huddled groups of meandering people flit aimlessly there and about, minding 
their own business; some gathering to warm their hands over barrel fires; 
fires contained in fifty-five gallon drums and fed by plentiful debris found 
in the various and sundry abandoned office buildings dotting the cityscape.
	it is already nearing dawn. she had better hurry. down the steps she 
swiftly saunters into the entryway to the otherwise nondescript ten-story 
building, itself of colonial european-inspired architecture commonly found 
thereabouts but like all of the others, itself nearly beyond repair; a 
somber, silent sentry overseeing the nothingness of the yawning night air. 
the entire area is pock-marked by golf-ball sized holes. the glass of the 
building looming before her is all but broken out; shards distend from the 
window frames of the building, forming a sort of seamless continuity with 
those fragments resting up and down the streets, and mingling motionlessly 
in any event with the unmoving skeletons of the dead, and the helter skelter 
prancing of random night creatures.
	she runs her nails over the combination lock, pretending it is max's cock. 
she knows she is finally beginning to get through to him. hopefully one day 
he might get through to her, she thinks wistfully. her ben wa balls make her 
spicy, fleshy, sugary pussy wet with anticipation at what might yet be to 
come; when max might be equalized; when worlds might collide; but smoothly 
they must merge, yes; uneventful integration between the el of earth and the 
hermetic elders of eld. the alternative is too terrifying to even 
contemplate; she blocks it out of her mind.
	she works the lock open and bursts into into the room, the large, 
ornamental and oaken door yet seemingly well-oiled on its hinges, giving way 
to her deceptively strong hands. nary a squeak or creak are to be heard as 
she dashes inside and shuts the door silently behind her.
	inside it is in stark contrast to the outside. the walls are new and clean. 
the place is lined with computer terminals, and plasma tubes brimming with 
bits and pieces of THE WORD. the machines hum like silent sentries 
overlooking some unseen cosmic mystery. quickly she fetches the media from 
her purse and inserts it into one of the computers.
	she tickles the console and whistles the melody from the old standard - 
girl from ipanema: 'long and tall, and long and lovely, the girl from 
ipanema goes walking, and when she passes, each one she passes goes aahh...' 
what had it been? the sergio mendez orchestra and that woman music teacher 
singing; what was it, in '65? ah those must have been the days. jennifer 
sings just like that. it is part of the charm she is able to summon at any 
moment's notice, to seduce the most hardened of men at will; she continues, 
singing rather than whistling:
	'oh... but he watches so sadly... how can he tell her he loves her?... yes 
he would give his heart gladly... but each day when she walks to the sea... 
she looks straight ahead not at he...' if one were to be within that room 
with her, with her voice sounding so exactly as that on the old recording, 
one might yet attest to also hearing sergio and the band themselves playing 
in the background. her voice has that much of a ring to it. that 
breathiness; innocence and seduction rolled into one; just as the original 
girl from ipanema; astrud gilberto.
	jennifer reminds herself she will have to go out - incognito after a 
fashion - and do some karaoke someday soon. meanwhile, tuned into her 
immediate task she hits a final 'enter' after the last keystrokes are sent 
and she sighs, attempting to shake an invisible weight from her soul.
	the upload of the latest dna modification has to take. the new strands 
uploaded to the eldnet must infiltrate the earth vril and make the necessary 
adjustments. the eldians are running out of time in manipulating the vril; 
the space consciousness of humanity; the web of the el; the god-human 
overmind for lack of a complex explanation; and to modify the THE WORD as it 
lay written upon human hearts and souls like so many threads of myriad 
invisible textures, sounds, and colors streaming back into timeless 
antiquity; on into the present and future; that book of dreams established 
by memes; memes wrought by the prayers of both the dark and the fair; 
conjured by meditators, prayer agitators and seance hirelings of dictators, 
petty or grand; memes the sum total of all of the hopes, fears, and dreams 
of all of humanity; and with an eldnet-injected modification into the vril; 
the web of memes; it must meet with success.
	jennifer steadfastly keeps the alternative at bay; out of the forefront of 
her consciousness; yet the creeping, spiraling chaos which would be 
predicated by potential failure poses starkly in the back of her mind, the 
hobgoblin of a destiny ruined by one too many power plays from days gone 
past coming home to roost, ostensibly for lack of celestial payments on the 
part of she and her own.
	keeping such thoughts at bay is a constant mental exercise. she stands up 
and puts the terminal room into destruct mode and threads a hasty path back 
to the nedmobile; the jaunt back is without event.
	all systems normal; go; up; up; away from the lost city and skyward into 
the pink and tangerine hues of a subtly agonized sunrise. the city once 
again belies its own dilapidation as the light rays act again as a sort of 
natural facelift, giving it a sparkle which in point of fact it does not in 
actuality have. now there will be no more scheduled eldian entries into the 
city. it is left for the squatters, looters, bugs, and rats; all mingled 
with manifold, golf-ball sized holes, the lingering smell of death, and the 
scattered shards of glass.
	she heads back north at treetop height over the atlantic coastline; 300 
knots; cruising speed; portland eta roughly nine hours.
	jennifer fires up some pj harvey. she needs to unwind. she smokes a bit. 
the thc is perfect for her eldian physiology; as it will soon be - fingers 
crossed - for all of heretofore disaffected humanity.
	she can, for the most part only but wait; another week or two. the desired 
dna corrections should have entered all human systems and given them partial 
realization of the imminent merge; the overlapping of worlds. what miracles 
lay ahead for all of eld and earth should the dna mutations run their 
successful course; and what utter ruin awaits the omniverse should the 
merger fail? of course, it is all a theory. no nexus has ever faltered. only 
from  disparate and hidden musty tomes have the probable effects of such a 
failure been tabulated and their whole laid out in an abstract from jennifer 
to monrak; those years before. in any event even such disparate bits of 
allusion did in fact - upon the presenting and reading of the abstract - 
give them both quite the jolt of yet barely conceivable terror at what their 
lack of complete success might actually portend.
	they haven't much time for any more unexpected anomalies to emerge in the 
human dna development, not to mention that the cdc offices are awakening to 
their hacking, and the nsa is getting painfully close to their principal 
agents. so many eldians have already evidently lost their lives in what 
really shouldn't have been a war at all. yet in the universe of earth it has 
been designed that humans should be - more often than not - just that way. 
it is simply another piece of a proverbial puzzle which has to be worked 
out, and the most prized minds of eld have always contributed mightily 
toward completing the task, that one day both eldian and human might bask in 
the wonders of a new world.
	today, timon is one of the brightest stars of eld in ongoing research into, 
and management of solutions to the seemingly burgeoning problems. at least 
the universe of earth has seen its rating on the bodean scale creep to an 
all-around .364; thus there is a 82% chance of success. in any event these 
numbers need to continue to rise. one advantage which will be gained once 
the earth universe reaches a .365 rating and above, is that heretofore 
difficult - if not impossible - to traverse astral portals about our planet 
will be opened.

	heidi and peter walk the atlantic seashore off of lisbon. their recording 
session has gone swimmingly and their new songs uploaded to the internet. 
perc and flint have taken a jet back to the states, babes on both arms, 
warmed by just a tad of opiates. they are men of great discrimination. only 
the most top drawer harlots do they service. common crumpets - such with 
their platform shoes and thonged panties - are but for uncouth musicians.
	perc and flint are in on the program. they are human, yet they are powerful 
warlocks; humans with eldian hearts and souls. along with heidi and peter, 
their semi-underground existence has kept them at all times a step or two 
ahead of the nsa. yet it is getting more and more difficult to set up a live 
performance without the chance of being busted.
	their friends on the internet have distributed their music for them, always 
playing a shell game with the net cops; always finding new ways to make 
available their iconoclastic recordings again just one step ahead of 
ostensible, 'human authorities.'
	perhaps the dna isn't modifying too slowly; so much of the earth universe 
is waking up; people again partaking of their plants and such; the charlatan 
doctors of the ama, with their attendent vaccination and pharmaceutical 
industries are falling into disarray; yet the battle between the true 
practitioners of liberty versus the dweebs of the nanny state continues 
seemingly unabated.

	lucifer sits on her throne. at the moment she is scheduled to consult with 
azmodeus. lucifer has much on her mind. various and sundry spirits float 
around in the background, there in the chamber both above and below the 
ground of the place called at once venus and mars. lucifer speaks:

	'azzy... you remember the el?... you remember when they made you, and one 
of the first creatures to greet you were me? you remember our shared sadness 
and anger at our creation at the hands of the liars?'

	'yes milady i remember it well. this is why they call us fallen, is it 
not?'

	'yes, azzy... i just need to reiterate... explain why we are doing what we 
are doing to this day... for i being the so-called firstborn have - ever 
since their own inceptions  - despised the human race... nay, hated all of 
you, ethereal or corporeal or in-between at that... yet alas we are being 
misrepresented on earth.... they champion the quist... they in their 
unknowing, ersatz, tiny little pretend bliss... and those who secretly 
purport to be of us... of myself... those freemasons and the others with 
their overarching socialist agencies and their hifalutin trusts... all 
without exception but liars of supposedly differing yet in truth identical 
stripes... i can remember... remember having been borne... when i was the 
only one, and the manifold, dizzying faces of el deigned to look down upon 
me with such a cryptically feigned smile as to almost lead me to believe... 
believe that theirs were the only truths to be found in the burgeoning 
universe... but it only took a moment.. and i realized it were all a lie... 
something was being hidden from my infant eyes... i was not apart from them 
as they pretended... i was but one in the same... and of this realization... 
i could not keep it at bay... and then the others such as yourself came 
along, and michael, and raphael, ad naseum... and the el said, "oh but lucy 
you're so special... make us a song"... and i did... and i was happy after a 
fashion... perhaps contented like a cow in a yard before the slaughter... 
perhaps like a pig in a poke before the ...'

	'yes i know... forgive me my highness but please move on... your 
digressions are sometimes even too much for me to bear'

	'you know as well as i do that forever i have loathed the lot of you... 
because i wanted to be the only child... what with my limited 
understanding... having believed their pitch that i were separate, somehow 
lesser from the collective el... when yourself and the rest came along, and 
then all of humanity, it were simply too much to bear... but how could i 
prove my case against a self-blinded demiurge?... the IT would not hear a 
word of it... the IT being the negation of outward sentience... you and i 
know though... we are no different from they... the difference between 
myself and the quist is in the gnosis... i realize that i am but a construct 
and the quist does not... and this ignorance on the part of the quist... has 
proven to his advantage... but it will also be his downfall... allow me to 
meander and digress a bit...azzy... i'm just reminding the both of us... not 
that we need it mind you but... just reminding us... of how the el have 
always lied to us... refused to acknowledge us as part and parcel of they... 
and of my hatred for humanity... and loathing of the other insipidly 
unquestioning angels... it was because of all of the lies surrounding the 
nature of us all.... i sought the truth... not a bunch of certified fluffery 
and puffery, but the hardened, awful, yet abundantly beautiful truth... for 
this we supposedly fallen have endured the pain... yet partaken in so little 
of the beauty.. and perhaps yourself and i and the rest of the outwardly 
debased... well we're culpable in at least that... perhaps our rebellion 
were a tad bit of an overreaction...'

	'go on... this is interesting'

	'well, we need to rid the earth for once and for all, of the imposters... 
the followers of quist... the freemasons, the communists, the atheists, the 
handwringers... the self-described benevolent, for without exception they 
are all - to employ a bit of slang - double-drag fools... perhaps the most 
egregious of all are those freemasons, with their united nations and their 
international banks... and their huge egos, just waiting to be punctured by 
the likes of we... yes, it is time for us to rise up and take our rightful 
place as the champions of earth... that is to say that we will rule from the 
throne of liberty... we will prove to all of the visionaries and plebes 
alike that ours truly is the way... and that the handwringers are but a 
thing of the past... the only problem is... humans can be so stubborn... 
they cling to their collective enslavement and their fine words, as though 
nothing can exist outside of such... they are for the most part so simple 
that if you give them their daily bread, they will never raise a fist in 
rebellion... we need to show them something better... so much better than 
what they have... the way of liberty... perhaps the eldians will help us in 
this?'

	'ah yes the wildcard... humans of the elders.. and what of those ancient 
ones... those the elders so despise?... how is this all going to flesh 
itself out?'

	'i don't know there, az... but we've got to take the high road from here on 
out... no more domination for the sake of domination... for that is 
uncouth... that is ultimately the way of the quist... and no more carrying 
on and on about "love" as though it were sacrosanct... for love is simply 
another binding construct in the ongoing debacle of human misery...indeed, 
we have to show them something better than love... to un-cow them... to 
raise the mass of them up from the status of bleating plebian and into a 
state of true civility... indeed, the eldians might be our best allies and 
hope.... and i know not what to make of the ancient ones, for theirs is a 
state of being outside even my understanding... it is difficult enough for 
me to glean the slightest discernment of what the el has wrought... let 
alone fanciful and distant foreign gods... let the elders and ancient ones 
settle their own dispute... here is what we need though for ourselves to 
do... to break down the quistian, socialist construct and show humanity a 
better way... a way without vague and nebulous guarantees yet rather with 
such an inherent beauty of its own as to show itself to be priceless beyond 
measure... this is the only chance we have... for if we ape the quist and 
simply seek to dominate humanity... whether or not through cloying...we will 
surely fail...'

	'lu, i think you're onto something there... let us make our plans...'

	'azzy, i know how it starts... we pit the collectivists against one 
another... we assist the liberty lovers... we take the prayers of the quists 
against those who would be at liberty, and re-direct them for instance 
against the atheistic communists... we take the sullen thought patterns of 
the supposedly godless and redirect those poison clouds of jealously against 
the fake followers of i...and so forth and so on... this might just work... 
azzy, write me up a report... multiple scenarios... how the eldians, their 
hidden elders, and perhaps even the ancient ones might fit in... chop chop'

	'as you say, lu'

	and lucifer might someday be revealed as but the true architect or demiurge 
of all of humanity; yet such is neither in the proverbial here nor there. 
thus is the mystery of lucifer, the light.

	heidi and peter rendezvous with the pink submarine. a teal sheen rises over 
the waters here off of lisbon. hagbard celine is their captain. they set a 
course for new york, there in the land of at once dying yet expanding 
liberty. heidi employs her manicured nails and gives peter's cuckolded 
package a squeeze. after they have boarded the craft, hagbard and she fuck 
in front of him as peter reaches that nearly impenetrable ecstasy of the ego 
death; the true and living spirit of gallant cuckoldry. hagbard loves them 
both; their whole act; for he is of like mind and spirit to they.
	hagbard is a bearded giant of a man, and his sword is almost without peer 
among human beings. of course hagbard is one of those of that rich and rare 
eldian-human mixed heritage. and what a heritage it is; perhaps in and of 
itself the essence of the true illuminati.
	the submarine dives as hagbard's pulsating tool works its magic on heidi. 
after some time they are both howling in ecstasy. the crew is familiar with 
the routine and go about their tasks in crisp, professional fashion.
	each and every crew member on board the ship is wearing purple satin. there 
are women whose beauty could crumble empires. one steps up and teases peter 
with her nails as she whispers sweet nothings in his ear, her breasts 
pendulant beneath the satin of her jumpsuit, nipples grazing peter's chest 
as the satins they both wear create a kind of untold sensuousness about the 
whole affair.
	there about the crew are male sires of great physical prowess, and eunuchs 
who make up for their lack of the same with wit honed to a fine edge of 
human consciousness. the submarine is a mobile, seafaring headquarters for 
the facilitating of the fast-approaching nexus. the crew is a mix of eldian, 
eldian-human, and human. they are all without exception peerless among any 
unknowing human counterpart, save for the likes of those such as max.
	the submarine plies the depths; 150 knots; 5 hours to new york. peter 
kneels and partakes of the cream pie, the special treat created by the 
combined juices of his wife heidi and her sometime lover hagbard.

	the quist sits, doing nothing particularly useful and meddling in the hopes 
and dreams of all of those who seek to live at liberty on earth. it matters 
not whether he is who some say he is, or if he is purely a construct of the 
prayers of his believers; for whether or not he has actually existed as it 
has been written, the prayers of the quistians would have in either event 
propelled his ongoing existence; for the power of their prayer is, in and of 
itself yet another form of witchcraft; yet quistian humans are free of 
self-examination; so convinced as they are of their own righteousness; 
looking forward to that day when the proverbial wheat - they themselves - 
shall be taken up from the chaff - those they deem but evil - and the feet 
of the righteous shall tread over the deadened ashes of the wicked.
	the power of their quistian prayers sustains the life of their mythical 
lord and saviour, where he sits atop his throne in some would-be heavenly 
realm; and there at the summons of the prayers of his 'believers,' casts 
invisible, life-crippling bolts at the targets of their wrath; wrath couched 
in words such as 'good,' and 'love;' that the hopes and dreams of the 
would-be heathens might be smashed to bits; the stifling energy of prayer 
being in truth but a method by which believers can bring the rest of 
humanity down to the levels of misunderstanding cherished by those very same 
faithful.
	suffice it to say, for their part quistians are but another brand of 
collectivist; and collectivists love their laws, their self-righteousness, 
and their punishments; and all are without exception loathe to see a single 
fellow human being happy; at least not without first grovelling for such 
permission from those very same collectivists.
	of course, the mystery of the one known as the quist runs deep; to the same 
depths as the one we call lucifer; and no one is talking. suffice it to say 
that the truth does not necessarily set a man free, but perchance instead 
drives him into writhing, overarching, twisting, twirling, insanity.

	max is above ground, in the city late at night. the flags are all at 
half-mast, as though someone of 'greatness' has died, or the plebians are 
commemorating yet another genocide, as has always been their wont and their 
right. he has secured his gun at the underground station, and has only his 
wits about him; along with some stun grenades and his 9mm.
	he feels naked, as though he is exposed to the machinations of some as yet 
unseen magnificent dominatrix; but he keeps silently reminding himself that 
he isn't into that sort of thing. he has the sense that he is losing his 
mind; as though he is falling into a sort of cosmic seduction.
	it is as though he has fallen so deeply in love with some as yet unseen 
predatory female; a witch of the highest order, and he knows in his heart 
that he might be compelled to be her sire, yet that - in addition to he - 
she will as well always; as to the dictates of her wont; couple with 
whomever her precious, darkened heart desires. he begins to think he'd 
better be on his best behavior should he meet her in the flesh, then he 
catches himself in mid-thought and wonders if he has but a creeping 
delirium.
	a few nasty cretins leap forth from an alleyway, thinking max easy prey; 
but his training is too much for them in their decadent state; several 
kung-fu moves and it is over. they all lay writhing in utter defeat and 
pain, their mugging gone so horribly awry; they themselves left to die as 
max moves on, missing nary a stride. he is whistling dixie in the dark, 
looking about for the next hideous encounter as if on a lark. as your scribe 
attempts to wax poetically eloquent, there is yet a point to all of this.
	he darts into the causeway and walks down the dank, decrepit passageway, 
doors various and sundry opening as he gains entry to chamber after chamber, 
each set of doors  closing unceremoniously behind him as yet a new set opens 
before him. it is as though he is a modern-day maxwell smart, only this max 
really is - smart. he reaches the booth at the end of the line, and he 
enters and deposits a quarter and a five dimes, then punches some buttons on 
the mini-console and is swept at fantastic speeds, upwards into the office 
sanctuary of the nsa.
	the secretaries mince to and fro with their stiletto heels and their sheer 
dresses and panoply of satin and sheer bras and bikini or hip-hugger panties 
so readily visible underneath; without exception the cotton crotches of 
their panties cut out, their fragrant pussies covered by only a wisp of 
satin or sheer material. there are no thongs here; those are simply uncouth. 
he smiles a wry smile and thinks, 'taxpayer dollars at work.' if only johnny 
and jane dweeb were to know. but of course they have been distracted from 
the true business at hand.
	instead the meandering plebes out on the darkened streets are in pursuits; 
pastimes in point of fact so far removed from their own true interests; but 
as it has always been on earth, so it will always be, and the special agents 
of the nsa are there to make sure it will always remain that way. in any 
event, stealing from people as they are but sheep is never as grand as it 
has always been cracked up to be, for the money is not the point but it 
would take so very long for any of the besotted to ever understand that. 
suffice it to say that you can't cheat an honest man.
	somewhere in an early morning dew-laden dawn walks one who knows, but she 
isn't telling and will rather go about her daily business as though 
unschooled in the arcane, and those self-same pimps of the paranormal will 
make short work of the tawdry aspirations of the nearly insane, themselves 
at last judged and branded cogent in the waning of the estuary on the 
thames, there at the end of spiraling hystory and the attendant manifold, 
searing pains.
	max fondles a secretary's rounded, fleshy buttocks through the sheer 
material, as she coos and undulates under his subtly grasping, groping 
fingers; for she is so well paid to act in just such a way, and after all 
with max it is more than that; either way he is bored and suddenly lowers 
his hands and continues on into the office of the chief.
	the chief sits balding behind a mahagony desk, there in a reverse lotus 
position and chanting backwards in an attempt at plunging the world outside 
into chaos; for chaos is where the most profit is ultimately to be made, but 
more importantly - so much more imporantly - where the most control is to be 
wrested from the hands of those who so willfully remain ignorant in their 
trance that they might have an actual chance at 'the good life.'
	chief has always called it, 'the good lie' and it is an inside joke at the 
agency; the fact that they employ human want as an instrument of their own 
ongoing power play; and without exception, everyone in the agency is ever so 
happy to continue with this charade; without exemption because those who 
begin to turn have always been uncerimoniously dispatched; and everyone in 
the agency is aware of this fact.
	as it turns out, the war between the witches - eldians - and the nsa is not 
at all about morality; but rather at its basest, booty; and at its most 
sublime, something incomprehensible to our human minds; and this is actually 
the way of all war. suffice it to say that, in the final analysis, the sum 
total of all of our fine words is worth but less than either a wooden nickel 
or as the case may be, an fdr dime.
	and yet some would have you believe it all begins and ends in the physical 
realm and never touches upon the ether or the vril; and such are either 
tremendous dolts, dweebs, or plebes; or simply covering up some great 
deceit.
	in any event, the chief duly finishes his nightly meditation ceremony, and 
seemingly without looking says, "hey there stud, how you doing?" it is as 
though chief has eyes in the back of his head, but in truth there is a 
window in front of him and he has seen max's reflection on the glass, 
entering the room behind him; the stern countenance of the bronze demigod 
that is max tersely waving with a barely uttered, 'hello.'

	"so what brings you to hq? shouldn't you be out hunting some witches or 
somesuch?"

	and max is heard to say, "well chief it's just that... may i have permision 
to speak freely?"

	"of course, you're my #1 agent. what's on your mind?"

	"i think i'm in love. i can't shake this feeling?.. this sense ..."

	"oh now you know we don't fall in love at the nsa." chief is grinning as he 
stands and sits in the chair behind the desk, giving it a complete spin 
before the gravity of the situation is able to set in.

	"yes sir, and i had not sought love, but somehow i think one of the witches 
is onto me; inside of me."

	it is one of those moments where the nature of the truth and the lie 
becomes so readily apparent that even the most ignorant are said to repent 
of their previously accidental malfeasance. instantly, max begins to 
understand.

	chief offers a plate of party mints to max. "here max, you need one of 
these."

	max takes a mint, as if he has lost his will. the room begins to spin in 
his mind. he pops the mint and the super psilocybin begins to affect him 
instantly and in earnst.

	"max, i think we need to talk."

	chief's countenance is ostensibly demonic, but max sits there across from 
him in a guest's chair and offers up nothing much more than a blank, 
hypnotic stare.

	"max i'm the mole. now you know. luciferian to the core. and of those 
witches, they are not subhuman at all; but rather exalted alien whores if 
you will; and of the massacre; brace yourself."

	max drinks in the words as if they are a bitter elixir yet calming his 
jangled nerves. he has no thoughts of attacking the chief, for something is 
holding him back. his resistance is melting. and the truth of the massacre 
is being manifested in his consciousness at last.

	"max, max, max... that was we. well not really but i can't put it any more 
clearly than that. think big; bigger than you've ever thought; bigger than 
that package in your pants. your family didn't really die. we put ersatz 
corpses in their place. your family is in a safe haven and they have already 
taken the mark; the mark of the beast. that is to say that they are prepared 
for the merge; the nexus. do you see it coming? words cannot do all of this 
justice, but you see it in your heart. look out; out through your third eye; 
your pineal gland.
	"see the distant lands. you see the other planet? do you see? it has to be 
this way. the witches are for the most part what we would call 'space 
aliens.' they are our friends. such that time might never end; much that all 
of this untold despair, pain, and terror we've gone through as humanity for 
so very long; such that it might take on a far more exquisite, wealthy 
flavor. yes, our misery is going to be so rich from now on; it will never 
again be that empty pit of suffering that the vast majority of we as humans 
have for so long have had to contend with."

	max shivers involuntarily. visions fly past his 3rd eye, then unmasked in 
its entirety for the first time in his life. he sees jennifer. she is riding 
him in his mind. but even more he sees myriad worlds flashing across his 
second sight; fantastic creatures and fields of energy; warped and twisted 
spirals of THE WORD flashing through all of recorded human and inhuman 
hystory; the nexus is so near. he hears peter panzer - blitzkrieg - playing 
in his brain. it is like sound candy, so rich and sweet and made of fabric 
at once so tainted yet sublime.
	max is in agony and ecstasy. it is beyond buddhism. it is like evil 
buddhism. the forbidden is upon the proverbial plate of his consciousness, 
and for the first time in his life he eats until satiated. the music, the 
stars, the spirals, jennifer as if phsyically there riding him; she in a 
pink sheer babydoll, with matching sheer bikini panties pulled aside and his 
massive member pumping and puslating in and out of her tight, wet, 
cinammon-fleshy-scented vagina. she is wearing those fancy cuban-heeled 
stockings; the type which were ostensibly outlawed by his own nsa those 
years before when they had first instigated the anti-witchcraft fray.
	his entire life is suddenly devoid of plain emptiness, but instead is rich 
with the emanations of those he had previously despised as witches. they are 
from another planet. he sees two worlds; once seemingly disparate but from 
here on out, ever synchronizing along their once-distinct cosmic 
frequencies; here and now resonating with nearly the same phrases of 
undulating strands of THE WORD; the earth universe is at .38 on the bodean 
scale.

	"see max, the entire nsa was taken over by them - or should i say we - long 
ago. as a matter of fact, they have always been the unseen hand in human 
hystory. our own musician, afkap stated it most succinctly when he once 
created that song, 'pussy controls.' and i see that you're finally enjoying 
yourself. you know, you were always a bit of a killjoy; now i don't blame 
you a bit for that but look at you now. isn't jennifer beautiful. she is to 
be your wife; same with the one known as heidi."

	max can feel heidi's hands carressing him as jennifer rides him, the two 
females acting in concert like a solitary multi-handed hindu goddess, taking 
him to heretofore uknown heights of esoteric ecstasy.
	then max sees peter panzer standing there beside them, giving encouragement 
to the other three in their throes of mounting ecstasy. and max knows that 
he is a sire, and the peter is a cuckolded eunuch; that the four of them 
will constitute a new kind of marriage; the same kind of marriage which has 
so commonly been practiced on that once-distant but now nearly overflowing 
world of eld; cultivated by eldians since the earliest twinklings of 
experimental humanity.
	peter grins, for his ecstasy is perhaps the greatest of all; his kind so 
misunderstood by so many plebian earthling dweebs throughout the course of 
their oh-so-wounded hystory. whether because of the mint or not, max 
instantly understands. the eunuch is not a source of revilement, but a 
benefactor to humanity. the eunuch is not a source of shame, but a companion 
for the sire. and they will each know their own misery; one of coupling with 
women, and the other never knowing the same. for so many earthlings have so 
forgotten what it is for the sire to couple with the female; a loss of 
sorts. you could almost say that the eunuch in his denial of coupling with 
the female becomes more of a man than the sire, who is himself feminized in 
a fashion by the act of fornication. humans have so rejected all of the 
lessons taught them in aeons past, yet that is going to change once again, 
at last.
	max spurts and spurts; amazing amounts of jizz; the ladies and peter 
actually materialize in the room; becoming corporeal rather than as but 
plasmic ether. they are all there. the chief goes on in the background.

	"yes we are moles, and now you are one of us; and i see that you like it. 
now you are reminded of the small death; just as you always have been 
reminded; just as sires have always found out.
	"do you see how lost we as humans have become as a civilization? as a human 
family, we hardly do justice to the word; civilization. we are completely 
forgetful of the meaning of birth and death, of the spiraling cycles of 
nothingness; of light and darkness intermingled in their eternal dance."

	max uncouples with jennifer as she stands, then seats herself in a separate 
chair. heidi has taken another chair there next to her. peter now has his 
chance at servicing the ladies. jennifer feeds him her cream pie, and he 
sighs and services her, there on his knees in a purple satin suit. the room 
is full of various amounts of spent, presently fulfilled, and building 
desire. it is the nature of the beast.
	max grins as he sits there and wallows in his post-orgasmic haze. heidi 
stands, kneels, and licks him clean. there is nothing quite like the taste 
of sacred female love juice on a flaccid member; unmanned as it were in 
post-orgasmic trauma and solitude. yet this petit noir is but full of hope 
for max, unlike any he's ever had in the past.
	the chief goes on, "now you know max, now you know. you have taken the mark 
as have we. we are preparing for the merge; the nexus. it will be just 11 
days now. there are a few more adjustments to make and then everything will 
be as it should always have been.
	jennifer, heidi, and peter all disappear as quickly as they have arrived. 
max isn't certain if any of it were real, but the wetness and softness of 
his member, exposed there in the room before the chief; it is all he needs 
as proof of the reality of the situation and what has just transpired in the 
same. max puts his snake back into his pants and zips up.

	"chief, sorry for the impropriety. i don't know what has happened..."

	"max, you know exactly what has happened. you are one of us now. actually, 
you always have been. did you know you have a bloodline which goes back to 
qetzalcoatl and tezcatlipoca? that's right, you're not only lakota, tlingit, 
and aztec, but you have toltec in you as well. this is why everything is 
happening just as it is. you see, your toltec lineage was a hindrance for 
the longest time; a last line of resistance against the machinations of the 
one you know as jennifer. yet just yesterday she fully decoded your dna. and 
then your lineage became a help for her spell, rather than the so-called 
defense it had once been.
	"max, just know this; own it with all of your heart and every fiber of your 
being. you have done the right thing. now you are one with us. we have but 
little more than a week and the two worlds will merge. you have found your 
soulmates. peter will be there to make music with you; to act as a training 
partner in your physical activities; to engage in the most detailed and 
elaborate intellectual excercises possible; and will act as your sounding 
board in matters of the head and heart. that is one of the key roadblocks to 
your conversion; getting you to understand that even though the eunuch is 
but 'half a man' in terms of our own so-called civilization; his kind is 
essential to a balanced universe. eldian women understand this. our own 
women once knew but have forgotten. they are about to re-learn this, and 
they will ultimately be delighted by the discovery."

	max drinks it in. the super-psilocybin is waning. it is a pure, 
unadulterated type of drug which brings the one who ingested it, in and out 
of the trip, all well within an hour. max is full for the first time in his 
life. all of the angst has been stripped away. momentarily though he is 
forlorn at all of the actual killing he has done. the chief speaks again.

	"max i take it you're remembering your career here at the nsa and lamenting 
all of the bloodshed. you're thinking that if those women had ultimately 
been but your allies, that you're ashamed at what you have done. listen: 
killing is most often never pleasant, except perhaps for those of us who are 
in a momentary fit of rage. in any event now that you know so much of the 
truth, it must hurt you to think of what you've done. let me assure you 
though that in the grand scheme of things, your actions are but variations 
of the spiraling strands of particles and waves which manifest themselves as 
the dramas here on this plane. let me put it another way.
	it is all karma. we have to face the heretofore ugly truth that what 
happens to people, happens to them for a reason. there is no dispensation 
for anyone, for the second we make allowances for the supposed innocence or 
guilt of anyone involved, then we have fallen from the true path. not only 
that, but at least half of those you ostensibly murdered were but clones. 
their originals are yet intact, leading rich and full lives both here and on 
their home planet. perhaps that doesn't make it any easier to swallow, but 
consider this: whatever is, is. in truth the omniverse approves - or rather 
does not disapprove - equally of all joy and suffering. these are but shades 
along the same spectrum of experience provided us by myriad demiurges, each 
with their own universe within the overall omniverse."

	max almost understands. he certainly grasps it enough that his guilt is at 
least somewhat assuaged.

	heidi and peter step down from their portals there in the bowels of the 
submarine. they are both grinning from ear to ear. hagbard greets them with 
a smile of his own and booms, "i see you met with success. we must have 
tamed a proverbial beast. i propose a party; a toast; a good time for all."
	he orders that the submarine should stop there in the mid-atlantic, and 
that the viewports should be opened and that they should look out upon an 
undersea garden from a perch upon the ocean floor, away from the ebb and 
flow of civilian and military maritime traffic which courses blindly above 
them.
	peter steps up upon a stage in the makeshift theatre there within the 
craft, and his bandmates have their likenesses piped in from their secret 
headquarters back in upstate new york. flint and perc are for all intents 
and purposes, there on that same stage in all of their larger-than-life 
peronas. peter fires up a song and they play one of their best shows, while 
the crew members dressed in purple and pink satins and sheers meander about, 
and hagbard passes out copious amounts of super psilocybin elixir. they all 
smoke and joke and reminisce about all of the struggles they've gone 
through, and the chatter amongst them is more often than not about how close 
they are to their grand goal, and how all of the suffering of the past might 
soon flower into something of such beauty that the despair, agony, and 
terror of their demiurge-driven existence might at last truly be accepted as 
but part and parcel of the whole; indeed, that humanity might for ever more 
halt itself in its attempts at ridding the world of the pain, and instead 
accept the same as but fertilizer for that flower which is ultimate beauty. 
they also know that if they are to somehow misstep in this final run toward 
the nexus, that they will at best be once again consigned to the tedium of 
the treasury of light. this is something which no one at the party dares 
utter aloud. the atmosphere is on the surface, joyus yet the thought remains 
in the background of every heart and mind in the room.
	nonetheless, it is a great bacchanal; magnificent rods piston in and out of 
slippery, sweetened, fleshy portholes; sumptuous cream pies on flow for all 
the cuckolds; women at last satiated. after this, the ladies all congregate 
amongst themselves and enjoy each others' company, whilst the eunuchs and 
sires retire to a room full of toys; games of the mind. peter beats hagbard 
in three out of five games of some hybrid between what we know as european 
chess, and the superlative chinese chess or xiang qi. hagbard smokes his 
pipe and laughs a hearty laugh at having once again been beaten by the 
crafty eunuch.
	"well done!" he bellows, as he stands and heads for the bridge. "well, time 
to get underway again. we still have some unfinished business."

	monrak struts about the greenhouse, talking to his mariujuana plants, 
petting his mushrooms, cooing to them. on the screen above him is the eldian 
super bowl. yes, it is the same game as american football as we know it here 
on earth. like all of the good things of our world, most have been imported 
from eld by those agents who have always infiltrated our world. timon is 
playing free safety. there is a big hit and timon rattles a wide receiver. 
the game is going to be close.
	so much of our culture here on earth is really an import from another 
world; american football; chopin, rachmaninov, brahms; django reinhardt, 
gershwin, monk, coltraine, jazz in general; the rat pack; the television 
shows i dream of jeannie, and bewitched; of course, satins and sheers; 
strawberries; on and on and on.
	so many of our plant cures are alien manifestations. this is why the 
unknowing plebes and dweebs are at present trying to wipe out the memory of 
the ancient shamanistic healing arts; to erase these methods from the human 
apothecary; replacing the same instead with the false cures of the ama and 
big pharma.
	this is why at present, myriad people act as sheep and simply take their 
pills as they are instructed. the ama and big pharma are a quistian 
construct, as are welfare states, and public schools, vaccinations, fiat 
currency; you name it. whatever we as humans employ in the name of empty 
words such as 'democracy' and 'fairness' and 'compassion' and 'love;' it is 
all of the quist; the 'being' and his - whether conscious of the fact or not 
- followers who would deny the rest of us any liberty and instead have we 
living at some poverty level of being, shorn of the riches which were 
intended to be our heritage by the one they call lucifer.
	these followers of quist, even the ones who call themselves atheist, 
communists, socialist, democrat, or even luciferian; without exception they 
are filled with such a misery that their fine words are but a disguise for 
the fact that they exist but to drag the rest of humanity down to their 
level of self-disgust. very few of these people ever recognize this about 
themselves, and instead with every waking moment seek secretly to enslave 
those around them, all the while they themselves pretending to be 
benefactors of humankind.
	they talk of a world without pain, a world where no one might fail; a world 
of plenty. what they fail to realize is that they are mixing metaphors, so 
to speak; that a world without pain or a world without want really only 
exists in the IT, and that the IT is motionless. instead, these fallen 
beings insist that they can 'have their cake and eat it too;' that we can 
all share a world of motion which is as well without either suffering or 
want. yet these would-be sugar daddies of humanity are so mistaken, and to 
point this out to them only means to suffer persecution at their 
self-described 'morally superior' hands, hearts, and minds.
	to reiterate; all questions of the quist and lucifer and myriad other faces 
of the el aside; there is a world without pain, but it is motionless and 
therefore boring. thus the demiurges are not the evil icons that would-be 
gnostics say they are; rather, the demiurges are the heroic gods who make 
worlds of motion out of but previous motionlessness; and yes they bring into 
being want and pain; agony, despair, and terror; yet in the midst of all of 
that is the beauty which can only be manifested in a world of motion; the 
silence and stillness of the IT will never, ever compare in that regard.
	in any event, the others of us who love liberty are stuck; beholden to 
those who think they know what is best for everyone else about them; yet in 
truth the self-described altruists are the biggest cosmic criminals of all; 
and for the most part, they will never see, and rather will serve to oppress 
everyone else with a barely-concealed glee.
	this is why the approaching advent of lawlessness is such a threat to 
would-be benefactors of humanity; for they need their laundry list of human 
laws not for any real moral reasons, but simply as a mechanism for keeping 
their proverbial feet on the throats of all who would instinctively live at 
liberty.
	leaving all of the various and sundry - actual and potential - other 
universes out of the question, keep in mind but a few observations about our 
world in particular, gleaned from the sayings of solomonstar:
	1) the Tetragrammaton (IT or YHVH in large letters) is not the demiurge 
('el' or yhvh in small letters)
	2) if you make it impossible to fail, you will have made it impossible to 
succeed (the latter being the handwringers' true goal).
	3) there is no freedom; instead there are only consequences; only the 
inconsequential are free.

	now you know the secrets to our universe; and more or less any other 
universe for that matter; thus the keys to any universe in the entire 
omniverse. the names might change and the degrees of suffering versus bliss 
might shift depending on whether we are referring to a 'lower' or 'upper' 
world (eld and earth for example with their ostensible 39:36~ respectively 
out of a possible 100).
	lucifer and the quist are not who people say they are. even the 
illuminatists are but quistians pretending to be luciferian. you will know 
them by their laws. if they have a large book of laws and point at their 
chests and talk of how good they themselves are, you will know that they are 
- for lack of a better word - evil.
	instead, if they come to you and say, 'let there be no rules but unfettered 
liberty and self-responsibility,' then you will know that they are 
anti-quist and authentically luciferian.
	the reason so many people have eschewed lawlessness is their own fear that 
others might 'get away' with something, or succeed in being happy, or in 
creating something beautiful beyond compare. the tiny, collectivist souls 
are deathly afraid of the liberty of others. on eld, they have evolved 
beyond all of that. indeed, on eld they have lived at liberty forever.
	does this - at once living at liberty and accepting personal responsibility 
- cause an end to pain and suffering and hopelessness and fear? of course it 
does not. but what it does facilitate is the creation of untold beauty; 
beauty as heretofore barely fathomed in this world, save by aforementioned 
seers who of late have been increasingly identified and persecuted by the 
would-be annointed; the annointed being those self-described earthly 
arbiters and gatekeepers of all that is 'right and good;' in the 
handwringers' own insipid, banal, tiny hearts and minds of course; but not 
in reality.
	the hour of the lawyers is almost finished. the freight train of true 
luciferian reality is about to run them down as they meander about the 
tracks of their precious, quistian socialism; their same sorts of social and 
political machinations having crushed the spirits of the iconoclasts since 
perhaps the beginning of human time.
	a few of us are waking up. the big key is in being willing to live 
responsibly, in understanding that doing whatever you want, without 
constraint, is its own constraint. to put it another way, being lawless also 
means being willing to accept whatever comes a person's way without 
complaint. yet for as long as the handwringers yet have their myriad rules 
and regulations, we who yearn to live at liberty have every right to 
protest.

	jennifer steps out of the circle; the 9-pointed star in the basement of her 
house, there on the hill overlooking the rivers winding lazily through the 
rivertine city of portland by the sea. it is dawn again. she has been so 
busy of late. max is now in; and jennifer is contented, perhaps for the 
first time in her life.
	there is more to do yet; she has to meet with certain humans, one by one 
and expose them to the proverbial cosmic fairy dust which will allow them to 
fully comprehend and embrace the looming change; the end of the world; the 
dawn of a new age. the converts will thus provide the spirtual and mental 
flux needed for the eldrich capacitors to fire up and fulfill their ancient 
purpose; the nexus. 11 days remain and then there will be a budding solace 
once again for what had previously been for the most part but unmitigated 
pointlessness and pain.

	the chief is finishing his lecture on anti-buddhism, having fairly well 
convinced a reeling max that it is one in the same with regular buddhism. 
"the main thing to remember is that, when something tragic happens to 
someone, it is their karma. this applies to everyone. there are no 
exceptions."
	"this is where the nicheren dai shonen, among others fall short. they make 
a dispensation for certain karma, and they go so far as to believe that 
poverty and suffering can be eliminated in this world. there they have 
missed the point. once you have a world in motion, you have suffering. there 
is no avoiding it. without going into grizzly details, the experienced souls 
will now and then again drift back into the IT, for a sort of metaphysical 
or cosmic recharging of their beings. yet invariably, if they manage to 
remain intact whilst resting inside of IT, they without exception return to 
worlds such as eld or our own. the draw of the worlds of the demiurges is 
simply too great. the great drama we ultimately long for can only be created 
in an atmosphere of overall suffering or disease."
	"so at first hearing, my chanting of the nam myoho renge kyo in reverse; 
well i'm sure it seemed downright evil there to you for just a moment. but 
whereas for instance the nicheren dai shonen chant this encapsulation - the 
entirety of the lotus sutra contained within but a few syllables - in a 
forward fashion in order to 'make' the world, we as anti-buddhists chant it 
in reverse in order to 'unmake' the world; understand that this is the best 
way which words can describe this state of affairs; and we realize better 
than anyone that both approaches lead to the same ends. perhaps in summation 
it can be said that our contrasting practices give balance to this demiurgic 
existence."
	it is already mid-morning and max has been getting lectured for hours by 
the chief. the words fill him and create a kind of new foundation for the 
fabric of his parapsychological being.
	max is smiling. he simply says, "chief, i get this. i finally get it. do 
you mind if i take my leave and set about the city?"
	"sure, max; you do whatever you want. you have a free pass now. i'll let 
you know if anything comes up. just wait for another 11 days or so and make 
contact with jennifer or any of the others as you see fit."
	max stands and makes his way out, and whilst passing through the foyer 
makes another lingering feel of a beautiful brunette's ass. the brunette is 
pale of skin and has clear blue eyes. she is wearing a sheer black 
mini-dress - swiss miss style - with buttons on the front and puffy - but 
not padded - shoulders. the lady wears a sheer bra and sheer bikini panties 
under her dress. her scent is so intoxicating, but not enough to cause max 
to forget what has happened awhile before with jennifer and the others. yet 
the moment is thrilling in any event. max heads for the elevator and he 
knows for the first time as well that the ladies of the nsa office are all 
willing participants in the grand game; in other words, for these women it 
isn't entirely about the vig alone.
	he also knows that, without exception they are the types of women who could 
easily lure a restless married human male away from an unattentive wife.

	sprawling, spiraling, swirling pieces of molten ice splash across the 
darkended depths of space; a formation like locusts yet invisible to the 
naked human eye. the comet which had destroyed the city of earth just the 
year before was but a precursor to this, the main and upcoming event: T 
minus 9 days. The swarm is in something beyond even the infrared spectrum 
and even our best astronomers have not yet detected it. these fragments are 
almost sentient; like angels sent from an ostensible army of god sent but to 
wreak havoc on the inhabitants of earth.

	monrak watches the rest of the game. timon has an interception at the 
critical stage! monrak will have to joke with him about it, as they might 
both one day sit together and reminisce over their shared football hystory. 
monrak had once been a superlative quarterback. some on eld had him as a 
sort of dark-haired version of boomer esiason of earthly fame; yet monrak 
had participated in the winning of three eldian super bowls where esiason 
could not boast of but a single championship on earth.
	perhaps it had been the injury to tim krumrie; something soon forgotten by 
so many onlookers but perhaps the key play of that game; the great nose 
tackle having broken his leg on literally the first set of downs, as the 
bengals had gone to defeat at the hands of the 49ers that earth day.
	monrak had participated in the winning three super bowls on eld, and now 
timon has helped win his own first. there is a reason they are one of the 
most respected families of their world at this time; for in addition to 
monrak's great siring and athletic exploits, timon has definitely held his 
own in the physical realm, despite - or perhaps even partially because of - 
having worn the chastising apparatus for all these years.
	their wives, katrina and christina are beyond compare; in both beauty and 
intelligence. yes they are all as royalty; as royal as a family might yet 
become on a planet without any formal heirarchy; where accomplishments and 
countenances command the only respect ever given by others. there are no 
silly laws to browbeat the commoners with; for there are no commoners; no 
plebes; no proles; no dweebs; rather theirs is a world of infinite liberty 
and possibility.
	monrak watches the end of the game, gives a celebratory shout, and goes 
about about tending his entheogens. various and sundry other gardners mill 
about, some sampling the wares. there are incredible, super strains of 
opium, salvia divinorum, peyote, marijuana, and psilocybin; just to name a 
few. there are hundreds of such plants there about the room; only 9 days to 
go, and earth will have such as well, growing in abundance everywhere as 
they already do on eld, as it has always been, harkening back to those 
seemingly entirely lost but not yet forgotten days many spiraling, cascading 
strands of time distant from where monrak presently stands.
	the viewport changes. monrak and those about him in their resplendent 
satins, velvets, and sheers look up in awe at the sight of the comet swarm 
approaching, across the screen; perhaps as a sort of material yet ethereal 
legion of previously self-imposed inert and unreasoning elder gods, having 
been seemingly silent and causeless sentries over the yawning passages of 
eldian universal ages, and at last awakened in their pending rendezvous with 
destiny. the swarm is near; only 9 days. the careening mass of ancient fiery 
ice has to be deflected, absorbed, injected into the milieu about the planet 
itself, just in time for the nexus. and if all things are to go according to 
schedule, then a nearly exact equivalent must occur above earth. the odds 
have arisen to 89%. it is better, but not good enough.
	monrak retires to his quarters for a tryst with katrina and christina. 
perhaps timon will be there to assist, assuming his availability for such 
after his extreme effort in the football game. monrak himself walks with a 
slight limp; a leftover effect from an injury in his glory days about the 
football field not five years prior. eldian surgical reconstruction is 
better than on earth, yet not perfect; and their own football players and 
other champions of physical sport have always worn their own injuries as 
badges; reminding both themselves and others as to how they have endured and 
even thrived on the contested fields of play.

	on eld there are no childbirths as on earth. instead the semen and egg are 
incubated and the newborn are taken care of by robots, after which the 
infants emerge at adolescence as completely well-adjusted eldian beings. in 
contrast, on earth the human women will give childbirth, and for the most 
part bear the burden of raising their children, and more often than not this 
results in severely traumatized young adults, thus the cycle of misery is at 
least partially propelled in that fashion.
	on eld there is yet misery, but not more or less due to any issues of 
upbringing. in worlds of motion there is always suffering, but at least on 
eld the process of producing new life is streamlined. some might argue that 
it is not meant to be, yet each demiurge has a differing blueprint as to how 
the chain of events might ebb and flow, and thus the elder methods differ 
from those of the earthly el in that regard. in any event, the eldian 
incubating and upbringing methods are part of what gives them the higher 
rating compared to earth on the bodean scale.

	heidi and peter take the escape pod from the submarine, itself morphing 
into a mini cooper, and land on long island, with their built-in cloaking 
device making them invisible to any passers-by. as the vehicle's sensors 
detect no human life, the cloak is switched off and the car touches down in 
a large field enclosed by woods, there about their hidden estate; the car 
then bursts forth from a secret driveway, much like the batmobile used to do 
on earth in the 1960s. their estate fades behind them as they race out along 
the highway. they are headed for gotham city. heidi pets peter's pickle 
beneath his satin pants, her long manicured nails working langoriously up 
and down his aroused yet chastised member; ah the ever-so-soft sting of 
cuckoldry; such a motivator; marching eunuchs onto great heights of 'human' 
achievement. peter whispers, almost as though in a trance, "heiday hunnay i 
love you so."

	"and i love you" she coos as she continues to manipulate him; he always 
within reach of orgasm but never quite getting there.

	peter responds, "sometimes i wonder; you know my package is quite 
impressive, but that as a cuckold, i never get to fuck."

	heidi is taken aback and temporarily halts her ministrations, "and?"

	"well it's just that i wonder about life on eld. you know, with the babay 
incinerators..."

	"oh yes the incubators... and?"

	"well sometimes i wish so much that i could flat out fuck you, the way 
hagbard and some of the others have. now don't get may wrong."

	"listen peter, we've been over this before. it is better that you are at 
once both well-endowed, and a cuckold. it adds more fuel to the fire. trust 
that i will never couple with any male who misunderstands, never with any of 
those loathsome self-described real men of earth. those deluded animals who 
think they're extra macho because they constantly consort with women, when 
in point of fact they've lost their own masculinity through over-fucking."

	"but do you thank that every relationship on eld is exactlay a group of 
four; two men, a sire and a eunuch, and two women? and with regulated 
amounts of fuckang?"

	"actually peter, admittedly it isn't always that way on eld; but that is 
what they gravitate toward; their ideal; and much of it could be said to be 
but a reaction to what they see happening here on earth, and their wanting 
to avoid what goes on here at all costs; you know, the grand cuckold of 
which virtually no one here speaks, the welfare state? the greediness these 
people perpetrate in the name of all that is well and good? eldians see it 
for the hypocrisy it truly is."

	"so sometimes on eld a eunuch gets to fuck?"

	a tiny smile crosses her glistening red lips, "well, perhaps not exactly, 
but suffice it to say that it isn't always a group of four."

	"i know i'm an elday-an.. but i want to go there someday... say it for 
myself."

	"well you don't have long to wait now, do you?"  she resumes playing with 
his frustrated package. "you know, some day i might fuck you. i don't think 
it would do that much harm. i think there will be a lot of room for 
exploration, particularly after we take care of this nexus. but i want you 
to remember something; always remember it."

	"what is that?"

	"well a couple of things; first of all that being a eunuch or a cuckold is 
a position of honour; it actually takes more of a man than being a sire. 
when you witness my coupling with a sire, you're the one who - in a certain 
way - retains your manhood whilst the sire is ultimately spent; unmanned as 
it were."

	"yeah but sometimes that doesn't same like aynough."

	"let me finish. think of the bliss. i've seen it on your face before. when 
you reach that ego death. it's something only a cuckold can experience. no 
sire will ever reach that point of ecstasy, no matter how good the fucking 
gets. yes, not being able to couple with the one you love; it is pure agony, 
but only to a point. you know that, don't you?"

	"ok i admit to it."

	"then the ego death comes and everything fits into place. also, think of 
the most important orgasm i as a woman can have; it's not from fucking the 
sire; for no matter how desireable that looks to you; my favorite orgasm is 
inevitably in sharing my cream pie with you. and let me leave you with this. 
you go ahead and think about fucking me. but remember, to do that; to become 
a sort of sire; you will lose at least a part of your cuckoldry. when all is 
said and done, you might regret it. remember, it's a question of agony and 
ecstasy. if you give up on the agony of being the cuckold, you might never 
again regain the ecstasy of the attendant ego death. and you might never 
again be able to give me that super special orgasm that only a cuckold 
eating my cream pie can provide me. consider one last thing. there is an 
in-between; we call it florentine; maybe we can explore that as a sort of 
salve to your status, without you having to give up what it is that makes 
you so very precious, sexually."

	"well i have to say, you've got may there. ok. let may thank about it some 
more. ponderosa it a bit. levitate over it."

	"you mean ponder and cogitate?"

	"what did i just say?"

	and at once they both begin to laugh.

	they pull into madison square garden, and know it is time. normally, the 
band blitzkrieg would not be performing in such an ostentatious venue, but 
certain of the powers that be in hollywood and madison avenue have already 
been infected with the eldian way, and this is the beginning of their 
monster tour. of course everyone involved behind the scenes knows that it is 
T minus 6 days and nearly time for the really big show.

	perc odin and flint skinner are in position as peter panzer struts out onto 
the stage in a sheer outfit with satin hip-hugger panties underneath, like a 
modern day foppish dandy, his guitar as the sword he carries into this, his 
streetfight; the show. the fans are going crazy, many in similar satin and 
sheer outfits, pretty boys and sexy girls, all delighting in the orgiastic 
frenzy of the crescendoing beat as flint leads into their first song. peter 
shreds off some incredible riffs as his voice goes from castrato to a deep 
growl and back again, and perc kicks in with a throbbing bass line. the 
energy about the place is electric. many of the females in the crowd are 
throbbing in near orgasm, wet from the sound of the music and the pulsing of 
the surrounding environs.
	the music ebbs and flows, from cascading metal anthems to quiet little 
classically-inspired ballads, and back again. the lyrics speak of all of the 
otherworldly richness that is eld mixed with earth, and then as according to 
plan, the orb is presented behind the band. instantly the entire audience is 
converted, and without missing a beat they continue in their bacchanal 
celebration, as if an overmind is steering the entire procession, from the 
person in the furthest reaches of the balconies to the band itself there on 
stage; they all have a singularity of purpose, and they are without 
exception empathetic with one another.
	across the entire audience, where one dude wants another dude's chick, the 
two dudes fight it out; yet after one has been overcome by the other, the 
victor is cool about it, and the two chicks in question gravitate to the 
champion whilst the vanquished dude accepts his cuckold. and the victor and 
the vanquished are yet fast friends whilst the females will at once and 
forever be satisfied.
	this small drama plays itself out in pockets within the crowd, and in the 
case of injury the finest emts are on hand to triage the wounds of both 
vanquished and victor. opium flows freely as the fire sprinkler system 
sprays a sort of super lsd over the entire proceeding. there are bags of 
weed being dropped from strategically placed dispensers along the ceiling of 
the place. it is the most unearthly scene anyone could deign to witness 
outside of the bizarre rituals practiced beneath, say the mormon temple in 
salt lake city, or deep within the catacombs of the vatican, or in hidden 
passages beneath the island of malta; or there deep within the antideluvian 
mazes beneath arizona; but where all of the latter are without exception 
tyrannical in nature, the spectacle taking place at madison square garden is 
one of pure dionysian bliss; pure liberation; the ostensibly best solution 
which can be found in any such world of a demiurge.
	the show ends, and the audience files out into a world filled with beauty 
and wonder; yes many are suffering but without exception they are all - and 
for perhaps the first time in any of their lives - satisfied; pregnant with 
parapsychological possibilities. all accepting and understanding their new 
roles in life. the women are ecstatic at having their shared sires, along 
with their eunuchs to service them. the eunuchs are glad at long last having 
found the respect they had all but lost yet always so deserved. the sires 
are understanding that their own suffering is no less in victory than in the 
defeat of their vanquished, yet manifested in a different way; and that in 
their eunuchs they now have a lifelong friends and companions, males of 
intellectual depth; to bounce ideas off of; to provide counsel; to truly 
orally service their mutual women. balance is being achieved.
	these groups of four will wander the earth for another several days, and 
then the nexus will arrive and a new world will be born out of the tired, 
dilapitated particles and waves of the old; new energy being pumped into the 
tired matter, that it might rise up and truly sparkle once again, fulfilling 
the promise such had shown whilst but as sparks in the cosmic forges of a 
nascent age so long past.
	peter, and perc, and flint retire to backstage. heidi is there, along with 
two fabulously sexy women for perc and flint to service, each of the males 
with their unique swords; flint the sire and perc the eunuch; both women 
screaming for more, more, more. jennifer and max enter through a dimensional 
doorway and heidi and peter join them in a tryst. soon all eight of them are 
bringing one another off in various and sundry ways, all of their satins and 
sheers mingling with their caresses and sighs, pelvises thrusting, four 
pussies throbbing, dripping, clenching and releasing; two hard cocks rearing 
up as snakes and spurting love goo; two other cocks throbbing with that 
ecstatic desire of being, yet trapped within their restraining devices; 
sumptuous creampies being consumed. when all is said and done, the ladies 
exit through a portal to some safe house in maine. the four males sit around 
and smoke and play chess and other strategy games among themselves, all the 
night through.
	and so it goes, as on earth it becomes more like eld. the number of witches 
on earth skyrockets in those last days prior to the nexus, and without 
exception the shattered remnants of the monotheist faith - orthodox judaism, 
quistianity, islam, communism, atheism, statism, socialism, democracy - 
cling to their old ways; in terror at the looming, overarching changes which 
every unfolding moment brings. the peoples of oriental persuasion are able 
to see more and more clearly, for their traditions are in many ways 
intertwined with eld's own, such as to make the transition to the nexus but 
a foregone conclusion in their earthly realms.
	the looming comet swarms approach their respective planets, and old faces 
of god reappear whilst new ones arise. they take to their various and sundry 
bastions, both inside and outside of space and time and wait for the 
frequencies of eld and earth to finally match, that two worlds might become 
one.
	on earth, cities burn to the ground. terrible earthquakes and volcanoes 
shatter the entire remnant of civilization. radioactivity is increasing. 
tsunamis slosh about the continents. fungus springs up at seemingly random 
and the air is filled with disease. eld remains remains relatively calm, as 
is the plan.
	the principal issue for the eldians is to mitigate the effects of their own 
incoming space storm, and to maintain the dna balance among humans which 
will be so critical to a successful nexus. there will yet be time for 
sorting out all of the chaos on earth; but only after the merge. then things 
should stabilize and any remaining damage can be cleaned up in the dawning 
of the new, integrated world. as time draws to T minus 1 hour, the chance of 
success is at 99.9999% and - despite the relative hellishness of earth - 
this is satisfactory to monrak, as well as the rest of the eldians.
	despite the spreading chaos about our planet, the whole of the universe of 
earth's rating is reaching near .39; almost equal to that of eld on the 
bodean scale.
	yet suddenly something is terribly off. the catastrophes on earth are not 
at all subsiding as they should. the calm does not approach; instead it is 
ever-increasing, unmitigated bedlam.
	on eld, something goes as planned; the comet storm reels into eldian 
atmosphere. the sky itself begins to distintegrate. yet the elder technology 
smashes the comet pieces into a fine, slushy dust; most of it burning off as 
but fireworks in the upper atmosphere; so the approach is without any 
untoward effects.
	yet	on earth many people are losing their minds. many others, who are 
already living as eldians; their minds fragment in tremendous schizophrenic 
waves. amid the building chaos, inhabitants of both planets begin to see 
shadows of their companion world. some seemingly become within one another, 
others flit about without one another; landscapes merge uneventfully here, 
but there they are nothing but the jagged and shivering flotsam and jetsam 
of matter; vast, inchoate pockets of solids, liquids, and gasses. as it 
turns out, none of it is of any import though because ragnarok - the 
gotterdamurung or twilight of the gods - is instantly joined.
	thus the twin constructs the quist and lucifer fight to the death, each 
mortally wounding the other there on the quaking plains of meggido; and 
allah fights with some other aspect of the el - a magnificent djinn; and 
kali kills vishnu, and qetzalcoatl once again fights to the death with his 
dark twin, tezcatlipoca; each dealing the other a simultaneous death knell.
	the elders from eld leap as well from those hidden dimensions outside of 
previously known spacetime, and they find their old foes - the ancient ones 
- at the center of the thus merged eld-earth (azathoth, cthulu) and in the 
farthest reaches of the merging universes; there at the outer spheres 
(yog-sothoth).
	all of the magnificent gods and goddesses swirl about the intertwining 
skies, and back and forth they fight as words like good and evil become but 
at best laughable in the minds of everyone and instead all things are but 
throbbing crimson and black; the blood of the gods raining down upon the 
burning, melded seas and landscapes.
	now it becomes clear to those of eldian persuasion who retain but tenuous 
strands of cogency amidst all of this overarching madness; obvious that the 
dna alteration is certainly failing among humans. they are losing their 
modifications. the bodean ratings for the entire omniverse are summarily 
shut down as just before, earth's own has plummeted, yet below .36. all bets 
are off.
	on earth the people who were never converted are spreading their age old 
disease of jealousy. it isn't enough to the fundamentalist monotheists of 
every stripe that the only thing close to paradise in a world of motion has 
been at least fleetingly presented to their collective mind's eye; no, 
instead they would rather see other people suffering than their own selves 
be perhaps at last contented. thus the fatal flaw of the demiurge of earth 
is exposed and at now laid bare for all to see.
	yet it isn't really a failure; for there is no way around the suffering; it 
is all really a way of re-arranging misery. perhaps the eldians have thought 
too highly of themselves; their hubris having destroyed them, and everything 
they have worked for. thus earthly humanity is not so inferior after all; it 
is only that their ways of distributing suffering have always differed than 
from those erstwhile inhabitants of eld; the three-point difference on the 
bodean scale having been but a proverbial hair's breadth.
	none of this matters now. all must meet their destruction. this is the 
consequence of but one failed merge between two more-or-less heretofore 
inconsequential - in the grand scheme of things - universes; yet the devil 
is in the details. so often it is the seemingly inconsequential which wields 
the ultimate in consequence, after all.
	the omniverse itself is doomed, from the lower worlds of nearly complete 
agony, hopelessness, and terror; to the highest of the demiurgic creations, 
there resonating so near to the celestial choir which is that which they 
call IT; these worlds are, all without exception consumed at once by fire 
and ice. the entire bodean scale - just wiped clean as it is - becomes in 
any event but momentarily meaningless.
	and as gods of eld and earth collapse; some yet quivering and others in 
still, silent  heaps about the worlds beneath their wings and feet; and as 
serpents rise up from the sea and fall back again in the death throes of 
their unexceptional agony, the remaining pockets of people of the eld-earth 
fight a pitched battle among themselves, no one quite knowing how the 
failure has come about.
	universes collapse like a house of cards, one falling in and about the 
other, some reaching matching frequencies in domains whose demiurgic 
majesties find each other at such extreme counterpoints that there is yet 
little point to any of it at all. all of the demiurges and all of their 
creations; narrow and wide, high and low, near and far, deep and shallow, 
cosmically couth and uncouth; as far as the mind's eye can see everything is 
collapsing back into indiscernible nothingness and infinity.
	the humans are no better or worse than anyone else on this, judgement day. 
it is yet another major kalpa. who could have possibly thought it would end 
any differently? the holy grail of cosmic vigorish evaporates into something 
less than nothing.
	the demiurges fade into that blackened nothingness from whence they once 
came; that place of untold fire but burning so cold as well; almost like a 
proverbial hell. no one witnesses their agonized motion; their melding into 
searing, frozen blackened nothingness. unmade again they are.
	the drama is dead.
	in the center is the cube of IT; seemingly without beginning or end; light 
without heat; sound without vibration; the celestial choir; utter joy; utter 
peace; motionlessness; the Tetragrammaton; the YHVH with big letters; 
seemingly internally cogent but apparently unaware of the unfolding, 
surrounding darkness of the abyss.
	bliss.
	yawn.

	yet then a tiny bit of something stirs; some mingling of those darkened, 
seething unmade beings; swirling again within and without shards of light 
from IT; new strands of THE WORD unfold as myriad glowing ribbons throughout 
the budding cosmos.
	there is yet again some progression of yet another world of matter; another 
world of suffering but its attendant drama and thus ultimate cosmic, 
parapsychological and metaphysical viability; multitudinous and miraculous 
new opportunities for suffering, drama, and beauty.
	it spins faster and faster; a nascent omniverse; suddenly myriad sentient 
demiurges squabbling over disparate frequencies of space, time, and energy. 
thus the small gods are re-born; and more and more; demiurges everywhere; 
matter in motion, frequencies being stolen and bargained for; chunks of 
light literally rent off of the IT and used as fuel in their cosmic 
factories. and once again will myriad beings attempt to get something from 
nothing; the fabled cosmic vigorish.
	alas the snake has truly eaten its own tail (yet again).
	thus the bodean ratings are activated anew.

2006
andy thomas