And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon. - Revelation 13:11
Chapter One Sting of the Wasp
The wind-whipped sand raked our eyes as we squinted toward the smoky sea. The smell of petroleum was overpowering, only slightly thinner than the molasses now lapping at the shore of the Mississippi Delta. Oil was once again gushing relentlessly from a hole drilled in the sea bed, where the Deep Water Horizon platform had years ago exploded, burned and sank into the Gulf of Mexico. It now seemed clear Mother Earth would vomit her belly’s contents until whatever pocket in hell it was coming from drained itself dry. Over the din we heard the sound of a distant chopper. It came into view like a shadow, with no sign, numbers or insignia. It twirled in the wind as it landed, like a black queen wasp on the back of a tarantula, until its high-tech landing gear stung the ground with a hiss. A hundred uniformed soldiers took up positions with their backs to the helicopter, heavy weapons at the ready to enforce the perimeter. The engine died with a fatal whine, and the rotors ground to a stop. The door began to creak, but got caught in a wind that violently flung it wide open. Two soldiers wearing white gloves stood at attention on either side of the gangway, and snapped a crisp salute to a tall figure who appeared in the doorway. And the wind raked our eyes once more. A line of oil-soaked volunteers stood at the shore, heads bowed away from the wind as they scrubbed oily rocks, birds and bottles, a monumental exercise in futility. A caravan of jeeps arrived at the landing site, all painted the oily black camouflage of the day. As the tall figure stepped from the chopper, a high ranking officer extended a hand in greeting. “General McNasty at your service sir,” said the one. No reply was forthcoming, and the tall figure scowled down at the extended hand. “How many battalions have we gathered, General?” he finally asked. “Sixty or seventy thousand sir,” the General replied. “More, counting tank battalions and heavy artillery- we’re ready for anything, Armageddon, if need be.” The tall mans eyes flashed a red fire at the word. He smiled at the ground and plants withered from his toxic gaze. “Good. Call me when Mr. Magic gets here” he spat, and re-entered the helicopter. In the sickly light, a second, smaller helicopter arrived, landing with less wind, less military guard, and less fanfare. Upon arrival, a good natured man in a colorful suit sprang from the doorway and trotted over to the black chopper. He shot a glance toward a frenzied crowd of journalists and supporters, and offered them a smile and a wave. They had been waiting for hours to greet their hero. “How’s everybody doing this morning,” he smarmed. A reporter fired off a question. “How do you feel about the newest idea to stop the oil flow?” “About the same as the last time; it’s all in God’s hands, so why worry? Let me tell you something, if God didn’t want this oil to be spilling, it sure as hell wouldn’t be happening,” he said, scanning their expressions. “America runs on this black gold. You do know the Pentagon is the largest user of oil, right? It’s a matter of security and that’s the end of that.” The reporter shot back, “Whose security sir, British Petroleum’s?” The hero flashed hyena eyes and two soldiers seized the reporter by either arm, leading him behind the chopper. A muzzle report was lost amid the wind and a cacophony of moving military equipment. “What’s more important,” he dared the press, “the needs of people, or a bunch of noisy, smelly birds that shit on your new cars? No more questions now.” Upon arriving at the black helicopter, he raised a fist to knock, but the door had already opened and he was ushered inside.
Seven Heads of the Summit
In the last days of the dragon arose a beast from the abyss With seven saurian heads it did arise in the mist A fog obscured the wild beast’s one true nature Born and adorned of a world legislature
Upon those dregg heads sat ten horns blowing sound Bespoke every language and wore every crown One wore the mark of some long ago cuniform Frill of its neck as a cobra in uniform
The feet of the dragon were covered in hair An oily gryphon who walked like a bear When the beast spoke all the skies exhaled thunder A mouth like a lion tore nations asunder
Kept held at a distance were voices against The beast had such army there was no defense It drew itself up, tall on shore stood the dragon It’s G-7 heads with their lying tongues wagging
But soon came thereafter amidst every woe The slayer of dragons a genuine foe Despite all their might those befoul heads of seven Were smote by mysterious powers from heaven
The battle was brief did not last but a minute The oil caught fire the beast was tossed in it Below all fell silent the lands void of noise And when it was over the meek did rejoice
Equal to Shellfish
It had horns like a lamb but it spake like a dragon A black inky death juice was filling our flagon The end of our days was arriving and quickly Few were surviving and all was quite prickly
Yet such is the way of a species called 'Man' None other can save us; only we can So put down the oily toys of your youth Destroying the world is decidedly uncouth
These gushers are deep these gushers are flowing None of them show any signs of them slowing There's barely enough time to save our one planet We blast and we spill but escape, we don't plan it
Rather than pray to a sky-god above Perhaps we should show Mother Ocean some love Stop buying oil stop being so selfish For we are but spirits; and equal to shellfish
Chapter Two
Storm Clouds
The tall man began introductions thus: “Mr. Magic, this is General McNasty, Mick, Mr. Magic.” “How do you do, sir,” said the General. “I understand you’ve got some questions for me?” “I do,” replied Mr. Magic. “How many gallons do you estimate we’ve lost so far, and how long do you suppose it will be before we get hit by the next hurricane?” “One at a time, fella,” said the General, waving his hands. “That’s a mighty noticeable outfit, by the way,” he quipped. “Let’s see- sixteen months, a million gallons a day, I’d say in excess of half billion gallons so far. The next big ‘cane is still a week away, but the storm surge may be here by the weekend. But I don’t think it matters anymore,” said the General. “No?” asked Mr. Magic. “What makes you say that?” The General gave his best dead pan face and joked, “Because the last two storms pushed so much oil so far into the estuaries that their tributaries are all mortuaries!” General McNasty guffawed heartily at his own joke. “So how do we play this in the press,” asked Mr. Magic, rolling his eyes at the General’s gallows humor. “My constituents would like to see new drilling resume. Can’t we at least keep this slop in the Gulf?” “Too late; oil has already reached the Dry Tortugas, where the Gulf Stream is going to take it across to Western Europe. Tell them anything you want. Better yet, find out what they want hear and give ‘em that” said General McNasty. Then the Tall Man chimed in. “With a catastrophe this big, there’s going to be unrest. We’ve been expecting something like this to happen since we started drilling in deep water. That’s why we run full-page feel-good ads in the New York Times for the Navy and the National Guard. So when it’s time to send them into trouble areas, like Berkeley and San Francisco, resistance is muted- at first.” Both men smiled, careful not to look directly into the goat eyes of the Tall Man as he continued, “Send the Guard in to set up roadblocks in San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, Brooklyn, Toledo, and Miami. No outdoor privileges after 6:00 pm, except for emergency workers. Shoot anybody out after 7:00 pm.” Mr. Magic looked toward the General. “The riots are global and the activist leaders are getting bold. Mickey, can your boys shoot another NFL player and martyr him for the pro-war set- maybe somebody from the Patriots?” “That would be a tall order sir,” answered the General. “That Tillman family is still hound-doggin’ my 4-stars to this day! No, sir, that’d just be pushin’ it.” The guards allowed a smartly dressed soldier to enter, who handed the General a communiqué. After reading it, he looked at the Tall man and said, “Sir, it looks like we’ve got something for all these boys to shoot at- look at this!” “Looks like a cloud- just a large thunderhead cloud” said the Tall Man in charge. ”Yessir, but it’s acting kind of funny, and heading this way.”
Chapter Three
The Oil Gushed On
The Tall Man stood up and shouted, “Clear out you idiots, and bring our full might to bear! Whoever it is, whatever they want, I want them crushed like a walnut at a crow convention. One slip up and you’re dead, Mickey.” “Alright, you heard the man, now move out!” General McNasty and company knew the drill. “Lock and load all weapons and engage radar detection systems on my mark, and three, two, one, go-go-go-go-go-go-go!” Out of the East came the cloud, bringing torrential rain, thunderclaps, the lightning of a thousand storms, and the wind of a million winters. By now, the Coast Guard had finally lit the oil slick, though too late to stave off destruction onshore. Everywhere, birds lay coated and dying- big birds, and during nesting season. Out from the ominous, approaching cloud gazed a man, a man of the hour, the Son of Man of the hour, and he had an air of great power. He wept forlornly at the nests of oil-soaked chicks that would never spread their white wings. Anger rose within him until he called forth the twelve white wings of the Angel Samael- and so it was done. “It’s too rough out here now, we can’t get anything done. We’re gonna call it and go home ‘till this storm breaks,” said an oily clothed volunteer working tirelessly at the shoreline. “Might as well,” answered the field boss. By now the sea was a raging torrent, high tide lifting thickly oiled waves up and over barriers that were too little, too late and too few. The people of the Earth didn’t seem to care, and most didn’t even know. Rupert Murdoch sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them- and the oil gushed on.
Chapter Four
Throngs of Armageddon
The mightiest army ever assembled in world history sat entrenched in a valley almost two hundred miles long, awaiting the order to lay waste to a pack of smelly, tree hugging hippies and new age mystics, being led to their doom by a long-haired weirdo riding a big, puffy cumulonimbus cloud. An army that was ready, willing and, so they thought, able. Up from behind, a 10-mile convoy rolled in, dignitaries at the fore. World leaders arrived from everywhere, here at the behest of the Tall Man, whom they thought, had a plan. “Right this way, ma’am,” said a soldier assigned to the brass, “the boss will see you now.” Arrogance walked a makeshift runway from armored vehicle to temporary base camp, she wore a blue dress with a white flower, and a radiant smile. Mr. Magic greeted them all on a first-name basis as they entered. “Hello, Condi, so glad you could come.” “He called me Condi,” said the woman who was once the namesake for a single-hulled Chevron oil supertanker. She laughed and walked along with a close aide. “Mr. Rumsfeld, how are you, are you still having trouble landing in Paris? Those silly Parisians will make war crime arrests at the drop of a hat,” Mr. Magic continued. “Mr. Powell, good to see you again. Mr. Roberts, Alito, Thomas, Scalia; come in, come in.” The Tall Man waited impatiently for them to take their places at this portable council of war. He looked through them, and toward the events about to unfold in this, the shadow of the Valley of Death. They, of course had no idea. They thought it was just another easy genocide, and sat licking their proverbial chops at the thought of fresh virginal meat. The Tall Man spoke, “As the world watches the oil spill- and thank you for that excellent diversion Mr. Cheney,” he began. “I’ll tell the boys at Halliburton,” answered Dick, no heart beating in his chest. “While this goop dominates the news, we are moving ahead with Agenda 21, and will continue to push for discriminatory policies from New York to Arizona.” Everyone in the room laughed nervously along, circus smiles all around. “As states adopt xenophobic laws, we will utilize pandemics to target progressive communities with selective enforcement. This enables us to lock down free society at a whim, and in an instant. Bugs tracking cell phones, internet cookies, RFID chip implants, a GPS in every car, a one child limit per secular family household; complete control, all done for a better world.” His goat eyes had the effect of tear gas as he flashed them around the meeting. “A better world,” they droned in unison, each draped in tri-colored flags and the uniform of the day.
Chapter Five
Flags of a Thousand Nations
‘His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself’ -Revelation 19:12
Thick black oil billowed like lava, rolling through the Caribbean and then up the Eastern Seaboard, interfering with shipping and inundating the coast. Even offshore oil rigs were bogged down. Fires burned off and on the coast, where sparks from appliances, boat, and car engines ignited malignant oil patches. Dead and dying water fowl littered the beaches as far as the eye could see, joining the skeletal remains of those who had already died of emaciation. Whales beached themselves the length of the shoreline, many wearing rusted harpoons. It was a scene right out of -Armageddon. The great cloud spat lightning, flaming swords turning this way and that as it navigated powerful winds like an Eagle to the kill. It arrived on the opposite side of the delta in an instant, and set itself down on pillars of fire. A soldier entered the tent to warn the congregation, but they had heard for themselves. With the armies of a thousand nations behind them, they feared not, and lusted together for the power to be had in routing another enemy. “All weapons ready and aimed, sir” came the gunners mate advisory. “Aye” said the Tall Man, who emerged from a back compartment wearing the scrambled eggs of a banana republic dictator and a wicked smile. “Missiles standing by, jets approaching,” said the Sergeant of Arms. “Aye” came the reply. Behind them, Mr. Magic entertained his friends, fans and fanatics with a dazzling light show, beams emanating from tricky fingers. “See that one?” he asked the bedazzled crowd, “and this?” “Oooooooh, and Ahhhhh,” came their answer. They were his. Suddenly, the flags of a thousand nations dropped from their poles like bees in smoke. The cacophony of clanging bars, slapping ropes, whipping canvas and moving metal all ceased as if on cue. Across the Mighty Mississippi River, something within the cloud began to stir.
Chapter Six
Feast Upon the Beast
‘And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone’ ‘-Revelation 19:20
Once a fisherman’s paradise, the Gulf of Mexico had de-evolved into a hellish scene. Thousand-foot tall flames licked the sky, emanating from a witches cauldron of toxic charcoal brew. The waters were made a third part bitter by black Texas vomit with the consistency of driveway gravel, the stuff of greed and wickedness. This did not go unnoticed by the immense figure emerging from the parting mist of the great cloud. A ghostly pale shielded him from plain sight, but his presence was nonetheless alarming to any who saw him unfurl his twelve white wings. Across the river, the Tall Man walked down to the shore to meet him, the crunching of each slow, deliberate step framed like a Picasso by the unnerving silence. “Who are you, and why have you come in this, my hour of triumph?” asked the tall man. Many at the river, though humbled by their inky black coating, still managed to kneel before the white-winged giant, now fully emerged from the cloud. “Arise,” he admonished them, “for I am but a fellow servant and not the one worthy of your praise.” But they were so frozen by terror, they could not move. At this, the giant raised a voice wrapped in the fold of seven thunderclaps and unsheathed a sword large as a jousting lance. “Arise!” Nearby, the foothills of their grandfathers shook, and so arise they did, and all ran off into the shimmering distance. Then he turned toward the Tall Man, setting upon him eyes like lasers, and answered him with a single word, “Samael.” The word bounced off distant peaks, a mining charge set with too much explosive. The gathered armies of the world lay spread before him, locusts on the land. These were the guardians of the wicked, the Cherubim whose flaming swords would block a man’s return to the garden. Spreading his wings like Pegasus gone mad, he raised his thunderous voice once more, calling forth all fowl of the air. “Birds!” he bellowed, “Avia!” he roared. “Gather to the feast! Strip the mortal flesh from the bones of the despoilers of Earth and all who by their own hand come to the precipice of their doom.” His voice rang from the Rockies to Appalachia, through the high Himalayas, around the Matterhorn, and up to the ears of weather-cured Sherpa on the pinnacle of Everest.
Chapter Seven
Vengeance of Heaven, Part I
And so they came. Come one. Come a thousand. Come a million. Come a thousand-million, to the ready, and they dared not utter a squeak or chirp or a whistle in the presence of Samael, the killer among angels. The flames of a special hell raged behind him, silhouetting the twelve great wings of Sameal. And he leapt, faster than the eye could see, upon his prey. Golden talons dug deep and to the bone and without a struggle the Tall Man he was cast alive in a lake of fire. The press corps took photographs of every shape and from every angle, but no one would ever see. The jets of Armageddon pressed to the attack as Samael banked at mach 40 toward a false prophet in the silly suit. And in his last moment of life, Mr. Magic was held aloft, center stage in the bloody talons of a real magician in time to look down at the rapidly approaching conflagration below him. And he sizzled in death like too-crisp bacon. The greatest army ever assembled in the history of the world now stood in disbelief, for it was over, without a shot, arrow or sword. They awaited orders but none were forthcoming. They found themselves immobilized, having left their ability to think, feel and reason out in the streets of Iraqi neighborhoods, where the blood of a million children still stained their souls. And Samael called again in a thunderous voice, “Condoleezza Rice, come forth to your judgment!” The tent door opened and a foot kicked the well dressed former Chevron Board Member and Secretary of State of the United States out on her face and into the sand. “You are charged with making the false claim the people of Iraq would unleash a mushroom cloud on Americans, leading to a million deaths and a billion tears, how do you plead today?” “What?” she said in a quivering voice, “what are you, what, why are you -not guilty!” she cried. And across the sky on charcoal clouds somehow shone a holograph of a once smug Condi speaking those very words, as a thousand-thousand soldiers craned their necks to watch the angel pounce like a space born Jaguar, talons rending for grip, wings beating with tornado force and with a scream she perished into the flaming ocean of oil, the Lake of Fire.
Donald Rumsfeld Saddam Hussein
Vengeance of Heaven, Part II
The tent door kicked open and out ran a bespectacled man, hunched at the back, service pistol cracking off shots, helter skelter. Former Secretary of Defense of the United States Donald Rumsfeld, long wanted in Europe for war crimes, shouted to the paralyzed troops, “Fire your weapons! That’s an order, soldiers, fire your-” But the Angel Samael scooped him up and deposited him where karma long ago wanted him, and he was gone. “Colin Powell, how do you plead, as you are accused of making the official case for war, though you knew better, resulting in many sad holiday seasons for American soldiers families for the rest of their lives?” Colin walked out the door, head down and replied, “Guilty.” There was a moment of hushed silence as the angel looked at his own hands, studying them for a long minute. “Mr. Powell, I have examined the evidence and you are indeed guilty,” said Samael. “I have also examined myself, and have seen that I am but the Angel of Death, and not the one of mercy.” And Samael the Killer lived up to his name, and assigned task, and hurled Colin Powell to a fiery un-death for a thousand years. Soldier to the end, he died without a sound.
Former Vice President Dick Cheney
Vengeance of Heaven, Part III
“Richard Cheney, now step forward,” spake Samael. A commotion was going on behind the tent along with the sound of digging. A gust of wind lifted the tent a mile high and there stood former U.S. Vice President Dick Cheney, dripping sweat and digging for all he was worth. He refused to look up. “Fuck you!” said Cheney. “Go fuck yourself!” he added. “Do you know who I am? I’ll have you-” Samael spoke again, “Richard Cheney, you are accused of stealing the 2000 election, the 2004 election, exposing an agent of the CIA, torture, rape, murder, genocide and orchestrating the events of 9/11. You are also accused of other assorted and sundry. How do you plead here today?” Cheney still refused to look up and grunted as he continued digging. “Ungh! Dam weirdo, it’s Hillary, I know it is!” He continued to rant, “And I ain’t going anywhere with you, you 50-foot freak!” As a holograph played sin after morbid sin on charcoal clouds matching fung shui with his soul, the watchers turned away in disgust and disinterest, except for the soiled wildlife volunteers who cheered the angel, crying tears of relief from long overdue frustration. Cheney screamed like a schoolyard bully caught by somebody’s older brother as he went on a final Air Force-Two trip to oblivion. “Karl- get me out of this, Karl! Where are you, you chubby little- I made you Karl, I fucking made yooooooooooooou!” He splashed into the lake, continuing straight down another order of magnitude, where he went immediately back to work in hell.
Lake of Fire, epilogue
One by one, they were judged, burned, and drowned in a sea of sorrows for what they had smote upon the lands and now bitter waters. And the birds in their minions descended dutifully from the skies, stripping the bones of an army made of armies, and the oil gushed and bubbled and seeped and slopped, and coated and covered, and shined and sheened and spilled and flowed and squirted, and slipped and snuffed and smothered and on and on and on.
The End
Dedicated to all the creatures who died in the unthinkable oil spill of 2010
author's note: Though somewhat dated, these names are still relevant, because of the failure of the next President, Barack Obama to prosecute the crimes of the Bush/Cheney cabal. This failure gave rise to the Trump era, and a rising tide of hate in America and around the world. Stay tuned.