Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Incaarnate Darkness (In the Trenches of WWI, 1918)

Incarnate Darkness
(In the trenches of WWI, 1918)

The sun was hot, they were lazy in the trench, they felt time was their own, and they lingered back and forth within its surroundings. Just beyond them, an ugly black sight lying stretched out were dead bodies of slain soldiers, perhaps from yesterday’s battle, or the day before yesterday, they had just been assigned to this section of the trench, rats were gnawing on them. They were just a foot from the edge of the rim of the trench, “Look,” a voice said, “be careful… though!” (Why he said what he said, and whoever said it, and even if one of the four did say it, or didn’t say it, it would be food for thought at a much later date. But all looked over the trench.)
I don’t know why they all decided to look at the same time, over the edge, but they did, perhaps there is a dominating force which draws on lesser ones to create in the long run, greater ones, at least this perchance could be its base; in any case there was four thuds, all at the same time, in the hot air.

Something, cast a quick downward glance, saw the eyes of the four, fixed on Adolf, the perfect incarnation of hate.
There was a muffled cry, as if it came from the thing glaring down upon the four, a she-devil, or seer-cat, something of that nature, it was gnashing its teeth and its paws and claws.

You could hear scattered shots and a few intermittent explosions from hand grenades. Hans and Gunter, Ludwig and Adolf, lie their weapons down in the trench every cell in anticipation that what they had heard might be true, peace was forthcoming this afternoon, and these other sounds were just the enemy using up their ammunition before they to lay down their arms; Ludwig felt whatever comes has got to be better than living with the worms be it put into another man’s jail, or hopefully an Armistice.

A death expression came over their faces, frozen in time, the morning fog had lifted, they remained stone-still, for a millisecond, after looking over the rim.

Said Ludwig, to the other three, “There is nothing quick in a war, unless death precedes it; and now he could smell it…
“Death is in the air, I smell it, it is with us” he commented.
“What is it?” asked Adolf, sweating.
“I hear a voice, don’t you, it sounds hollow as if in a fog, as if from a grave.”
Said Gunter, randomly, “We are so used to noise, this is really odd. What happened to Adolf?”

(Dark-looming shadows joined the voice, clenched tightly to one another.)

Hans shakes his head, “Maybe we got that peace treaty after all, it’s all so quite.”
“That could be true,” said Gunter.

(The voice laughed, as did the shadows.)

Now the three looked suspiciously for their forth comrade, looked at one another, looked up and down the trench to see if he got shot, if there was an extra body laying about. At the same time, the shadows were stretching themselves out, surrounding the trench, disposing them, cautiously, then they slipped down into the trench.
Ludwig shrugged his shoulders, the voice said: “The rumor is, you are all dead,” then there was laughter among the shadows.
Now the shadows produced growls, the three murmured to one another, “Where is Adolf?”
“Forward! – Forward!” yelped the voice, but the three would not move.

Adolf looked at the voice, and the shadows, and down at his three comrades, laying with the worms, said the voice, “You can stay here Adolf, you need to go up to your destiny.”

Adolf could hear the scraping sounds of belts being tightened around the wrists of his comrades, the spirits within their bodies unable to escape it; and the reeking smell of death suddenly rose, as he heard the shouts of “Armistice!—Armistice!” echo his way.

As Adolf looked back at the bodies in the trench, especially his three comrades, he now saw their heads—it was as if he was blind to them before—their heads with shattered out brains (he questioned himself: ‘why wasn’t his brains shattered out? he was the forth thud’); as the dark swift shadows pulled them along like rugs to their new destiny.

He felt his hands and face, even his legs, pinched himself, as if he might be grotesquely dead, and didn’t know it, like his dead friends; and when he came to the conclusion he was still flesh and blood, in that he was so frightfully real was incomprehensible. His whole demeanor then changed.


Wednesday, February 25, 2009

An Interview with Agaliarept, the Henchman

Interview with:
Agaliarept, the Henchman
(Subservient to, Lucifugus)

An Interview by Chick Evens and

Ruler of the Tenth Hour of the Night
(Tent in Rank, in the Order of Demon in Hell)

Note: This interview is being given to Chick Evens, by of a third party (THN), who is asking Chick Evens’ questions to Agaliarept, since this can not be done in person:

THN: Agaliarept, what’s your nationality?

Agaliarept: Heaven

THN: What is your patriotic allegiance?

Agaliarept: My loyalties are to the Infernal Alliance first and foremost

THN: What is your age?

Agaliarept: for the most part, eternal, perhaps looking 48 or so, it’s hard to tell, I shape change, and can be often seen as animalistic looking

THN: What is your full title?

Agaliarept: I am a demon who is a grand general of Hell and commander of the second legion, I hold sway over Europe and Asia Minor and to control the past and future, Tarihimal is my sidekick, and we are rulers of Elelogap, and we also govern matters connected with water.

THN: What are your characters you’d like others to know about you?

Agaliarept: I am intelligent, not like all my profoundly unwise followers, I am not open-minded, nor care to be, I have no sincerity or sense of justice. I have very little aristocratic appeal, nor am I a gallant gentleman of demons, I am the opposite, and love it; bright lights cause me pain, I am a perfectionist, and have little use for the other type. I voice is hoarse, not soft like, and often not clear, and surely not soothing. I am likened to a brilliant energetic Minister of Hell, a commanding officer, in high rank and I like others to notice that.

THN: What Kind of powers do you have?

Agaliarept: invasion of dreams, choking, and producing nigh mares. These of course are just little ones. I have Telepathy, clairvoyance, flight and teleportation: also capable of generating fire, inducing illusions; able to resurrect corpses, in a zombie like manner, if their souls are hell bound, and cause unconsciousness by a gesture or a hiss to non-Christians. Extensive knowledge in armed and unarmed combat with unnatural strength, speed, agility, stamina comparable to or near to, an angelic being, but far from an archangel.
Ability to manipulate both mortals and immortals into deceit, spite, insanity, hate and pride; also to attain possession of them, for satanic worshippers, make people have ungodly sexual preferences and other ungodly acts: I cannot the present or future, but I can have my Master, Lucifer invest such powers in me for a period of time; I can produce spells to the weaker minds. My invisibility rhetoric, logic, politics and knowledge of many languages allows me to summon in warlike matters.

THN: What is your weakness?

Agaliarept: I’d bet you’d like to know that. Let me just put it this way, the very few that I have are not worthy to tell, but since I agreed to this interview, I’m sure the read would like to know. Angels! I am a demon, not an angel, and I can be removed by them; or a healthy heart towards God, Jesus Christ. Guns, accidents, all those kinds of things I create, they do not harm me; bother me, to the contrary. I don’t enter churches willingly, nor do I care to look at crucifixes, but I can; I avoid them, like holy water, it burns. My brothers often like playing the game of demigod, and when invoked, they try to play Lucifuge Revocable, duplicating him, I don’t care for that game, contrary to my belief, and he is our commander and chief.

THN: What kind of weapons do you use?

Agaliarept: Well, first of all I have them, I do use them, but I don’t need them. Let’s get that clear first. I have can, or sometimes an umbrella, black in color, a silver handle, like my master, it blocks the bright light from me, and I can trip a few folks when I become visible. I do have a concealed 58 cm, blade, a good weapon; it was forged from fires of Hell, it is burning hot, and I start fires with it, and I burn hands with it.

THN: What kind possessions do you have?

Agaliarept: A sliver ring with a big red stone in it, bequeathed to me by Master Focalor that is it.

THN: Who are your closest Friends?

Agaliarept: No sense in using the friend word, I have none, but I do have close affiliations, or better yet, trusted subordinates, whom I really do not trust, such as Buer and Gusoyn, and even Botis; they belong to the second Legion of Spirits, which I command. The assist me in finding out, and discovering the secrets of all the courts in the world.
THN: If I wanted to conjure up a demon, how would I do it?

Agaliarept: First of all, it is not wise to play in areas you are not willing to give your soul to. But on the other hand for the curious minded person, as I know Chick Evens is, you may want to check out, the ”Book of the Key of Solomon” (Sepher Maphteah Shelomoh).

THN: Can you give us the ranks of the underworld?

Agaliarept: The three superior spirits: Lucifer, Emperor, Beelzebuth Prince Astaroth Grand Duke. After that, are six inferior spirits: Lucifuge Rofocale, Prime Minister, Satanachia, Commander-in-Chief, Agaliarept (me), Another Commander, Fleurety, Lieutenant-General Sargatanas, Brigadier-Major Nebiros, Field-Marshal and Inspector-General.

THN: Do Demons Lie?

Agaliarept: That is like asking, “Do humans breath,” of course we lie, it is part of our nature, we are good at it to, professional, we practice it everyday, and even quiz ourselves.

THN: Can you give me the names of some demons off the top of your head working in the world today?

Agaliarept: of course I can, but not sure what for, it isn’t going to do you any good knowing, but ok, I should never have agreed to this review, but you see how I keep my word, make sure, when you write this out, you make me look good. Anyhow, I’ll give you some of the ‘A B & C,’ demon; otherwise this interview will take all week:

AGLASIS; he can transport anything throughout the world.
BARTZABEL: Kabbalistic Demon of Mars. He has the power to raise storms.
Bartzabel has black wings. He is bald with a small black haired ponytail and he is a little chubby.
BECHARD: has power over winds and storms, lightening, rain, hail. BRULEFER: He makes one beloved.
BUCON: He has the power to incite hatred and jealousy between the sexes.
CARNIVEAN: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He bestows confidence, boldness and strength.
CARREAU: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He gives one control over emotions and bestows strength.
CLAUNECK: has power over goods, money and finances. He can discover hidden treasures and bestow great wealth.
CLISTHERET: She can make day into night and night into day. She is under the power of the Duke "Syrach." She has a green complexion and a large bulbous head like Lucifuge Rofocal and Valefor. She is friendly. -High Priestess Maxine
ELELOGAP: Elelogap is ruled over by Agaliarept and Tarihimal. He has power over the element of Water.

THN: Agaliarept, Mr. Chick Evens, says thank you for the interview, is there anything you’d like to add?
Agaliarept: I kind of operate the secret police down here, and let me warn you up there, there are a number of so called, pantheonic gods who rebelled against being forgotten and, in many cases assumed the names and aspects of a variety of us Demons; so be ware of who you are call up, you may not get what you are looking for, also, a word to the wise, beware of the Demons with cock's heads, huge bellies & knotted tails, they are ruthless.

Written for posterity sake, 2-26-2009

Monday, February 16, 2009

An Ordinary Account of he Evil

An Ordinary Account of the Evil
(Introduction to the New Suspense Stories)

It has seemed to me, often, perhaps too often, war is paralleled with evil, the ultimate of evil, and all the other evil that surrounds man, is omitted as natural observations of the ordinary. We have many accounts of war by Civil War writers, WWI poets, WWII, historians, Vietnam Veterans; coming home mentally disturbed soldiers from Iraq, and Afghanistan. CNN news, and BBC news, and for that matter, all the news media have written of the horrors of war most interestingly and intensely, whereas, the account of the evil men do outside of war, gets a day’s headlines, and then thrown to the wolves to eat and digest, and never to be seen again. Can we not hope to see the real, if not interesting facts about evil lurking out there in our backyards, down the street, wherever we walk nowadays, for more than a day? And punished accordingly?
When a young lad was taking a bus ride across Canada recently, an ordinary traveler for the most part, was at one period of his course sleeping and a man, surrounded by people, alone, pulled out a knife and cut his head off, considering this evil, it got one or two days in the paper at most, and over the internet, and on television. And thereafter, nothing appearing to remain in the news he existed, thus lie down and die, and make the most of it, the beauty of this evil did not catch the eye of the news broadcasters for very long.
I could not contemplate the evil this man did.
Shortly after this, in Argentina, without the blink of an eye, another human being, with admiration for evil to be done, did it, planted, and watered his plan, to perfection in the obscure part of the world; this evil was quickly hushed up, which appears to be because of tourism, and the evil done was a man in a jealous rage who killed his pry, and cut the victim up, put the person into a suitcase of all things, and the media and its world looked to more interesting things after the first day, with unconcern eyes for the Argentina evil, even the news media in Buenos Aires, where it took place… evidently, the situation and suffering of creatures formed after God’s own image, must somehow produce a more lasting despair to keep the publics interest.
There was a man in Austria, most recently, who had kept his daughter in his basement for twenty-years, having sexual intercourse with her, and producing a number of children by her. His wife and family living upstairs, and oblivious to all this; when he was found out, put into jail, and observed like a rat in a cage by the media, psychologists, and criminal officials, for two weeks, for some reason kept the attention of the media, he protested being called a beast, or alike, and folks looked at him and treated him as inhuman. This beats all of course, here is man who deserves to die, and can’t stand the shame of his own evil, and when looked upon for his evil, as a beast, wants his rights as a civil human being. That’s our society though.
It is a shame we need such misery to moll over, showing disregard, and hunger for disappointed evil, evil man wants to digest, and if it is not tasty enough, then it is not worthy the journey to the movies, or reading the second days issue on the subject. (Why then do I write suspense stories you may ask? To reminded people in the future, the past was black!)
In war the dead are dead and forgotten, like animals, we become a frequently overlooked species, but interest holds because war too often has a certain opportunity to observe, it is in the raw, it is ongoing like a movie, civil life is destroyed around the war, as recently in the war with Palestine, or Hamas, and Israel, it got headlines for 21-days, and even the United Nations cursed the Jews, for killing so many Palestinians, they even started to entertain thoughts, of what really is moral and not moral for the Jewish nation to do, to allow them to do to secure their people, on rare occasions they do that, yet for six months prior to this, the United Nations approved the ongoing rocketing that Hamas did on Israel, and to my understanding, Hamas at times shot 300-rockets a day into the land of Israel (perhaps 10,000-in that six month period), and during the war, it weaned down to 50 or 10 a day. It seemed to the world, and news media, and the UN, a fitting enough sight to watch from the accustomed distance they usually give to Israel, and looked less incongruous there than they would by stepping in and condemning Hamas.
Speaking literally, one can hardly say they really wanted to stop evil, per se, rather they wanted to stop Israel from acquiring a lasting peace, had they continued, they would have destroyed the enemy, as we normally do in a war; now, long dead is this peace that could have been.
Regarding another case, most recently, in a small village in Peru, a sister, took a hammer—over sexual jealousy, and pounded her over the head with it until she was dead. Again the news media, and the officials involved, accustomed to the sight of the dead, shocking as it was when it was, it was soon forgotten.
I remember, when I was fifteen years old, a boy of nineteen I hung round with, just started to hang around with, this person I quite thoroughly thought was of whole mind, killed his two nieces, one eighteen months old and one six years old, in a rampage, it was in the paper for one day. Perhaps the discussing occurrence did not agree with the reader’s reality of horror, it was a quality of unreality, yet fact. It had been so immediate and the event was perhaps unpleasant to write, that was back in 1961, nowadays, it would be in a different category, they would send an expert to obtain accuracy of the observation, to confine himself nearby to get unlimited access to the slayer, and then try to sell the greatest number of papers, withdraw from the project and go onto the next. They do this now so fast; it is bagged and completed before the dead are buried.
As time goes by, decade to decade for me, each day, the races of the world allows more evil to grow unabated, and the dead grow larger, I am waiting for the earth to burst open her guts and vomit out the stink. We’ll have to send them in balloons up to the moon soon, they are scattered about like dead maggots all over the place.


Friday, February 13, 2009

A Dark, Dim-lighted Corner (a short , true, story of how the old die)

A Dark, Dim-lighted Corner

It was evening and everyone on the upper three floors of the old folks farm (an old building structure that once was a large farmhouse, a barn somewhat attached to the back of it, on the four acres of land that surrounded the premises) were either receiving visitors, or being attended to by nurses, some of the male patients were down on the first floor, in the pool room, talking, playing pool, spitting in the spittoons, some sitting on the stairways to the second and third floors, selling their leather goods, Ariel Shapiro, a young lad of twelve, went down into the cellar, a dim electric light guided the way down the old wooden cracking noisy stairs. The old lady that in the far corner way in the back of the large cellar, was rocking in her rocking chair by the red hot furnace.
He didn’t remember why he went down those stairs that first time, several months ago, but he did, that is when he met her, and now he’d visit her every time he came to the farm, near North St. Paul, off White Bear Avenue, in Minnesota. It was fall, November of 1959, and it was cold, and Ariel could see the red hot furnace glow from the far-off distance.
You could hear the wheels of the cars racing down White Bear Avenue from deep in the cellar; the road was perhaps a hundred feet from the front of the Farm House. It was always busy near twilight.
Far-off in the corner of the cellar, was the old lady rocking in her chair, a fairly small, thin old woman, with tinted greyish hair, lively little eyes, a turned up nose, pale white skin, a glimmer to her, a serious look on her forehead, her voice not high or low, just the right tone, as if she was used to conversations; there she was rocking away, said,
“Is that you Ariel?”
“Yes ma’am…” he said.
“Then it is best you get on over here and warm up by this old furnace its getting colder by the day, going to get colder come December’s, right around the corner!”

He stood against the wall now, the furnace to her other side,
“Sit down on the stood there, did I ever tell you about Ike and me?”
“Kind of,” the boy said.
The boy told himself: she’s talkative tonight, almost tipsy, been drinking that half-pint she keeps hidden behind the brick I bet, to the right side of her; he then noticed she had her pipe lit, barely lit, so the basement wouldn’t fill up with smoke, and she’d be found out, and the nurses would force her to return to her bedroom. She hated going to bed early.
She never seemed in despair, thought the boy, like so many of the old folks in the home, she was almost above that.
There they sat, like two old pals, in a book clamshell.
“Ike, oh I mean President Dwight D. Eisenhower, you know the president, I met him when he was just a general, the Commanding General of Europe, in WWII, I did a small interview, oh just a few answers and questions, I was a reporter back then, back in ’44.”
The boy knew she was not kidding, he had learned better, she didn’t fool a person to make herself look big, she had a picture of her and Harry S. Truman, together, it was in May, 1945, when they had met, and he had his arm around her, he had just become president of the United States a month before. She had told the boy, how he had created NATO, and used the first atomic bomb on Japan, and how people forgot who she was, but at one time she was somebody, a known reporter, and a female reporter at that.
The boy looked about the place, her corner, it was dusty, and it seemed to settle all around her,
“This place is so dusty,” yelled the boy, knowing she was half-deaf, “I could come on in, say Saturday, and wipe this corner down for you?”
“Oh no, no, leave it as it is, it’s fine. I’m not afraid of the bugs, spiders, and dust; I’m too old to be afraid of anything. This year (1959) I’ll be 69-years old.” She commented.
The boy admitted to himself, it was quiet, and tranquil, peaceful, and as he was pondering these thoughts, she said in kind of a slur of words, “I’d commit suicide if I could find an easy way to do it,” and smiled, not looking at the boy right away, then from the side of her right eye, she caught a glimpse of him, then added, “but I’m never quite up to it.”
The boy did not respond to that, wasn’t sure how to, and had he, what would he have said anyhow, he just looked blank, and listened. Then he stood up, started to walk towards the stairs, some fifty-feet away, he turned to see her, and saw her shadow bobbing back and forth as she rocked in her rocker, saw her reflection as she rocked side to side of the furnace, a glimpse each time she got to each side of the old furnace.

(She was once a young girl reporter, met many important people of her day, it was hard for her to lay down and die, hard for her, that to have anyone remembered her, that if she had living family folks, they never came to visit her, the boy never asked many questions into her personal life, did more listening, and therefore never knew.)

He heard the old lady’s rapping of her pipe on the furnace; he stopped to see if she wanted something, he knew sometimes she just wanted to be alone, especially when she started reflecting on her younger years. She meant no disrespect for the boy, by not talking to him, she just zoned off, and so he simply got out of her way. He looked back, he was almost about to walk up the stairs, and he heard her say,
“Come on back here if you got a minute!”
Then Ariel turned about and walked back to her, said, “What is it?”
“Get me my half-pint of whiskey out from behind the brick if you will, I’m very tired and weak, can you?”
“Of course,” said the boy, and quickly removed the brick. She had a glass hidden in her dress pocket, and pulled it out, wiped it with the cuff of her blouse, then gave Ariel a big smile, “Pour,” she commanded, adding, “it helps me sleep, it’s really just medicine, they often used it in the old days, the bible reads, for sleeping.”
The boy just smiled back, there was perhaps some half-truth in what she said, he figured, and he wasn’t going to argue with her, she was too ahead of him, and she most likely knew it.
Several minutes passed, as she rocked back and forth, drank the double shot down. She stopped rocking, put the glass back into her pocket, and had to boy return the half empty pint back to its abode.

It was now 9:00 p.m., and visiting time was over at 9:30 p.m., and bed check for the old folks was at 10:00 p.m., if not in bed, the nurses went on a hunt for them.
“I should have killed myself last week,” the old lady said, opening up her eyes wider than normal, she had shut them for a few minutes, adding, “this is no way to live.”
The boy sat back down, “Thank you,” said the old lady to the boy.
“I have a few shots of whisky every night, almost every night,” she said, in an explanatory tone.
“Why do you want to kill yourself?” asked the boy.
“I suppose, I did all I’m really going to do, worth doing, I have no one really, life is boring, I get sad, and if it wasn’t for my little corner here, I perhaps would have did it long ago. But here I can think.”
“How would you do it?” asked the boy:
“I guess by a rope, tie it around one of those big beams, stand on the stool your sitting on there, and that would be that.”
“You should go now, not listen to such talk of an old lady, and I wish you’d just go.”
“You should get back to your bed before they come looking for you,” said the boy.
“Oh, I never leave before midnight, I told them I’d kill myself unless they’d allow me this little gift; sometimes they find me sleeping and leave me sleep, wake me up for breakfast.”

“How is it,” asked the boy, “to be old?”
“I’m not lonely, if that is what you mean. I have memories, but my dear boy it is nasty.”
“Why is that?” asked the boy.
“You ask so many questions, and you’re so very young. You see, you drop things, and people look at you, and you drop them again. You pay your bills on time, and people take advantage of you, tell you this and that, and build your hopes up, and rob you when they can, because they can. They threaten you if you don’t do what they say. You forget this and that, only remember things when you were young. You know if you don’t give your things away, they’ll take them before you die by force, have you sign this and that, or not feed you.”
The old woman stood up, pulled out an old quarter from her pocket purse, said, “This is the date I was born,” she gave it to the boy, he looked, it read, ‘1891’ it was the same year his grandfather was born, he then gave it back to her, as she sat back down in her rocker.
It was now half-past nine, “Your friends must be waiting for you, you should go home and go to bed.” said the old woman.
“How about you,” said the boy?
“It’s not the same,” she commented.
“What do you mean,” asked the boy.
She didn’t want to be impolite, she was simply in a hurry to get the boy out before someone came looking for him, and discovered her hideaway, other than her personal nurse.
“Youth needs its sleep,” she said pleasantly, “in time you will have everything I had, and more. I want to rest now, so go!
The boy seemed a little reluctant, but he did stand back up and leave,
“Good night,” he told her as he walked away.
“Good night,” she commented back, then she turned off her radio, pulled the string attached to the light bulb, turned it off, and it was dark, real dark, except for the light that shinned down the steps.
The boy looked back, he couldn’t see her, but he heard the rocking chair go back and forth, and he knew she was alright, and somehow he knew he’d not see her again, a sense, intuition, premonition.
The boy smiled climbing up the stairs, met his friend, Jerome, “What you doing down there?” he asked, “you know you can get in trouble.”
He never answered Jerome, they just whizzed off to Jerome’s mother’s car in the parking lot waiting for her to come down from the third floor, she was visiting someone up there, and all was forgotten, until the following week, when he went to see her again, and she wasn’t there: matter of fact, he went down to her corner, and the rocker was gone, the half pint of whisky, was empty but still behind the brick, and it was like, no one had ever been there.

2-12-2009 (Written while in my library in Lima, Peru, this evening)


Wednesday, February 11, 2009

The Coming War with Russia (Reedited, 2-2009)

The Coming War with Russia
((Written in April of 2004) (Reedited, 2-2009))
In my book, "The Last Trumpet..." I write about prophecy, and World War III, which I wrote about five years ago (2002, and came from my manuscript from 1984, when I wrote out my visions); thus, I have not wrote much on it since, which I fear, I should have. Many things have happened in the past five years, besides me traveling around the world ten times, and writing book after book, World War III has been gearing up; how so? Let me explain. First of all, I was an Ordained Minister, in good standing, in l993 (I have since left that area, for my own personal reasons); I wrote out the Manuscript, of "The Last Trumpet..." in l984, sent it to three clergy I knew, and one person died of the three, and he misplaced it when I went to find it; so it was lost, as was the second one to the second clergy, and mine was misplaced for 13-years. Then my mother told me I need to get it out no matter what, she died in 2003, I had gotten the book out in 2002, so she got her wish. Anyhow, they use it for Bible Study, for prophecy in Haiti, believe it or not, so the pastor wrote me and told me. But let me get to the premise here. We are presently, somewhat friendly with Russia (in 2008, this has now changed), but it will not remain that way. In the book of Ezekiel, prophecy foretold Israel shall return to their own land and now we see this has come to pass. I do believe Iran will be directly involved with the invasion, as will Russia, as they plan to invade Israel in the near future. That is one of the reasons we are in Iraq, believe it or not; we are a buffer ((this is why now in 2009, Israel wants to destroy the nuclear capability in Iran before Russia and Iran become partners, as has a portion in Georgia, in Europe recently)(and we must not forget they destroyed Iran’s nuclear capability in the 1980s, so they’ve been trying to be the big bomb for 30-years, and dream they hope will come true, and I hope President Obama doesn’t allow it, note. 2-2009)).
Look into chapter 38, verses 1 and 2, Ezekiel mentions Gog, the land of Magog. If you ask a Russian what is the top of the Caucasus Mountains called, he'd say, "The Gogh."
Magog, with his tribe, left Asia Minor and went to the southern part of the land we now call Russia. Thus, Russia is going to play a major part in the war to come in the Middle East.
These are the times, Israel's last Holocaust you could say, is coming (that is, a war, and then the Holocaust). The people to come against Israel will look like a cloud. Two hundred-million, military forces will come against Israel. China can boast that now with their reserves, so it has been written; that is two thirds the population of the United States. Those who have mocked the Bible, look closer skeptics, look at 2 Peter 3:10, there you will find a clear definition of the atomic warfare as is contained in any library. '...the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up."
This is the end, the end times; Russia will hit Israel (once there is an agreement with Iran and Russia) before her last strike; when I say her last strike I'm jumping too far into the future, but not that far. First comes the war with Russia and then the 200-million military force, all pointing to the Battle of Armageddon.
†Part Two: Updated 8-13-2008
Additional Quotes on Gog and Magog
I talked on Gog and the land of Magog, which in essence is Russia. Russia, the words has roots, stems from a Finnish word, meaning rowers of a vessel, And ‘Rosh,’ is a Hebrew word meaning ‘boss.’ (Ezekiel Chapter 27).
What comes next in Zech. 14, we see a man trying to lead an army, seize Israel, and this starts a world war.
“…wake up the mighty men, let all men of war draw near: let them come up…” Joel Chapter three, in the Old Testament is talking about future times.
The superpower here is Gog and Magog, (Rev. 20); the invasion of Palestine by the nations will turn out to be in the long run, the last great battle.
God says to Gog and I shall paraphrase it: are you not the one I foretold would come against my people of Israel? Ezek. 38. All Russian leaders should take not of this.

Part Three: Update: 8-15-2008
The Middle East Confederation
Israel Facing the Impossible
I do believe Egypt and Libya will join a Middle East Confederation, or conspiracy against Israel. (Jer. 46)
Turkey will be added into this group, although we are really talking now about three groups in the end days (Russia and Iran, the Middle East Confederation, and China, and even Europe).
The Confederation, the Russians, and the European Union, Ezekiel refers to Turkey as Gomer, it is not Germany, it is in Asia Minor he points, but many have thought it to be Germany.
The point here is, as Russia and Iran are thinking about invasion, so are these other folks, or groups, the other two groups that is, if Russia fails, and Russia will fail, but at what cost? And a cost to what other parties perhaps is the bigger question (America?) On the other hand, America is strong because whoever helps Israel, that country is blessed by God.
The question comes up: will the other groups fail?
Back to Russia, we see the old prophet has named the nations around Israel (these are part of the beast): way in the future, a hard task to do, unless you got God’s notebook.
The other missing link here is America, the United States, where are they going to be in all this mess?
Now who is Magog? It is the beast (Satan’s Armies), as Gog is the individual (The antichrist that is possessed by Satan). In other words, The Beast is the mass group complex. America must be weakened, or tied up, perhaps after Russia invades, and we attack and help, America will be too weak to get involved beyond that. It will all come out in the was I assure you.

Lady Jane La Rosa's Flies and Rats (a short story)

Lady Jane La Rosa’s Flies and Rats
Of East London, 1717 AD

The Blue Bottle fly, in Europe, was quite known to be a pest in the month of July (Worm Month), these flies had a stout (fat and heavy) nature; the adults soak up surface fluids with mop like mouthparts, they lay their eggs on dead animals, the smell of which can attract them from a distance of several kilometers. They also lay eggs on other decomposing matter and on faeces—the eggs hatch in less than a day, the young insects (larvae) have no opportunity to bury themselves in the ground, thus, they will crawl around until they find a suitable place in which to pupate.
This occurrence, takes place when the fly larvae, found in the house, the abode, nursed by dead nestling birds, or from dead rats, a dead rat will supply or provide enough food for about 4000-maggots, you don’t smell the dead rat anymore because the creeping larvae eat it, within about ten-working days, they work hard at eating hard, the larvae you will not see, they hid from the light, under carpets, and so forth, for their resurrection to adulthood, and destruction of its forthcoming environment. Oh but they do wiggle their way into the light sooner or later, after their full birth, and as a result, fly off to mate again, and the cycle of the fly, becomes endless. So you see there is a surviving connection with the flies and the rats, not a pretty picture by all means, but don’t go away, you haven’t read the good part yet.

Lady Jane La Rosa, of East London (in the year of 1717, July, the worm month, had a rat problem in her home, in her garden, and she killed the rats under her porch, that had a tunnel, that lead to her garden, which had a hole into her garden, and each day the fat headed rat would peak its head out of the whole not fearful of her one bit, and had she not been so fearful, she might have seen the big picture, not the surface issue, and she figured she’d poison it, and she did, and the whole family of rats died, and she was proud of herself, so very proud. And for her victory, she bought cakes and all kinds of good things to eat, even purchased some good beef, and breads, and she never noticed the process I just mentioned to you, about the Blue Flies (or blowflies) their eating and breeding habits, a young Londoner, of twenty-years old, and she woke one morning and there was hundreds of fat flies circling her bed, the kitchen and all over her lower apartment house, she went mad killing the flies, and the fatter they were, the slower they were; but many of these flies had picked up pathogenic micro-organisms, from rat and dog and cat dunghills, and passed their dirty feet and lips onto her every inch of the kitchen, as if they were dancing a ballet, and it was a cursed morning to say the least, she swatted and took the broom and ended up busting this and that trying to get all the flies out, or dead, not knowing the flies were transmitting intestinal infections, landing on foodstuffs, and she was not rich, nor poor, but frugal, and she tried to cover everything, and she did not throw one thing away, no, not the cakes or pies or even the breads and raw meat.
She had really no strict control of where and how she kept her cooked and raw meats, her breads and fruits, thus, everything got contaminated, and she took her meat, and washed it, but the faeces and vomit from the insects remained soaked into the meat, tainted, stained with its vomit, and she quickly cooked it, and invited her friends over to have dinner, thinking, it all was too much for one person, enough for several, and by doing so, she was forced to be more generous, more so than folks knew her to be.
In addition to her stupidly of the foodstuffs, the single, and simple young lady, overlooked that there might be breeding sites yet to clean up, or clean out, she simply had told her parents she wanted to be on her own, and this was her apartment in East London, and knew nothing about anything in this area…how proud she was though for killing those rats, and that would have to be her consolation. Nor did she clean the walls, lamps, mirrors, and so forth, and she had a half dozen families over for dinner that evening, and when they came and they ate, and they touched the walls, new flies appeared everywhere, especially around the lit lamps, and they looked at Lady Jane La Rosa, not the flies, but the folks eating the fly vomit on the meat, and bread, and so forth, and then the re-looked at the food and the flies next to the foods, and they quickly ran home and washed, and in that neighborhood, that following month, Lady Jane La Rosa died an intentional disease, and several of the neighbors died, and the cursed flies were all over, and then someone discovered a hole, and filled it with dirt, it was as simple as that.

Afterthought: It was said by many of that East London Neighborhood, Miss La Rosa confided in a few people during her illness, prior to her death, and she said, in so many words to a dear girlfriend who visited her just before she had her last breath:
‘It was as if they had very aggressive attitudes, as if there was a neurological strain, mental twist, a madness, if not insanity, in the attack on me, and perhaps I got thinking some imps, or devils, demons, you know that sort of thing got into those fat flies, and invaded my house, because I was the most vulnerable, available, I was in that neighborhood, and usable; also to show off to their cohorts how shrewd and witty they were, you know, like people do, and kids to kids for admiration, or how the robber will choose the easiest pray for his vindictive scheme, thus, he picks on the old, the feeble, single and helpless women, old women, children, those who can’t fight back. I don’t disagree the rats had something to do with it all, but for one day, such a horde showing up on your doorsteps, and then zooming by you like a bullet, attacking from all sides. It’s what they did, and had no mercy, if only I could have thought of something creative…!”



Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Trapped by Blue Ice

Just before the Inca conquest of A.D. 1470

White Mountain in the Summer

Snow was falling on a glacier, in the Andes of Peru, on White Mountain (Huaytapallana), in the Valley of Mantaro, and as it felt it compressed itself into its new abode, and became part of that glacier, and the glacier, that winds its way down to the small lake at its feet (two other lakes along its side), during its transverse travel all the air bubbles that were trapped in the ice were squeezed out, thus, increasing the size of the ice crystals, making it clear, so very clear, like a window, with the sun shinning on it, and the blue sky, throwing a slight tint to it.
Toribio stood at the rim of the lake, knew the beautiful blue was the result of an overtone stretched in the water which drew light to it, he knew in some areas of the Artic, where he had been, earthquakes had raised the blue ice above the ground and created formations much like large frozen waves, he actually stood on some of those large waves.

But the more he looked into the blue ice, the more he became mesmerized to it…a mist appeared, it descended White Mountain like an umbrella being folded inward, thus, so was everything around, and it got colder. He knew he’d not make it out of his environment, up the hill, to the winding road down into the valley, and even if he did, he would get lost, he had come into the glacier and lake area too late, thus, he sat on a nearby rock and ate some small fish that was dried, stored and eventually transported inland and somehow—most likely by caravan driven by llamas, making its way to the valley, and eventually to the markets, where he purchased them, and along with some anchovies. This would give him protein to withstand some of the cold, for he had noticed an increase of the winds, they were picking up some moisture as they passed over his head, descended around him, the current’s low temperature resulted in a freezing enclosure, surrounded by the three headed mountain, as if almost enveloped into her womb: now he understood the blue ice, and this areas cold depths.

(Lost in the mist)

He was as if in a canyon, it was different than where he had originally been raised, by the coast, his father was a fisherman, he and his brother, and mother, and grandfather lived together along one street, close by to where they could enter sea every day, where they had their boat, and nets, each proceeding to his own familiar area to fish without competing with others, he was a Chincha fisherman, and he remember his father always being happy he did not have to till the land, his mother would trade her fish at the market for agricultural products they needed, and exchange; likewise for the farmer, with their harvested corps, who wished fish. And when they didn’t fish, like in the valley, when the farmers didn’t harvest or plant, they danced and drank.

He looked at the blue ice, the descending white mist, felt the chill of the winds to his bones, knew he was trapped by the blue ice, he now couldn’t walk around the lake, neither up the glacier, nor any nearer to the mountain; neither escape to the hill tops to find his way down the mountains that brought him up to this very spot, nor make it to the nearby village, Acopalca.

He now thought of when his little brother, now nineteen, he being twenty-one, raised Guinea Pigs, for both food and ritual; often used for curing and divination ceremonies in and around the Valley of Mantaro, from Huancayo, all the way to Concepcion. It had just been recently, he supplied several burials with whole guinea pigs, he wasn’t sure if they were to be eaten or used as substance for the burial, and afterlife, but it really didn’t matter to him.
He looked at the blue ice, kneeled down to look into it, saw ice worms, and a few others things, how pure it was he thought. And as he looked, the young man forgot, or perhaps didn’t notice, or perchance did notice, and didn’t care, no one would really know, but his life functions were diminishing, the cold was bring him, his body and mind, and sensory perception, and nervous system, to a state of being disorganized and indistinguishable performance, his vital functions were ceasing to operate properly, his brain functions, breathing, heartbeat all once maintained naturally, were seeing to be kept somehow functioning artificially.
He had no more fish, or food, just the cloths on his body, and a blanket made of alpaca, one his mother made for him, and he put it over him like a tent.

He had overheard some of the older folks in the lower village on his way up the mountain talking about the mist of the mountain, that it comes suddenly and blankets a person, and once lost, he freezes to death, and he knew by contrast, people, and animals expand a large amount of energy in such activities, and in doing so, allowing their body to break down sooner, and without a fire, or protein, there was no way to repair any damage that might occur, in time to survive the ordeal, once the organisms in the body collapsed, there was no replacement, at death and near death this energy needed to be available, wouldn’t be there, thus it was now inevitable, he had to remain until morning, when the mist would lift and he could make his escape, but he had to have the energy to climb the hills to top, and then down to the village for help.
As the night progress, it was as if he could feel all the cells in his body losing their tails, one by one by one, and death approached all the closer by each dead cell; the blue ice just within his reach.
The non-immortal organisms in his body were dying, and the phantom of death was getting closer. He thought: why must we die, then answered his own question, ‘Perhaps to make way for new ones,’ it was the simplest way of thinking, underneath that alpaca blanket, his home, his burial tomb to be. All that he was, became, was to be, was there, right there, right under that blanket that fell short to even keep his feet from freezing and turning black. He was sensing his body could no longer adapt to the environment.

Then all of a sudden his heart stopped beating, his body had dropped to sixty-degrees, he had been in the cold for hours, it was late in the night past twilight, his body was now ice-cold; his body was literally like a corpse.

The Morning After

In the early morning, Toribio was found by several village folks from Acopalca, he was snow-covered, curled up in a fetal position, inside his blanket-tent, less than ten-feet away from the blue ice, it was as if he had been frozen in chains, there was no visible signs of food about, his hip bones were sticking out; thereafter, his body was taken down to the village, and the best anyone could deduce was that the boy had died from starvation and frozen to death in the process.

Notes: The true fact is, a number of folks have perished in this area of White Mountain, caught by surprise of the mist, and a close relative of mine did get lost in this area, and his family had to seek out a guide quickly to search the area, and he and his son were rescued, this was perhaps some ten-years ago. Not an uncommon story. I have been to White Mountain myself, and it is a most beautiful sight and dangerous area if a person does not know its environment. And the story you have just read has more truth to it, than fiction. Some parts based on fact. Written 2-10-2009 (second title: “Lost in the Mist”)

Monday, February 09, 2009

Buying Days (A short story on prolonging your life)

Buying Days
(A short story on prolonging your life)

Alabaster Rightfield was getting old, he was 61-years old, in 1940 that was next to old age, perhaps he had a few more years, but not many to live, and he was an advocate, and something of an activist on the concept of: live and let live, and don’t interfere with God’s plan. He was a journalist for a big newspaper in Minnesota, and he wrote a weekly column called “Be as it May!”
Eddie Kindstein, on the other hand, was well known and to some, a great scientist. He was known the world over in his fields of studies: of genetic reconstruction, cell-delay techniques, and the cascade effect for chromosomes, which prolonged age, and rebuilt weak of not broken chromosomes. All in all, he had several PhDs, one in zoology, anthropology, biology, psychology, gynecology, genetics, and was a doctor in medicine, and a few other things I can’t remember.
It all sounds so above the normal, and he was above the normal, so much so, they used his photograph on many of their products, his name likewise, but they hid him so no one could find him, or kidnap him. Oh he had his rights, but the world thought, as did his company, he also had his responsibilities, to them. He was a young man, of only 28-years old, next to middle age, but not quite there yet.
The company he worked for was called “Buying Days!”
They came out with a product in 1933, and the Company was selling days, like wildfire, and Alabaster Rightfield, was a strict advocate against this unethical product.

Narrator’s Interlude

Note: Before I can continue with the story, I must first explain the rudimentary of the product.
It was a chemical, very easy to use, in pill form, no bigger than an aspirin. It didn’t have magical powers or anything like that, but it was assured to its customers, it would allow them to buy more days to their life, providing they purchased the item before any kind of illness occurred.
Let me stretch this out a little further. It didn’t stop the illness; it only prolonged it, giving you more days to life. An example would be, Mr. William Filmier, purchased six pills of Dr. Eddie Kindstein’s product, on October 1, 1939, and he became ill with cancer on December 20th of that year. The pills cost $100-dollars per pill. The doctor gave him twenty-days to live; he died exactly, 26-days later.
If this is not convincing enough to the reader, his wife who pestered him to buy the six pills, bought for herself, five-hundred pills to take, and took them (yes indeed they had a few bucks to spend, isn’t that always the case, the rich get over like fat cats, and us poor folk, go along for the joy ride and observe how they do it). In any case, after her husband died, she got ill over the whole thing, and was diagnosed with pneumonia and would die within a few days, well, she didn’t, matter of fact, rather, she up and died, five-hundred and 7-days later.
Well, I could go on and on with testimony after testimony, but the fact is, no company makes $300-billion dollars in ten-years, from a company that prior to Kindstein coming into the group, was only making $300,000-dollars with pharmaceuticals, unless they got a good product, or a good scheme convincing the public their product is good. The only other one I know that has fooled the public for a generation or two, and made billions in the process, is the cigarette manufactures. So this was the real deal.
So now back to the story.

Alabaster Rightfield was a rich man, not filthy rich, but well off. And he had a lovely young wife, and he had five children, and he was kind to them, and all that kind of good stuff, almost a perfect husband and father, and known as a moralist thinker of his time. And on July 15, 1940, he went to the doctor, and the doctor said he had a tumor, a brain tumor, that they were not sure if it was fixable or not, it would have to be extracted, or somehow reduced in size to a residue form and then extracted or perhaps left in a state of inactivity. Well, Mrs. Rightfield went to see the CEO, Mr. Greedland, of “Buying Days” and asked him for pills…to either reduce the tumor in size, or to buy more days.
Mr. Greedland, was sympathetic, and said,
“It would be a shame for your husband to part this world, when he could live other ten-years. You could buy the days for him if you want to,” and he went on to say in essence: that he’d actually give the pills to her free, should he decide to shut his mouth a little on his so called moral and righteous grounds. This being for the most part, an attitude adjustment on his part; thus, he’d give her 3500-bills, free of charge.
On the other hand, Mr. Greedland said, we could do an operation, the good doctor, Kindstein, would even perform it, and it would be an almost guarantee, that he would survive the operation, but for him to take the pills incase something went wrong, it was all going to be free of charge.

Fine, thought Mrs. Rightfield, and she went home to beg her husband to do the deal. But he told her this,
“How can I, after preaching against such devises to keep one alive beyond God’s chosen date, I would be among the class of: hypocrites. I could only do such a thing if I could bring down the company, and force them to walk the straight line, to help people for the sake of health reasons”
“But a live hypocrite,” she murmured with tears running down those white soft cheeks of hers.
So by and by, Mr. Rightfield insisted he could not. And he got ill, very ill, and he was hospitalized, and up to the last minute, his wife begged him, even Mr. Greedland, agreed to do the operation free, and give him the pills free, without any promises to be forthcoming.
Then came a secret from the mouth of Mr. Greedland to Mr. Rightfield—told behind closed doors—of course, he whispered to Alabaster: “My pills work in either case, meaning, if the person was sick the day he bought the pills, or anytime, it doesn’t matter, it was just a gimmick to get the public to deliver the money early on, although the product is as good as gold. The reason we lied to the public was for our company stockholders, and so other pharmaceutical companies would not go out of business. I repeat Alabaster, it was all for an immediate effect: money, money, and more money.”
When Mr. Rightfield heard this, he agreed to the operation and the pills, free of charge, and no promises, and knowing his reputation was as good as their pills, he devised his plan.
Therefore, and thereafter, he was cured, and subsequently in a few months was back on his weekly column, he spread the news, the pills were good even after you got sick; and thus, something strange happened, several worldwide pharmaceutical companies got together and bought the company out, and lost the recipe to the product “Buying Days,” lest they go out of business, and the company soon after that, closed its doors once and for all.