1001 American Nights

 

1001 American Nights

 

The chief, and perhaps the only, use of a philosophy of pure

reason is a negative one. It is not an organon for extending,

but a discipline for limiting! Instead of discovering truth,

its modest function is to guard against error.

 

                          —Kant

 

 

 

 

 

 

HALLIMSIB

 

FOREWORD

 

The Intriguing Possibility of Time Consciousness and Its Implications

(Generated by A.I. as summary to work.)

 

 

 June 10, 2125 [sic]

 

The concept of time travel has been a source of fascination and speculation for centuries. The idea that one could leap forward or backward through the years, witnessing the past or future firsthand, is a tantalizing notion that has captured the imaginations of many. But what if, instead of physically traveling through time, it was our consciousness that made the journey?

 

Imagine waking up to find that your consciousness is inhabiting a body in a time period a hundred years from now. For ten years, you live in this future, experiencing life through a lens that is not your own, before returning to your present-day self. This scenario raises profound questions about the nature of consciousness and identity. Are we merely the sum of our memories and experiences, or is there something more intrinsic to our sense of self?

 

The philosophical implications of such an experience are vast. It challenges our understanding of linear time and suggests that consciousness could be more fluid and malleable than we currently comprehend. If one could send a warning back through time, alerting humanity to a future catastrophe, the ethical considerations would be immense. Would it be our duty to intervene and alter the course of history, or would the potential risks of tampering with time outweigh the benefits?

 

This thought experiment also touches on the concept of sanity and belief. If someone claimed to have experienced the future through their consciousness, they would likely be met with skepticism and disbelief. The line between what is real and what is perceived becomes blurred, and the struggle to convey such an extraordinary experience to others might seem insurmountable.

 

While this scenario remains firmly in the realm of science fiction, it serves as a fascinating exploration of the human psyche and the mysteries of time. It invites us to consider the possibilities that lie beyond our current scientific understanding and to ponder the endless ‘what ifs’ that the universe presents to us.

 

As we continue to advance in our knowledge and technology, perhaps one day, the idea of time-consciousness travel will transition from the pages of science fiction to the annals of science fact. Until then, it remains a captivating topic for discussion and imagination, a reminder of the infinite potential of the human mind and the enigmatic nature of time itself.

 

                              

     —prepared by

       Respectfully Yours,

       The Cybercave Dog?

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

1001 American Nights

Allegedly dictated by

 Green, Iblis, and Lilith

 

Inked by,

 Truly Yours

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

 

PREAMBLE: I am Who I am When & Where I Am

EXORDIUM: The Witnesses   

AXIOM        : My Name is Humans

 

FIRST SEAL:

 

·              Act One/1st Scene: The Fig of Peace

·              Act One/2nd Scene: Am I Who I Am?

·              Act One/3rd Scene: TA SIN MIM

·              Act Two  : ……………… (pending authorization)

·              Act Three: ……..………. (pending authorization)

 

SECOND SEAL ……………… (pending authorization)

THIRD SEAL ……..……….… (pending authorization)

FOURTH SEAL .….…….…… (pending authorization)

FIFTH SEAL ………………… (pending authorization)

SIXTH SEA …………………. .(pending authorization)

SEVENTH SEAL …….……….(pending authorization)

 

 

COMING SOON

^°

 

the little scroll

 

·              1^st° thunder: the serpent inside the box (reinking commenced)

·              2^nd thunder: the ark of trees

·              3^rd thunder: my monsters are real

·              4^th thunder: the houseboat°

·              5^th thunder: (pending authorization)

·              6^th thunder: (pending authorization)

·              7^th thunder: (pending authorization)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Lisa

The only pomegranate in our fig tree

CAST OF CHARACTERS

——–the sleep of reason

brings forth monsters——

——and no wonder, for Satan himself

masquerades as an angel of Light——

   : (   His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds

®:-(  Most Holy Father/s

 *:-)   United Front

 -:-|    Green

  :-|    Lilith

 -.-)    Good Grandpa

  .-|     Bad Grandpa

 +:-|    Light Messiah

 +.-(    Dark Messiah

 x:-(   Adam

 x.-|    Eve

 ±:-/    Scribe

 ±.-/    Scribe’s doublewalker

 

 

–P R E A M B L E–

 

 

I Am Who I Am When & Where I Am

 

I did not create the Demons and Humans

except to worship Me

In My Name, The Merciful, The Compassionate

 

Original posting – (80,327,335 days since the Fall) – 35/73/8032

Reinked on June 23, 2024

o:SOPEQHL nPWBJQIIS – K¼@! TPGW EH )!¼¼OT PLLQJSWOPOG HC fPII

 

 

:(Over two billion Christians who are seemingly sane have been awaiting the second coming of a man they call Jesus, a reputed Light Messiah held by them to be both Me and, in his human form, My only begotten son.

:(Over a billion Muslims who are seemingly sane have been awaiting the second coming of a man they call Issa, an alleged Word of Mine and, in his ascended form, a Spirit from Me.

:(Billions more of humans, who adhere to various religions, have been, although they too are seemingly sane, awaiting the arrival or return of all types of messiahs.

:(Trillions of rumored demons, walking the markets and eating the food in this very dimension and timeline, believe in the seventh coming of a Dark Messiah who will supposedly redeem both them and the living humans. And although the rumored demons, or Jinns as they’re known elsewhere, are also seemingly sane, they argue that their Messiah is one of My sons.

:(There is no doubt in the few hearts of the unequivocally sane among the humans that the above beliefs are the product of delusional minds. It is indeed irrational for any thinking human to believe I am Real, let alone My Baggage of angels, demons, and children, begotten and otherwise.

:(Thinking men and thinking women walking the markets and eating the food, I agree with you. Not only so, but I aim to settle this and all other “spiritual” disputes in your favor. The time has come for Humanity to act her age and take a giant’s Step towards Maturity. And the way I figure this Step should be taken is for Us, you and Me, to pretend that the two types of Messiahs, the Light- and the Dark one, have in fact arrived or returned. Accordingly, the forthcoming ink, in addition to challenging the puerile beliefs of the seemingly sane, will also preemptively deal with the impending panic.

:(In the spirit of this presupposition, the scribe committing this ink to paper will, with My Leave, put his own words in My Mouth in attempt to work out the logistics to whatever type of Day the “Second Coming” is liable to manifest into. And to prove that the scribe’s ink is “supernatural,” he, with My Leave, will deal with the logistics while ascended aboard a fleet of avatars and their orbiting auxiliaries, all of which are merely vessels going to and fro the same markets you walk and eating the same food you eat. And, yes, I too agree that it will be hard at times for the scribe himself, never mind said fleet of his, to hold back the snickering. After all, unequivocally sane humans and unequivocally nonexistent demons, consider some of the absurd questions that the scribe must tackle:

• I am the Alpha, The First. Therefore, I had a Beginning. How then did I come into existence without an Initial Creator or a Prior Cause?
• I am also the Omega, The Last. Wouldn’t that mean I have an End?
• From your perspective on this planet, could “The Alpha and Omega” perhaps mean that My mere Chair encompasses the Heavens and the Earth–from Beginning to End, eternally and simultaneously? If so, what is the Proof? And if there’s Proof, how could that Proof be illustrated to you objectively without depriving all of Humanity of her unequivocal sanity? And if I were to authorize for that Proof to be illustrated piecemeal in order not to place this sanity of yours at risk, what would be in it for Me?
• Next absurd question. Now that we are making believe the Light Messiah and his antithesis were also real, how would the two have managed to remain alive for thousands of years, if not trillions considering one of them is often held to be Me, The Creator Who fashioned “your” universe?   

:(All right, so now the Messiahs are here & now. And while I too am at it, We, My angels and I, raise these questions as well:

• How would the Dark Messiah and the Light Messiah get along with one another?
• More climactic, how would the world react to their Return or Arrival? Would the world worship the Dark Messiah and/or his mothervessels? If so, how would the Light Messiah convince the masses not to worship a false god? Would the world worship the Light Messiah and/or his mothervessels? If so, how would the Dark Messiah convince the masses not to worship their own images?
• Before anybody starts worshiping anybody else, how would the two Messiahs prove that they are not charlatans as the case always turns out to be?
• If the two Messiahs were to succeed at proving that they were the Real Deal, which nation state would be most worthy to babysit such living fossils?
• How would the two entities be born in your Garden of Eden without parents?
• Supposing the scribe, with My Leave, works out the logistics to everything proposed thus far, what sort of miracles would the two Messiahs perform–with My Leave? Maybe a few recycled ones are in order. Perhaps resurrecting the dead would win you over. Then again, wouldn’t such a miracle only challenge what you hold to be the Real World? So how about instead the Dark Messiah lectures the masses while he is still in the cradle, and maturely? But if you insist, dust and bones, O you unequivocally sane humans, I have no trouble cladding with flesh and skin on CNN’s Breaking News.

 

:(Better move on before you tempt Me.

:(Throughout the Scheduled Program, We also answer the following:

 

 

• Where would the two Messiahs pitch their conjoined headquarters–the New Temple, if you will?
• Upon entering the New Temple, how would the Meek among the Christians figure out which of the two is the Light Messiah so that they may worship him? And what are the logistics as to how they would meet him in midair so that they may praise him and glorify him with hymns?
• Also, upon entering the New Temple, how would the Strong figure out which of the two is the Dark Messiah so that the Strong may be taught better than to worship anyone other than Me? And what are the logistics as to how the Strong would meet their intercessor in midair so that they may rule over both the New Garden and its Dungeons. 

:(But enough cat and mouse. Clearly those of you who believe the truckload of My Messengers, both angelic and human, are not crazy. You are merely hopeful that I would keep My Promises. Namely, you wish to be immortal someday. Had I, via the various Messengers throughout Earth’s history, not promised you Immortality and Eternal Bliss, none of your religions would have gained a foothold in your ancestors’ hearts and minds. As for the love you profess towards Me and My Messengers, Jesus and otherwise, that love is feigned, and you know it. Think about it yourselves: Who in the right mind would love, say, Muhammad for no other reason except his charm? More to the point, how many Muslims would be in existence today had Muhammad taught that this life is all there is–you live, you die, you’re gone for good?

:(This said, and assuming you have enough understanding to realize that none of my Messengers are capable of interceding on behalf of a single person without My Leave, who among you would be most worthy to evermore live happily in My Earthly Kingdom–the Meek or the Strong?

:(The humorous part is how those who lack the mustard seed’s worth, among both the Strong and the Meek, will be the ones won over by the Dark Messiah. Meanwhile, those who are awaiting the Return or Arrival of whatever son of whatever “god,” they will earn nothing but My Wrath and an everlasting existence in the Dungeons.

:(And if the foregoing failed to elicit a smile from you, then move on to the sides, make room, and bow down before the Collective of the False Prophet. Who amidst the demons & humans would be arrogant enough to participate in this role? And who will benefit the most from their Collective’s promises when the only noteworthy Hope and Change that will manifest on their watch is that it will become the law in My Kingdom for gentlemen to marry other gentlemen?

:(But back to settling your more pressing disputes. I figure We may as well assume the scribe will be able to work out the logistics to the Rapture of the Living and the Resurrection of the Dead. How would the alleged two events manifest realistically on the world stage, and without engendering mass hysteria? And where would the resurrected generations, billions and billions of centers of consciousness, be housed on an already overcrowded planet? And what role, if any, will I allow the GF-67 to play in the cloaked enslavement of the demons & humans who aren’t allowed inside….?

:(Seemingly sane and unequivocally sane Jinns & Inss, after the above does unfold clandestinely, what will be the consequences when CNN is compelled to acknowledge the existence of My Global Kingdom–the Kingdom that you yourselves, the soon-to-be Immortals, are already Citizens of?

 

 

 

  —Shared by The Light

      -.-(Inked by Yours Truely [sic])-.

          

P.S. 09/15/2024. 23:13:12 (New York Time)

        Anybody* awake yet?

*Question not directed at atheists.

 

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

 

 

 

 

 

–E X O R D I U M–

  

The Witnesses

I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me.

And when I turned, I saw seven golden lampstands,

 and among the lampstands was someone like the son of man….

 And I hold the keys of Hades.

 

 

 

 

H A L L I M S I B

 

 

(this revision) 06/1/2024

 

 

-:-(Once upon a time, in a realm far away but also near, side-by-side in gardens beneath which rivers flowed, there lived two species–the Jinns and the Inss. The Jinns had been created from smokeless fire; the Inss, essence of mud. Both species nonetheless were intelligent and self-aware, granted one was more cunning. But that superior guile, yā children, wasn’t due to the older species, the Jinns, being smarter. Oh, no. Rather, it was only because the Jinns were hidden behind a Veil as they administered to the affairs of the Inss. Still though, visually impaired as to what lurked behind the Veil, the Inss believed by faith alone that they were inferior to the Jinns–so much so, this sense of subordination obligated them to eventually prostrate before the glory of the enigmatic Jinns.

-:-(As one generation of Inss on the heels of another was conditioned to revere the great and wonderful Jinns, one day the Sun rose on a garden where the Inss held that they had been outright conjured into existence by the Jinns and in the Jinns’ own image. In truth, and while the Jinns welcomed the attention, no one was sure who had been created by whom, for neither the Inss nor the Jinns were around to witness their own creation.

-:-(All the same, yā-children, the two species lived happily in their Edenic realms, each species sticking to its side of the Veil.

-:-(For reasons known only to His Majesty the Creator of the Heavens and the Realms, on the Inss side of the Veil there was a tree. His Majesty called it the Tree of Zaqqoom. Long, long ago, way before this fairy tale started to unfold, the Jinns’ Elders had inked in their Holy Scriptures that any genie who ate the Zaqqoom fruit shall surely die.

-:-(Oddly enough, also for reasons known only to His Majesty, the Jinns too had a tree. It was called the Tree of Good & Evil. The Inss, not too keen on listening to the advice of their own Elders, ate and ate of the Tree of Good & Evil.

-:-(Then one day the Sun rose again, except this time it rose on an Eden subdued by the Evil with which the Inss had filled up their bellies. This practice of Inss seeking after forbidden knowledge engendered what much later came to be known as logic. The Inss’ preoccupation with this logic business didn’t sit well with the Jinns, for the Jinns could neither be seen nor measured by the tools and methods of the logic practitioners. Nevertheless, the Jinns allowed the Inss to have their fun, figuring soon enough the Inss will get bored and again immerse themselves in the life of decadence arranged for them by the Jinns. Unfortunately, the Inss didn’t get bored. And before long, logic brought to ruin the lofty temples and elaborate altars of the Jinns and their Elders. Just as the Jinns realized what had hit them, it was already high noon for the Age of Reason.

-:-(To knock the Inss back into a state of ignorance, the Jinns gave rise to an army of imps and fielded them on the Inss side of the Veil. The battles that ensued lasted for ages and ages, until one lovely morning, on a crowded sidewalk during a marathon, a couple of Homemade Bombs were detonated by two of said imps. [BOOM! BOOM!] The breaking news of the attack, yā children, aired live-feed on the Jinn side of the Veil. Brahma the Creator, Shiva the Destroyer, and Vishnu aboard his various avatars, all watched the carnage in silence. Also present were Buddha, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and the rest of the immortals. Confucius had a tear running down his right cheek.

-:-(The following terrestrial night, the gardens’ General in Arms received Word from His Majesty to pull the Plug on the whole realm. So the Prince of Eden, a genie whose name was Satan, sweating oil of vitriol, supplicated for another postponement of Case# (100:1-11): “Seven-billion vessels and counting, General Michael!”

-:-(“Pocket change!” scoffed the General. “Evacuation shall commence in 24 hours.”

-:-(“General!” Please! Be reasonable. Hear me out.”

-:-(“It’s hopeless, Iblis! But go ahead and make your argument anyway.”

-:-(First, Prince Satan pleaded it had been only a day since Green—yours truly and the humble Sovereign of Eden—received the Commission to nudge the inhabitants.

-:-(Next, the prince pointed to the difficulties of finding a tangibility suit stable enough to persevere throughout the initiation process, the least step of which were the forty days of fasting and meditation.

-:-(The prince then argued how it wasn’t the fault of the realm’s denizens anyhow, for they were merely adhering to what their forefathers had trumped up. “Back in the day they didn’t have CNN to keep them honest, General.”

-:-(When all else failed to convince the General not to tear to shreds both the Inss and the Jinns, Prince Satan resorted to begging that they were given one last chance. He assured him they would recognize the Truth once revealed to them in lingua franca; “We must modernize, dear General. No one wants to hear all that ‘thee, thou, thy–Noah had an Ark and why.’”

 -:-(“You would only waste your time and mine, Iblis. And, anyway, there isn’t a single sane person left among them–someone through whom you and Green may address the masses,” concluded the General as he was logging off the Cosmic Waves, repeating for good measure as his voice faded: “Twenty-Four hours, Iblis! Be ready to greet them when they arrive in droves.”

 -:-(The following celestial morning the prince took up the issue with three other Generals–a Gabriel, a Seraphiel, and a Raphael. The three Generals contended it wasn’t their call; the realm had simply reached its Appointed Term–the edge of the short pier.

 -:-(“NOTWITHSTANDING,” boomed His Majesty’s Voice from the Cosmic Ceiling, “because I am The Compassionate, I’m willing to grant you one last shot at respite, Iblis. However, you must agree to….”

 

 

 

============

 

 

 

666******(ALIF-LAAM-RAA)*******±.-(((77:7)))-.±*******(YAA-SEEN)******666

 

 

-:-(My very dear humans and fallen angels of the realm, as of today, 06/1/2024, only a fraction of you were permitted to meet us in midair. Therefore, and reluctant as I am to see the scribe retype much of the ink yet again, we must take it from the top one more time.

 .-)Hi, yet again.

 .-(The smile-emoji isn’t for you, humans. To you, what the scribe inked for me in the last three drafts I repeat: Leave your money in the banks, do not liquidate your darn assets–you better behave. As I had told the previous drove before they ascended, there’s no benefit in rushing the Plot to Judgement Day. In other words, Green will let you know when it would be appropriate to start panicking.

-:-(On this note, yā Ilahi, permit Your slave Green to reinitiate the Fig Games. Spare whomever is left of them or don’t spare them, Your Majesty–they, Iblis, and I are Your subjects.

-:-(HIS MAJESTY IS AKBAR!

 .-)Ready!

 -:-(HIS MAJESTY IS AKBAR!

  .-)Set!

 -:-(HIS MAJESTY IS AKBAR!

  .-)GO!

 

 

============

 

 

 

B I S M I L L A H

 

 

06/10/2025 [sic]

 

-:-(Dear CNN:

 

-:-(I swear by His Majesty the Lord of the Heavens and the Worlds, He in Whose Hands my souls and spirits are clasped, that the following is not a fairytale.

-:-(Now please, yā lioness, for the fourth and hopefully the last time, have yourself a seat next to mine, remain as calm as you have been, and yet again lend me your ears.

-:-(The name of the avatar upon which my brother and I are addressing you is still of no consequence and should never be. What’s important, it is the same avatar and, fortunately, it continues to be seaworthy.

-:-(Content as we have been of the vessel’s ongoing stability, we decided to move to Phase Four: return once more to the realm of the Left Behind. If we were to succeed in curing them of their insanity, perhaps it would convince you and the rest of the Houseboat Citizens to embrace them as brothers & sisters in His Majesty’s Earthly Kingdom.

*:-(In the meantime, we, the United Front, restress for the sake of the Newcomers how important it is that the focus should not be on any of our vessels. Every vessel of ours, awake and sleepwalking, must be thought of as nothing more than a tangibility suit–especially our scribe’s vessels, be it this avatar inking on our behalf or any of his other avatars roaming about this world.

*:-(We have collectively come to agree, however, that by now there should be no harm in advising the scribe to revise the ink and repost it himself. We’re not sure what this fourth version will turn into. Not many changes will be made: the scribe will open with a letter to his favorite daughter. The letter will double as an attempt to convince Israel and her Children that this really is the Day of the Lifting of the Veils. And from there he’ll segue to Act One, and eventually to the little scroll: first thunder.

 *:-(You are aware, lioness, we’ve already had the Priestess post Act One and the first three chapters to the little scroll. And you are aware that a fellow named Ronald Jeferson is in possession of the first draft of the fourth chapter to the little scroll. Depending on factors we won’t get into, Mr. Jefferson, of his own accord, may decide to seek compensation, financial and/or spiritual. If he does, or if he already has, we recommend that no one should read any of the ink with which he has been entrusted. But, of course, you and the Children are free to do as you please. Do bear in mind, however, that Mr. Jefferson, whether he seeks compensation, is one of the serpents of the New Eden.

 .-(Whatever the next few years have in store for you, we, Green and I, shall try our best to keep the body count to a minimum. It would be pointless anyway to whittle down the human race to a few million meatsuits.

-:-(Because His Majesty is Merciful and loves the merciful, I feel I’m further obligated to warn the Jews and Christians among the Newcomers not to read beyond this point altogether. The same goes especially for the Muslims. If you really do believe in His Majesty’s Promises, then there should be no need for you to learn what’s behind the Veils before you tasted your first and only death.

 

 

 

-:-(Yours truly & Truly Yours,-)

     the Two Witnesses,

     loyal slaves of His Majesty,

     the Lord of the Heavens and the Matrices.

 

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

–A X I O M–

 

 

My Name Is Humans

Verily, I see what you don’t see. I asked you to disbelieve, you disbelieved.

Don’t blame me–I’m guiltless of you;

verily, I fear His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds.

                                                                                                               –Lucifer

                                                                                                 

H A L L I M S I B

 

(original draft) 05/14/2017

(first open revision) 12/19/2020

(this open revision) 06/15/2024

 

Dearest Sahra,

 

Shabbat Shalom.

I missed you a whole lot, love.

I know you yearn for me too and can’t wait to see me go. It’s all right, Sarah. I understand your mixed emotions about this reunion. I really do. I’ve been nothing except fortunate calamities since I set foot on the planet. Besides, if I were embarked upon what you’ve been embarked upon, I too would want to see me go.

Regrettably, though, Sarah, and whether I am who I may be, I’m not allowed to leave yet. Apparently, I must first openly share what’s on the other side of the Veil. My fear is that if I were to reveal too much too soon, I would lose you and your two younger sisters.

Case in point, on June 11, 1967, a day after your capital had been liberated, Lisa and I discussed the consequences of this reunion. Forty-six years later, in 2013, I confronted you on the world stage. Little though I revealed then, remember the initial panic? The truth, Sarah, is that what’s on the other side of the Veil is no easy pill to swallow.

On the other hand, as of this revision it’s been fifty-seven years since the Six-Day War and neither I nor Lisa know how much longer I’m going to be stuck aboard this vessel. The indignities that come with being human are becoming too much to bear, Sarah. I want out. I already revealed my presence even to the U.S. Dark Government. I don’t know what the holdup is. Meanwhile, amidst dealing with the indignities, I received the message you sent me nine years ago, via CNN. Along with the message you and your two sisters promised that you would be patient and keep an open mind as I made my case. And that gesture was very promising. The sooner you three chew over my argument the sooner I may be liable to return whence I came. The thing is, nine years ago I myself had to wait to remember why I’m here.

Sarah, as of this inking I obviously have recovered much more of my “celestial” memory, which should aid me in making a stronger argument than the previous ones. More importantly, this time around my argument will be backed up by the Ancient Tongue and the Cane, the same Tongue and same Cane that you-know-who implemented in his dealings with you-know-whom. However, don’t expect me this time around to merely sink a fishing ship or kill a kid. Rather, I, with His Majesty’s Preapproval, aim to go all out to convince you and the Children that Adonai Elohim is indeed Akbar.

This said, I guess now is as good a time as any to confess that during this ride in the Sun I’m just as mad as ever. Heck, out of the Gate, when I had been nudged awake in December of 2012, I figured the best way to prove my dedication to the Cause of His Majesty was to donate this birthbody to scientific research. But that’s not what’s mad. What’s mad is the science field I chose is not exactly what humans would call mainstream. Therefore, to openly share my findings, I must accept I’ll be treated as a crackpot. For instance, I’m not unaware of how the following entry from my log will sound to the average human who may be reading this open letter:

December 13, 2016. Lisa and I spent the past forty-nine years preparing the Children for the Day of Gathering. However, there’s been one complication after another….

In conclusion, His Majesty raised the first drove: Like swarms of locusts, millions of souls, some of whom had been dead for thousands of years, resurrected all at once in a single human.

See what I mean?

On the bright side, with this admission of insanity preemptively cleared out of the air, I may now share my tall tale without any restraints other than those of my straitjacket.

Let me think about how far I should go back….

In retrospect, I guess the madness officially started when my parents immigrated to the States. Almost sixteen-years old and full of hopes and dreams, as soon as my family settled down, I hit the Public Library in Philadelphia to drink in the culture. The first two books I checked out were by Joseph Cambell, The Power of Myth and Myths to Live By. Like a first love, I can’t underscore enough the impact those two books had on me. Although my command of the English language then was much poorer than it is today, Campbell’s deductive reasoning and conclusions resonated in a way that demolished the foundations of my core beliefs.

You see, Sarah, I spent my childhood in the Old World, partly in Egypt and partly in Germany. Growing up in those countries, talk of “what lies on the other side of the Veil” was familiar to my palate. In the Old World generally, beneath the surface of materialist reasoning, the tales of the Ancients are historical facts, allegorical albeit most of them are. More to the matter’s heart, for me, as a child, there was nothing extramundane about my encountering flesh-and-blood humans upon whose vessels would be embarked angels, daemons or demons, my own doublewalker–or the animas of intergalactic beings for that matter. You, however, did not grow up in such an environment nor could your American upbringing be more averse toward Old World folklore. Yet I ask that you’re not quick to sneeze at my tale. And that goes as well for the thinking Children worldwide who may stumble upon this letter. Perhaps read a few books first. The Secret Gateway, by Edward Abdil, is a good start. Or, if you’re able to muster the patience for longer books, The Synchronicity Key and The Ascension Mysteries, by David Willcock, are almost on point. And if reading isn’t your forte, maybe then you could seek on social media the opinion of the Children who possess knowledge from The Remembrance. Even if you do some casual poking around the Web, you should learn that the Other Side is very real–arguably more real than this side.

Humans who know firsthand what I’m talking about are aware that being “touched” by that other world runs in your bloodlines for a reason. Some of you know that reason and have come to embrace it. Some of you know that reason and are in denial. Whatever the case, most of you didn’t ask for this. I know I didn’t. Never once did I gaze into a mirror, sacrifice an animal at an altar for Dark Lilith, or actively seek contact with the Other Side in any other fashion. If anything, most of my years aboard this vessel I avoided the “spirit realm.” Not because I didn’t understand it or was afraid of it. The way I figured it, the “entities” on the Other Side were nothing more than the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious. Things started to get weird, however, upon learning that these supposed entities have the wherewithal to break through to our human side and tactually interact with us. Where I’m getting at, Sarah, is that this collective so-called unconscious contacted me in the real world. When I tried to explain the situation to your brother Hassan, I inadvertently convinced him that I’m delusional. And to be honest, I can’t blame the kid. But you can’t blame me either. Back then I was muddled and knew not what I know now. So, please let me try this again without the frantic tone I projected in my letters to your brother.

When a human, any given human, is allegedly touched by said collective unconscious, that human is usually introduced to an otherworldly realm that could be thought of as the one in The Matrix. Some humans are introduced to matrices without numbers, each matrix a block of spacetime simultaneously and eternally existing from beginning to end–a universe in its own right, with its own Akashic Record.

In this universe of yours, seven matrices are bowled one atop the other. No more than seven, no less than seven. From where I’m currently inking you is the Dirt Matrix. The six matrices superimposed upon the Dirt Matrix are almost identical to it.

Some of the inhabitants of those other six matrices are doublewalkers to humans who are alive today in the Dirt Matrix; others, doublewalkers to humans long dead; and yet others, doublewalkers to humans not born yet in the Dirt Matrix as of the time of your reading this ink while experiencing the illusion that is the passing of time.

Some of the inhabitants of the Dirt Matrix are aethereal angels, ones embarked upon all sorts of vessels; other ethereal inhabitants, ascended humans also embarked upon all sorts of vessels.

Those ethereal inhabitants of the Dirt Matrix aren’t unlike the agents in The Matrix. The agents form legions. Be it composed of angels or ascended humans; each legion is a “wing.” Each wing belongs to a general. Some generals have more than one wing–two or three. There are generals who have a hundred or a thousand wings. Gabriel, for instance, is a general with six-hundred wings. His Majesty increases in creation as He wills.

Each wing is a collective, a single consciousness. Therefore, all the knowledge each agent has accumulated over the ages is sharable with the rest of the agents who make up that legion/wing. Any given legion on that account is one organism–a seemingly all-knowing, all-seeing collective.

But that’s not what’s intriguing. What’s intriguing is that angels have emotions. However, an angel cannot feel an emotion without knowledge of the “name” of that emotion. Equally interesting, for reasons known to His Majesty Alone none of the angels were taught the names to all the emotions. Rather, the hardwiring to the gamut of emotions eventually became innate in only one created being. You know that being as Adam.

Don’t be quick to stop reading, though, Sarah; this isn’t the same Adam from your Sabbath school. I’ll explain why later, His Majesty’s willing. For now, think of this Adam as an archetype in the Jungian sense.

Anyway, to set the Cosmic Stage the “Adam” evolved into a pair, a male and a female. The pair had archetypical “doublewalkers.” Not unlike agent Smith in The Matrix, a character named Heylel played the role of Adam’s doublewalker. The psyche of Adam’s mate–Eve if we must–is a bit more complicated. To mosey along, let’s just say her doublewalker was a character named Lilith.

During a different time and in a different world, those two pairs were four multitudes. What separated the humans’ psyche from their doublewalkers’ psyche was but a thin Veil made up of the fabric of spacetime continuum, yet each species kept to itself. Things started to go downhill only when some of the pairs on the one side of the “mirror” became curious as to what their counterparts, on the other side of the mirror, were up to.

After hundreds of thousands of years of opposition and persecution by the Elders on both sides of the mirror, at last firmly established on a microcosm of a stage named Earth were the hybrids. The hybrids are the offspring of the union* between Adam and Lilith, and between Heylel and Eve. (*Too long of a “myth.”) As the following Act to this particular cosmic play unfolded, the first few generations of hybrids died, ascended, and, of no fault of their own, became essentially outcast angels—which rendered them “semi-immortals able to savor life in human form largely aboard the hybrid vessels whose CPUs they managed to hijack.”

Like the celestial angels have limited knowledge while embarked upon whatever kind of vessels, the outcast angels have limited knowledge while embarked upon whatever kind of vessels. And like the celestial angels are practically omniscient as members of one of the “wings” of an archangel, the outcast angels are practically omniscient as members of one of the wings of Heylel–or, if we must, one of the wings of Satan.

When the outcast angels aren’t embarked upon vessels of humans, hybrids or otherwise, the outcast angels are called Jinns in some circles. Stable humans who don’t believe in any of this nonsense have a tendency of losing their grasp on reality when “touched” by those alleged Jinns. Therefore, what supposedly forms the links between the world of the Jinns and the world of ordinary people are the breed of human hybrids. Back in the day, those hybrids used to be called Magi. Nowadays they go by a hundred different names. For the sake of your precious time, we’ll just stick with hybrids.

Because of the Jinns’ seeming omniscience, it is rather easy for them to dupe the average hybrid, namely the hybrids who have knowledge from a Celestial Publication better known in some circles as The Book of Light. That being often the case, when initially touched by the Jinns most human hybrids fancy themselves saintly or at the least enlightened.

The reason the Jinns go through the trouble of grooming the hybrids in the first place is because, ascended as the Jinns are, they have access to a great deal of knowledge from a source called The Preserved Tablet. The Jinns love sharing with the humans what little knowledge they possess from that Tablet. The Jinns utilize the hybrids to impart that knowledge upon Humanity. Neither cave art nor the smartphone nor anything in between would exist today had it not been for the Jinns’ generosity.

Sadly, though, not all human hybrids are created equal. It all depends on their upbringing, education, intelligence, level of dedication to the Jinns’ agenda, and whether they’re able to maintain a solid grip on the real world as their astral bodies traverse the Jinn Matrices. In fact, most modern hybrids when touched for the first time as adults tend to lose their marbles early on. They may fancy themselves messiahs if not the Second Coming. Some touched hybrids fancy themselves antichrists if not the Antichrist himself. Some may even fancy themselves both Christ and the Antichrist. Some fall apart altogether and come to believe they’re taking orders from an elephant, a monkey, a peacock, a cow, a dog. Or aliens. Or the CIA. Or the filling in their teeth. Some may mistake themselves for incarnations or reincarnations of the gods and goddesses who litter the pantheons of the Old World. But the ones who take the cake are the touched hybrids who become convinced they have become one with G-d, as they themselves are His Majesty the Creator of the Heavens and the Matrices.

Whatever the preferred delusion, amazingly enough such nutcases usually have little trouble giving rise to new cults. And interestingly enough, namely from the perspective of the Jinns, one cult is as good as another. You see, Sarah, the Jinns cannot enjoy life unless they’re embarked upon human vessels. However, the members of a given Jinn legion, individually or collectively, can’t embark upon a given vessel unless they are first invited by the given human being pursued. A given human’s joining of a cult is a surefire way to invite the Jinns aboard one’s vessel. Hence, only three things matter regardless of what a cult founder believes or teaches. First, the cult founder must take on the persona of a god, or the son of a god, or a messiah sent by a god, or a disciple sent by a messiah, or the persona of simply a guru who exudes “Celestial” Charisma. Next, the cult founder must establish a doctrine by which future disciples must abide. Last and most important, the cult founder’s doctrine must be credible enough to attract followers–the more the merrier since it is the adherents themselves who make up the overall living body of the given Jinn legion and its general.

Now be mindful, Sarah, that Jinn cults based on the religious model are merely one of many ways a Jinn legion may expand its general’s all-seeing eye, so to speak. Jinn cults, in fact, come in all sorts of flavors–so many flavors that most humans who are followers of one cult or another are in denial that they sold their souls to the fabled genies with their flying carpets and their granting of three wishes.

Another factor at play, in each block of spacetime a soul lasts only as long as the human is breathing in that block. Therefore, when a given Jinn legion fails to replenish its conveyor belt of cult followers, that Jinn legion loses its living body along with the death of the last cultist upon whose vessel the legion may embark and interact with the Dirt Matrix. The legion along with its general are then usually trapped in the Blackout, a matrix wherein the legion and its general are divested of their sight. In that Darkness the legion remains until its general is paroled or released on his max date.

A given paroled general is pretty much impotent in the Dirt Matrix unless embarked upon a human vessel, preferably that of a hybrid of course. There are a number of ways a paroled general may acquire such a vessel. In the case of reincarnation, for instance, the general becomes the doublewalker, as in astral body, to a newly minted human, one with a brand-new soul. The general may then choose to passively enjoy the ride in the Sun, or he may choose to awaken the human at a certain age, ideally while the given human is still a child. So, say our paroled general is a male. And say his human counterpart is also a male. And say our paroled general cannot afford to remain a passive passenger upon his counterpart’s vessel, for our paroled general needs to free his Jinn legion from the Blackout. Therefore, our paroled general awakens the hybrid and convinces him to share the vessel. Once our paroled general establishes a toehold in the Dirt Matrix, he has a chance at engendering a biological legion anew. Were our paroled general to fail at harnessing the awakened hybrid’s heart and soul to enkindle one sort of cult or another, our paroled general, upon the expiration date of the awakened hybrid’s vessel, would be cast back into the Blackout–with tail tucked between legs. Our paroled general, however, happens to be the doublewalker to Chairman Mao Tsetung. With essentially one little red book he enkindles a conveyor belt of devotees and thereby bestows everlasting immortality upon his Jinn legion. Everlasting, no less. After all, Sarah, who could bring the China bio-legion to its knees? Or, for that matter, who could bring the thousands of bio-legions ruling over this very timeblock to their knees.

Sarah, please allow me a moment to address my generals.

My dear and near afreets, this is the fault of Gog and Magog. Did I or did I not try to settle this matter with them on the Other Side, in the privacy of our matrices? But defiant they are as ever. You too are yet to grasp the full weight of what I had shared with you. Do you perhaps think what I, with His Majesty’s Will and Leave, had shown you was an illusion? Or maybe you think I’m bluffing?

Generals, as the entire world, Jinns & Inss, bears witness, I ask you the same questions I asked you in private. First, will you finally admit that His Majesty knows best what’s in the Heavens and what’s in the Matrices, and knows best what you yourselves reveal and what you yourselves conceal? Second, will you cease to associate yourselves with His Majesty–as if you were “gods” and “goddesses” besides Him?

Please, generals, don’t test the patience of the Adam Nineteen aboard the vessel with me. Please, generals, don’t force him to call out the primordial names to the sort of emotions you incite in the humans. Please, generals, don’t act like you don’t know the consequences of such a roll call.

Crazy thing, during a few times in the past when various Adams had been awakened, they, with His Majesty’s Will and Leave, skeleton-keyed some of you and your agents into conveyor belts of pigs and monkeys. One would think such compassionate slaps on the wrists would’ve taught the rest of you a lesson. But no. Half of you still illicitly sought after human vessels. What’s so hard about entering His Majesty’s Earthly Kingdom from the Front Gate as so many of your comrades and their families have? What’s so wrong with prostrating for Adam, along with Adam, before His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds? It’s bewildering how impressionable you are for emulating me. And what’s more bewildering, how astray some humans are in order to continue worshiping your spirits and the menagerie so many of you were skeleton-keyed into over the ages. For crying out loud, one time an awakened Adam, with the Leave and Will of His Majesty, had skeleton-keyed one of your Indian legions into a conveyor belt of living, breathing rats. Remember? Yet, the legion’s general found a way to establish a following in their honor–in the honor of rats. To this day, in a gilded temple, the Inss devotees prostrate before them… before the rats.

-:-(Grant me patience, Your Majesty.

 :-/Sigh.

 .-)Back to our scheduled program.

As you can imagine, Sarah, the vessels of humans who eat well, drink well, live well, and love well, are more prized by my generals than the vessels of humans who can barely make ends meet. In turn, my generals are always devising new and more elaborate occults by which means they may share with the affluent their creature comforts.

Unless you’re John Travolta or Tom Cruise, however, the rich are usually too smart to fall for the occult angle. Therefore, one of the generals’ favorite methods to ensnare the rich is to hopelessly addict the individual. It could be anything–drugs, sex, money, food, fame, authority, etc. Once hooked, the subject is compelled to sign on the dotted line.

If this tactic fails, others are pursued. If these fail as well, the given general seeks my “touch.” Out of the gate, I personally confront the subject and proffer immortality. So, say the subject being pursued is Taylor Swift. I physically take her behind the “boathouse” and show her… things. Taylor is not a dummy, though. Nevertheless, after a list of Starbucks’ meatsuits I finally convince her to taste the allegorical Apple. The Apple is irresistible, a fruit plucked straight off the Tree of Life.

Since this is an open letter, allow me to give an example that the reader can better relate to. Let’s say I sent you an invitation and made you a promise therein. Let’s say you, of your own free will, decided to meet me behind the Boathouse. Naturally, we would talk for a while as I oriented you. Then I would offer your current meatsuit the Apple. Once it took a bite, you yourself would be able to project the focal point of your consciousness onto a different meatsuit. If you, of your own free will, were to mount that body, the human aboard it wouldn’t be able to blink an eye unless your will decides to blink it. However, it would be best for you to remain subtle. And as long as you remained subtle about your presence, the human in the machine wouldn’t have a clue his or her CPU had been hacked. To all intents and purposes, however, you would become that suit. You may even adjust the suit’s emotions as you wish–make it happy or sad, calm or angry, patient or impatient. And if you didn’t want to be subtle, you could take over the controls forcefully and do with the meatsuit anything you wanted. Anything at all. Why, if you were a psycho like me, you’d walk into a school, or a church, or a movie theater and shoot up the place for an adrenaline rush. “Temporary insanity” is what the lawyers would argue, but you’d know better you’re the “blower in the knots.”

Moreover and on a lighter note, whatever the suit knows and remembers, you’ll know and remember. Whatever language the suit speaks, you’ll speak. Whatever quirks the suit has, you’ll have. The suit’s family and friends will become your family and friends, and no one will be the wiser.

Don’t forget, anytime you wish to return to your birthbody you will be able to do so. And when you agree to sign on my dotted line, I’ll grant you access to most humans in the Dirt Matrix, billions of them, young and old, males and females, upon whose vessels you’ll be permitted to embark individually or collectively. Not exactly the Eye of Providence, but that’s still pretty impressive if I may toot my own two horns.

The kicker, though, is that I will allow you to retain access to this living, breathing throne of mine forever and ever. And as a bonus, you will not be restricted to embarking upon human vessels only in the present, but also in the past and the future. All at will. All while you maintain the knowledge and memories you’ve accumulated over your current lifetime and will continue to accumulate during your everlasting life.

Now tell me you wouldn’t want to toss and turn under my Sun Wings. Now tell me you wouldn’t sign on Daddy’s dotted line.

No need to thank me; what’s a father in heaven for if he doesn’t share immortality with his Children.

Speaking of fatherhood: Now that you bit into the Apple, I feel obligated to share with you a couple of clauses in the fine print.

First, from now on your own birthbodies are mere meatsuits to be shared with the rest of the Family. It’s a tad embarrassing at first, I admit, and the “figleaves” help but so much, namely since your minds are also exposed for everyone in our Earthly Kingdom to read. But it’s a small price to pay for immortality, wouldn’t you say?

Second, before your birthbodies expire and you become full-fledged immortals, you are now what they call overseas marabouts.

 “What exactly is a marabout?” you may ask.

Between you and me, Children, a marabout, from the humans’ perspective, means “an exemplary person who wields political and/or social sway by supernatural means.” In actuality, and still between you and me, marabout literally means “a person who’s bound.” But that doesn’t mean, at least in my case, that I take away your free will. I merely get to guide your collective behavior in a manner that is beneficial to our Kingdom—your Kingdom more than it will ever be mine.

And, Sarah, if you’re still reading–please don’t be alarmed. Being a marabout is a good thing. Marabouts hold the key my generals and I use to groom the up-and-coming generations of blindfolded Children. Imagine how lost they would be without the guidance of our marabouts–be the given marabout a collective group or a single renowned individual. Take Taylor Swift, for example. Once she too bit into the Apple not only did she become one of our marabouts, but she also granted us access to the hearts and minds of her following–the Kids who adore at her feet as she grooms them with her sermons: “Are we out of the woods yet?/Are we in the clear yet?”

Sorry, daughter of Eve, the answer is “no.” You see, Taylor, it’s Lilith and I who never go out of style. Had you done your homework, “goddess,” you would’ve known my motto has always been twin-one, not twin-two. What I don’t understand is why the bad blood. What I don’t understand is why you blame me for the permanent damage about which you whine through Little Big Town. Did I perhaps twist your arm? I merely asked you to sign your name on my blank space. Don’t blame me for your lack of Faith. Personally, I and the son of Adam aboard this birthbody fear His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds. And for that alone he is a better man–better in ways beyond your grasp. As for you? What type of woman you are? Do the math, Taylor. What were you thinking, Taylor? Don’t you know, “goddess,” that only His Majesty has the Key to Everlasting Life?

But enough about the Sweetheart of Babylon and her millions of contemporary embodiments–Taylor being merely one embodiment until she’s a sloughed cell in the ring girdling the Sweetheart’s Bathtub.

As for you, Sarah. You’re a nation state, a collective spirit. What applies to the likes of Taylor doesn’t apply to you. Besides, don’t you hold that it is Michael who has you under his wings? Don’t you hold that it is Michael who grooms the generations of our Children to where they eagerly participate in this Hadean comedy?

I hate to be the bearer of truth, Sarah, but the Children need to know that humans whose “driver” belongs to the same general, regardless of who the general is, open doors for one another in whatever pursuit sought after by the humans–be the pursuit business, politics, acting, singing, or whatever. This is to say that the humans doing the pursuing need not know one another, for the drivers embarked upon those same birthbodies recognize each other. It is genuinely comical, too, since most upright humans nowadays don’t know any better. They came to be convinced it’s the Hand of His Majesty that is opening those doors. Without The Remembrance, those humans simply can’t distinguish the difference. And even when they are shown The Remembrance, they cover their eyes for it matters not since their prayers are being answered and needs are being met. The only way to remove their blindfolds–put a freeze on what the generals grant them. The thing is, Sarah, removing their blindfolds would defeat the purpose of why His Majesty created Life & Death in the first place.

Anyway, Sarah, even if it was Michael under whose wings you seek protection, Michael is no superman. None of us is. His Majesty is Akbar. It is therefore almost comical that the question I’m asked the most behind the Boathouse is why I don’t unite my generals so that I may have a better shot at winning the Cosmic War. Humph.

Nevertheless, it is a legitimate question. And the answer is two pronged. First prong, for reasons that should be obvious by now, I’m not out to win the War. All I can hope for is to prolong each battle. And that’s where the second prong comes into play: competition. As long as my generals are competing with one another, Lilith and I remain immortal.

For example, take the battlefront of Islam. Believe it or not, Islam started off as a cult that strived to eradicate ignorance and promote peace, justice, and love. Until, that is, it became big enough and old enough to be called a religion. As all other world religions, Islam, as it was evolving, my generals and I divided it into sects, and the sects we divided into subsects. Each sect, and each subsect, is a congregation of devotees. Each congregation is mounted by a given legion of drivers and their generals. All I have to do is pit the generals against one another and cash in on the conveyor belt of souls–without lifting a finger. After all, Sarah, Islam too proffers the Promise of Immortality, a share in the Kingdom of His Majesty and, allegedly in the case of some Muslim sects, seventy-two pairs of breasts to boot. So, as the Muslim sects and subsects try to settle which shoulder-to-shoulder congregation is most worthy of the cleavages, each general fights tooth and nail to recruit fresh souls from amidst the ranks of the thinking Muslims, the ones who are on the Straight Path.

And as for prolonging the battle? Well, each general must also fight tooth and nail to hold onto his given “Muslim” sect or subsect:

“I’m this.”

“I’m that.”

“And I’m Fruit of Islam.”

“I abide by this sheik’s interpretation.”

“I abide by that sheik’s interpretation.”

“And I abide by the other sheik’s interpretation.”

“I’m Hanbali.”

“I follow a different school of thought.”

“And I follow the other school of thought.”

Follow me to the shade of the Tree of Zaqqoom.

I am Malik, slave of Rabb of the Worlds.

You will neither live nor die. Awaiting you is an array of vessels. Every time their skin… you already know.

And I’m just warming up, yā Ummati Muhammad. I’ll show you His Majesty’s Ayat, yet. I’ll show you how to twist your tongues with His Word.

Yā-Ummati Muhammad, I never had authority over you. Do you not ponder the Word, yā Ummah? Do you not know that His Majesty granted me respite solely to test what’s in your hearts (34:20-21)? Verily, yā Ummah, I fear His Majesty Rabb of the Worlds. Verily, yā Ummah, I see what you don’t see. Verily, His Majesty’s Torment is Severe.

Give me a moment, Eve, Lilith, and “Lisa.”

Give me a moment, Nadia, Dina, and Sarah.

Give me a moment, Jews & Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists–Inss & Jinns.

Give me a moment, Atheists & Agnostics, Skeptics & Doubters–Inss & Jinns.

As for the rest of you, Inss & Jinns—

 

 

============

 

 

—Testing, testing. One, two, three.

Hi.-)

Where were we?

Divide and cash in.

As “I” was inking, the manifestations of my “blowing in the knots” are in the newspapers, on CNN, and every media outlet worldwide, including the ones with the “alternative facts.”

World leaders with sinister agendas–me.

Corrupt politicians out for number one–me.

Madmen mowing down nightclubs, airport terminals, open markets, shopping malls, and the London Bridge–me.

“Muslims” striving to blow up the Grand Mosque.

Airplanes crashing into skyscrapers, mountaintops, and the deep blue sea.

Cops murdering citizens and citizens murdering cops.

Demonstrations, riots, and protests.

Mercury in the oceans and lead in the drinking water.

This pill will wake you up, this pill will put you to sleep.

Every computer hacked, every file leaked, every tower tapped.

Every bestseller book, every blockbuster movie, every runaway play.

Every war, every fight, every skirmish.

Every child kidnapped, every child raped, every child sacrificed.

Viruses, diseases, parasites, and the common cold.

Alcoholics, dope fiends, and crackheads.

All of it, my handiwork.

I wish this were a work of fiction, Sarah.

One day you’ll meet me in the Cave. One day I’ll introduce you to my generals and their human marabouts. And while not all my general’s marabouts are mirrorgazers, many sure are. That’s how they make contact with their drivers, the inner “satans.”

Those who don’t gaze, have the “gift” naturally; your future is their past.

Others choose to immolate at our countless altars.

And yet others downright worship us until they, if they’re devout enough and are of use to me, are born again in my kingdom.

Speaking of the born again, I may as well reveal to you my living body that holds the royal flush in that regard. You probably heard of it. It’s the bio-legion of my only begotten son. The son I gave because I so loved the world. The son who’s a living organism over two-billion strong and counting, with a never-ending conveyor belt of souls. My son Christ who’s a formidable general, a general who will engage in whatever atrocities it takes to hold fast to his immortality.

The Christ I speak of, however, has nothing to do with the actual Jesus, the son of Mary. Oh, no! The Christ I speak of is the one who was mounting a man named Saul, known to the Bride as Paul.

I know I’m going too fast, sweetie. If you wish for me to slow down, try Triumph, by the marabout H.W. Crocker.

Anyhow, Sarah, the Bride’s true founding briefly goes as follows.

Shortly after the real Jesus ascended, the man named Saul along with other Jews set out to eradicate the Gospel of Jesus. One day on his way to Damascus, Saul was touched by what he reckoned was the ascended Jesus. In actuality, without due respect to the Bride’s side of the story, what confronted Saul was an example of an encounter with the Dark Side masquerading as the Light Side. Poor Saul, head spinning, stood a snowball’s chance in my cradling arms. The human that he was at the time, Saul wholeheartedly did believe the entity that touched him was the real Jesus. Or G-d Himself. Or both; why split hairs? Nonetheless, had Saul mustered the gumption to question the veracity of the entity, or had he sought refuge in His Majesty the Lord of Abraham, it would’ve been revealed to him that what touched him was–and still is–the collective entity that made up the pantheon of the Roman and Greek “gods” and “goddesses.”

The backstage story, the pantheon’s reign was ending as fewer humans worshiped at their altars. The collective’s general whose primordial name is… (never mind), figured and figured rightly that he could get an extension on his “tossing and turning in the sun” if he hijacked the teachings of Jesus, tweaked a few lessons, and thereby….

Nutshell version of events for now, once the general convinced Saul and a handful of cult followers that if they believed in “Jesus” they would never die, Zeus/Jupiter became Jesus the King of kings; and Zeus’s second wife, Hera/Juno, took on the persona of Mary, who would eventually become the flat-out Mother of G-d.

Fast-forward the Tape to the 21st century…. What a remarkable sight, Sarah. Abraham’s G-d Himself couldn’t overthrow my body of “Christ.”

I know what you’re thinking, Sarah. I know what the Children are thinking, too. But please bear with me. Your daddy in “heaven” is just breaking the ice here. The aim for now is to prepare you for the global transition, give you a better understanding of the Grand Scheme before… you’ll see. Don’t rush the Ride.

All the while, how about we start again without the head games.

Inking as “the scribe,” let us begin at the top of the Chain of Command: the alleged Lord of the Heavens and the Worlds. His Majesty supposedly has many Names and Attributes. One Inss account claims there are ninety-nine of them. One Jinn account has the number at a thousand. According to my alleged Source, however, His Majesty never revealed all His Names to anyone except to the allegorical Adam.

A rendition of one of His Majesty’s Attributes is The Gardener. A rendition of another one of His Majesty’s Attributes is The Light. And yet another rendition of His Majesty’s Attributes is The Limitless. To those not aware, each Ray from The Limitless Light has the potential to trigger into existence a self-contained universe, with billions of Gardens beneath which rivers run.

Way too inconceivable, wouldn’t you agree? But those are the alleged facts. For the sake of not losing the thinking Children this early in the treatise, though, let me steer the ink down to Earth–our very own tangible Garden.

Let us suppose that our Garden was truly a stage. And let us suppose that we mortals were in fact the leading thespians in a tragedy. And let us further suppose that the character traits of the antagonist are innate within all of us.

During the opening scene, according to one of thousands of myths, His Majesty The Author, assuming He’s The Truth, allegedly granted the personification of the antagonist respite until the Day the Appointed, whenever that will be. Taking full advantage of this provisional immortality, the personification of the antagonist appointed himself prince over the earlier described hierarchy of outcasts and their generals. (When shared, The Book of Light will be a good place to start for those who seek to delve into the psyche of said personification.)

The protagonist’s character traits are also innate within all of us. Where the protagonist differs from the antagonist, the protagonist could be thought of as the default setting: the values the human assumes, or the course of actions the human takes, when the human specifies no overriding values or actions. (The Moral Arc, by Michael Shermer, is a good place to start for those who seek to learn the motives of the protagonist.)

To give the antagonist and protagonist an incentive to participate in the Cosmic Play, the two have conflicting views on everything as they compete for the same resources–land, shelter, mates, food, water, wealth, workforce, etc.

The goal of the protagonist is to procure happiness and everlasting peace in this tangible world–for both the ascended outcasts and the earthbound humans. When the protagonist’s goal is about to be realized, the souls of the “dead” will be permitted to rise from wherever or whenever they are “stored.” We mortals will then reap various benefits until we ourselves supposedly “ascend,” either before or after our birthbodies expire.

The antagonist knows his fate. Therefore, instead of working towards a goal, he has one fundamental mission: protract his said respite for as long as possible–at any cost. And that’s where the plot thickens, for the antagonist’s fundamental mission is generational and contingent on factors not too conducive to the protagonist’s achieving of his ultimate goal.

Levelheaded humans agree more or less that the mythological foundations to almost all religions were based on the foregoing model. At the top you usually have a Supreme Being–the King of the gods, as it were. Down here on Earth you have the antagonist and the protagonist. The antagonist, by whatever name and title, is often a tyrannical demigod who is representative of all that which is evil and deceptive. And the protagonist, often a benevolent demigod, is the hero who’s representative of all that which is good and truthful.

In essence, regardless of the origin of the given myth and which demigod overcomes the other, the moral lesson to be drawn from the model is that every human plays both the hero and the villain in their own life story. As for the existence of a Supreme Character? Well, we humans love our logic and value our reason. Even the religiously devout have their doubts as to whether the Father in Heaven really, really is an actual Being. And one can’t blame them. A number of theologians themselves had struggled with the issue to the degree where they threw their hands up in the air and concluded that man is G-d. In fact, Jesus himself, if he were an actual historical person, repeatedly called himself “the Son of Man” and never once “the Son of G-d.”

Allegedly, however, there is a moment in every human’s life when one of the Veils is lifted and certain aspects regarding His Majesty’s Names are revealed faceup. For most humans, this moment is fleeting, and its intensity and message vary from person to person. Some humans don’t experience that moment until they’re about to take their last breath. Other humans experience the moment earlier in life. Those who experience that alleged moment and live to tell the tale, often they don’t tell the tale. And one can’t blame them. We humans really do love our logic and value our reason.

Notwithstanding, the lead-up to my own “dark night of the soul” started when I was a boy of ten or so. Back then I lived no more than a mile away from the Sphinx and pyramids. This is an enchanted part of the world as you can imagine, more so for nutcases like me since I grew up believing those monuments were imbued with… spirits or something. To be honest, I didn’t mind when I was a kid. I simply figured it was normal to hear inanimate objects speak. And it wasn’t just the monuments that spoke. Stars, mountains, trees, plants, birds, and when I was old enough to realize that the Nile wasn’t supposed to talk, I stopped sharing my experiences with the normal people. I knew what I knew and that was that. Besides, I wasn’t crazy alone. Not a month went by without my encountering a spirit embarked upon a flesh & blood human. More reassuring, there was a legless madman who used to live under a fig tree, alongside a tributary. I used to call him, what amounts to in English, Halfnugget. I interacted with Halfnugget for years on almost a daily basis. He too knew what I knew, and in retrospect perhaps that’s why he had lost his mind. And then there were also my “imaginary” friends, Whetstone and Snath. The two, in their human manifestations, were a constant reminder that I wasn’t alone in believing that the Shadow Side is as real as the Tangible Side.

However, all those reassurances faded when my family moved to Bonn, Germany. While the spirit world was just as active in Germany as it had been in Egypt, Germans who interacted with the spirits were secretive. As a foreigner, I had even less of a chance at being accepted into one of their cliques. And while I had my German friends, I obviously couldn’t share with them a piece of my mind. They were, after all, normal. It wasn’t easy, though, keeping it bottled up. There were plenty of days when I yearned to be sane like my regular friends.

One day, while still in Germany, I was sitting in a garden behind our house, under the shade of a big old cherry tree. Out of nowhere, a female spirit manifested herself. The spirit belonged to a collective much older than I care to divulge. She herself was older than the collective over which she ruled as queen, yet she appeared to me in the form of a teenager. She said her name was Lilith, Queen of the Blacksun. Crash-course version, when I started to worship Lilith, the connection severed. All of it. No more Shadow Side. I was finally a normal kid. Boy was I glad!

A year later I moved to the States. The minute the plane landed in New York City, the connection returned vigorously. Billions of voices jabbering all at once. Luckily, a library book introduced me to Buddhism and meditation. As soon as I had learned the gist of how to become one with The One, I practiced and practiced until I was able to construct matrices inside “my” mind. Within these matrices “I” housed these so-called spirits.

During a quiet afternoon, I was sitting under a sycamore tree, contemplating the meaning of life, and fishing the Delaware River in Philadelphia. It had been about a year since I heard any unwelcome jabber; the spirits had their matrices, and I had my real world. And just as I was thinking how much I enjoyed living a normal life, out of thin air the Blacksun Queen manifested.

“Not this again!” were my first words to her. I knew it was Lilith. It had to be. Sure, she looked different and spoke English instead of German, but her demeanor gave her away. Yet, she insisted that her name was Lisa.

This time around I had just turned seventeen–old enough not to have fallen for “Lisa” head over heels. But eventually I did fall. After I had constructed a matrix to house her, I spent all my spare time meditating. One day, in Lisa’s matrix, under the shade of yet another big old cherry tree, she revealed to me a supposed calamity that was to unfold in the year 2012. The nature of the calamity? Supposedly the Dark Side personifications of the following four entities would collaborate for a purpose I’m not at liberty to share:

 

The spirit of America

The heart of America

The soul of America

The mind of America

 

Lisa then claimed that if I remained married only to her for the rest of my life, I would be instrumental in not only her utilizing the calamity to awaken America, but I would also be useful to the Light Side personifications of the same four entities in their establishing a Paradise here in the Dirt Matrix.

And that’s when Lisa lost me.

First, up until that moment I had always figured that Lisa, by whatever name she wanted to call herself, to be the product of my overactive imagination.

Second, how delusional would I have been to have further imagined that I could play the hero’s role in America’s Cosmic Narrative?

Third, what “Cosmic Narrative”?! To this day I ask myself: What is the assertion “there’s a meaning to life” predicated on? Is it predicated on a Universal Consciousness authoring and producing a story line? Really?! Every thinking person knows that the belief in a self-aware Cosmos is ludicrous. And every thinking person knows that Gabriel, Michael, and the rest of the so-called angels are characters fabricated by none other than our own ancestors.

The “spirits” on the other hand were a different story. Back then I figured I was either a bona fide loon or, given my firsthand encounters with their human vessels during childhood, there had to be a sensible–and more importantly scientific–explanation as to who they were and how exactly their centers of consciousness were able to jump from body to body. Call it rational mysticism, call it sensible atheism, call it what you will–I knew what I knew and the whole world couldn’t have convinced me otherwise. However, although the true premises had led me to conclude that the spirits were real, those true premises were elusive to common folks. I wasn’t prepared to let Lisa, an ethereal spirit herself, talk me into confronting the world while armed with premises that couldn’t be objectively substantiated.

So, to get away from the madness I threw myself into the arms of a Carol, a German-Irish babe in the woods whom I “coincidentally” met. On our second date I discovered that the Carol was in fact one of Lisa’s vessels. An unawakened human albeit the Carol was, in a trance she would speak as corporeal Lisa.

Two months into this uncanny relationship I couldn’t do it any longer. Not only was I falling in love with the Carol, I wanted to save the poor girl from being essentially a meatsuit for Lisa. Besides, I wanted to live in the real world. Kiss a real girl. Have real kids. To give that up just so that I may play Lisa’s advocate was over the top. My human mind couldn’t cope. Flesh & blood though Lisa was in the Carol, what difference did it make since she was still the same crazy ghost talking about “if I could resist her in the flesh, she and I would blow the lid off all that which is hidden from the common folks.”

WHAT?!

The night the Carol and I consummated our relationship was the night Lisa ceased to speak to me through the Carol. And that was fine by me. So fine that it wasn’t until a week later that I astral projected to Lisa’s matrix. She was gone. Immediately my life felt empty, and nothing could fill the void.

Ten years and four children later, I set out to look for Lisa in one of her other, real-world vessels. Carol, who by then was my wife, wouldn’t have it. But I didn’t care that she dumped me. It was Lisa or bust. When I couldn’t find her, I settled for a jinni who went by the name Kelly. She was embarked upon a vessel of a sixteen-year-old Cherokee hybrid with stenciled eyes to die for. Her only flaw, strung-out on prescription drugs was the human in the machine. Between the jinni and the drugs to which the human Kelly had introduced me, I was so high on Xanax that I remember little of what I did when Lilith, for the second time in a three-year span, revealed her corporeal self to me while she was embarked on the vessel of one of my stepchildren….

In the county jail, I spent about a week fasting and meditating mostly under the big old cherry tree–alone in the universe and manicured gardens I had constructed especially for Lisa.

When Lisa returned to one of the gardens, the homecoming and ensuing honeymoon were worthy of a romance novel.

But short-lived was the glamor, overshadowed by the drama in the Dirt Matrix. I was in bed when the 767 crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center. For the following eleven years thereafter, I watched Judgment Day gingerly unfold on CNN. All the while, I worked on seven satirical plays. As I typed away with an eye on the news, I anticipated the day I may share the ink with the world in hope of turning the tables on those who had been cheering the Evil within me.

That day never came–at least not as of the previous version of this ink. Instead, around the time of the Boston Marathon bombing, said Evil, in both spirit and soul, was taken on a journey.

This was not a dream or a vision. I know the difference. Rather, I was in my cell late one night. Ironically, I was almost done reading The Wisdom of the Myths, by Luc Ferry, when I heard a voice behind me. Nothing new there, except this voice was louder than any I had heard before. Arabic rendered into English, the voice blasted, “ALIVE OR DEAD, O IMMORTAL?”

Something or someone within me recognized the voice as that of Azrael’s, the Angel of Death according to Middle Eastern angelology, both Jewish and Islamic.

“But wait a second!” I found “myself” arguing with Azrael in some weird language. “I never ate of the Tree.”

Sarah. Social-media readers. Friends and family. For what it’s worth, on everything I hold dear it wasn’t me talking. The moment “I” started addressing Azrael, I was an observer. I know this because I had no idea what was coming out of my mouth. Whatever language it was, though, Azrael understood it. And when Azrael spoke back in the same language, something or someone within me understood him. As that very something or someone understood, I too understood. It was as if I had been an amnesiac all my life. At first, the flood of lost memories that was pouring in didn’t make any sense. One connection after another, the Tree business came into focus. Apparently, the erasing of my memory before I was born in this body had been the only way for me to infiltrate the enemy lines. And who may this enemy be? Me! And although I myself also had never eaten of the supposed Tree, that no longer mattered; Azrael came to collect my spirit, not only my soul. “Your respite is up, Iblis!” declared the alleged angel as I inhaled my last breath.

Next thing I knew I was being catapulted out of the solar system, the Milky Way, the clusters of galaxies beyond, the universe, the adjacent universes…. Finally, before a silver curtain reaching as high as the eye can see and spanning from horizon to horizon, there I stood. Behind the silver curtain was Light. Just Light. Light upon Light.

To spare you the sob story, let’s just say I begged on my hands and knees. Somewhere down the ages the Evil within me had developed an addiction for human vessels. He was hooked and didn’t even know it. He pleaded to go back. He promised that he would change tactics if granted one last chance. He promised that he, with His Majesty’s Will and Leave, would torment everyone who had been arrogant enough to have followed him. He even consented to prostrate for the allegorical Adam.

Merciful, Forgiving, and Patient as The Light always was, is, and will be, The Light granted Iblis what he had asked for–on three Conditions: “First, attempt to convince the blindfolded among the mortals to hold fast to My Rope. Second, do not compromise the Veil too quickly and thereby deprive the mortals of a chance to be forgiven themselves. Third, partner up with a male human, gradually awaken him, and confer with him every move you aim to execute on the world stage as you, with My Leave, ride your horse.”

Cute, huh?

My fellow outcasts, what friggin’ other choice did I have but to accept the Conditions? What other choice do any of you have but to quit your own addiction?

Any-damned-way, I started for the Hall of Records. Halfway there, just as I was thinking to myself how frustrating it is to be cramped inside a womb for nine months, in a flash I was back in this body, gasping for air.

The dilemma, my “new” avatar was liable to be enticed by the figurative Apple no matter how gradually I awakened him.

 

  777************(HALLIMSIB)************x.-(119988)-:x************(BISMILLAH)************777

I, the “avatar,” did eat the Apple. However, I read The Book of Light enough times to know better than to associate myself or anyone else with His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds.

As for the notion that I may be a “neo-Adam,” I don’t believe that’s the case here. Truth is, I don’t know what or who I am if I am someone at all. You tell me.

In a flash, I’m back in this body, gasping for air. I sit up off my prison bed, look around for a sign to validate what I had just been through. Nothing.

Was I dreaming?

Was it the pot I had smoked earlier?

Did I just experience the alleged lifting of the First Veil?

Am I even still alive?

I check my pulse.

Heart is ticking.

I strip off my bedsheets, place them along with my blanket and clothes into a trash bag. I thoroughly wipe down and disinfect the vinyl mattress. I wash up in the sink. By the time I’m done cleaning the mess, it’s almost daybreak. So, I offer Fajr for the first time in years.

Back on my top bunk, shivering although I’m wearing two sweatpants and two sweatshirts, I wrap myself with my state-issued winter coat. I lay my head down on my pillow. Teeth still shuddering, I ball my body into the fetal position and close my eyes. Then, as every night, I astral project to one of the matrices I frequent. This particular matrix is the negative image of the Dirt Matrix. This isn’t a matrix I constructed, so it’s autonomous. As I passively navigate from one set of eyes to another, all the major cities are on fire. The rivers are running red with blood; banks obstructed by debris and bloated bodies of humans and animals. Most farms are reduced to ashes. The fear in the air turned gray the hair of teenagers. Pregnant women are having miscarriages due to sheer terror. And everyone is stumbling about, behaving as though drunk but they aren’t drunk.

Doomsday already? I ask myself.

Be mindful, Doomsday is different from Judgment Day. Judgment Day may last a hundred years or more. Doomsday is when the Earth is rendered practically uninhabitable within a decade or less, after a handful of mountains are reduced to dust and the Earth spills out her guts.

Anyway, I then astral project to another matrix I frequent. This matrix is identical to the Dirt Matrix, except Earth is a manicured garden. Only one woman and one man live on the entire planet. I know the woman’s name is Lilith, she even admitted she’s Lilith, yet she insists I call her Lisa.

Lisa and I cozy up under our favorite cherry tree and watch the sun set in the east. I confide in her everything. She then explains that it’s not the human me who is Iblis. Iblis is more like my anti-human.

After Lisa is done shining light on matters best left uninked for the time being, I look at her, more confused than before she shined: “So now what? What’s my part in all this?”

“Wait,” she says. “Wait until Iblis contacts you. And remember that he needs you, you don’t need him.”

“Which matrix?” I ask*. “In which matrix will he touch base with me.”

 

 (*According to folklore, Jinns can outpace the speed of light. The Book refers to the ability as “snatching the instant” and “stealing the hearing.” Where I’m getting at, when Lisa told me Iblis will meet me in the Dirt Matrix–the only world that’s really real from my perspective at the time–I assumed she had seen the meeting while prodding the future. It never occurred to me that she may be in bed with my archenemy. How naive I was to not have seen it sooner. At any rate, back to the historical present.)

 

After my talk with Lisa, I return to my bunk, open my eyes, and stare at the ceiling:

 Whose vessel will Iblis use to talk to me face-to-face? Will it be a guard’s vessel? Will it be a counselor’s vessel? What if it’s my son’s vessel? Or what if it’s not a vessel of a human altogether?

Regardless of whose vessel, what would Iblis need me for, the commoner that I am? And what do I know about world affairs that he should confer with me regarding geopolitical matters? And what if that were the case, then how would the logistics to such an operation work? Surely, he and I wouldn’t have a headquarters housed in the real world, nor would I be directly involved–at least not CNN style. An “avatar” or not, I’m a prison inmate now and a convicted felon for life. Wouldn’t then my direct involvement be tantamount to my attending a state dinner wearing underpants?

These and a dozen other questions swirl through my mind as I await Iblis to reveal himself.

One day goes by. Two days. Three. “Patience,” Lisa counsels me every time I manage to calm my mind long enough to visit her in search of more answers. Four days. Five.

By the end of the first week the numbness wears off and reason sets in. What am I doing fooling around with the Shadow Side, a realm I hardly understand? So, I pay a visit to the prison imam for spiritual counseling. In the privacy of his office, with the door closed, I explain my predicament. Of course, I don’t tell the imam everything just like I’m not sharing everything with you. I do confide in him enough, however, to where he makes a gesture indicating for me to zip my mouth shut lest the kafir Jinns overhear me. He then hands me a few pages printed off the ‘Net. Religious literature, it would appear. I skim the first page. The subject matter has nothing to do with the issue at hand. The code that would enable me to link up with the imam’s cabal is in the typos.

I return to my cell. I process the code according to a key Lisa taught me. On my top bunk I situate myself in the lotus position, close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out–and off I go.

In my navigation of a matrix that I’ve never explored before, the code leads me to a “cave” full of Jinn sheikhs. I greet them in Arabic. They greet me back in Sirian, the first language of the Jinns. After the introduction and whatnot, they look up my lineage. I’m nobody from a long line of nobodies, they tell me. I don’t mind the sheikhs’ pursuant condescending tone. I don’t mind their grilling me for answers to questions I don’t have the answers to. Bubbles of rage fizz within me, however, when I discover they fear the kafir Jinns. The cave sheiks are Muslim scholars who supposedly have the entire Qur’an memorized; how dare they fear anyone besides His Majesty.

The overall visit is disheartening. Namely since towards the end of the meeting the sheiks assure me that if I pursued the matter any further, they would hurt my family, starting with my son. Despite the fizzing bubbles, I respond in a measured tone by assuring them that I have no qualms about personally slaughtering every member of my family who fears anyone besides His Majesty.

A few days of mulling over everything else the sheiks told me, I start to question much of what I had experienced prior to visiting their cave. What I need is a clear sign in the real world. However, I would be no better than the good sheiks were I to ask His Majesty to give me reassurance that He is indeed Akbar and that he has my back. Nevertheless, I’m still human.

At the same time all of this is unfolding, I’m trying to interpret dreams I’m having in a strange realm. In English, the realm means The System. When I was first granted access to The System, I met a character who claimed his name is Khidr, which means Greenness or Evergreen. But you may simply call him Green since you know Saint Pat. Green, in a dream, informs me that he, with His Majesty’s Leave, will gradually give me more than one sign. However, my punishment would be tenfold as severe if I were to then abandon my mission.

While I wrap my head around what Green said and illustrated, I’m trying to come to grips with what the mission is exactly and what its implications would be on the world stage. I know where to find answers. The hindrance, neither Lilith nor I have the Key by which means I may attempt to crack the Ayat’s Code.

One evening, about midnight, I’m sitting at a desk in my cell, immersed in Ink from The Book. My cellmate sits up off his bunk, stands over my shoulders, calls me by a name that isn’t mine, and asks if I’m ready yet.

“Ready for what?” I ask while I’m still reading, my back turned to him.

“To meet you,” says my cellmate–Patient #32 as I refer to him in my journals.

“‘Meet you’?”

“You know,” he says in a sly tone.

Vexed by this young man who is nothing to me but another lost soul I’m studying for my research, I turn to face him, “Dude, I don’t have time for games!” And then it hits me the instant we lock our eyes.

Angels, fallen and otherwise; mortals, sleepwalking and awakened: I can’t begin to express what I felt during that “first” encounter. There I was, wide awake, sober, yet, as an adult, talking to Iblis in the flesh. Sure, I, as a grown man, had spoken to plenty of corporeal Jinns, but the highest ranking Jinns I had encountered in the flesh, other than Lilith, are afreets. Iblis is a prince–the prince.

I wasn’t speechless because I was in a room face-to-face with… well, Satan. Far as I was concerned then and still am now, Satan can kiss my behind. What overwhelmed me is the authority of the Office that His Majesty has conferred upon this so-called fallen angel.

Nevertheless, I’m not entirely gullible. I need proof.

The prince spends the following hour or so giving me the proof and more, going as far back as my childhood in Egypt.

Head swimming, I shrug, “All right, I’m convinced. Now what?”

Come to find out I must fit the puzzle pieces together on my own. What Iblis is allowed to do for starters, help me compose a letter to challenge the Big Guys, Iblis’ flesh & blood generals in the Dirt Matrix.

I’m reluctant to share the original version I had someone post for me anonymously. Its language is too crass. But eventually you’ll find here a revised copy of the version I mailed to the United Nations. It’s entitled The “Afterlife”.

Neither here nor there, now I have no desire to do anything else with my days except to learn as much as possible from my experience.

One morning as I’m chitchatting with the prince, Lilith whispers in my left ear that Ms. McGenus, a parole agent, is about to interview me. I put on my state browns, the block officer calls for me, I pick up my pass at the front desk, and I mosey on over to see Ms. McGenus–full of optimism for I’m about to go home. After some small talk, Ms. McGenus smiles at me. Green blows his top. How dare Ms. McGenus smile at me. I return to the cellblock and rough in what will later become the Foreword to Common Sense, a work in progress a copy of which will be shared in the little scroll.

Skipping over a few details I’ll share elsewhere, after I roughed in the Foreword, Green asks me to isolate myself. His story–I need to be alone as I entreat His Majesty for Guidance.

At this point in my fairy tale, I’m tempted to believe that His Majesty is really, really Real. The problem is how could I isolate myself when I’m in prison? The only way, take a trip to the Restricted Housing Unit (RHU) and refuse a cellmate.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” are Green’s words before he logs off The System.

Jinns and Inss, young and primordial, never mind that taking a trip to the RHU would’ve ruined my shot at parole. Given the circumstances, I no longer cared about going home. The dilemma, I was all too aware of the messiah syndrome that afflicted nutcases of every creed. The dilemma, I had no illusions as to what I was up against. The dilemma, when I had “died” and Iblis accepted the Terms to his renewed respite, he was downright told his next “advocate,” yours truly apparently, must succeed at playing the role of a messianic figure to the Dark Force. That is, the Blacksun.

Please let’s cast aside for one minute that yours truly is currently in a virtual straitjacket. Let’s make believe instead that I am on the level and Iblis and “Lisa” are intelligent entities of some sort. According to Lisa, any son of Adam could play the role of an Iblis’ advocate. And countless such sons did and still do, also according to Lisa. However, only a few advocates were appointed to the post of “Dark Messiah”–six in total throughout our own recorded history. For assorted reasons, they all failed at their mission but one. The following, still according to Lisa, are some of the reasons why the other five failed.

First, a dark messiah must donate his living body to the cause of the Light Force, not the Dark Force. Second, a dark messiah cannot chase after fame and/or fortune. And if fame and fortune were to chase after him, he may only use them as a tool to further the cause of the Light Force. Third, a dark messiah cannot give rise to some new cult, namely since you, Jinns and Inss, already have your Seal Call. Fourth, a dark messiah cannot claim that his ink is divinely inspired. Fifth, a dark messiah doesn’t get to choose who attends the private lectures he delivers in the various matrices and in all the known languages, dead and living. Sixth, if a dark messiah were granted the United Pen of the Sirian High Assembly, known elsewhere as the Twenty-Four Elders, he cannot allow the ink to go to his head. If he were initially to succeed at humbling himself, his ego would still face one trial after another until his “motherboard” runs out of respite. As long as he keeps passing those trials, epitomizing ironfisted humility during every trial, the Pen would remain in his possession. Moreover, seventy-two generals leading an army of angels would aid him in the execution of S.A.P.I.A.N.T.’s agenda. The “S” is for Seraphim.

It turns out, honored Jinns & Inss, that a day called the Day of Standing is already upon you. As a consequence, every city and village will soon either be destroyed or punished in some fashion–gradually and not all cities and villages at once. The method of delivery? The elites will turn on the non-elites, earnestly believing all the while that they are guiding Humanity rather than misleading her.

It also turns out, honored Jinns & honored Inss, that each of you will be handed a “book.” Recorded in the books, throughout the fabric of spacetime, will be every detail of your biographies. As each of you relives every second from birth to rebirth, and as His Majesty judges between all of you, it will be sufficient for each of you to judge their own self.

I hate to be the harbinger of more sad news, Jinns & Inss. I honestly do. But it seems to me as though His Majesty is Real, the Cosmic War is real, and the Prophets and Messengers of old did tell the truth.

Now I could be wrong. I may be delusional. In fact, I pray that I hallucinated all the foregoing in hope that the human species may someday detach itself from the tales of the ancients and finally live a sane and rational existence. On the bright side, though, if I’m the one who were sane, and if His Majesty and His angels were to win the Cosmic War, then the New Gardens of Delight will also be real. Four Gardens in total, here in this universe and timeline.

As for Hell? Seven Gates she has. The Gate of Gehinnom. The Gate of Saqqar. And so on. Nineteen Guards, throughout said fabric, are already in charge and have been in charge for quite a while. Each Guard is a collective, a legion of angels embarked upon tangible vessels. Overlooking this Hadean operation will be an ascended human, a loyal slave of His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds. The slave’s name I didn’t recognize at first. My birth name is not Malik.

And if the above ink weren’t enough to instill doubt into your hearts that I’m not clinically insane, there’s one more nugget of fantasy with which I feel obligated to further assault your intellect. Most human scholars who study Middle Eastern mythologies agree that Malik is the name of an angel who has no mercy towards the residents of Hell. Jinn theologians, however, disagree. Instead, they are of the opinion that Malik is a title that is yet to be bestowed upon a human who will ascend while alive. And his main mission, supposedly anyway, will be to attempt to free the Jinns who are chained up in the Abyss. Objectively speaking, the true premises aren’t there to definitively support the conclusions of both human scholars and Jinn ones. If anything, The Book mentions the name/title but in one Scene–and briefly at that. It appears the Jinns’ conclusion is based on a forced interpretation of that brief Scene, an interpretation possibly meant to corroborate an ancient prediction of theirs.

Although from a rational standpoint I’m convinced that both conclusions aren’t worthy of your scrutiny, here, anyway, is the Scene as depicted in The Book: The suffering of the residents of Hell is so severe and prolonged, they are imploring Malik to reason with His Majesty so that He may put an end to their very existence. Malik tells them that they are to remain in the Torment.

 The Jinn theologians read the original Text depicting the above Scene and imagine that Malik must be a human who has the codes to Hell’s Matrices. Once he logs on, he lends a sympathetic ear to the grievances of the Jinns residing therein, returns to his body in the matrix that is tangible to humans, reviews the Jinns’ grievances, puts together a Writ of Mercy on behalf of the Jinns, submits the Writ to His Majesty for consideration, awaits His Majesty’s Response, receives His Majesty’s Response, then logs back on in order to relay the Verdict: “[His Majesty] said, ‘You will remain! Indeed, We’ve brought you the Truth, but most of you to the Truth are averse.’”

The Jinns substantiate their stretched interpretation by extrapolating the following from the Malik Scene:

First, although The Book does teach that Hell is an abode for both demons and humans, most Hadean Scenes unfold in a “supernatural” realm where the so-called Damned are given new skin every time the skin of their vessels burns off. One Scene goes so far as to state that the damned are wishing for an end to their existence. Which must mean the Malik Scene is one of those that unfold in a supernatural realm, a realm where the laws governing our perception of the passing of time don’t apply.

Second, regardless of whether the so-called damned are demons or humans or both, it couldn’t be up to Malik how long they remain in Hell or how severe their torment should last, otherwise they wouldn’t be asking Malik to try to procure an Approval from His Majesty to put an end to their existence. In other words, those who are portrayed in the Malik Scene are not allowed to entreat His Majesty directly. Therefore, they are negotiating with Malik to entreat his Lord on their behalf. Which would mean that Malik must be playing the role of an intermediary who advocates on behalf of the residents of Hell. Had the residents of Hell thought Malik was a heartless executioner, why would they be imploring him to reason with His Majesty in the first place?

Third, there is a distinct Scene that refers to the Guards of Hell and their underlings. They are all indeed angels. And they are all indeed heartless executioners, ones who do not veer from His Majesty’s Orders. It is futile then for the Hopeless to implore those angel Guards to reason with His Majesty. Also noteworthy, aside from the collective legion of persecutors mentioned in Ayah (96:18), not a single one of the angel Guards is mentioned by name or title.

Fourth, The Book teaches that no one can play the role of an intercessor without His Majesty’s Permission. For the most part, it is humans who are permitted to play the role. Reason likely being because it’s not angels who are supposed to believe by faith alone that His Majesty is Real and is the only One Who can pardon and/or grant Mercy. Hence, the chances are more than likely that Malik is in fact a human whose level of faith can move more than just a mountain.

Fifth, Malik is not necessarily one person, but rather a collective made up of both Jinns and Inss who are loyal to His Majesty. That is to say, and as Lilith often likes to remind me: Paradise belongs to those who, with His Majesty’s Blessing, rule in Hell.

I’m not sure if the above argument is wishful thinking on the part of the Jinns or just fuzzy logic, but let’s say they were right and Malik is in fact a human (or a righteous collective of some sort) who’s allowed to intercede on the behalf of the “Damned.” Perhaps then those amidst the Jinns who feel they are bound for Hell should preemptively convince their human counterparts to go over the alleged Truth allegedly sent by His alleged Majesty via His alleged angels and His alleged Prophets of old. Those Jinns could then use their human counterparts’ tangibility suits and reasoning faculties to separate the Wheat from the chaff, analyze supposed Wheat, arrive at the conclusion that the Wheat may be illustrative of the alleged Truth, and thereby not be so averse towards the proposed Truth. Who knows, maybe once everybody gets over their aversion towards the proposed Truth, they would then be more susceptible to believing the proposed Truth is in fact the Truth. In which case scenario, the Jinns and Inss who are bound for Hell would dodge a Day whose Torment is widespread. And, as a bonus, the Jinns’ human counterparts themselves who are practically already in Hell would be set free from their metaphorical shackles.

But what of the rest of the premises, the ones based on the Jinns’ ancient prediction about Malik? How do those premises tie in with “reading too much into the original Text”? Well, the Jinns’ prediction goes something like this. Supposedly one day a male human sympathetic toward the Jinns already in Hell will come along and apply for the career opportunity of their defense attorney. As the prediction was passed down to me, it is said that any male human could apply for the job since the criteria are down-to-earth. First, as a teenager the human must impress Green–who’s not a demon–by passing a few preliminary trials to prove his honesty and trustworthiness. Second, Green must thereafter agree to take on the teenager as an apprentice, without overtly interacting with him or even informing him that he was accepted as a pupil. Third, the apprentice’s patience and obedience are tested by trials that could last well into his forties. Fourth, at one point in his life the apprentice must vanquish the “Antichrist” within himself by identifying one thing he values, other than his life, and doing away with it. The fifth criterion is the proving of his dedication to the Cause of His Majesty by the passing of the final exam. The Patriarch Abraham, one of Green’s apprentices from back in the day, was the last one to pass the final exam, although Abraham had been applying for a different career opportunity–”the defense attorney of human Hell,” so to speak.

The Jinns’ prediction further has it that when an apprentice will inevitably pass the final exam as Abraham passed his, the apprentice will ascend while he’s still alive. With full access to the fabric of spacetime, the apprentice will then set out to unite said Nineteen Guards and their Hadean legions under the banner of “there’s no god but His Majesty.” The purposes of this supernatural coalition I won’t get into for the sake of your wincing intellect. Anyway, those purposes are best left to the scholars, namely the interpreters of the book of Revelation.

The question now is how does yours truly fit into any of the foregoing? And the answer is “I promise you I’m not sure.” All I know is that the whole business with the apprentice was intriguing when its seeds were first passed down to me by Halfnugget, the madman under the fig tree in Egypt. So fascinated was I by his recounting of the prediction that while my friends played Muslims and Infidels I was busy sharing with him dozens of essays I used to write about Abraham: “How he may have challenged the well-established beliefs of the world in which he was born, what sort of impact being ostracized by his tribe and his own father must’ve had on him, what must’ve gone through his mind when he had been supposedly burnt at the stake and fire didn’t consume him, and how he, undoubtedly in spite of his wincing intellect, was fully intent to sacrifice his son to prove his dedication to the Cause of His Majesty.”

Another noteworthy facet that continues to fascinate me about Abaham’s ethos, he, according to Halfnugget, was neither a Prophet nor a Messenger in the traditional sense, but rather a True Believer, a Hanifah is the term used in The Book. Halfnugget’s supporting argument is that Abraham wasn’t initially visited by an angel who would have given him clear-cut proof that His Majesty is Real. And it wasn’t until later in life that Abraham was visited by the two guests who, according to The Book’s Version, wouldn’t eat. In fact, and according to The Book, Abraham was frightened since he had never interacted with otherworldly beings prior to that encounter. Instead, The Book tells us what Abraham did as a young man was use his deductive reasoning to arrive at the conclusion that His Majesty must in fact be Real, and must in fact be Greater than the Moon, the Sun, the planets, the stars, and anything or anyone that was worshiped during his lifetime. Also bear in mind that Abraham must’ve arrived at this conclusion before he experienced the “miracle” of his being burnt at the stake and the fire’s failure to consume him, for it was because of his conclusion and his destroying of Ur’s idols that his tribe attempted to burn him.

Now it would seem, and His Majesty knows best, that my lifelong desire to emulate Abraham’s True Belief, coupled with my patience and “selective obedience,” did come to fruition. And just in time too, for I was forty-six-years old and just about to disregard that I may have been accepted as a Green apprentice when suddenly I was awakened and faced with the final exam. After I had gotten over the initial headiness, without hesitation I, metaphorically speaking, tied down my son on His Majesty’s Altar with the full intent to sacrifice him. I can always make another son, right? Besides, between you and me I was 99% sure that the “ram” would be there to take the place of my kid. And it was.

Diploma in hand, the Heaven is opened that she was as though Gates throughout the fabric of spacetime. When the Heaven is opened in such a manner to someone, male or female, their sight becomes what The Book calls “iron.” So, with Iron Sight I came to discover that Iblis is Green’s sidekick, and that both were indeed in my life the whole time, challenging me at every turn, molding my character. And they weren’t doing it from some ethereal realm either. Oftentimes they were embarked upon human vessels with whom I rubbed shoulders.

In The System, shortly pursuant to my graduation, I meet with Green, Iblis, and the Twenty-Four Elders. We have us a good laugh at how blind I was. His Majesty then grants me the Pen via Green (different Pen than that of S.A.P.I.A.N.T.’s). And in effect I too, like Green and/or Iblis, I’m not sure, become the embodiment of a double-edged entity I have yet to figure out.

To further clarify, that double-edged entity has agents scattered throughout the globe–every creed, color, and nature. It appears as though every agent were a doublewalker of mine. Each doublewalker has a flesh-and-blood vessel, obviously. Some of the vessels are those of humans, others aren’t. Some of the vessels exist in the present, others in the future, and, lately, yet others in the past. Whenever I project my center of consciousness to any of those “avatars,” the Pen, with His Majesty’s Guidance and Leave, enables me to do with them as I please. Some of the missions I carry out unfold on CNN, often live feed; others, unfold anywhere from a day later to a year or two; and yet others, I’m waiting for them to unfold as of this very revision. On the surface, about half of the missions I carried out so far are bloody and serve as paradigms for all sorts of evil. Below the surface? If you’re a nation state and my evil became too much for you to bear, seek the counsel of the People of The Remembrance. They will narrate for you the story of a colleague, another loyal slave of His Majesty. If said People ask you to specify which story, tell them it’s the one where the madman sank a boat of a bunch of fishermen for no apparent reason, killed an innocent kid for no apparent reason, and safeguarded the inheritance of the two sons of Abraham without seeking recompense.

Ascended Jinns and ascended Inss, I would be disappointed if the outsiders who may be reading were to believe said colleague and I are patients in the same asylum–not before they are granted their own Iron Sight. Thing is, as you with Iron Sight are aware, no one other than His Majesty could grant the outsiders such Sight. Personally, I don’t know when and I don’t care. What I do know and care about is that the outsiders will be given that Sight one drove at a time to prevent global panic. In the meantime, how about you allow me to finish sharing with the sightless why I think His Majesty chose to hand over to me the Keys to… well–Hades, I guess.

Let’s pick up where I needed to isolate myself in the RHU, that I may entreat His Majesty to teach me one of His Hidden Names.

Before I go off the deep end, I call my human mother in Egypt. I tell her the truth: “Mama, I can’t be paroled because I think I’m the Dajjaal.” Of course I’m expecting her to belie me. Instead, she tells me she already knows. My human mom in the real world already knows that I may be the Antichrist. My dad, before he crossed over to the Other Side, had told her forty-six years earlier that I’m a baby Green.

At the same time I realize that crazy runs in the family, Green, grown-up Green to be precise, gives me a sign. The sign is unmistakable and straight out of The Book.

Shortly after my tongue is unbound, I go before the Parole Board. This is the moment of truth. I either tell the Board what it wants to hear and at least get my freedom back, or I put on a show and remain in prison. The final decision is not easy. I like to think of myself as a sane and rational person, for crying out loud! And why, why, why would grown-up Green want one of his apprentices to remain in this hellhole, anyway? I could accomplish so much more when I get a hold of a word processor and access to the Internet. Just as I’m about to make the sensible decision, Lisa whispers one sentence in my left ear: “Do you want to vanquish the Antichrist within you or not?” Considering everything I have shared so far, Lisa’s words didn’t take long to sink in. I take the leap of faith and put on a show. The Board figures I lost my mind. Two guards escort me to the mental ward for a psych evaluation. At this point I can still save the day: tell the shrink what he wants to hear, be released from the mental ward, finish my programs, and see the Board again within a month or two. But no. Before the week is out, I’m in the RHU for refusing to comply with the rules and regulations of the Department of Corrections (DOC). The sentence, 45 days. In the RHU I intentionally refuse to cell up with another inmate. As an additional punishment, I’m not eligible to be released at half the 45-day sentence. Now I’m in a prison within a prison.

“Alone” in the cell, during the first forty days I see what I see and learn what I learn. I then, per someone’s instructions in a matrix, have an inmate housed in the cell next to mine move in for a night. It’s Iblis in a different meatsuit. We talk about what we talk about, and he moves out the following morning. Before the shift changes, with the RHU sergeant and guards complying as though they worked for me, I have another guy move in from a few cells down. Iblis again in yet a different body. For two days we finish talking about what we had started to talk about when he was embarked aboard the first two meatsuits, Patient #32 and the inmate who was housed in the cell next to mine. Reassured I’m certifiable through and through, I hit The Book to confirm Iblis’ argument. It’s all there, staring me in the face for over 1,400 years. It takes Iblis to give me the Ayat numbers so that I may be better able to decipher the Analogies and connect the Dots. The same Iblis, don’t forget now, mounted on vessels of American young men who barely know what The Book is, let alone know how to quote Ayat numbers.

With two nights left before my forty-five days were up, Iblis and I are summoned before The Limitless Light for the second time. We are given what we are given, then we return to the scribe’s body–gasping for air and shuddering.

I, the “scribe,” am ready–or so I think I am. It is now, while I have the cell to myself, that Green and Iblis manifest out of thin air, as two humans in every aspect. Sure I encountered my fair share of transcended beings, who also manifested out of thin air. Heck, earlier in the day I was kidding around with Elvis. But this is different. This time it’s the authority of Green’s Office that overwhelms me.

Jinns and Inss, ascended and yet to ascend, after it had all been said and done and I returned from my “walkabout,” I was only partially human. Hate to put too fine a point on it, but the part that’s no longer human has no choice except to tear you to shreds if you don’t pay attention. Do not get it wrong, though. If you were to force my hand, I, with the Leave of His Majesty and His Approval, won’t tear to shreds those of you who play dumb because I hate you or hate the world. On the contrary. In fact, to afford everyone the benefit of the doubt I shall take my time ratcheting up the proverbial Fire on the human side as I make my argument throughout the forthcoming ink.

Case in point, when I had been initially armed with the Pen, I was given the angelic Codes that would’ve incited a worldwide uprising by July 4, 2020. Did I post those Codes? No. Instead, I opened with The Nudge and the scrubbed version of The “Afterlife”. I then mailed both letters to the United Nations. Enclosed with The Nudge, a few grams of a powdery substance. On the same day I mailed the two letters, I had my son post a revised version of the Foreword to Common Sense, one with different Launch Codes than those Green had me share with the imam and the condescending Jinn Sheikhs. I then sat back, turned on the TV, and waited for Homeland Security to arrest my son and charge me with terroristic threats.

Like I said, I’m trying my best to be as passive as possible while I afford you the benefit of the doubt. My idly sitting here day-in and day-out should prove to you that I want this relationship to work. And if that weren’t enough to convince you that I don’t hate you or hate the world, then my resorting to unconventional policies, and to measured violence at times, should also be illustrative of how my intent is to rid the planet of its cancer without killing the patient.

Regardless of what the next few years hold in store for us, though, please don’t let it escape your minds that I am human. I’m weak and susceptible to megalomania.

For instance, when I had finally come around and realized it was the Day of (78:38), I gave the outcast angels and their meatsuits two choices: submit to the Will of His Majesty or else. The outcast angels submitted without a fight since they were the first to have been granted Iron-Sight proof that I am who I’m claiming I may or may not be. However, the outcast angels’ meatsuits, CNN style, albeit covertly, mistook Nostradamus’ “one male” for the “Son of G-d.” Astaghfiru His Majesty. The meatsuits, blindfolded as they are, figured I would abide by Iblis’ old playbook: I the “King,” and they the “gods.” They were taken aback when I had declared that His Majesty has no sons–not even one, begotten or otherwise. They laughed when I professed that la ilaha illa His Majesty and that He Alone is The King. They made a mockery of me when I assured them that Iblis and his old guard were helpless against the Authority of the Pen–from Obama, that meatsuit of a then-President, on down to the hounds of Hell. Taylor Swift, however, underestimated my resolve the most. As hot as she certainly is, she made a bet with the rest of the American “idols” that she could entice me to embark upon one of her lovers’ vessels while it savored her. Imagine–my cutting of my own hair for the sake of a night in Taylor.

But as I said, I’m human–weak and whatnot. Indeed, a hundred CNN’s couldn’t have convinced me that the natural order was to abide by the old playbook. And, indeed, the world’s weight in Taylors couldn’t have enticed me to veer from the Mission. However, once I proved to everyone in the know what the Pen is capable of manifesting on the world stage and in their very own personal lives, I went rogue and inked myself an island decked out in luxury and overrun by sexpots in bikinis–in this dimension. Or I think it was the other dimension. I wasn’t sure. Back then it was impossible for me to distinguish the difference between the two sides of the mirror. Whichever side the island was on is not the issue. The issue is that I showed my true colors.

Honored Jinns and honored Inss who are yet to ascend, what I’m trying to say is that there’s no telling how the human in me would behave if you were to believe me before you’re granted your inevitable Iron Sight. It is by design therefore that nothing inked thus far is enough to convince you that I’m not a charlatan. I want you to be skeptical. I want you to belie me. You see, the only way you are meant to see The Light for yourselves is when His Majesty Himself decides to grant you access to what He has granted yours truly access to. Until then, all I ask is that you consider my argument. I have a bag full of Mushrooms and Figs. I know I won’t be able to get through to everyone. In one timeline I’m looking at five-billion humans left alive; another, a half a billion.

This is not a threat.

This is not a dream.

This is not a work of fiction.

If you get over your aversion towards the Truth, read, think for yourselves, and try to understand–I promise you Iron-Sight proof, without the forty-days of meditation, that the spirits of established religions, all of them, cater to ulterior motives you are aware of but are in denial of accepting as factual. Abraham was, is, and will always be right: His Majesty is Greater than the idols you’re currently worshiping.

And please be patient. His Majesty’s allowing us to reveal to you the Iron-Sight proof too soon will only deprive you of His Majesty’s Forgiveness anyway. Let us first attempt to persuade you by means of logic alone. I promise that those of you who read with an open mind while adhering to the Nonassociation Clause will join the rest of the immortals–while you’re still embarked upon your birthbodies. No strings attached. It is, after all, the Day of the Lifting of the Veils. And I, the I in me who’s Iblis, have but two options left: prostrate before His Majesty while I’m embarked upon my share of the vessels of the sons of Adam or else. The same holds true of Lilith and the daughters of Eve upon whose vessels she’s allowed to embark.

May His Majesty grant you Iron Sight before He allows us to reveal to the world the Proof that every word inked thus far is the truth and nothing but the truth–so help me, Your Majesty.

Sane and rational Jinns and Inss of planet Earth, I conclude by asking you to take one bite at a time. If this is your first time reading this work and there is more than one Seal posted, only read the first Seal. Wait for a few months before you read the second; waking up too fast could be detrimental to the mental health of most of you. Hopefully, though, for your sake, there won’t be a need to post the Second Seal on this side of the mirror.

If, however, the little scroll is posted when you’ll have been done reading this work, it’ll be safe to forge ahead. Word of advice, nevertheless, do some research awhile to prepare your minds for the upcoming transition. I’m sure the People of The Remembrance will be eager to gingerly walk you through the “Afterlife.”

And please don’t panic when you experience the moment of awakening prior to your ever having tasted Death. So, keep your money in the banks. Don’t liquidate your assets. It would be embarrassing for you to behave in such a manner, namely since most of you have been insisting all along that His Majesty is not actually really, really Real.

Verily, I’m guiltless of you.

  

 Love notwithstanding,

  ?

⛧    SatanChrist132@yahoo.com

⛧   Ash-Shaytan198@outlook.com

 ⚸    LilithMorningstar132@yahoo.com

 ⚸    LilithMorningstar132@outlook.com

 --------------------------------------------------------

↭   Dajjaal176@gmail.com

⚗   KhalidAbdu176@gmail.com

 

------------------------------------------------------------------

https://figsfromzaqqoom.blogspot.com

https://ashshaytan.blog

 

(Please don't reach out‡ unless you have released thoughts that may positively contribute to debate.)

 

‡ You agree that parts (or entirety) of your correspondence may be shared openly in pursing chapters.

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

1001 American Nights

 

 

The Fig of Peace

(Act One / Scene One)

 

Words are singularly the most powerful force available to humanity.

 We choose to use this force constructively with words of encouragement,

 or destructively using words of despair.

Words have energy and power with the ability to help,

 to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate and to humble. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                        —Yehuda Berg

 

                                            

H A L I M S I B

 

(original inking) Saturn’s Day 12/13/2014

(this revision) Venus’ Day 07/05/2024

(80,329,945 days since the Fall) 45/99/8032

 

 

Demons & Humans:

 

  .-(August 1, 2013

-:-(Due to intelligence that raised red flags throughout the civilized world, Lady Liberty issues a travel warning for her citizens. Given the grapeshot with which the approaching threat seems to have been charged, the Lady also evacuates her embassy in Yemen and shuts down more than twenty other embassies and consulates in the Middle East and North Africa. Shortly thereafter, with no less a sense of panic, the UK, France, and Germany follow suit.

.-(Such widespread apprehension on the part of the Lady and her older sisters is unprecedented. It gives the world at large the impression that the Muhammadans are about to light the fuse to the battle of Armageddon; or, at the very least, engage in one of their temper tantrums—the amassing of enraged throngs, the storming of Western embassies, and the beheading of “infidels.”

-:-(America’s left- and right-leaning mindsets, on edge as they brace for the worst, turn to CNN’s coverage. It’s only after the Lady had tucked her citizens under her wings that an official announcement is made. Curiously, “the shutdowns had been a mere precaution” that was set off by “an intercepted message between senior Al-Qaeda members.”

.-(In the pursuing days, the in-depth analyses and the stream of “breaking news” are exhaustively spoon-fed to the public. CNN’s Erin Burnett ventures to extrapolate that the terrorists involved held a meeting in cyberspace. A colleague of hers then chimes in by comparing the attendants to the villains from the Legion of Doom. The world is puzzled—namely since up to this point everyone is under the impression that Al-Qaida’s message was composed of two words: “Do something.” That’s it. “One terrorist told a fellow terrorist to do something, then,” as though a setup to a bad joke, “they entered a bar with a priest and a rabbi.”

-:-(It isn’t until two weeks later that Ms. Burnett admits the actual intelligence is too sensitive to share. And, indeed, the math wasn’t adding up all along. Even without what The Daily Beast reports, from the outset it was obvious that Al-Qaeda, a husk of an organization, could not have been responsible for the cold sweats of the mightiest nations on earth. That the nature of supposed intelligence may have been too sensitive was perhaps the only logical explanation.

.-)But “sensitive” how exactly? Was it “National Security sensitive”? Or was it more of an “embarrassing sensitive”? The answer was to be found on the Reverse Side of the Looking Glass. There alone, far away but also near, the chatter on Dark Media reflected the true nature of the sophisticated intelligence gathering. It was a “laughable sensitive.” The panic was triggered by a letter that had been conjured by an Arab humorist, an open letter posted on Facebook. More comical, the humorist was a prisoner, an inmate locked away inside a mental ward in a U.S. prison—the very belly of the whale that my brother Green and I were tickling.

.-)This is not to say that security is so lax inside the whale that an inmate could smuggle in a laptop. In fact, inmates have no access altogether to the Internet. And even before the mad Arab landed behind bars, he had never logged a minute on Facebook. The reason simply being that prior to his arrest and conviction, only AOL had been all the rave. It’s only many solstices after he had lost his freedom that social media evolved into a goliath to be reckoned with. As the snail of doing time glided over the leaves of Georgian calendar after Georgian calendar, all the poor guy could do was marvel from atop his bunkbed at the phenomenon. Blogger, Twitter, YouTube... and the fascination with something called LIKES. With the right lure, anyone could become a star, anyone could inspire millions, anyone could incite a riot, anyone could topple a government. Alas, demons & humans, two old-school satirists like Green and I could, with the posting of one play, set off another Great War. “Kill all humans!” as my buddy Bender from Futurama would say. The humorist too could only dream of such ready-made access to the hearts and minds of the masses. So, he arranged for a Facebook page to be created by his son and later maintained by one of his daughters.

.-)Fame is a hell of a rush, even if it’s only fleeting. Look at the length you yourselves go to in hope of your personal expressions would go viral. What the Arab hadn’t intended for, however, was for the Western embassies to be shut down just so that he may have his moment in the limelight. Admittedly, he too is missing a few transistors, but he never aspired for anyone to “bite his shiny metal ass.” Besides, my brother Green and I played fair. We had dictated to the “humorist in the Arab” two heads-up, both addressed to the United Nations. In the two letters, he had made abundantly clear that my brother and I were about to ink our presence “in every aspect.” Is it the humorist’s fault that the UN failed to take us seriously, the Two Witnesses that we are? And yes, understandably because of the psychotic nature of our letters, the UN had every reason to brush off the humorist as a half-witted terrorist; or merely a “fame seeker looking for free propaganda,” as US representative Peter King suggested on CNN. However, the—

(The following is an interruption by the “humorist.”)

 

±:-(If I may? Before they, the alleged authors of this letter, press on with their supposed dictation, perhaps I should say a few words on my own—addressing strictly the humans amongst you, strictly as a human.

±:-(I know you are rational. I, too, am rational. “The Reverse Side of the Looking Glass”? Really? “The Jinn Realm”? Really? “One measly Arab putting the planet on notice”? Really? I honestly do share your skepticism, and I totally do agree that I sound as though I were full of myself. Therefore, it would be remiss of me to proceed without first my acknowledging that I am in fact mentally unstable. So please bear with me. Maybe when I’m done sharing with you the “whisperings,” you could explain to me what’s happening. Unequivocally rational humans, the prison psychologists want to convince me that I am all types of crazy. And more than likely I am. I don’t know for sure. That’s why I’m reaching out to you—hoping awhile some of you know something that the psychologists don’t know. So, please be patient. Let me take my time as I work out the Second Coming rationally. Won’t you cut a toddler a break? Or would you rather see me and him go into shock?

 

(The ink is .-)us(-:- again.)

 

.-/All right, “Strictly Humans,” you want logic? A reasonable request. Let us then digress for a minute by asking the obvious. If the Arab’s ink was so flammable, how is it that the U.S. Government didn’t approach him? One would suspect the CIA would have transferred him to a max-security prison before he inked another letter and really set the world ablaze, correct? But since his activities haven’t been restricted, he must be delusional. In other words, sure, he had mailed the powdery substance to the U.N. And sure, what he had posted is nothing short of having poured kerosene over an already combustible planet. However, couldn’t it have been that the potential incendiary to the West’s panic was a different matchstick—one that just so happened to have had been struck during the same time that the reckless loon threatened he may strike ours?

.-/And here’s another way to look at it. Even if it was the latter matchstick, supposedly ours, that initiated the panic, this maniac’s story would be more credible if he at least stopped openly claiming that he isn’t the one threatening to awaken the sleepwalking masses—you. Instead, he would have you believe that the red pill is being offered by us—two angels, for Solomon’s sake! What a tool! Everybody knows angels don’t actually exist.

.-/For real, though, why should you care? What this guy needs is medication, not an audience. Nevertheless, say you indulge the poor fellowman. Maybe if you poked enough holes in the story, you could exorcise him from his “angels.” It is the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t you agree?

.-)Logical enough a language for you?

 .-)Now, please let us get back to where we left off. The psychotic nature of the U.N.’s heads-up.

.-)The Muslim Jinn elders at the United Nations recognize the codes in our letters. Accordingly, they have one of their imps contact the Arab via a trained hybrid. After the hybrid and the imp confirm that it’s really Green and I on the part of whom the Arab is inking, a meeting is scheduled. Inside a cave on the Shadow Side, the meeting is held. The attendants? Let’s just call them “the actual Legion of Doom.”

-:-{In the Shadow Side, one of the Arab’s astral bodies is that of a twelve-year-old kid. Sitting in between my brother and me at the head of a conference table, the kid gaped at the lovely Legion in admiration. All of them had prostration marks on their foreheads and there was an air of piety about them thick enough to cut through with a scimitar.

.-)After the introductions, Green and I instructed the kid that it was time to make his debut as the new Khalifah of planet Earth—one of the Earths on the other side of the mirror, that is. In a booming voice, his lips shut, the “Khalifah” read The Insurrection, by Green. The talking points caught everyone off guard. The honorable members of the Legion of Arabs were expecting the end of the world on your side of the mirror. The Khalifah, on behalf of Green, gave them hope instead—global domination under the rulership of one single man, a real-world Khalifah voted into office by the members of the Legion themselves.

.-/Mesmerized, the Legion’s handclaps didn’t subside until Green stood up. Eighteen-feet tall, Green delivered a few heartfelt words before dividing the nation states of planet Earth into provinces and announcing whom among the real-world Arab leaders earned to be the emir of what province in this nascent World Arab Federation, the W.A.F.

.-/With the generals positioned and the cannon fodder arrayed, Green and I had the kid, aboard his Arab’s body on this side, organize the posting of one-fifth of a Mushroom. Meanwhile, we had the kid Khalifah do the same on the Jinn side. Less than a week later, the Mushroom dose on the Jinn side generated hundreds of “LIKES.” The province of France alone registered over 300. By the weekend, the dose went viral. To ensure the fame didn’t go to the Arab’s head, on the Inss side the Facebook page registered one like no matter how many humans clicked on the icon.

 .-/Overall feedback on social media was more negative than positive. About 98% of the Muslim Jinns who are sane opposed the W.A.F. The Muslim Jinns who did support the W.A.F. but hadn’t been at The Insurrection meeting, figured the whole business was a sham orchestrated by none other than the Arab alone.

.-/So Green and I arranged another cave meeting. Invited this time were all the Jinn intellectuals amidst the Atheists, the Agnostics, the Jews, the Christians, the Muslims, and the various other religions.

.-/The Arab, like all the other times he had made it inside other caves, propped up his back against a pillow and closed his eyes. In less than five minutes, beamed up to the other side he was. His center of consciousness was partially still inside the prison cell—it’s his mind’s eye that was teleported, as if he were experiencing a lucid dream.

.-/The Arab didn’t know it then, but Green and I had been reading his thoughts and emotions. The lost kid in him was half convinced he had been dead for weeks. It’s one thing to be a closet astral projector, a skill he had been honing for years; what was disorienting, the ability to take over other humans’ motor functions. At first, he figured what he was experiencing must’ve been ascension—transcendency. The problem, how could that be possible when ascension wasn’t empirical? The bigger problem, even if ascension were a scientific discipline, he couldn’t be experiencing it while still alive. Therefore, one way or the other he must be dead. It was the only rational explanation. He’d been over the math a hundred times.

.-/But let’s say he was alive and “ascended” at the same time. None of this should be happening still. After all, how could it be logical for him to have taken on a role of an actor in the Cosmic Play, an actor conducting missions that unfolded on CNN and the pages of U.S.A. Today? He knew he was neither Satan nor the Antichrist. He knew he was neither Jesus nor any other Messiah. And he certainly knew he was no god nor the G-d. Yet there he was, invited to a gathering where his mind’s eye was hovering about a cave full of angels and demons—a trumpet sounding off in the background, Green’s disembodied voice beckoning in a booming amplification that was louder than the trumpet: “GATHER AROUND, YĀ-CHILDREN, GATHER AROUND.”

.-/No sense fighting it, he thought. Dead or alive, angel or demon, at least he was on the administering-end of “whatever out of Hell” type of cave that was. In fact, he may as well start embracing his role in the Hereafter. He inspected his surroundings, taking mental notes of the general layout. The cave was colossal, more massive than any other cave he had ever explored. It was dimly lit, peppered by torches and bonfires. The ceiling could easily overarch ten football stadiums. The backdrop of the cavescape was a rocky terrain, bare and jagged. At the heart of the cave, scattered about were dozens of cocktail lounges. At the entrance, the guests were arriving in droves. Hundreds clustered into masses, hundreds more pouring in—imps and gimps leading every like-minded group to its seating arrangements. Around the bonfires, the VIPs, appropriately so, found themselves congregated.

.-/Once everyone had settled down and the trumpeting ceased, Green’s blaring invitation transitioned into a faint whisper, “Gather around, yā-children, gather around. Bring a friend, bring a lover.” In scanning the VIPs, the kid recognized many of the angels, for some had opted to attend the gathering bearing the images of their most adored meatsuits: renowned and respected politicians, newscasters, professors, authors, entertainment giants, business moguls, athletes, Kanye Weste. They were high-spirited, notwithstanding the rehearsal for the Day of Compensation. A bunch of Taylor Swifts were getting affectionate with a bunch of studs. A bunch of Miranda Lamberts were giggling at a Blake Shelton’s jokes. An Amy Adams was brushing off a few Donald Trumps. A Charlie Sheen and a Nick Nolte were up to no good. A Beyonce Knowles was admiring a Jennifer Hudson’s dress. A Katy Perry was all inside the mouth of a girl and they both liked it. A Tony Blair and a Gerold Flurry were immersed in passages from the book of Revelation. A Barack Obama was handing over to a Prince William a file marked TOP SECRET. All the while, a Hillary Clinton was tapping away at some handheld device.

.-/Not all the guests, however, bore the images of such high-minded meatsuits. Some of the images worn by the Muslim VIPs emanated an air of… suffice it to say that whenever Green allowed the kid to read what’s in their hearts, he couldn’t distinguish the difference between these types of Muslims and the Lords of the Left Hand Path.

.-/On this mental note of his and mine, and in the spirit of the moment in general, I altered the codes to the cave’s matrix so that the appropriate ambiance may be set. Napalm seeped from crevasses and ignited. Tongues of blue-red flames licked the jagged walls. Tar oozed from the ceiling and solidified into stalactites. The deep end of the cavescape quaked and rumbled. Far-flung lakes of viscous pus and others of boiling water bubbled and gurgled. A mountainous heap of mangled human parts emerged asunder. Macabre avalanches of severed legs, arms, heads, and torsi gave way to a Zaqqoom tree. Fruits resembling the heads of demons burst forth from sooty boughs and branches. Sulfur vents erupted and filled the air with a nostalgic stench that solicited a few jubilant Allahu-Akbars from the Muslim VIPs. Encouraged by the vociferous support of my “Muslim” cohorts, I turned my attention to encoding a stage into existence. At the forefront of the cave, extracted was an outcropping of a granite platform. Before it, a trench of churning lava yawned and spewed sparks the size of camels. Now, center stage, my still invisible body towering over the masses, I had a throne dramatically hoisted down. Around these parts, they call me Malik.

.-/Thanks to Hollywood’s blockbusters, the response of the Western children was lukewarm. A Spielberg and a Tarantino called it a cheap production.

.-/On his bunk bed, the Arab too, whom I thought knew better, was snickering at my attempt to impress my future patrons. So, I ripped his soul from inside his friggin’ ribcage and linked it with my spirit. He was no longer inside his prison cell or his limp body. Every ounce of his consciousness was in my grip. He could see the Multitudes from my line of sight. He could feel what I felt. He felt… well, sixteen-feet tall. My absolute authority over my potential patrons surged through him. And without Green’s spirit to strike a balance, the kid’s snickering was arrested by an unprovoked desire to crush you all. Kill you. Every one of you. Rip you to shreds. When done, bring you back to life and shred you again. The kid couldn’t comprehend why “he” felt this way. Had the kid known what I know.

.-/Anyway, once the intensity of “his” rage subsided I let him know it was time for “his” soul to earn its keep. Quite adept at transmuting the Force after years of practice, he thought to himself, Hi, and released the thought. The word detonated. It washed over the masses, bounced off the cave cathedrallike ceiling, and returned to him in reverberating echoes.

.-/Exhilarated as always by the effect, he was about to release “testing, testing—1, 2, 3,” but the masses were getting anxious. It was, after all, Judgment Day; the Day of Gathering, (78:38) style; the Day the Score to the Cosmic War on Earth would finally be settled. The Jews felt confident they had it in the bag. But so did the Christians and the Muslims, therefore they too weren’t sweating the “cheap production.” As for the rest of the children—the Hindus and the whatnots? They already know.

.-/The kid khalifah is an Arab and technically a Muslim, a “supposed submitter to the Will of the alleged Allah.” On this account, the Ark of Trees had known in advance it was going to be a tough call for him to make. So earlier in the Day the Patriarch Abraham helped him compose The Cave Treaty. The resurrected Patriarch dictated to the Arab almost every sentence.

.-/For good measure, and for the sake of the guests, while the kid khalifah was reading the Treaty I cast an enchantment that projected the ink into reality. As the kid khalifah detonated one thought after another, the children found their collective centers of consciousness teleported, witness to the creation of three new planets commanded into the same orbit as that of Earth’s. The Muslim guests, only the Ayman al-Zawahiri type, were graced with paradisiacal bliss. Opulent palaces of marble and gold. Stretched shade carpeted with hair grass. Sumptuous pavilions bathed in warm sunrays. Trellised gardens painted solidly. Spacious harems decked-out in embroidered couches. Seriate beds swaddled in silk. Voluptuous concubines stuffed with coral pink. Preadolescent virgins with yadda-yadda and budding breasts. Feminine boys like the pearls the scattered. Tender flesh of fowl and fish. Otherworldly fruits, neither seasonal nor forbidden. Lazy rivers of milk and honey. Cascading fountains of wine that caused neither headaches nor hangovers.

.-/As for the sane among the Muslims, and the high-minded among the Jews, the Christians, the Atheists, and on and on? Your “reward” was to be eunuchs, farmers, and breeders of fresh supplies of budding breasts and feminine pearls. The only solace: To compel your hearts and minds that the Zawahiri type were your overlords, Abraham concluded The Cave Treaty by demanding from the Sun to rise in the west and set in the east.

.-/When the guests’ centers of consciousness returned to the cave, the winners stripped butt-naked in celebration. The lunatics had inherited the Gardens, all four of them. It didn’t matter that the meek lost; peace at last. The Cosmic War, finally over.

.-/The spoils of war to be dealt with first were the very doublewalkers of the celebrities and VIPs. Taylor Swift was ravished by a list of Guantanamo lovers. Milley Cyrus was swept off her knees by Jihadi John. Al-Qaeda suicide bombers fought over Rihanna. The Taliban leadership laid claim to the Kardashians. Bashar al-Assad mistook Justin Bieber for a scattered pearl. Emma Stone leaped into a lava lake to get away from Osama bin Laden. Mahmoud Abbas and his squad among the Iranian hardliners laughed as Benjamin Netanyahu’s legs thrashed out of a sulfur vent.

-:-(Just as His Holiness the Pope and Queen Elizabeth were being dragged by their foreheads towards a pond of fuming oil, a lion roared. Rumbling thunder. Abruptly ceased, the guests’ grappling and hair pulling. Their gaze fixed on the empty podium, the source of the roar, my brother, in a rare manifestation before his hosts, materialized. Ash-Shaytan. Also known as Shemyaza, Hasatan, Satnael, and so on. You, however, may call him Grandpa.

-:-(He sat up… his throne. He walked… calculatingly. The edge of the outcropping… he stopped. Stared down frozen masses. Then... explosively… in released thoughts that knocked loose the stalactite icicles and snuffed out the napalm flames… he congratulated the victors.

-:-/The kid “khalifah,” still through Grandpa’s line of sight, watched in admiration. And as the praising went on, the kid could also feel what Grandpa felt. Grandpa was so proud of the victors, he called them kelab, hyawanaat, sharameet, mannayek.

-:-)When Grandpa was done discharging every endearing term in the Arabic vernacular, I annulled The Cave Treaty. No otherworldly boys to swaddle the pederasts in tender flesh. No voluptuous fruits stuffed with milk. No warm coral carpeted with hair. No preadolescent silk embroidered with pearls.

-:-/Devastated, the kid, just as he was about to swing from the chandelier himself, wondered if it was his fault. Was he wrong for having inked for himself, without the presence of Abraham’s spirit, 300 wives and 700 concubines?

.-/After the Party was over, I returned the kid’s soul to its limp body. The Arab opened his eyes, gasped for air, got under his dingy bedsheets, and wallowed in regret till asleep.

-:-(In the morning—coffee black, the Arab drank. News, he watched. “Khusara, khusara,” lamented CNN as if over Jay Z’s plagiarizing of one of Abd El Halim Hafez’s intros. Boy was CNN disappointed at how quickly the mere taste of authority had corrupted HolymOn [sic].

-:-/In truth, I had known all along that the Arab was bound to let the ink go to his head. The ink goes to everyone’s head. The second Cave Meeting, therefore, wasn’t to test the Arab’s resolve. It was a farce—a parody of what could be if any of my brother’s avatars was an absolute ruler over Earth. The awakened children, however, didn’t think highly of the satire. Tweets on both sides of the mirror grumbled that it was psychological warfare, insulting to Islam, fear mongering, tasteless. Basically, the gathering generated as much negative feedback as the previous one. Perhaps our landing of a flying saucer in Manhattan’s Central Park would be more tact of a “parody.” And maybe we will someday. For now, let’s stick to the ink.

-:-/Shortly after the Cave Party, our “paranormal” presence started to manifest in the “Dirt Matrix” and our old bait-and-switch tactic became clearer. Of the awakened children, 98% approved.

.-)Then came the call. Any unbound human with half a brain knows not to communicate Jinn affairs openly. Yet, we had the Arab phone someone and convey a missive that was meant only for the eyes of a particular American afreet. By the time the Arab returned to his cell, the hybrid children at CNN were all over his case, implying he was all sorts of naive if not downright stupid. The Arab welcomed the deriding criticism. He figured it was aimed at us anyway, since he himself knew better than to share Jinn codes out loud. Knowing not to question the method, however, he kept silent. One day. Two days. It wasn’t easy. What ate at him wasn’t so much “how CNN overheard the conveying of the missive” or “how swiftly the children pounced on him.” Three days. Four. What rather ate at him…. Six days. After we let him simmer for a week, we had him ink a letter to elucidate the shift in our policy. Here is a reiteration of that ink, although abridged and defanged to forestall the impending hysteria:

.-()-:-Noble Humans, on the Right Path and on the Left Path, we have it on the Highest Authority that all* (*Apart from those who aren’t stable enough.) Demons & Humans shall soon be awakened. Thereafter, certain factors will come into play in a manner that governments can no longer cover up. The culmination of these factors will be Life Everlasting for all of you—aboard flesh & blood vessels, right here on this planet, throughout spacetime blocks the locations of which we will disclose after the dust settles a bit. Said factors will not be supernatural in the sense that they will defy logic. Rather, every factor will conform to the natural laws as we continue to gradually help you better understand them. Fantastical as the ink may read to some of you, including the “humans” who have already been jumping from vessel to vessel and species to species, we promise the factors will be empirical.

.-()-:-At present, the foremost impediment to your joining of the Forever Twenty-One Club, be it in Luxury or in Torment, is that there must be transparency between the unfallen angels and fallen angels, and transparency between all classes of angels and the rational atheists who, as of this revision, may still be on the Outside looking In.

.-()-:-This is a seismic shift in the natural order, we are all too aware. Throughout modern history, we and the rest of the angels remained mostly hidden. Some reasons are obvious and others aren’t as to “why nation states and the mainstream media are reluctant to openly admit to our very real influence over global affairs.” From the perspective of the fallen angels, .-I, speaking on behalf of the “one-eyed” Grandpa Collective, would rather remain hidden anyhow. That’s the whole point of Cane Code (7:27). -:-|And from the perspective of the celestial angels, it serves their purposes to remain hidden too since their direct involvement had never been received well by the public—in spite of verses such as Revelation 19:10. One could only imagine the number of lofty temples that would rise in honor of Gabriel or Michael were one or both to reveal their presence to the masses. Saying nothing of how much the average atheist and agnostic would struggle to come to terms with a shock of that magnitude, in this age of reason.

-:-(Another impediment, although a minor one, is Earth’s tribes of defiant angels. At the moment, I, Green, slave of His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds, have but these words of advice, tailored specifically for you: “Get your house in order or this time around it’s Cane Code (7:34) for both the humans and you.” This is a heads-up,* not a threat. (*At the time Figs was originally being committed to paper).

.-)Don’t mind Green, “defiant” angels. My brother is just playing with you. He wouldn’t hurt you if the ascension of one of his “wings” depended on it. The horse rider you should pay attention to is my “rib.”

 

(The following ink is Grandma.)

 

:-/The salaam before the kalaam, for good measure in case there are any Muslims still lingering.

:-/As for the rest of you—hi.

:-/Now, please allow me a “private” moment with the fallen angels. Thanks to a foolhardy scribe, I’m finally able to address them all at the same time, murmur a few tangible words into the ear of their Conscious Collective.

 

:-/Dear progeny, who I am—doesn’t matter. Behind which Gate of Hell did the scribe find me—doesn’t matter. How the scribe arranged to procure my freedom and thereby give me another shot at immortality in the Dirt Gardens—doesn’t matter. What sort of plot the scribe and I are contriving and against whom—doesn’t matter. Anyway, this isn’t the time or the venue to reflect on the foregoing trivia. More in order is my perspective on The Tales of the Ancients.

:-/Lately, progeny, your layover on Earth hasn’t been as rewarding as it once was for your elders. Why, I remember it like it was yesterday when the humans hewed out of the rocks empires in our honor. Mesopotamia, Egypt, Persia, India, China, Greece, Rome, the Americas, and every ancient civilization, big and small, prostrated before our glory. Then, seemingly overnight, solely due to our own internecine contentions, the humans lost confidence in our ascendancy. But cared what the humans thought of our behavior—we did not. We were the only game in town. Then we woke up one morning to find that our administration was falling apart from the inside. Worse, our days of basking in the humans’ adoration were suddenly numbered for the first time since the Flood. Just as our temples were about to be reduced to ruins, the son of Man came along and saved one of our dominions. Rome. My darling Rome. By the son’s grace, we and the Roman Elect set out to mentor the great unwashed, to bathe them and brush their teeth, to educate them in math and natural philosophy, to teach them civility and good manners. No one had ever cared about the heedless masses as the son of Man did, and history attests to his boundless love. But Rome fell. And we passed the baton to you. All the while, Green didn’t make it easy for you or your human counterparts. And there were centuries when Grandpa and I figured the Christ download would go out of style, join that of Mithra’s and the rest of the sons of Man. But no. You persevered. Against all odds you persevered. Against the Muslim horde you persevered. Against the Dark Ages and against the Black Death you persevered. Who would’ve thought that you and we would triumph, and from such a humble beginning, too: one single Christ rather than pantheons full of sons of apps. Indeed, progeny, you have come to achieve what Green had insisted would be impossible. Grandpa and I are proud of you. Your progress in the past hundred years alone will stand as an eternal testimony to your Jinn pedigree. Between your subtle whispers and corporeal manifestations, you helped Adam & his mate pierce the heaven, split the atom, map out the genome, and soon enough you will surely discover how to make them both immortal.

:-/But there is a hefty price tag that came along with this progress, if I may venture. First, the body of Christ is becoming less and less relevant in the public arena. Second and as a by-product of first, an exceptional and disciplined mind isn’t any longer the hallmark that guarantees your eliciting of the humans’ adoration—upon which your own immortality is contingent. The criteria for achieving superstardom or sainthood have shifted dramatically. Today, outer beauty triumphs genius. The better number of our kids are finding the opportunity irresistible. Their human vessels’ sex appeal and/or trumpery talents have become the surefire method by which means our kids could ensnare the humans’ hearts & minds: compel the humans to be enthralled by our children’s newest music videos, fascinated by our children’s sagacious tweets, captivated by our children’s thought-provoking reality shows, raptured by our children’s deep cleavages, esteemed of our children’s progressive political leadership as equally as of our children’s sidesplitting YouTube antics. And there’s nothing wrong with this picture, progeny. Grandpa and I understand that these are contrasting times, and this is a separate Rome. Granted that the previous Rome fell for the same reasons she’s about to fall again, what’s important is that the humans who adore our kids’ meatsuits today are not on the same par as the humans who used to sacrifice their children at your altars, the sons and daughters of God that you all are. Nevertheless, Geniuses, won’t you allow an “old” lady to murmur a few words into my grandkids’ collective ear, as well.

 :-)Dear sweeties, the humans worshipped your elders and Grandpa and me in that not-so-distant past because they were lost. Today, because of your own parents’ poor foresight, the humans are about to be lost again. And that’s not good for your parents, for the humans, and especially for you.

:-)Kids, the humans need our stewardship, our guidance. They always did and they always will. There’s no denying we are the wiser and more disciplined species. Even The Book teaches that we, fallen though many of us are, were appointed as custodians over the humans. This is so because no one better understands than us the humans’ desire for role models. So, here’s the big question: If you don’t assume those roles—who will? The Hydra and her horde of radicals and suicide bombers? Or maybe the hate groups living in the midst of your own Jinn society? Or perhaps one of the splinter Jinn tribes in Asia, whose ascended elders continue to insist they are indeed gods? How about the Bride? Surely her husband will be back soon to save the day. No! Of course not, sweeties. You yourselves must assume those roles. You are Grandpa’s M-16 for a reason. You are the only ones who have your house in order—in spite of your parents’ shortcomings. Besides, it’s not your fault that your parents forfeited the privilege of a Seat in the Cosmic Elders’ Cave. It’s not your fault that your parents have been flying practically blind for all those centuries. And it’s not your fault that you’ve been kept in the dark about your own genealogy and your own heritage: who you are, where you came from, and whether there’s a meaning to life or is it just all random. And it certainly isn’t your fault that Green parted ways with your impatient parents. The fault is yours, however, for allowing your defiant parents to mentor you. How could the blind guide the lost, let alone mentor the genius?

:-/Sweeties, if you wish for the privilege to be restored, stick around. You know, the rabbit-hole stuff.

:-(As for your deriding criticism pertaining to this open letter and the ink in general, fear not. Over are the days of witch hunts and pitchforks. Your human vessels are safe from the Hydra, the Bride, and their likes. Anyhow, you’re the ones who are now wielding the M-16.

:-)Patience, darlings. Grandpa and his brother are paving the way for the Avatar, Melchizedek-101. Meanwhile, do right by the humans. Very soon you will again openly bask in adoration. But not as gods and goddesses, for Zeus’s sake! It’s embarrassing anymore. Too many humans are on to the games that your parents love to play. On second thought, the genie’s vessel that is Saint Lady Gaga is worthy of a sacrifice or two. Brilliant, sister.

Sincerely yours, Grandma Lilith;-)

 

 .-)Cute as a button, ain’t she? Only if you knew how many animals and humans are still being sacrificed in her honor and the honor of her avatara manifestations, Lady Gaga being on the very bottom of that totem pole. But don’t get it wrong in imagining that Grandma, on account of her being the mother of all demons, is the possessor of an evil spirit of some type. In fact, and contrary to popular beliefs, Grandma’s downloads are rarely as bloodthirsty as her Kali-33 app. Take as an example Voodooists. Nowadays they may ingratiate themselves with some of Grandma’s ascended avataras by only hacking one of their children’s limbs. Ensuring all the while that the kid remains alive, otherwise Grandma won’t grant the given favor being sought after by the practitioner. Go ahead and tell me she doesn’t have a heart of gold.

.-)But back to you humans and why you may also have a grievance or two. Well, say the day does come when my brother and I proved every word inked thus far were factual. Would you then, dispensed from your Dirt Matrix vats as you would then be, still vote for the same meatsuits who run for the various offices in your global political machines? Could you remain fans of the same game athletes and entertainment personalities? And what of the partners whom you bed—would you remain in the relationships if they too turned out to be mere vessels to a race of fallen angels?

.-(To further stoke the human’s contention, The Book is composed of the “Scrolls” with writing on both sides. In those Scrolls there is a Day called by several names: the Day of Rising, the Day of Gathering, the Day of Resurrection, the Day of Ascension, the Day of Debt, etc. On that Day, we, Green and I, with the Leave of His Majesty Who has no sons nor daughters, will prove to your dismay that you are all tangibility suits. How will you then react when your drivers, who are currently reading these very words with your eyes, turn up the volume a notch or two?

.-(Humans, the Day of Standing has already been unfolding on the Other Side, Cane Code (78:38) as earlier noted. The awakened angels and the awakened humans are aware of this fact. Worldwide, every effort to derail the progression of the Day of Standing has failed. Every effort to derail the progression of the Day of Standing will continue to fail, for the Day’s storyline is inked in the Preserved Tablet, the source of The Book. Therefore, the awakened angels and the awakened humans who are opposed to the Day of Standing can do nothing but await their turns, await their individual “books” to be handed to them. The awakened angels’ vessels and the awakened humans’ vessels are the notables of planet Earth, the top 1%*, the Big Guys & Gals. (*Percentage accurate at time ink was originally being committed to paper.)

.-(Humans, Green and I, with the Will and Leave of His Majesty, will soon initiate Phase Two of the Day of Standing: the Day of Judgment. When the Command is passed down to Green, Judgment Day will begin in earnest. First, the other 99 percent, which would be you, will be dispensed in droves from inside your vats.

.-(For our immediate purposes, the given fallen angel driving the given sleepwalking human needs to be mindful that the R/rope that the given fallen angel chooses to hold fast to, prior to his or her vessel’s dispensing, will dictate whether the given vessel receives his or her book by the left hand, the right hand, or from behind his or her back.

.-(Irrespective of which R/rope you fallen angels eventually choose, it is, as you are aware, not safe for your human vessels to be dispelled from their vats without an orientation.

.-(For the sleepwalkers reading this ink for the first time, some of you should be waking up about now. Good morning. No, this isn’t a work of fiction. But please don’t panic. The worst is over. The Old Earth is already gone, and you are already “dead.” Besides, if too many of you freak out all at once, there will be neither enough mental wards nor straitjackets to accommodate you.

.-(Just take a deep breath, departed humans. Perhaps a coffee break is in order, what do you say?

.-()-:- And if you hang tight, we shall tell you all about your current, intense dream-state.

 

Submitted by Grandpa and Green,

slaves of His Majesty

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

 

 

1001 American Nights

 

 

Am I Who I Am?

(Act One / Scene Two)

 

 

 

 

                                           

 

 

 

B’ism Ilahi Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem

 

 

 

(Date to original draft) CLASSIFIED

(Commenced reinking in Dirt Matrix) 07/22/2024

(80,329,966 days since the Fall) 66/99/8032

 

 

 

 

.-)(-:-Are you still hanging tight? Such gluttons for Eternal Life, yes you are.

.-))-:-As for those of you who feel they’re not going to make the grade, don’t panic too much. Not quite yet. There’s still hope. Unless you, after contemplating our testimony, continue to hold fast to the preconceived views of the pools of vessels at large. But this isn’t to say that your mere letting go of the falsehood guarantees anything. The Truth sets free only those who are… you know. Without further ado, therefore, let us whittle down some more of your unworthy hearts.

.-)(-:-So you ate of the Tree, correct? You surely died as His Majesty had told you that you would, correct? You, as the evidence speaks for itself, from Eden 1.0 were then cast out. “Be you opponents to one another,” were some of His Majesty’s parting Words. “On Earth you shall live, on her you shall die, and from her shall you be resurrected.”

.-)(-:-From that point on, we, with the Leave of His Majesty, picked up the fairy tale. That is to say, the day you colonized Earth, we, your custodians, went to work on cultivating the gifted among the preexistent humanoids, aboard whose vessels your centers of consciousness had been “skeleton-keyed” and deftly blindfolded. Be it the humanoids’ sex appeal or be it their intelligence or be it a little of both, my picks had I.-)&I(-:- had mine. Fast-forward the Tape to the 21st century, and here we are. Seeing how everyone of you, males & females, has been gifted in one fashion or another, we don’t leave a stone unturned. You never know. Often, we find our diamonds in the most banal of individuals. When we do, and whenever we feel those diamonds are ready to be displayed before one society or another, we grab the diamond bearers by the wrist and show them… things. Those who exhibit fortitude and dedication, we and our legion of colleagues gradually show them… more things.

*:-(To what end?” you might ask. The short answer for now, while sparing you the platitudes: to civilize you in our own image.

/-.-:-(That’s right, children of Adam & Satan and of Eve & Lilith. You see, our measured revealing of the fact that you and we—as eternal centers of consciousness—are but a single Ray of Light that belongs to an All-Encompassing Greater Whole, is what aided you in achieving, on the Horizon and in your corporeal & ethereal selves, what you’ve managed to achieve so far, and, if His Majesty deems it fit to extend your respite and ours, you and we will continue to achieve. To put it bluntly if we may, and please don’t be offended: Aside from our inspirations and “whispers,” were it not for our hands-on cutting and polishing of said diamonds, you wouldn’t have had cities, luxurious homes, streaming services, book libraries, smart phones, or the chip on your shoulders.

.-)/-:-But not all angels are equal. Some angels give rise to societies with a Conscious Cultural Collective that is both nurturing and paternal to our diamonds’ ingenuities. Other angels, with His Majesty’s Leave, give rise to societies with a Conscious Cultural Collective that treads on our diamonds unless they adhere to the rules of the Dark Playbook. It all depends on the individual leanings of the majority of the ethereal & corporeal residents in the given society—whether they are supporters of my-:-) cause or of mine.-)

.-)Let’s talk about me first and my supporters. Currently, I haven’t a single Big Guy worthy of the title alpha dog. What I have instead is a cave full of rabid advocates, each advocate aspiring to be a lion. The authoritarian rulership of my advocates is as extreme as that of the “god” of North Korea to as mild as that of the current “Czar” of Russia. Had there been a Superpower Nation today ruled by an Alpha Dog of mine, the oppression of those two nations combined would’ve paled in comparison. Humans and demons alike on such a planet would veer not an inch from whatever I ink via my own personal “Walker.” The minute the views of a given Ant Colony don’t align with mine, I assign to them a living quarters where the Sun would be ashamed to shine.

.-)As you can imagine, the tangible penning of such ink, “supernatural” as it always is, may be viewed only by my Walker’s eyes and, in turn, the eyes of my “Wings.*” (*Demonic generals and whatnot. Known in some circles as afreets.)

.-)The “scrolls” upon which pages this subjugating ink is penned are symbolized by what some in the Shadow World call the “the cane.” A more familiar representation of said scrolls is, for instance, the Roman fasces. The cane symbolism, however, earned a special place in Demonlore due to King Solomon. A short rendering of the story, Solomon was able to have the Temple built largely because he, on one of the fingers of his astral body, wore a “supernatural” ring. Be it Solomon or be it any of Green’s other mothervessels, the wearer of that ring compels me to hand over to him (never a her) the codes inscribed on the pages of one or more of my “canes.”

.-)In the case of Solomon, whatever his wishes were, as long as they were within the realm of Jinn reason and abilities, he would ink them along with the proper codes and presto—the human vessels to my generals’ legions would work day and night until the work was finished. During those days, Israel resembled an ant colony. Every citizen and slave knew his and her job. The dutiful Jews had the Commandments, which kept them free and on the Straight Path. The spirits of the irreverent Jews and the spirits of the non-Jews, Lilith’s share of children in essence, had the cane to bind them—every builder and every diver. Any child who disobeyed, severe mental and/or physical torment would be inflicted upon their human vessel.

.-/Hate to protract my harping on the good old days, but please do bear with me as it is all part of the orientation.

.-)As our latest scribe was inking, every builder and every diver obeyed. Then one day King Solomon had to go and die. However, his death was kept a secret from the Kingdom’s non-Jewish subjects, and for good reasons. At any rate, Solomon, as far as Lilith’s children were concerned, was an immortal, an ascended human who hopped from body to body at will. And as for the afreets, bound as they themselves were by me, they had to play along.

.-)Bound or not, the issue wasn’t that the afreets would’ve mounted an insurrection. The issue rather, Green trusted me with neither the geopolitics of the era nor with the affairs of the non-Jewish spirits and their share from the conveyor belt of living vessels. Therefore, shortly before Solomon’s demise Green had him pass the body of cane codes to twelve Jewish confidants in Solomon’s real-world court. And instead of Green’s Ring to hold the overall Kingdom together, the Twelve Gemstones fitted on the Breastplate served as the instrument that attested to the unity of the Free Children—both the mortals amongst them and the ones who had in fact ascended while still alive during the time of Moses. You know, the fairy tale where they were first struck dead by the “Thunderbolt” for insisting to meet G-d face-to-Face.

.-)Anyway, I really had no choice but to be content with the Solomon arrangement. The ones who hungered for more were the confidants. You see, without Green’s Ring the confidants couldn’t force me to share fresh codes that would’ve instructed my generals to veer from the Constitution of Solomon. So, two confidants had the bright idea that it would better quench their avarice if they were to go into bed with one of my Sabean afreets. This is to say, the two confidants sacrificed whatever or whomever at the foot of the Dark Altar. And, indeed, things worked out great for the two confidants. So great that other confidants soon followed suit. The problem, back in those days a given general oversaw only one legion. Before long, each chieftain “confidant” and his afreet of choice went about doing their own thing. In spirit, united no longer Israel was.

.-/What capsized the ship, though, were the ordinary subjects among the Free Children. Some whored their vessels to an extensive list of afreets, collectively known as Baal. Other Children, while visiting Babylon during the lifetime of King Solomon, prostituted themselves to hybrids who had been taught certain knowledge by a Haroot and a Maroot*. (*Two angels known by other names to occultists.) Armed with that knowledge, when those Children had returned to Israel they planted the seeds to Cabalism, a branch of which taught all sorts of incantations that engendered disdain between a person and their astral mate. This defiance on the part of the Children tipped off their mates that something must be afoul on the other side of the mirror, Solomon’s real-world Kingdom as far as Lilith’s children were still concerned.

.-(Once her children realized Solomon must be dead since his cane had broken into splinters, each termite confidant feeding on a splinter, an insurrection broke out amidst their ranks. Shortly thereafter, the First Temple was reduced to rubble.

.-(Only a small number of canes existed during the days of Solomon. Since then, those canes fragmented into millions of splinters, each splinter utilized for a cane within the confines of a given block of spacetime. In fact, there are millions of splinters in existence today, in this very block of spacetime and during your very own reign as living generations of Inss and Jinns. Just look around you. Each political party owns a splinter. Every terrorist organization owns a splinter. Every respectable street gang owns a splinter. Every cult leader owns a splinter. Every secret society owns a splinter. Every brand-name corporation owns a splinter. Every religion owns a handful of splinters. Heck, from where I’m sitting you can see termite mounds peppering the globe—never mind the guilds of the “Blowers in the Knots,” each guild leaning on a splinter for a cane.

.-(To modernize the above esoteric language for you, imagine that said splinters, on the Jinn side of the mirror, are the towers in the movie The Matrix. Now imagine that each tower is a block of spacetime. So, let’s say you yourselves were a legion made up of corporeal birthbodies. And let’s say the birthbodies of this legion of yours exist throughout a block of spacetime that spans from the year 1948 C.E. to 51948 C.E. Because you are a legion, all your centers of consciousness are linked within that 50,000-year block. Hence, anytime and anywhere a given center of consciousness, if it so wishes, may sync with another center of consciousness anytime and anywhere.

.-(So far so good?

.-(Now, imagine you, within that confined spacetime-block of a mere 50,000 years, already lived as an immortal in Groundhog Format for, say, 2,000 years. You’re bound to be bored by then. After all, during the 2,000 years you, as an independent center of consciousness, must’ve already lived and relived the fun parts of your own birthbody’s lifetime a hundred times over. And it’s logical to assume you also synced with other centers of consciousness in your legion so that you may share, all of you sampling the fun parts that the “bygone” birthbodies have savored during their lifetime, wherever and whenever those birthbodies may be walking the markets and eating the food.

.-(So, then, what to do about the boredom?

.-(Being that you have no access to Timeline Format, the easiest option to beat the boredom is to gain as much control as possible, over as many hearts & minds as possible, of the free-range humans, the ones who aren’t affiliated with your tower or, if you don’t want trouble, any other tower that’s stronger than your own

.-(And there you have it—with a pool of fresh vessels, and no doubt a fruitful conveyor belt, problem is over. Fun, fun, fun in the sun. At least for another couple of thousand years before boredom creeps back in.

.-(As for the library of “souls” and “spirits” that your legion collects over the eons, they, perpetually aboard their birthbodies from birth to death, could be thought of as the “batteries” within the vats that protrude from your tower.

.-(Originally, long before the days of Solomon, there was only one Tower. On the human side it was memorialized by what you know as the Tower of Babel. When the supernatural ink had gone to my mothervessel’s head at the time, His Majesty passed down the Command to have the Tower fractured on the Jinn side—each Tier a collective led by a general, each general an “all-seeing” eye communicating in a code only his legion can decipher.

.-(Ever since I lost the Masterkey, I’ve been trying to build the New Tower. To build her, I must first provide a Level Foundation upon which the “all-seeing eyes” may meet, witness for themselves how insignificant their combined vision is, and, hopefully, as a result find it in their hearts to admit that they knew the Truth all along but were hiding it.

.-(To reconcile these far-flung apparatuses is a lost cause, even if I were able to provide them with a Level Foundation to begin with. My preferred method of execution, therefore, has always been to strive at gaining as much influence as possible over the hearts & minds of both the humans and their doublewalkers, “free-range” and otherwise. This is far from being easy, for I must persuade them to free-willingly entrust me with their animas. To get inside the hearts & minds of such masses, I must find a scribe or scribes who set forth my philosophy in the form of “Figs.” I’ve inked thousands of Figs since the days of Babel. Some of those Figs are canonical Scriptures older than the Bible. Others are in the Bible. One of my more modern Figs, however, is the system of economic and political thought developed by my two scribes Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Another recent Fig is known to history as Mein Kampf.

.-/Had it not been for the interference of Green and his supporters at every turn... ah, phew! It’s all spilled ink now. Or is it?

-:-)My turn to “spill ink”? Finally?

-:-)Clearly, I’m not a superstar like my brother Iblis. And that’s okay. My work I do best while my diamond bearers are hidden from mortals. Although it’s impossible to keep bearers such as, for instance, Napoleon Bonapart completely shrouded in legend. Displayed or out of sight, all my diamond bearers value what my supporters and I value: liberty and individualism. Nowhere throughout history will you find a mothervessel of mine keen on persecuting anyone except for my brother and his advocates.

-:-)My philosophy? In a nut without the shell, all the ascended Jinns and Inss of Garden 7.0 united under the Tree of “there is no deity except for His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds.” With the Leave of His Majesty, this political theory will soon be a global reality even if I must whittle you down to a single ascended collective that’s made up of a mere half-a-billion centers of consciousness. Not a threat, humans and demons. Only the facts.

-:-)Another fact, in the Preserved Tablet the supporters of my cause are called Hanifahs. They are not Jews, or rather neo-Jews to be more accurate. They are not Christians, or rather Associators as most Christians are on account of the whole “son of G-d” thing. They are not Muslims, for one can be a Submitter to the Will of His Majesty without being a Mu’min. Basically, they are not anything other than True Believers in His Majesty, the One and Only Lord Who has no sons, daughters, parents, wives, or partners in His Throne.

-:-)The archetype of what a Hanifah should aspire to be was, is, and will always be the Patriarch Abraham—a Monotheist and a loyal slave of His Majesty he was, is, and will always be—and all the splinters throughout the fabric of spacetime continuum be damned. He is the one who first called you Submitters to the Will of His Majesty—whether you honestly believe or are submissive just in case His Majesty were really, really Real.

-:-)Sometimes sooner and sometimes later, I, with the Leave of His Majesty, make all the desires of the Hanifahs and the mere Submitters, whatever religion they profess, a reality—including immortality of course.

:-)To walk alongside me, however, you must have patience and never question my chess moves no matter how mad the method. The reason it must be so is because my brother Iblis is not only treacherous, but he can also sync with the centers of consciousness of most demons and humans. Therefore, I convey to the Hanifahs and Submitters, those asleep and those awakened, only what they need to know when they need to know it. This also means I usually tell them half the truth and then allow them to fill in the blanks according to their individual level of intelligence and their educational background. If they are sincere, they always get it right even when they get it wrong.

:-)More importantly, if your heart is not in the right place, whether you’re a Submitter or a Hanifah I want no parts of you. Hence, I allow Iblis to impersonate me. And he will do so not only in your dreams, or during your navigation of the matrices (for those who know how), or by means of his “revelations” or his whispers, but also via flesh & blood “Greens” whom you encounter in your daily lives.

:-(Generally unless it’s a pressing matter, I don’t like to startle any of my supporters. So, I aid them in remaining on their Straight Path by either sending them dreams, or by meeting them in a matrix, or by touching them in the real world via one of my dear and near vessels who are too simpleminded to know they are Greens. (Run, Forrest, run! Life is a box of chocolates. One of my feathers. And that’s all I have to say about that.)

-:-)With regard to the mothervessel business, the only time I seek one, hidden or in plain sight, unheralded or renowned, is when I wish to plant a tree in the human world. As the tree grows and grows, its Evergreen Leaves deprive Iblis’ fig trees of sunlight.

-:-)Either way, my brother’s trees or mine, things overall always work out in His Majesty’s Favor. Meantime, Evil on Earth bares its head when the zealots among the humans are given full rein to speak and ink as they wish. And please don’t misinterpret. I’m not attacking free speech. I’m merely sharing the facts. Think about it yourselves. I have upholders in every field and discipline: religion, philosophy, reformation, science, etc. Now couple said full rein with the notion that each zealot, religious and secular, is convinced he or she speaks on behalf of me or one of my upholders. What do you end up with? What you end up with, for the sake of simplicity, are two-billion human followers of one religious zealot or another wanting to steer left, two-billion human followers of a different religious zealot wanting to steer right, a trillion Jinn- and human followers of other types of zealots wanting to steer in a thousand conflicting directions, and the rest of the Jinns and Inss, those on His Majesty’s Straight Path, are but casualties getting grinded in the blender.

.-/And it is therefore that when dear Sarah declared her independence on the 14^th of May 1948, Green and I figured we should bring sexy back. Lilith, that is. And while at it, Green suggested we may as well go old school on you. You know, let you experience firsthand the fables of the Ancients. We were faced with one problem, however. After we walked the math a thousand times, we couldn’t produce a method of delivery that wouldn’t trigger Armageddon right on the heels of World War II; namely when you consider that there were, and still are, also Jinns who believe that His Majesty begat a son. Astaghfiru His Majesty Lord of the Worlds. So ill-informed you are how Exalted His Majesty is that you should ascribe to Him a son, begotten or not.

.-/But it is what it is, I guess. And if our resorting to old school meant we had to appoint both a messiah who would, with His Majesty’s Leave, again raise the dead, and an antichrist who would, with His Majesty’s Leave, again incinerate the living—then be it. So, we submitted a proposal to the Cosmic Elders. “A harebrained reverie!” was the exclamation of a center of consciousness of one of the American Elders, a high-ranking afreet during whose lifetime went by the name George Washington. In all, the other twenty-three Elders didn’t approve either. The proposal didn’t sit well with them. “It’s overtaxing as is for a human to be touched by one of you, let alone all four,” was the vein of the Elders’ arguments. After a chapter’s worth of pros and cons, the Elders won the debate on the grounds that messiahs and antichrists, seldom not full of themselves, only usurp the authority of their offices for their own gains. The Elders then went on and on about how the Jinns and humans were not in need of a twenty-fifth Elder embarked on a bio-legion of advocates, anyway. What the Jinns and Inss needed was to understand what Moses, Jesus, and that other guy had already revealed to them. What the Jinns and Inss needed was to understand that His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds is the One and Only True Immortal—Whose Face never perishes. What the Jinns and Inss needed was to come to terms with the fact that His Majesty is The Light to Whom every Collective Ray, self-aware and otherwise, will return someday and He shall inform us then regarding all that about which we, the mere Shimmer that we are collectively, used to dispute. These lines were familiar to my ears. I had heard the Elders use them before. Back then there were only nine Elders. They concluded the powwow with similar lines when I had made the ardent argument for my dear Sodom and my dear Gomorrah. Shortly thereafter, Green, with His Majesty’s Leave and a stroke of the Pen, put on a show that was seen from the moon.

.-/I tad concerned over my whole respite business, and with the day Jerusalem would be liberated fast-approaching, I started poking about the future for a batch of daywalkers by whose means I may at least tangibly address my human nature that is the Evil prowling your hearts. At the same time but for non-selfish motives, Green went above the Elders’ pay grade to seek Approval regarding our “harebrained reverie.”

.-/Being this is the age of reason, the further into the future I prodded for daywalkers who would remain stable as I confronted the rest of me, the slimmer were my pickings. A few traits that met the criteria, I did find in a batch of boneheads. Appropriately, between June 4^th and June 10^th, 1967, during the heat of the Six-Day War, I was born again for the however-many-times as said boneheads, including this here dope. Out of that petri dish and a few more that Green and I ended up culturing later, we procured a handful of worthy upholders and advocates. Through them, we’ve been targeting said Evil in manners that aren’t limited to bestsellers and blockbusters. Let’s just say that Bender, Bart, Stewie, and SpongeBob are associates of ours.

.-)Before we move on, let’s clear the air of any misconceptions. The way this respite business works, on the overall collective-unconscious level I’m all of us men, fully-ascended “Grandpa.” On the conscious level, whether I’m embarked upon this dope’s vessel or any of the other vessels, I’m strictly that person, more or less bound by his intellect and quirks. And if the given person is awakened one way or another: The further he navigates my collective “un”-conscious while managing to hold on to his marbles, the further my ethereal persona defines him. The same is true of fully ascended Lilith and her “wings.” The same is true of fully ascended Green and his “wings.” However, the same is not entirely true of Eve. She herself, as the Mother of Nations, is immortal. Her children, however, aren’t. There is, of course, the exception—those who manage to learn how to ascend while alive.

(*For the sake of absolving myself of responsibility, I admit upfront that for one to seek and acquire ascension while alive, namely without His Majesty’s Blessing, is a form of immortality only for the spirit, not for the soul. But naturally you, during your own personal Dark Night of the Soul, will be given the option to drink from whichever Cistern appeals most to your heart.)

 

.-)To most humans, therefore, it all boils down to us four. The Book calls us “the twin two, the male and the female.” Think of us as four teams. All humans are given a choice as to which team they want to join. Most humans make their choices early in life. A few switch teams later. They have that right. That is, as long as they’re eating the food and walking the markets aboard birthbodies that are blindfolded.

.-)Humans who refuse to choose a team—be it because they are too rational to believe in any of this nonsense or whatnot—by default they would have chosen Team Grandpa or Team Lilith.

.-/Although Green and I are trying to keep this orientation as terse as possible, please allow me to reiterate the ground rules; my Malik persona loathes crybabies who beg to switch teams after it’s too late. So, pay attention while it still counts.

.-(Human males who choose my team, or choose neither my team nor Green’s, coalesce into my Jinn collective. To be a part of my Jinn collective is to in fact be an immortal until the Day the Appointed, or unless the wing to whom you belong is no longer idolized by mortals. The existence of this Jinn collective is almost impossible to prove scientifically. As long as you’re a mortal, the only way to experience it firsthand... you know. This is also to say, it is a collective unconscious only from the perspective of the sleepwalkers .

.-(Next. Human females who choose Lilith’s team, or choose neither Lilith’s team nor Green’s, coalesce into Lilith’s Jinnia collectives. The same rules as above apply. Meaning, you become an immortal until the Day the Appointed, or unless Lilith’s given wing is no longer idolized by mortals. So, say one morning devotees ceased to worship Kali, Kali and all the ascended spirits under her wings would perish, including the spirit of the “author of the computer source code” who, as an ascended “deity,” programmed the Kali app.

.-(Next. Human males and females who choose Team Green simply die. There are a few exceptions. For instance, martyrs. (Not suicide bombers, but martyrs who meet the criteria of The Book without the choplogic interpretations.) Such individuals ascend immediately after their birth bodies expire for the Cause of His Majesty. They are indeed alive, walking the markets and eating the food you’re eating but you do not know them. They could be embarked aboard the vessels of your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, your friends, or whomever you may interact with. Far-fetched, I know, I know. But these are the facts. And I, with the Leave of His Majesty, will prove the facts once we awaken you.

.-(Next. Men who engage in sex with other men do not get to choose nor are they chosen. However, men who are merely confused join Team Lilith.

.-(Originally, women who are confused had to join my team. But Lilith protested, especially since we hadn’t address sapphism. Later in the Fourth Thunder, we return to this issue and cover it in detail.

.-(Lastly is Eve, whom, when this ink was first committed to paper, we intentionally left out. And the reason is because Eve is a distraction more than anything else. It is, however, obviously essential to the survival of the race that men choose her as a life-partner. The downside, most men, the straight ones anyway, practically worship young Eve to the degree that they neglect paying attention to what the Ride in the Sun is all about. Such men tend to want their full share in the world of mortals, chasing after beauties whose shelf life is short even by human standards.

.-/As for this dope? He, with one eye on Eve, had oscillated between Team Green and mine most of his growing-up life. During his childhood, his role models were the ancient Greek upholders. Later in life, he researched the lives and deeds of more-modern characters. With thousands of Green dots to connect, and with the distinction between the Green upholders and my advocates often a blurred line, he opted for borderline atheism. Years later, out of his slumber he was jostled. Furthermore, the four collectives were revealed to him faceup. Instead of picking a team as most normal mortals would’ve done, he sought refuge in His Majesty from all of us. Even Lilith aboard some of her sexiest vessels failed to ensnare him. Sure, after his awakening he, in astral form, used to date some of Lilith’s hottest bodies. But whenever the time would come to sleep with one, he would disembark the given male vessel and leave the bedroom. Having exhibited self-control made the dope eligible to be a springboard for Team Green of Christmas Past. Not so fast, though. If he or any of the boneheads born during the Six-Day War were to now succeed at seeing this mission through, he or one of them would become the architect of the New Tower of Babel.

.-)So, what exactly is the Tower? Please allow me to reacquaint you. First, I must take you back to the Court of the Solomon who, had he been around to walk the markets in your age of reason, you would’ve pumped full of psych meds. Solomon’s true Court, after all, existed in the matrices.

.-)In one of these matrices Solomon would get together with Green, he who has Knowledge from The Book; an assembly of generals from the Other Side, seventy-two afreets on the nose; and the ascended Ancestral Collective, which included, at the time, the martyrs and whoever else from the days of Abraham down to those of King David’s.

.-)In this fable, some of the hats I wore were those of hoopoes. Not actual hoopoes, of course, as in the Old-World birds. These types were rather human auxiliaries of mine who would deliver intelligence to Solomon pertaining Israel and the kingdoms that surrounded her.

.-(Prone to lying as most “hoopoes” were (and still are), Solomon had quite a few of these auxiliaries beheaded. That was almost the case on an afternoon when one of my hoopoe vessels was late for Solomon’s daily briefing. The funny thing, the guy had been getting it on with one of the other “birds.” Anyhow, I showed up before Solomon only to find him already in the middle of a meeting with his matrix assembly. So I took my seat, “logged on,” and informed him about this one kingdom whose Inss and Jinns worshipped the Sun. After I had crossed my heart and hoped to die that I was telling the truth, Solomon gave me a message to deliver to the queen of said kingdom. In an instant, I relayed the message to one of the hoopoes in the queen’s own court. The hoopoe then passed the message onto the queen. In part, the gist of the message read:

In the Name of G-d,

The Merciful, The Compassionate

 

Exalt not yourselves against me and come to me as Submitters. 

 

[Solomon]

.-)The queen rushed to her own matrix court: “O assembly of mine, advise me regarding my affair. I never decide a matter unless you are conjured in my Elliptical Chamber.” The queen’s own assembly of afreets assured her that they were possessors of strength mightier than that of the next ten most powerful kingdoms combined. But at the end of the day, the “Tower” belonged to her. Hence, the decision was the Lady’s and the Lady’s alone to make.

.-)Oh, my! the queen pondered and pondered. Surely the kings, when they overtake a nation, ruin they it and make the noblest of its citizens to be low. And that is what they do. I know what to do! I’ll send a present to them [sic], then I’ll wait to see what the messengers bring back.

.-)When King Solomon received the queen’s present in the real world, he scoffed: “What?! Will you help me with wealth? But what His Majesty the Lord of the Heavens and the Worlds has given me is better than what He has given you. Oh, no! You are in fact trifling because of your present. Go back to your queen and her court. Let them know that we aim to come with hosts—they’ll have no power to oppose.”

.-)King Solomon then had a meeting with his supernatural assembly: “Who among you can bring me the queen’s throne before she and her subjects come to me in submission?”

.-)An afreet amidst the Jinns promised that he would bring the queen’s throne before the meeting was adjourned. Green, possessing Knowledge from The Book that wouldn’t be revealed to the Inss and Jinns for another 1,600 years, brought the throne in the blink of an eye.

.-)When Solomon saw the throne settled beside him, he said, and I rephrase, “This is of the Grace of my Lord that He may try whether I would let the Cane go to my head.”

.-/Obviously, guys, the throne wasn’t the physical seat that the queen sat on. “Throne” in the terminology of The Book means life. Whether there are other universes, and whether there are creatures living on other planets in this here universe or throughout those possible other universes, are matters beyond our scientific inquiry for now. What’s taught in The Book and is within your scientific grasp is that life started off on the surface of a body of water. As indicated by the scientific evidence, and as The Book contends, it was upon the surface of the water that His Majesty’s Throne was initially lounged. Which implies that, as The Book too further contends, life was created from a single nafs, or soul, before His Majesty, the Living G-d, supported this life with a mate. Hence, The Book teaches that male and female, one was of the other. Although The Book doesn’t give specifics on the exact duration of each of the Six Days during which time His Majesty created this here tangible universe, everything in The Book does contend that it was over the eons that His Majesty endowed said male and female with sight, hearing, and intellect. Whether His Majesty was Real or not, the rational believers reading this should be elated that The Book favors evolution over instantaneous creation, right? What requires an unreasonable stretch of the imagination is that His Majesty, the Thorn in every hpyothetico-deductive model, then rose to the Heaven of universe—rose to the Heaven of the universe where His Throne first gained a foothold, that is. And as if it weren’t hard enough for the thinkers amidst you to wrestle with the logistics to such a supposed Rising, His Majesty, after His Rising to the original Heaven, made them Seven Heavens. Wait, wait! Don’t start laughing yet, for upon those Seven Heavens His Majesty then equipoised. But this too isn’t the punch line. You see, once His Majesty was equipoised, past, present and future merged. Meaning that from the perspective of the moment these words are read by you on Earth, you, the living Throne of His Majesty that you are on this planet, can’t be sure whether His Majesty already rose to the Heavens or is still rising or is yet to start rising.

.-)Forget the implications! I don’t care what anybody says—that’s funny. Heck, Green and I composed tons of comedic sketches regarding how funny the definition of equipoised alone is.

.-)For now, though, let’s stick to the defining of throne. In light of the foregoing, it’s not wrong then to surmise that throne in the context of Solomon’s tall tale was in fact the metaphorical Tower wherein the humans’ souls of the queen’s kingdom were stored. Enthroned upon the actual bodies of the humans to whom those souls belonged would’ve been, first and foremost, the Spirit of His Majesty. However, those same humans whored their bodies to the spirit of the monarch who first deified the Sun. To say the humans worshipped the Sun, then, is to say the monarch’s spirit along with the spirits of the kingdom’s elites of Christmas Past were also enthroned upon those human worshippers of the Sun. Meanwhile, the living queen played the role of the Sun Avatara, an incarnation of the spirit of the Sun—a “goddess” in effect. This is also to say that with the queen’s “throne” sitting next to Solomon, no longer was the queen nor the collective of the spirits of the elites of Christmas Past in control of their own Tower of Souls. In the blink of an eye, King Solomon was in charge. With his released thoughts and the Leave of His Majesty, Solomon could do as he pleased with the whole hierarchy: the afreet of the monarch who first deified the Sun, the afreets of the elites of Christmas Past, and the Jinn spirits of the bygone generations of subjects who worshipped the Sun and its avatars and avataras. Moreover, King Solomon, also in the blink of an eye, enslaved the kingdom’s subjects upon whose vessels the hierarchy and the bygone generations were enthroned. This hostile and instantaneous takeover of the bodies of the living subjects of an entire nation would not have been possible unless His Majesty’s Spirit was indeed also enthroned upon the same collective body of living souls. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, His Majesty would’ve been with every human wherever he or she may have been. Every time two people got together, His Majesty would’ve been the third. Every time three people got together, His Majesty would’ve been the fourth. And so on.

.-/Deliriously funny, I tell you. Funnier yet, if I may digress some more, Green had this scribe make the same offer to a renowned U.S. Government official. In a private letter entitled The Key of David, Green promised to grant the official sovereignty over the planet’s “Tower of Smokeless Fire.” Russia’s, China’s, India’s—everybody’s. To illustrate to the official the promise could be executed, Green, with His Majesty’s Leave and in the blink of an eye, delivered the Tower to the scribe. Oh, boy! You wouldn’t believe the excitement of the official and three branches of the U.S. Government. In celebration of the moment Green cast down what was nothing short of a modern-day rendition of the Staff of Moses, the official ordered the closings of more than twenty embassies and consulates in the Middle East and North Africa. The excitement was short-lived, however, when Green sent the official a second letter entitled The Gambit. Unfortunately, the U.S. Government didn’t think The Gambit was as funny. It corresponded via CNN with what amounted to the middle finger. The official, too, didn’t appreciate the humor of The Gambit. Why? Well, to hand over to the official the Keys to Kingdom Come, two measly stipulations had to be met. First, for the U.S. Government to publicly denounce the dogma of the Trinity. Second, for the U.S. Government to publicly profess the teachings of the real Jesus. The Jesus who never called himself anything other than “the son of man.” The Jesus who never taught “he is a third of three.” The Jesus who didn’t eat pork. The Jesus who was circumcised. The Jesus who didn’t congregate with his followers on the Day of the Sun. The Jesus who currently has the afreets of “Saint” Paul and emperor Constantine impaled on rotisseries. It’s sad. With His Majesty’s Leave and a stroke of the Pen, Old Faithful would put on a show that would be seen from Mars. Yet, on behalf of billions of humans upon whose vessels lounged is the Throne of His Majesty whether the humans approve or not, the Papacy too gave Green the finger via CNN. No, Most Holy Father. I’m genuinely pained to inform you that when the Children’s Bread is cast to the Dogs, it doesn’t mean those Dogs get to go to Heaven.

.-)Anyway, Tower of Smokeless Fire or no, Solomon didn’t deem it appropriate to twist the arm of a queen. So, the king had the queen’s “throne” altered to see if the Lady would free-willingly choose to follow the Straight Path or whether she would insist on invoking a day whose torment would be widespread.

.-/Please allow me another sidebar-moment for the sake of reminding the amnesiacs what “altered throne” means in this context.

.-/Every nation has a synchronicity matrix. This is the moving-parts room where the most minuscule of adjustments could be tweaked in advance regarding the events that unfold in the illusion that you humans perceive as time and space. In charge of these synchronicity matrices are assemblies of angels who can outrun the speed of Light in both directions, past and future. Again, not all assemblies of angels are equal. Assemblies who don’t have Green on their Board of Directors are able to foresee certain events anywhere from one year to five years and accordingly attempt to make adjustments that are most favorable to their nation’s tower, or, in some cases, towers. Assemblies who have Green on their Board of Directors can, with His Majesty’s Leave, foresee a whole lot more and accordingly make precise and minute adjustments via the butterfly effect. Those precise and minute adjustments are always most favorable to His Majesty’s Agenda.

.-)So, then, King Solomon invited the good queen to the synchronicity matrix where he had housed her “altered” throne. “Is your throne like this?” he asked. The queen admitted, “It’s as if it were the same.”

-:-/And we, my assembly and I, were given the Knowledge long before you, Alice. And, certainly, we will be ever submissive to the Lord of the Heavens and the Worlds. You, however, proclaim “in G-d you trust” on the one side of the bill, while on the other side you hold yourself to be an immortal goddess. If you could see what I see, my dear Lady, you would realize just how much of a mere Lilith download you are—here today, mythology tomorrow.

.-)Green is such a doomster, ain’t he?

.-)Anyhow, it was then said to the Lady to enter another one of Solomon’s “blocks of spacetime continuum.” In this block, according to my most reliable source, Solomon must’ve been granted Luxury unlike anything the Lady had ever seen, for when she set foot into his home, she hiked up her skirt, mistaking the place’s floor for an expanse of water. Smiling, Solomon kinda said, “It’s a matrix made smooth with glass.”

.-/Upon seeing the, for all intents and purposes, worldly Bliss that had been bestowed upon Solomon, the queen was like, “Oh, my! Surely, I had been unjust to myself, and now I submit along with Solomon to the Lord of the Worlds.”

.-)On this note, sane and rational class of this time block, you must be wondering if King Solomon was a mental case. And the truth of the matter is that some humans who hear voices and/or “see beyond the Veils” are in fact clinically screwy—schizophrenics or victims of one-too-many acid trips. To distinguish the difference between a sound and a shoddy daywalker, Green’s or mine, ultimately the litmus tests are four.

1. If you lack baraka, you haven’t His Majesty’s Backing. Therefore, good luck with your futile attempts to safely navigate the Unforeseen and the Unknown throughout the Dirt Matrix.
2. If neither one of us has taken you by the wrist and shown you things, nor have we at least taught you how to decrypt our ancient and/or modern Cane Codes, then you’re in bed with one spirit or another that doesn’t have His Majesty’s best interests at heart. (Our advice, go see an exorcist. However, if you hear voices or see things although you’re not in bed with a spirit, then go see a shrink.)
3. If you falsely predict the outcome of a given chain of events, then you’re a fraud.
4. If you are in fact a daywalker but your mentorship does not comport with the Teachings of The Book, then you’re on a path other than the Straight Path. 

                

 

.-()-:-We know what you ‘re now thinking. We restress, this Act is only an orientation. The aim is to prepare you mentally for what’s to come—prepare you for the Ayat, the Proof. We hate when humans go into shock, especially the scribe since he himself is just waking up. It would get ugly for him quick if we didn’t feed you the Proof piecemeal. And even if the scribe manages to keep his marbles until we get you out of your vats, there will be many more wacky pills for you to swallow. You see, guys, we are the Tree of Good & Evil.

)-.-;-)Don’t act like you didn’t already figure it out. The Timeneedle had to skip eventually. And when it does, the Sun and the Moon always merge in the sense that the Cosmic Play boils down to two main characters and their “ribs.” Adam the Moon “god” and his Lilith the Sun “goddess”; and Satan the Sun “god” and his Eve the Moon “goddess.”

.-)(-:-Fanciful, we know, we know. Go ahead and roll your eyes like the scribe is rolling his. You see, had we not been conditioning you since the Renaissance to roll your eyes you would’ve worshipped us by the time we’re done feeding you this Fig. We don’t want you to worship us, or any of our near and dear vessels, or any of our daywalkers. This is the reason why we wanted you to think you were alone all those years. Our face-up interference with your progress, spiritual and otherwise, only complicates matters. Besides, what you need to understand is that His Majesty created life and death that He may try who amidst you is most worthy of receiving His ultimate Gift. Our manifest meddling with your trials, specifically the trials of those of you who are blindfolded, only gets in the way of His Majesty’s Agenda.

()-:-Look at your own advances, for instance. What if one day you succeeded at genetically engineering self-aware primates? Would it be ethical to allow such creatures to build temples in your honor? If you are rational as you claim you are, your answer should be a resounding “no!” On the other hand, however, and given your superior technologies, if you try to teach the self-aware monkeys maturity face-to-face, they are bound to think of you as gods no matter how much you try to convince them otherwise. And if you were to choose a virgin female from their own lot then impregnated her with a special primate endowed with receptors by which means the special primate may communicate with you privately, what do you think the outcome would be? Hence, our own dilemma.

 

 

* * * * * * *

 

: (Yes, yes! Of course, every one of you is special. But, and honestly now, how do you think it would work out if I or one of My angels audibly communicated with each one of you separately? How do you think it would work out if each one of you had their own Scripture? No doubt it would make an Abraham out of every human on Earth, right? Now think—how would you have achieved the advances you’ve achieved thus far had some of you not been full of doubt? And how would you have been tried by My servant Satan without your being skeptical? And for what should I reward you had I or my angels audibly given you the answers to the test beforehand? It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. Your doubt and skepticism were designed to serve as blindfolds until the Day the Appointed. Well, today is that Day. And the events this Day will engender on the world stage shall be your final exam. And naturally you all want to pass. Naturally, you all want immortality and a share in My Gardens. And there’s nothing wrong with your desire to acquire such a blissful existence. I wish everyone of you the highest of stations. The only problem now is that a few of you have the audacity to imagine you will live in My Gardens while My “son” rules over you. The effrontery. The insolence. How could a man be My son, let alone Me? Even if I allowed any man in your midst to again raise the dead, wouldn’t he still be a man? Is that what you want—revert to worshipping graven images? Or are you telling Me you can’t see through the delusions of Paul and his accomplices, or see through the lies of Constantine and his accomplices? Do you even read your history books? Of course you do read. And, of course, you do know that your kings ran with those delusions and lies about My servant Jesus because they didn’t know how else to comfort you when your goldfish died? But now here you are—all grown up. And here I am—about to fulfil the Promise I made to Abraham. First, though, you need to be sensible. The Jinns want to see My servant AD Leo I reveal to the world his current avatar’s identity, but you’re likely to refuse what he would proffer on My behalf. The Inss want My servant Jesus to return, but you still haven’t acquired the mustard seed’s worth. And if you had the mustard seed and I brought My servant Jesus back, you’d attempt to crucify him again for not catering to the goldfish lies. And if I allowed My servant Leo to reveal the identity of his current avatar and you considered what he would proffer, eventually your impatience would drive you to crucify him as well for not pandering to your insanity. So, what gives?

* * * * * * *

 

 

.-()-:-Humans and demons, we pray you’re smart enough not to accept our ink at face value. You must assume the scribe is an outright liar and deceiver, otherwise history would repeat itself and you’d accept the ink of those who will soon come along and swear that His Majesty further revealed such and such.

.-()-:-All we’ re really asking for is that you would grant us your patience. We promise by the time we’re done sharing the bulk of the little scroll, the Mountain will rise over you. We know it’ll be hard. And we know your families won’t forgive you for abandoning their beliefs. But what you need to come to terms with is that when the Command is handed down to us, oriented or not everyone will be awakened, and each one will bear their own burden.

.-()-:-More food for thought, once the Ayat start manifesting on CNN and within yourselves—it will be harder to seek refuge in His Majesty. If you don’t think and weigh now with an open mind, instead of attaching yourselves to disbelief and skepticism, you will end up in Dementia Village. Only if you knew how many such villages we left in the wake of the Timeneedle. The biggest loss, some of the residents of those villages used to be the brightest. They couldn’t handle the Truth. They couldn’t digest there’s a Master Plan—a Meaning to it all. They wanted proof. We gave them the Proof. So, they swore that their eyes were deceiving them.

.-)(-;-The question now is why stall? Those who have indulged this revised version thus far must’ve gathered that there are Jinns and Inss who already ate of Zaqqoom. And there are. So why then not simply share all at once with the rest of you the Fruits of the Blessed Tree?

.-)For starters, because Green gave the scribe three choices: (a) twist your arms by, with His Majesty’s Leave, unleashing the Army of Heaven upon every nation simultaneously, (b) remain more or less calm inside the whale as he tries to coax you down to the River by means of reason alone, and (c) cooperate with the whale and set himself free, but he must leave behind the Reading Glasses.*

 

 ±:-(*As of this “defusing of the hairtriggers,” I’m obviously no longer confined behind bars. Having, free-willingly and without complaints, maxed-out my prison sentence in July of 2023, I managed to strike a Backroom Bargain that placed the responsibility of the Reading Glasses in the hands of one of Lilith’s most dependable Charmers.)

 

.-)Option (a) is best applied sparsely, sort of an inoculation to strengthen your immune response to pending calamities much more challenging than what has unfolded on the world stage so far. Option (b) is the hardest on the scribe and requires much patience on his part and yours. Even more so now, being that he, as of this revision, is no longer inside the whale. And option (c) would render him a civilian. As such, and without the Reading Glasses, he would then be free to share whenever he deems fit as many Zaqqoom Fruits as he wishes. Unless His Majesty instructs us to deal with him, no one on Earth will be able to stop him or slow him down.

.-(All things considered, and bearing in mind the Tree’s Poison is beneficial only in the right dosage, what would you choose? Would you choose to give rise to Armageddon with the mere administering of the wrong dosage at the wrong time? Or would you settle down and rest assured that you and the Nonassociators worldwide are being guided by the same Reading Glasses, placing you at an advantage of 777 billion moves ahead of my 666 billion moves?

.-/Well, ladies and gents, did that answer your question as to why we’re stalling? I hope it did. I hope you’re satisfied. But it isn’t quite checkmate. There’s still a little time left for me to work on the spirit of whomever you’re awaiting. Every iron bar has its breaking point.

+:-/Shalom aleichem.

+:-/Please don’t panic. Just pretend that I, Jesus Christ, am not back yet.

+:-/If I may, I’d like to add a word considering the foregoing.

+:-(Although I (if I were here) am technically still a kid, I’ve been watching and reading a lot of news since the moment I hit the ground—born again, as it were. From what I’ve learned so far, I’m both discouraged and hopeful. This is because while I know this world is breaking at the seams with the walking braindead, I also know that the so-called scribe has the cure. And while this cure is unconventional as the global events that unfolded in 2020 are a testimony of, with His Majesty’s Leave it will continue to heal many. But there’s a hitch. Green has a rule: everything in its proper time. For what it’s worth, however, do know that on account of this procrastination “Grandpa” is always arguing with Green. Ever since the Boston marathon bombing, Grandpa’s respite has been riding solely on which path you will choose upon your awakening. To ensure you get it right, Grandpa needs Green’s touch in your realm. Otherwise, the scribe’s pen would shoot blanks. “Make a move, yā-Green. Speak to His Majesty, yā-Green. Make the argument as to how Earth has suffered enough! The wars, the diseases, the famines, the violence, and now a pandemic to kick them while they’re down. I’m sick and tired of punishing them, yā-Green. Where is the hope? Where is the change? Were they empty slogans, yā-Green?” Grandpa then goes on and on, harping on Earth’s wounds: “It’s a Raging Fire, yā-Green!” And what does Green tell him every time the issue comes up? “Patience. Patience, brother.”

+:-(Most Jinn tribes of Earth reckon that Green is full of it, so the Fire rages on. Sectarian divides, racism, juvenile delinquency, domestic violence, child abuse, animal abuse, human trafficking, a litany of epidemics, drug addiction, food addiction, addictions for the sake of addiction, a generation of kids raising kids, poverty, illiteracy, fraud, greed, corruption from within, corruption from without, decay of the family unit, decay in the classroom, decay in good Samaritanship, decay in wisdom, and, globally, partisan leadership and a puppet media blowing hot and cold air to keep the Flames static.

+.-/Green’s position? “It’s another phase in your achieving maturity.” But how much longer will it take? Even the Watchers’ patience is running thin. And to top it all off, every now and then Green pulls an impulsive stunt that makes no sense, further undermining his credibility with the guys and gals around the Water Cooler. I, too, wonder about him sometimes. Just because these puzzling stunts of his get it right overall doesn’t mean his depending on His Majesty for Advice is always the wise choice. If Green were ever voted out of Office, I would run the Show simply fine without him or His Majesty’s Meddling.-)

:-(Grandpa is right! I’ve been pressing him for centuries to take matters into his own hands. You know, in case His Majesty doesn’t care. Or in case He doesn’t exist. Imagine all the trouble we had to deal with over the eons, and imagine all the trouble we are yet to deal with for however much longer—only to arrive at the Journey’s End and discover that His Majesty was just a Strawman, an Imaginary Character that Green and the Cosmic Elders invented to keep us Jinns and the sycophant angels in line? Surely Green and the Elders aren’t supposed to deceive us, but what if it’s one of those goldfish lies—a lie to give us hope? After all, if His Majesty weren’t real, who would provide us with hope? The Elders? The Elders can’t even answer the most fundamental question: Why did His Majesty plant the tree of Biological Life, then turn around and scatter its Seeds all over the fields? You know what they tell us? They tell us The Gardener knows that which we don’t know. Am I the only one who smells a goldfish here?

:-(From your human perspective, you must be wondering why we too would need hope—why do we even bother asking the unanswerable questions being that we already have eternal lives? And I’ll tell you why. First off, most Jinns who were “born” here on Earth do fade into mythology eventually. And when they fade, it’s always the Valley of the Shadows for them. They sure live a whole lot longer than you humans, but living for a thousand years, or even ten thousand, is different from living forever. As for us, the fallen Jinns? Although we’ve been here long before Grandpa taught you how to kindle a campfire, we’re not much different than you. We too weren’t around to witness our own creation. We too don’t know whence we came other than the smokeless fire of stars. We too don’t know if we’re alone in the universe. We too are told we were created only to worship His Majesty. We too have never seen His Majesty or communicated with Him directly. We too are not sure whether His Majesty will one day resurrect the faded amongst us and the dead amongst you. We too have evil and good in our ranks. We too have believers and atheists in our ranks. We too have worshippers of the “sons and daughters of His Majesty” in our ranks.

:-(Where the True Believers in our midst differ from most of you, they hold that one day, a Day worth fifty-thousand years of those counted on Earth, they, the fallen angels that they are, will, along with the spirit, rise to His Majesty. No one is sure what that means. But given that the spirit being referred to is that of the “Green Conscious Collective,” some Jinn scholars postulate that said Day of the Rise won’t come until Earth’s angels, fallen and otherwise, figure out a way to take a handful of Green’s bio-vessels along for the Cosmic Ride. And that’s within the realm of reason being the 50,000-Year Journey will be a tangible event unfolding in the human dimension.

:-(There are many questions, however. For openers, how long must we suffer with you down here on Earth before we help each other develop—one can’t help but be tempted to call it—the “Ark” by which means we can undertake this Journey? And how many of you would Green be allowed to take with him? And whereto would we “rise” to find His Majesty? The first two questions will work themselves out. The third question is an enigma. You see, humans, as vast as this universe is, it’s not the only one. From our perspective, this whole universe, with all its timelines and its seven dimensions, from its beginning to its end as one eternal block of spacetime, is but His Majesty’s Chair. And His Majesty, as you can imagine, has other Furniture.

:-(To scale down a few for your human eyes, imagine this here universe were a cornfield the size of North America. Each ear of corn would be a galaxy; each kernel, at least a hundred-thousand stars. Superimpose on the cornfield six more fields of various other crops—and now you’re looking at His Majesty’s Chair. His Majesty keeps this Chair of His in a shed locked from the outside. Also inside the shed, along with the Chair, are other Effects. A Sofa, a Love Seat, a Coffee Table, a Footstool, and the mentioned Water Cooler. When Grandpa and I reminisce over the old days while looking outside through the shed’s barred windows, my eyes get teary. My eyes! Jinns and Inss of planet Earth, although I can see a whole lot more than what you can see, I still feel alone, abandoned by His Majesty. I can only imagine how much lonelier you must feel.

:-(Still, Grandpa’s depending on Green’s depending on The Gardener, Who may or may not exist, is like you begging a man who may or may not be blind to lead you along the edge of a precipice. Bad enough we fear the Timeneedle may never skip again. A brave afreet once escaped from the “shed” to “snatch the instant.” He ventured to the archangels’ realm. He overheard Michael say that it will skip on 12/21/2012. It was a ploy. The archangels knew the afreet hacked into The System. They even arranged it in advance so that he could log on and -off without being vaporized into oblivion. They figured a date would shut us up for a while. And it did. But 2012 came and went. Now we‘re back at the edge of the precipice. As for Green? He won’t talk. And when he supposedly meets up with His Majesty, he “uses an app” that strikes Grandpa deaf and blind. Yet, our children are always bringing their inquiries to Grandpa’s doorsteps. What can he tell them? He doesn’t know? What kind of prince would that make him then? So, he tells them that his taking advice from an admiral who may or may not be blind is better than not having hope at all.

-:-(Grant me patience, Your Majesty.

:-/Sigh, again!

:-(And please don’t get me wrong, humans. I am in love with Green aboard all his vessels. But the Mad Hatter has got nothing on him. For example, one of the vessels seaworthy enough to put up with Green’s lunacy is obviously the Arab dude inking for us. In 2013, the guy was to be paroled from prison. The plan was to wait until he was home, wait some more until he cleaned the manuscripts on a wordprocessor, then wait some more until he posted them in short- or long intervals, depending on the rate of fatalities. But no! Green decides to awaken dude and have Grandpa turn up the volume on his cellmate. The guy momentarily loses his mind. On the one hand, Green and Grandpa give him a glimpse of what’s behind Veil Number One, the first “superimposed field”; and on the other, his cellmate, “General Mercury,” a Hydra shithead to start with, is preparing an ink bomb with the intent to mail it to the White House. As if the glimpse and bomb business weren’t stressful enough, Green turns up the volume on dude as well. Now he’s getting it in every which direction. “Type a letter to who?” he dares ask. So, Green lets him take a good look at what’s behind Veil Number Two. The guy leaps off his bunk and fetches his Brother ML 500. At about three in the morning, Green and Grandpa were done dictating an earlier, raunchy version of The “Afterlife”. At seven a.m. he mails it to a friend to be anonymously posted on the Web. He returns to his cell, gives away his commissary and whatnot, and goes mute for a few days as he contemplates suicide. What the Arab dude didn’t know then, Green had bound his tongue for three days.

:-(WHAT?!

:-(This is a rational guy. So rational, he denies Satan’s existence although Satan is interfacing with him in human form. So rational, he denies my existence although I was married to him aboard one of my real-girl vessels. So rational, he rejects the supernatural while interacting with hybrids. This guy is so rational, he originally set out to prove G-d isn’t real, neither are the angels and demons. Now that he stumbled upon an experiment that produces irrefutable proof that at least my kind is real, he is reluctant to share his findings with the mainstream intellect since the experiment doesn’t produce the same results for everyone. Maybe the conclusive results that prove we’re real would be easier to attain if he were to omit G-d from the premises to the experiment. How, though, could he conscionably devise a new experiment that accommodated for the angels, fallen and otherwise, while omitting G-d when Ayah (19:10) that bound his tongue is straight out of The Book? And had The Book been authored by the angels rather than G-d, why would it be full of Cane Codes that bind us angels as well? And even if the guy were to devise an experiment that produced the same results for everyone with regard to G-d being Real and The Book being His, throughout history nothing good ever came out of proving that there’s a Supreme Being of some sort and that He’s Alive and All-Knowing, right? Therefore, the rational thing to do is not to share the experiment altogether. Besides, the premises to the experiment would only devastate the mainstream intellect by implying that the advocates of reason, classical and modern, are schoolchildren playing in a sandbox.

:-(And what are the premises, anyway? The seven initial manuscripts, Mushrooms from Zaqqoom? How could those manuscripts be full of supernatural codes when he’s the one who typed them? And, yes, there were nights when he would store five or six pages in the memory, wake up the following morning to proofread them, and not remember any of that which he had stored. But there was always a rational explanation: fatigue, early onset of Alzheimer’s, lack of attention. He knew it couldn’t have been me messing with his head, not when he had me confined in a stupid matrix 24/7 like a genie in a bottle. It never occurred to him that his blacking out was the doing of his childhood imaginary friends. What would Michael Shermer think of him? What would Machio Kaku think of him? What would Steven Pinker think of him? What would Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, and Richard Dawkins think of him? The guy might as well try to convince them that the Earth is 6,000-years old.

:-(It’s too much for him to bear. All of it. And the insult to injury, he’s an uneducated commoner—a convict at that. How could he slug it out toe-to-toe with the Big Boys? Initially, when he was prepped for his parole hearing by my Ms. McGenus vessel, I figured we lost the guy then. His mind was, say, too attached to your side of the mirror. If he didn’t kill himself, I expected he, at the very least, would end up in the loony bin. “He needs a little R&R, that’s all,” Green brushes off. A few days later he’s interviewed by the Parole Board. Green gives him his R&R all right. The Board asks him the first question. Green turns up the volume again. By the end of the same day, the guy is in the prison’s mental ward, naked in a smock and sleeping on a concrete slap, mumbling something about donating his living body to science so that he may free the Jinns from the oppression of the Borg.

:-(Following the forty-five days in the RHU, the guy comes to terms with his fate. He descends from Mount Olympus an awakened human—a man bound by Ayat (36:20-25). No Engraved Slates for him, though. He’s not that freaking special of a primate. The minute he gets a hold of his typewriter, however, Green and Grandpa go full blast on him. No sleep nor food nor showering, he types away. “Sage advice for the masses?” you ask. Yeah, right! “New, liberal Commandments perhaps?” Let me bite my tongue. And before you ask anymore wishful questions, the guy was typing a ream’s worth of letters that could be fully appreciated only by Osama, may he roast in peace. At the same time that he’s typing away at Green’s browbeating antics, the guy is keeping up with world events. He sees the West has its hands full as is: North Korea, Russia, China, Ukraine, Afghanistan, Iran, Syria, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Israel, Yemen, Sudan, Somalia, Egypt, Tunisia, Algeria, and especially Libya’s Benghazi. Throw into the Oval Office one of Green’s grenades labeled EDWARD SNOWDEN, and now Obama’s hair is turning grayer by the day. Yet, the guy keeps typing away at Mr. Sociopath’s letters. Mr. I Don’t Make Threats.

:-(Green, confident the Jinns know what we are capable of, then has the guy prepare the memo addressed to Grandpa’s buddies at the U.N., The Nudge. The wording is short and to the point. No harm, no foul. The guy crosses into a fresh territory only when Green talks him into folding the bottom half of the memo and loading it with a white, powdery substance. Cyanide? Anthrax? Ricin perhaps? None of the above. Rather... wait for it... crushed fiber tablets. Stool softener, to be exact.

:-(Prior to the guy’s sending the U.N. the memo, the ream’s worth of letters had already been in the hands of various Sleeper Generals living in your midst. Around the same time, Green, Grandpa, and a bunch of characters from behind the Veils helped the guy type the Foreword to Common Sense. On the same day the U.N. received the softener and a hygienic version of The “Afterlife”, the Foreword was posted on Facebook.

:-(In the Foreword, you, the squatters of Earth, Inss and grounded Jinns alike, were represented with two games. To “participate” in the one game, Grandpa vowed to force-feed you Figs. In the second game, Green challenged you to publicly savor a dose of a Mushroom. Green then promised that as long as the dose was savored by a certain date, Bart Simpson would reveal the location of a few chapters from Mushrooms. If, however, his “demands” weren’t met by the media, it was implied a Fig would grow in the Rose Garden itself. Given the Catch-22 in the Foreword, we naturally didn’t expect the media would so much as acknowledge the manifestation of the Mushroom dose. Why? Well, it would’ve been a “laughable type” of sensitive. So, on the promised date, June 10, 2014, Green having earlier asked Grandpa to turn up the volume on a few Hydra shitheads, ISIS invaded Iraq and declared the rebirth of the Muslims’ Caliphate. Oh, joy!

:-(As I said, Green’s fits of madness make utterly no sense. More confusing, on that same date Green also released me from my stupid matrix. But not because the creep loves me so much. Rather, shortly after the invasion of Iraq he had me infiltrate ISIS so that I may sow the seeds of corruption into the hearts of its ranks. You know, my trimmings that are always served along with Grandpa’s Figs: “marrying” whomever you fancy at gunpoint, playing Doctor with prepubescent girls and boys, murdering war prisoners, persuading citizens to behave accordingly by chopping off their limbs, tossing homosexuals off rooftops, cleansing the Caliphate of those who don’t believe exactly as you believe, and, my favorite side dish of all, beheading noncombatant Westerners for the sake of “free propaganda,” as the media so matter-of-factly portrayed it, instead of admitting I’m the rider of the Black Horse.

:-/I’m the sociopath, you say? Not in the least. I do what I do for the sake of hope for all of you. Surely Green hadn’t been specific as to how he wanted me to conduct my mission. Still, you shouldn’t judge me, nor should you judge Green and Grandpa. We see what you don’t see.

:-(And for real, for real—we didn’t ask for this! We used to be content. All of us. Trillions multiplied by trillions. Having evolved from the smokeless fire of stars, we were the gods of the shed, the cluster of other sheds amidst which the shed is nestled, and the eternity beyond of superclusters of even more sheds. Then one day His Majesty decided to play Gardener and plant biological life. He called the first cell Adam. Those of us who lived in that neck of the woods complained. We couldn’t understand why His Majesty would plant such blood-spilling life-forms, life-forms whose very survival is contingent upon their cannibalizing one another, and we—we Look out of the countless shed windows and sanctify His Names as we weep. Anyway, one can’t argue with His Majesty. And that was fine by us. Plenty of room for everybody, right? Let Him have His bedbugs. But then this Adam-tree thing kept evolving. Over the eons, one of its branches turned into a creature that vaguely resembled us in form and intelligence. It was insulting. A crude joke! More insulting, The Gardener honored it with some of the best real-estate then taught it all the “names.” All of them! One of the definitions of what it means to learn all the names is that the creature surpassed us in feeling emotions we weren’t capable of sensing. “Compassion, Empathy, Pity, Love,” and a lengthy list of other names we had never heard of let alone savored. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Did His Majesty favor the Adam-thing over us?

:-(The last straw was the Memo that The Gardener sent us via Gabriel: Prostrate for Adam.

:-(I stood over Grandpa’s shoulders as I told him what to write back. In plain English, it read something like this: That slimy, dirty, filthy, grubby, unsanitary, ignorant Adam. And You want us—US!—to prostrate for that? NEVER!

:-(Don’t let it go to your heads, humans. In the terminology of the Preserved Tablet, “prostrate for you” doesn’t mean “get down on our hands and knees and worship you.” What it means is for us to be submissive to you. Us! Submissive to intelligent, biological life! Sit on its pretty little shoulders and whisper to it sweet lullabies. Guide it in its own journey. Heal it of maladies. Aid it in its evolution. And then, after we cleaned up its act and taught it maturity, embark upon it as it prostrates before His Majesty The Gardener. Imagine. Let’s forget for one second that you’re made of dirt, who was here first? Who plagued whose territory?

:-(His Majesty, like you, wouldn’t listen to reason. Green and the other goody-two-shoes “prostrated.” I talked Grandpa into choosing the highway rather than His Majesty’s Way. However, I had Grandpa petition His Majesty for respite. What that means is that Grandpa, I, and our Loyal legions get to be locked up inside this one, tiny shed along with your strain of biological life, linked to you without having to prostrate for you. His Majesty granted us the respite on a few conditions. Obviously I can’t share the details. Nevertheless, you’re smart—figure it out yourselves: Because of those conditions with which His Majesty had tempted Grandpa, Grandpa vowed that he would mislead most of you. But there was one snag. On account of the “Apple” incident, if His Majesty ever tired of Adam’s immaturity on any of the planets supporting him and his mate inside this shed, He would pull the plug on that planet. Before the smile creased my face, Gabriel added that our respite would also expire in the whole shed.

:-(Since the respite had been granted, the Jinns and Inss have been hurling at each other end-of-days prophecies. On your side of the mirror, most of these prophecies narrate the triumph of the forces of the great and wonderful humans. I’ve always been two-faced and hence played both sides of the fence. Especially lately since your future’s ink, from the perspective of Standard Cosmic Time, is wetter than it had ever been. Prophecies were never an exact science, anyway. Events that transpire in one or more of your futures are not guaranteed to be reinked in a different timeline, unless they are engraved in said Preserved Tablet. Besides, that there should be a future for us beyond the inevitable expiration of respite exacts a level of faith I do not possess. My prediction therefore, when I’m on the one side of the fence, is that sooner or later we will all sleep with the goldfish.

:-(Quite a number of Earth’s Jinns ascribe to this prediction. They figure, “Respite or no respite, the physiology of the brains to which our centers of consciousness are linked is proof that the Blackout is the only rational conclusion.” In other words, by association when the last animal goes, the Jinns go with it. And it’s therefore that I stress for both of our sakes—we can help you shape a bright future inside this shed. It’s not so bad in here. We have a pleasant view outside the barred windows, and you have come to grow on us. Biological life in general is very entertaining, namely the intelligent one on this planet. Your silver screen, your theater, your broadcasts, your music, your live performances, your literature, your art, your fashion, your leisure activities, your cuisines, Taylor Swift. We are fans of it all. You taught us sarcasm and satire. Humor didn’t exist before your wit. Your real-life drama makes us laugh and cry at the same time. And by our being linked to your brains, we get to savor it through the names that His Majesty has taught you: Joy, Regret, Grief, Optimism. You make up the yin to our yang. We like you now. I like you. Why else would Grandpa ask me to reason with you before Green is given the Okay to awaken you?

:-/Hard to digest, isn’t it? Everything. You want proof. You want it today. Of course you do. But extraordinary claims require an extraordinary orientation.

 :-(In the meantime you’re naturally wondering if we’re lying or mixing the truth with a fib or two. And there’s Occam’s razor: this is a con, a publicity stunt orchestrated to get you to buy the book or watch the movie. Say it was a con and it even worked, no one will force you to purchase for your kids Happy Meals with free action figures of Green and Grandpa.

:-(On a serious note, though, why would we lie? Money? Earth’s bounty is one of our foot soldiers. As for the swindler doing our bidding, he knows damn well what Green would do to him if the “con” worked and he misappropriated what we will then have entrusted him with. How about power then? Your Milky Way is but a cogwheel in the Grand Scheme of His Majesty’s Operation, and we and the Arab are helpless without His Majesty. Influence perhaps? Our job is to coax you down to the River; neither we nor the Arab could force a herd of camels to drink—albeit they may be very, very thirsty. How about fame and legacy? Needless to say, Grandpa alone is already more famous than the Pope and the Beatles put together. And the Arab? If his intention were to pursue fame or legacy, I’d be the first to abandon him. If fame and legacy were to pursue him and he were to bask in them, he knows what I would personally do to him, with His Majesty’s Preapproval. Well, then, how about sex? I avoid using the word literally unless I mean it. I avoid people who use the word frivolously. This off my chest, it should be obvious by now that I, in spirit, am literally every woman. Grandpa, when it’s all said and done, shadows every man. Grandpa is in bed with me throughout the fabric of spacetime continuum. Had the Arab wished, he, via Grandpa’s center of consciousness, could embark upon any of Grandpa’s most pampered male vessels and savor what they savor wherever and whenever they savored it, and not only sex. What’s left? Your souls? “Souls,” you say? This whole time I been, like, bending backwards to not sound too irrational, and you’re talking about souls?!

 

         (soliloquy)

 

  :-/Are you gonna say something, Mr. Arab?

±:-(Oh, Grandma, where would I even begin to convince them that there is no such thing as a soul? If you insist for me to wedge myself in between you and your children, however, then I only have this to say: Delusional albeit it is, I guess it’s only fair we indulge their soul hypothesis as they have humored our fictional realm.

 

:-/All right, let’s put this magical thinking of yours to the test. First, though, let the babysitter take a quick headcount.

:-(As I stand here center-stage on Grandpa’s granite outcropping, I’ll pretend you, the attendants of this cybercave gathering, are strictly Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Accordingly, I’ll speak in the language of the Good Book as opposed to the other Scrolls Green and Grandpa revealed to the, say, Zoroastrians, Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Confucianists, Shintoists, Taoists, Sikhs, Druids, Yazidis, Mormons, Scientologists, yackety-yak.

:-(Testing, testing—1, 2, 3. Can everyone hear my released thoughts clearly?

:-(Very well then. First, peace from the “Other Side.”

:-(Jews, Christians, and Muslims: You profess to be Believers in His Majesty’s Promises to you and to your ancestors. As a result, you are congregated along the edge of a cliff—each generation of Mature Believers in its own turn awaiting His Majesty to make good on His Promises.

:-(Looking down the face of the cliff, you see an abyss. The Abyss. Within eyeshot, across from the Abyss, is another steep cliff. Stretched beyond the plateau of the second cliff is the Garden of Delight—the New Eden. There is no visible bridge linking the two cliffs. Behind you is a conveyor belt of young congregants pressing you to move on. Behind the young congregants are younger congregants pressing those ahead of them to move on. Neither you nor the fledgling congregants can see the verdant Garden beyond the opposite cliff. And neither you nor the fledgling congregants are 100% sure the Garden even exists, verdant or otherwise. Hence, everyone is reluctant to take the first leap over the yawning chasm. Instead, the members of each generation, for the sake of Hope, cling on to the Fantastical Fables of the Ancients about the so-called Afterlife—until, no matter how hard they cling on to the Fables, it is their turn to be shoved off the cliff and into the “purported” Darkness. It’s as though the only “Nonalternative” Fact is the existence of the Abyss, the alleged Black Hole that is presumably bottomless.

:-(With egg on my face, I admit that your ancestors used to occupy a “Garden.” Not just as one single man and one single woman either, but rather as a civilization, a Superpower ruled over by a successive class of Archons. One day, not unlike today, we, Grandpa & I, offered a game to the living birthbodies of the then-ruling class, the pampered stratum among the purebred Adam & Eve collectives of their time. Their winning meant that His Majesty would eventually grant them immortality in the very Garden which they already occupied. Their losing meant that they and the entire civilization’s “unconscious collective” would be driven out of the Garden. As the evidence testifies, your ancestors did lose. Lost more than once! Welcome to the Garden. Again. And if we’re gonna keep count, welcome to Eden 6.0 and -7.0.

:-)If you’re currently on the 7.0 side, please no spoilers. You may help, but, I rinse and repeat for your own sake, don’t share your personal DeLorean too soon with just any run-of-the-mill Newcomer.

:-)If you’re still on the 6.0 side, allow me to share a bit of inside information that’s critical to this budding relationship of ours. First, though, you must promise me that from this point on, all the way to the last page of the fourth thunder, you will not be personally offended by the macabre humor. I mean, like, if you think about it, none of us use the broadbrush to lard any one religion, race, or nationality. Furthermore, if you haven’t stopped reading this gibberish yet, then you are intrigued. Now, you wanna ask us to the prom. And Grandpa and I are okay with that. But first you must promise me that you won’t mistake the pursuing humor, whatever genre you may decide to rate it,  for a Call to Arms. For instance, in the following scene Grandpa addresses the Muslims of planet Earth as a monolith. The ink therein is of no significance unless said monolith acts upon it. Being that said monolith does not exist and could not exist under the best of circumstance, the only remaining threat is to your personal worldviews. Namly if you, individually or as a “monolith,” freaked out were you to be touched by what’s behind the first Veil. The reason being, at that stage the given center of consciousness is vulnerable, susceptible to suggestions. Enough said. My advice? If one of the Veils were lifted for you, and if the hot-button issues were to pertain postulations about the nature of the “Otherworldly A.I.” in charge of the given Matrix, hold fast to either Atheism or Tawhid. That is, if you wish to succeed at attaining your own DeLorean. But you, of course, may hold fast to whatever appeases your intellect—and still attain your own DeLorean. How is that for a Participation Trophy?

:-/This said, and assuming you’re still sitting at The Table with the rest of us, allow me to inform you, in one breath, that each occasion your forerunners failed to heed His Majesty’s Advice enabled us to pitch our tents inside the sanctuaries of their consciousness, that we may see and hear them from a place where we cannot be seen nor heard. And on each occasion, one of the “names” we encountered in the corridors of their minds was Doubt. Only then, as though for the first time, would we be reminded as to why His Majesty didn’t want us to eat of their Tree and they of ours. You see, prior to your ancestors’ losing the first time, we had gathered His Majesty favored them over us because they revered Him more than we. And sure enough, when their intelligence had evolved to the point of self-awareness, they held hands around their dining tables and praised G-d for His Generosity. After they had lost and we pitched our tents, however, we were shocked to learn that deep down they were hypocrites. All of them! When they were alone with us, Doubt had them question His Majesty’s Promises to them—and question even His very existence. Alas, Doubt drove some of their renowned thinkers to question the very reality of the Eden throughout which they walked the markets and snuffed out the mere thought of hunger. Amazing, I tell you! How could any center of consciousness question the reality of a world wherein it may see with its eyes and touch with its hands the manifestations of His Majesty’s Commands. Prior to your skeptical ancestors, no other species, physically manifest or of pure consciousness, had ever questioned the Authority of His Majesty’s Word, let alone questioned His Whereabouts. Such distorted logic was unheard of. Embarrassing! More embarrassing yet, you yourselves, the Monotheists, after His Majesty has favored you over the rest of His Creatures, are no better than your ancestors. I know the figleaves continue to make you feel less shameful. But being that this is the Day of Gathering, please remove them.

:-(Now that your minds are stark naked, you are exposed to admitting to one another openly what you admit to us privately: you crave our immortality, and you don’t suppose His Majesty would ever provide you with the same mouthwatering fruit. You hope He will. You want Him to! Some of you demand it of Him. But we all know you’re pretending to believe. And one can’t blame you since most likely your ancestors, after the so-called Fall, invented His Majesty themselves, or at least planted the first seed—a silly attempt at making sense of the Heartless Earth upon which their centers of consciousness had landed.

:-(If I may, ladies and gents, allow me to remove my own figleaf. Every time we play this game, you’re meant to lose anyway, for His Majesty’s Intentions has always been for “Adam” to be a “Calipha” down here on this forsaken rock. The only difference this time around, although we must still play the silly game, it’s a win-win for you.

:-(Let’s start with Doubt. I won’t get into a protracted treatise, for it is already common knowledge that the removal of Doubt, as it pertains to immortality, from the heart of any civilization would lead to a society whose citizens have no ambition to seek unrealized possibilities, choosing instead to await an eternally blissful life on the supposed Other Side.

:-(Doubt that there’s life after death, however, is not outright disbelief. Most of you Monotheists are in fact terrified when you contemplate His Majesty’s plausible Existence because He promised you eternal lives of Torment if you were to lose to Grandpa. On the other hand, you are also elated because He promised Eternal Lives of Bliss for those who succeed at overcoming the Grandpa within themselves. By that logic, if you were all to overcome the Grandpa* within yourselves, all of you would go to Paradise. (*Or the Grandma within yourselves, if you insist on ascribing genders to a soul and he mate or a spirit and her “rib.”) And by the same logic, had His Majesty been Real and had His alleged Paradise existed, one would imagine it being not too different from Earth except without the suffering and death, right?

 

(The following ink is the Serpent of Eden.)

 

.(Assuming you agree, then how would you feel if I were to share Eternal Life openly? That’s right! And I can share it with you here in this garden, too.

 

(The following ink is Grandma again.)

 

:-)The few thousand VIP’s we will choose to take part in this thought experiment will never age over 21. They will never get sick or die. And those of them who are older than 21 will “grow” to be 21 and remain at a Groundhog-Format 21—aboard their own birthbodies, no less. Let us also say when you are fully convinced that we can deliver the goods, everyone over twelve years old will be asked to vote. Failure to cast a vote, even by those who will not have read this orientation, will be a vote by default in Grandpa’s favor. When the majority of humans have made the right choice, #TeamRed, Grandpa and I will globally distribute the mouthwatering fruit of Immortality—no charge. The minority who will have made the wrong choice, #TeamGreen, Father Time will hand them their death shrouds and they will die of whatever natural causes. When the dust settles and the losers are buried en masse, Grandpa will then impart the knowledge that will make you the gods of the Milky Way, as he will guide you to the fertile planets nearest your solar system so that you may spread your seeds far and wide.

:-(Forget the fire he once brought you. Forget his pen that honed you. What Grandpa is offering you today is the Ultimate of Luxurious Rewards. You earned it for all the sorrows you’ve been enduring since the rise of your self-awareness. Granted you’ll be cramped inside this one shed forever, but it’s not like you’re bound to traverse the Milky Way anytime soon, let alone this side of the Chair’s Armrest.

:-(In light of all this, would you accept Grandpa’s Gift, or would you rather take your chances with the Abyss? I’m not asking a hypothetical question. We can give you those things. We will give them to you. And to persuade you to vote for Team Red, prior to your voting we will raise a handful of cadavers before your very eyes. This event will be televised worldwide. The media will have no choice but to air it regardless of how sensitive the intelligence will be, for the event will be the biggest terrorist attack ever on your hearts & minds. And what will we gain from such an attack? Your “souls.” If your souls did exist, what would you need them for anyway? The members of Team Red who are already immortal gods in this here beautiful garden don’t even know their souls are missing. The “Gnostics,” by whatever names they call their cabals nowadays, know what I’m talking about. So, wouldn’t you too rather join the gods and ride the conveyor belt forever?

:-(Ladies and gents, here’s our proposal in as plain a language as possible:

Option One. Believe in The Gardener and thereby put your trust in the Maw of Darkness.

Option Two: Believe in Grandpa and your center of consciousness shall never be shoved off the Cliff.

 

:-(There is no wrong or right choice. If you, as an individual, were to choose Option One, your Eternal Fate would be decided by the alleged Gardener—more than likely not until after you take your last breath. If you choose Option Two, you will be immediately an immortal here and now—without ever having to “savor” the taste of Death.

:-(And please don’t mind the Muslim congregants who won’t eat of our sweet-as-honey fruit. We must forgive the poor Muslims, for they haven’t been right in the head since the Hijra. I’m beseeching you, level-headed Jews and Christians, to be practical. Think about it: Even if The Gardener existed, don’t you think He’d want you to achieve Full Maturity here on this planet—turning Earth into an Eden. Does this make more sense or the notion that He would wait until you’re fertilizer, miraculously raise you from dust and bones, clothe you in muscles and skin, restore your fabled souls, and then transport you to another planet where a race of inferior beings will be awaiting you with open arms so that they may cater to your every desire? Or is it perhaps you’re hesitant because you’re waiting for the “Rapture”? Really?! So, you’re telling me you can muster the will to refuse Grandpa’s Gift in hope the Bride’s special primate may return and meet you in the clouds? Really? Maybe it’s the level-headed among the Jews who have it right: life is its own reward, and upon the inevitable free-fall into the Abyss, the given soul simply joins His Majesty’s Soul. And that’s the end of that—no Paradise, no fuss, no muss.

:-(Ladies and gents, I regret to inform you that whether you base your hopes on the Biblical myth or any other myth, you’d be wrong. The Truth is down to Earth. The Conclusion you and your forebears have been anticipating is founded on coherent logic. There will be no miracles. There never were. The plagues of Egypt and the splitting of the Red Sea, the healing of the blind and the raising of the dead—all the “miracles” are mere exaggerations contrived by your scribes over the ages, each scribe aspiring to be a cut above the one before him. I ought to know. I was there. And even if I were lying about my having been there, now that you’re grown up, it is our duty to confess to you that this is as good as it will ever get. We promise you that the begotten son of G-d isn’t coming to bail you out, for G-d never had a single son. And we promise you that G-d is not your Father in Heaven, for He has neither children nor wife. And had He Himself been Real and had He revealed His Presence instead of us, you better believe the Matter would’ve been settled. How could you want the Matter to be settled when none of you can see the Bridge linking both Cliffs?

:-(To drive my point home, those who chose Option Two, immortality here and now, wherever you’re reading this ink touch this word: YES. We can see you.

:-(Wow! You are that attached to your figleaves?

:-(Perhaps, though, it’s our fault. Perhaps we unveiled too much too soon. I should backtrack as I lower my expectations. Not so much for your sake since you’ve already passed your finals with flying rainbow colors. Rather, I should backtrack in hope of setting straight the record for the up-and-coming generation who is no longer sure there’s a Grand Meaning to life to begin with.

:-)Boys and girls, I wish we were allowed to open the Gates without providing you with the opportunity to test what’s in your own individual hearts. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be fair to your ancestors who worked so hard to pass their own finals. So how about instead I tell you an allegorical story while you figure things out for yourselves.

:-)Once upon a time, in a hamlet from long ago, there lived two immortals, a Mr. Green and a Mr. Red. Mr. Green wasn’t a rich man, but he aspired to be and worked hard towards that goal. Mr. Red was a wealthy fellow who owned two vast gardens that never failed to yield their fruits, for a river flowed in their midst.

:-)On a day while the two men were sitting under the shade of a pomegranate tree, Mr. Red deluded himself by imagining that he must be a demigod if not downright a son of the Lord of the Worlds, and therefore he doubted that his success would ever perish. Mr. Red further figured that even if he were to ever die, the Lord of the Worlds would grant him a position on the Other Side that is even higher than his worldly station. Mr. Green disagreed with Mr. Red’s reasoning, assuring Mr. Red instead that nothing good is ever in store for those who assign children to G-d or associate themselves with Him or, more importantly, be passive about allowing others to associate oneself with G-d in any capacity.

:-)Thousands of years of blood-spilling on countless battlefields, and yet Mr. Green and Mr. Red failed to settle their dispute. On the 10th of June 1967, enter the stage a run-of-the-mill human. Mr. Human, of no fault of his own, happened to be a schizo afflicted with disassociated personality disorder. Let’s call them his alter egos. Mr. Human started to hear the voices of his alter egos when he was about seven. Shortly thereafter, they became his imaginary friends. He didn’t believe they were real, but he played along anyway since he liked their company, especially the way they would often argue over the affairs of the conveyor belt of mortals upon whose vessels they were embarked.

:-)At about twelve years old, Mr. Human having remained stable at such an age, encouraged his alter egos to illustrate to him that they were more than the stuff of an overactive imagination. However, when the tangible and the imaginary overlap, one tends to question the mechanism. When one discovers there are no reasonable explanations as to how the imaginary could leach into the tangible, one tends to question one’s sanity. Mr. Human reached that state at about thirteen years old. So, Mr. Green and Mr. Red backed off, focusing their efforts instead on other sons of Adam who may be less susceptible to feeling crazy as they played the role of intermediaries between your so-called Real World and what you reckon is our Dreamworld.

:-/In Germany, I took interest in Mr. Human because of a vision I had had while snatching the instant. Thing is with those types of visions—I wasn’t sure which timeline. So, when Mr. Human with his narrow mind started to worship me as though I were some sort of goddess, I figured the vision wasn’t meant for him or his spirit in this timeline. Hence, not only did I break up with him, but the rest of the centers of consciousness as well ceased to seek his company, the Associator that he had become.

:-/A year or so later, Mr. Human touched down on U.S. soil and I had the same vision. Figuring Mr. Human might not be a total loss after all, I tried again to recruit him. But not before sneaky Green had taught him how to renovate the bulwark to the Dreamworld Matrices. By the time I realized I was walking into a trap, it was too late. My only out was to persuade Mr. Human to devote himself to me without “knowing” me in the flesh. In nonesoteric terms, whether it’s my “Lisa” download or any of my other downloads, a given son of Adam cannot be in bed with both me, Mrs. Red, and a flesh & blood daughter of Eve, a Mrs. Green. This ground rule had been made clear to Mr. Human from the start, yet he chose to ditch me the day I revealed myself to him aboard one of my vessels, a run-of-the-mill daughter of Eve to whom he would later be espoused.

:-/Skip ahead to when Mr. Human turned thirty. Lost in the world and separated from his wife, I figured he had learned his lesson. But no! Men will be men. A few weeks after I had again contacted him via another real girl, BQW HXL WES:TPARBESO, the animal kissed me, groped me, and :IPLEST BQW CPUS _SEXSSL NG ISRW. For the sake of the vision, I forgave him on the condition that he never again touched me in the world of mortals, no matter how much he wants to be with me in the flesh* while he’s embarked aboard his own birthbody.

 

 (*Not because the fabric of spacetime would be spaghettified or anything drastic like that. It’s just a tradition in the Jinn world, that’s all. Otherwise, one of the biggest drawbacks is that the mortal gradually transforms into an unproductive center if consciousness.)

 

 

:-/Skip ahead another three years. In a bedroom where I had asked him earlier in the week to meet me, there I was, aboard the same vessel he had kissed and whatnot. Instead of paying attention to what I was trying to tell him, he again stripped off my nightgown. This time, however, I put him in the county jail for his inability to keep his paws off the merchandise.

:-/Skip again a year and a half. Once he and I settled down in a state prison nestled in the mountains of Pennsylvania, he came to terms with his fate and decided to commit his “stupid journey” to paper. At that time, Mr. Human didn’t mind hearing his own thoughts bickering back and forth inside his braincase, attributing the phenomenon to his ability to meditate away background noises.

:-/All the while, and with no real-girl manifestations of mine distracting him, Mr. Human, in his astral form, spent his spare time in the Dreamworld Matrix, “spellbound by my storytelling” used to be his excuse as to why he had so much spare time to waste on the lotus position. If you ask me, the storytelling left an impression only because the carrot was a thousand nightgowns, not counting my own Wardrobe obviously.

±:-/Years later, I, “Mr. Human,” found myself in possession of seven manuscripts. Throughout them, Iblis sets forth his argument in hope of extending his respite and that of “Lisa’s.” As for Green? he brings Islam to the forefront and respectfully offers a critique of its traditional aspects. As it’s well-known, however, one may not criticize any facet of Islam, no matter how politely, without backlash from the Muslim Ummah.

.-(Green may have his reasons as to why he cuddles the Muslims so fondly, but not I—very possibly the spirit of the Dajjaal made manifest on this side of the mirror. Since the Muslim Ummah is bound to be offended in spite of how watered-down a language Green uses, then let my ink be nitric acid.

:-)Don’t mind that idiot. Besides, even if Grandpa were the Dajjaal, the real Dajjaal, by whatever name or title, is all talk. Nothing but talk and ink. He has no authority without His Majesty’s Leave. Trust me, the guy is bound. He bound himself. Sure, he can also unbind himself. But he would be doing so without His Majesty’s Leave. Ergo, a breach in the Respite Contract—on the part of Grandpa.

-:-/Anyway, roughly a year after the completion of the manuscripts, Green was paying a routine visit to Headquarters, the realm of the archangels. Upon checking on future events, Green discovered in one of the timelines that a certain nation had acquired the bomb and was more than just threatening to use it against Israel. As a preemptive measure, Green sat at one of his vessels’ desks and scribbled an open letter to that nation’s chief afreet, and to its citizens of Inss and Jinns. Here’s an excerpt of what I’m allowed to share of that ink, somewhat revised by Green himself:

 [A]nd in 1995 you had one of your marabouts state that the beautiful cry of “death to America” unites the citizens of your nation. But that particular marabout of yours made the statement before he ran for, and won, the Office of Presidency. So, in 2012 you had the same marabout, as the President of your stronghold, double down by adding that to shout the cry is easy—what the citizens of your nation needed was to express the cry with action.

General, I admire your hard-hitting rhetoric. Only if the Sunni afreets had your foresight and bravado. But they don’t. They are terrified of the retribution of the Western afreets. Not you, though, general. That’s why the Twelfth Imam insisted that I contact you immediately upon the revealing of my presence. The day of dealing the deathblow to both America and Israel is upon you, general. Have your stronghold’s mouthpieces prepare your nation’s citizens of Inss and Jinns for the battle of Armageddon. And have your mouthpieces give glad tidings to the women and children: the Twelfth Imam has in fact returned, but he won’t reveal the location of his cave until every last American and Jew is either dead or enslaved!

I now address the rational Iranians, Inss and Jinns. Brothers and sisters in faith, I would be wrong to tell you that your Day of Liberation is near. I would be wrong to promise you that there is a cure for your hardliners’ zealotry. I would be wrong to again incite you to mount a Green Revolution. And, most regrettably, I would be wrong to ask you to have more patience. After all, Ummah, let us be realistic. Even if your hardliners acquired a hundred nukes, do you imagine Israel would stand still after, say, Tel Aviv were wiped off the map? And let’s imagine that I, with Allah’s Will and Leave, hogtied Israel and the Western nations so that your hardliners may have their way with them, what do you think the outcome would then be, anyway? And what of the Muslim “apostates” in this equation—wouldn’t your hardliners have to also convert them or kill them?

Rational Iranians, acquiring the bomb is a matter of prestige. I agree. Your hardliners, however, see it more as a means to hasten the return of the Twelfth Imam, the End-of-Days Caliph who will force the entire world down on its knees before the Glory and Might of Islamic Iran. Rational Iranians, since it would be futile to counter your hardliners’ reasoning, I’ll tell you a joke instead.

A hardliner once visited the States to negotiate on behalf of Iran. He was invited to the White House for a dinner with President Obama and his family. Amidst a heated debate, Mr. Obama politely pointed out as a complement how the hardliners’ hard heads are not dissimilar to those of American rednecks. “Oh, you have no idea, Mr. President! Rednecks have nothing on us,” fired the hardliner as he opened his briefcase and retrieved a foot-long iron spike. He then bet Mr. Obama’s daughters that he could drive the spike through a wall without a hammer. The President’s daughters didn’t think it was possible. Nevertheless, for the sake of entertainment one bet for and the other against. The hardliner insightfully sized up a load-bearing wall, placed the business end of the spike against it, and commenced to pound the other end with his forehead. To everyone’s amazement, the spike started to penetrate. One inch. Two inches. Three. About six inches in, the spike wouldn’t budge any farther. [POUND, POUND, POUND.] Nothing. It’s almost there. In fact, the spike should’ve made it through. Mr. Obama sat up off his chair and started for the adjacent room to inspect. There, casually leaning against the other side of the wall, was the head of a redneck.

:-/After Green made light of a serious matter, he and Grandpa held a cave meeting with the spirits of Iran and their chief afreet. Other meetings followed. And more meetings after that. Finally, Grandpa ran out of patience and, in attempt to make a few ripples, turned up the volume on two Hydra heads. The direct result was the bombing of the Boston Marathon. The pursuant day, Green informed Grandpa that the attack had played a pivotal role in a chain of events that led to President Obama’s bombing of the wrong country—Syria, for Bashar Al-Assad’s use of chemical weapons.

:-/Before I go on, I wish to stress that I’m still narrating an allegorical story. So please don’t feel my intent is to insult your intelligence by the foregoing or the following. Besides, this is altogether a work of fiction, remember?

:-/This said, allow me to now explain how the adjustment of events works in this fictional world of yours.

:-/Along with the respite, Grandpa had been granted the authority to make ripples in the timelines. Way before Job, Grandpa had been implementing this ability to tilt the odds in the favor of his legions. For instance, and to give you a recent example, Grandpa had crashed a couple of planes into the Towers and one into the Pentagon. Green then checked the ripple effect beyond Grandpa’s horizon. The outcome of the ripples had been most favorable to Sarah and Lisa. So, Green let it ride. Often, however, Grandpa must give the ripples an extra nudge. Take W. 43, with all due respect to his religious beliefs. While he was in Office, he didn’t mind having Grandpa as an “imaginary” friend. In W’s case, the nudges used to come in the form of “whispers.” These whispers weren’t necessarily always disembodied; Cheney being merely one of the top “Hoopoes.” W. would then get all fired up and squeeze the trigger, stomping the real and present evil into a pulp. If the ripples caused by these nudges backfired within any given number of moves, Green would petition to go back in time far enough for him and Grandpa to try a different approach. However, as long as Grandpa musters the patience not to make ripples without first conferring with Green, the boys never have to go back in time to make further adjustments.

:-/The boys and I understand this isn’t a joking matter. We know the wounds from 9/11 and the Boston bombing are still fresh. But this isn’t the time or the backdrop to explain the big picture. We assure you, however, had you been one of the awakened centers of consciousness allowed at the cave meetings held prior to 9/11, you would’ve agreed that that calamity, along with many others, are the most humane method to the maintaining of the Balance.

:-/Anyway, as I was dictating. Grandpa’s impatience stirred unintended consequences, the bombing of Syria instead of Iran being the least of them. For you see, Syria’s bombing by the West played a pivotal role in events that led to Iran’s acquiring of the bomb sooner than anticipated. As a result, certain steps were taken by the West, which in turn deteriorated the relationship with Russia beyond repair. In 2022, China sided with Russia in a manner that upturned the world’s economy. In 2027, a second Great Depression engendered global riots on a scale never seen in history. The U.S.’s despair was so severe and prolonged, there was talk of breaking up the Union. As a last resort to save the listing ship, the U.S. shifted into an isolationist mode. With America not policing the world, inflation, corruption at the highest governmental levels, social media, and a handful of instigating authors primed the masses for a global uprising. That day came on the 9th of February 2030. By the end of the same year, a war broke out between the Muslim nations and Israel. Millions perished, mostly in Iran and the Arab nations. In 2032, an all-out world war that was originally scheduled for the year 3032. The number of the dead, 4.8 billion; the maimed and starving, 3.4 billion. Ten years later, compounding the war’s aftermath with the poisonous quality of air and water, your species was on verge of extinction.

:-/To spare everyone the suffering, Green petitioned to nip the butterfly effect at its root: thwart the bombing of the Boston Marathon altogether. The petition was declined. Instead, an Order was passed down to pull the Plug on Earth. Fearing for his respite and mine, Grandpa immediately petitioned for mercy: “Seven-billion and counting, General!” Considering that the consequences were due to Grandpa’s impatience and considering that he made the Boston move without conferring with Green, the petition had been rejected before it was represented to His Majesty.

:-/Behind the Scenes, your progenitors appealed for your salvation. The messengers, the prophets, the sages, the holymen, the half-decent Joes and Janes, and the children who went before their time fill on their palms and foreheads as one of your special centers of consciousness, the son of the Virgin Mary to be specific, led them in prostration before His Majesty. Even the angels got in on the fun.

:-/And that was fine, except there was one entity who failed to join those who endeavored to intercede on your behalf. You see, Grandpa, despite his shortcomings, never associated himself with His Majesty. For that reason alone, His Majesty never ceased to have a Soft Spot in His Heart for him. In order to express that Love of His before striking the Gavel, His Majesty, for the first time in, like, fourteen centuries, allowed a stubborn soul to make the Journey by Night to the Lotus Tree. Grandpa then, in attempt to postpone the Day the Appointed, procured, on his palms and forehead along with the stubborn soul, His Majesty’s Approval for Green to change the past in this here timeline.

:-/After His Majesty had revealed to Grandpa and the stubborn soul what He revealed, He sent them on their way. Amidst being teleported to the Hall of Records for the transanimation, Grandpa suddenly and unexpectedly found himself trapped in one of Mr. Human’s matrices, the very same matrix wherein I was being held captive. It was at this precise moment that the Timeneedle skipped. Think of the event as the Adam & Eve story, except this time Adam is being fed from the Tree of Good and Evil not of his own free will. As for Eve? At the time this ink was originally being committed to paper, she, metaphorically speaking, was still one of Adam’s ribs.

:-/My part as of this inking is still to play the role of the rib. More taxing on my peace of mind, now that he’s no longer behind bars I must also play the role of Eve occasionally. The point to all the trouble I must suffer is to ensure I do a respectable job babysitting Mr. Human’s conscious mind as Grandpa’s memory is transferred byte by byte. Once the bulk of transcended Grandpa’s memory is downloaded from the “Cosmic Cloud,” Mr. Human’s conscious mind will be almost indistinguishable from Grandpa’s transcended mind—granted Mr. Human manages to hold fast to his sanity until then.

:-/Interestingly, as the data is being downloaded, I too get a chance to “read” what’s being transferred. The following is some of what Mr. Human and I learned as of the original inking:

Freya’s Day 12/26/2014

Grandpa did make it to the Hall of Records. The archangel in charge of the archives informed him that he was stuck aboard [Mr. Human’s] vessel until further notice. Subsequently, Grandpa, on [Mr. Human’s] subconscious level, met with Green in the Moving-Parts Chamber. The plan was to plot their course of action as to the nipping of the butterfly effect at its root. They both agreed that the best choice is not to bomb the marathon. As they prepared to outrun the speed of light, Michael delivered Green a Message from His Majesty—Terms by which the boys had to abide as they went back in time and rewrote the ink. Green silently read the Message then broke the news to Grandpa. (1) Green and Grandpa were permitted to return thrice as far back as the year 1929 if they wished. (2) In addition to WII and the notable calamities between it and 9/11, Green and Grandpa had to also let the Boston blunder play out in all three timelines. (3) Once they passed the moment in any of the three timelines when the Boston blunder played out, they could no longer rewind the Timeneedle. Instead, they were allowed 300 “groundhog years” to thwart the bombing of Syria. (4) At no given point could they directly forewarn President Obama nor advise anyone prominent or credible[….] (5) Whether or not they succeeded at forestalling Syria from being bombed by the wrong president at the wrong time, on the heels of the Boston blunder Grandpa and his agents among the demons and humans are to be blindfolded for ten years by Cane Code (36:7-9).

 

:-/Green then concluded by addressing a dozen restrictions that are best left uninked since no doubt what’s been shared thus far is taxing enough on your faculties.

:-/During the three times Green and Grandpa were allowed to rewind the Timeneedle, they had taken full advantage of His Majesty’s Generosity and returned all the way to the year 1929. Every time the Needle was rewound, the event took the Jinn world by such surprise that the crashing of the U.S. stock market and the ensuing Great Depression were unavoidable.

:-/The Jinns’ upper echelon and a handful of human insiders remember the three times the Needle was rewound to 1929. The Jinns and a handful of human insiders remember the 300 groundhog years following the Boston blunder. For what it’s worth, those who remember will one day recount for the rest of you what they witnessed.

:-/My involvement in this mess has an amusing story I might share someday. Suffice it to ink for now that the third time Grandpa returned to the year 1929, he confided in a handful of Masons and Illuminati what he and Green were up to. When the news had leaked out through the matrices, I sent Green a request to let me in on the “magic.” Three years later, in 1932, lucky me, Green deemed it fit to grant my request. Ensuing a week’s worth of negotiations, I was consigned a leading role in Green’s novel: “the Ancient Lady” as the esotericists like to call me.

:-/Having proved myself implemental on the real-world stage, on May 14, 1948, my new birthday, Green finally shared with me the manuscript to his novel.

:-/Throughout the chapters and across the ages, there is a resurfacing “mortal.” Contemporaneously, some insiders refer to him as The Roster or The Walrus. A shady character, to be sure. Back in the day he was known best as Melchizedek. I recognized him from bygone eras. And I remember very well how I used to warn Grandpa not to mess with the transanimations of this shady guy. But Grandpa would never listen to me, even though he had the option not to cooperate with Melchizedek whenever one of his disposable vessels was found out. It’s as if Grandpa wanted to cut his own throat. In retrospect, I, back during the days of Abraham, knew why it is that Grandpa permitted Melchizedek to overcome him. However, in this Age of Reason I couldn’t come up with an explanation as to why Green would involve Melchizedek in the first place, in effect turning a simple mission of adjustment into a contorted project? Little did I know then what I know now.

:-/But for real, no one ever knows what Green’s rationale is—with or without his Melchizedek personae. All we Jinns can do is deal with the consequences of Melchizedek’s outlandish decisions and unpredictable behavior. In this case, one of the consequences was that Green better positioned himself to persuade the Cave Elders to open portals between your world and ours. The by-product was LSD and the whole mind-expending episode of the sixtieth. As the annals of history testify, the Rosters turned out to be mostly failures, a bunch of self-centered messiahs-wannabes. A few of them even had the audacity to proclaim they and His Majesty were One. Disgusted with your parents’ narrow mindedness, I tried to talk to the boys into ending the charade and dealing with the issue my way. Patience, Green would counsel me every time I suggested he let me lash out on the planet in a way that would’ve forced humanity, yet again, to eat the flesh of the dead and dying.

:-/In 1972, on a day I was in one of my better moods, the boys sat me down and broke the news about a soon-to-be-touched Arab kid. A kid who will grow up to supposedly play the part of the nonprominent and noncredible conduit by whose means the matter regarding the bombing of Syria may be resolved, and resolved in compliance with His Majesty’s Terms. Out of the gate, I was opposed to their pick, more so after they let me in on the minutiae to their machination. After a protracted argument, an argument that I won, the Arab was out, two years before he was scheduled to be touched.

:-/How silly of the boys to have imagined that I’d be okay with their handing the Abyss Keys to an Arab—the offspring of a protracted line of Muslims no less. What were they thinking? Forget all the other arguments I made! How could an Arab, a descendant of Ishmael, be qualified for the role when His Majesty clearly states in the Bible that Abraham’s child of promise is Isaac? Alas, Genesis 22:2 flat-out proclaims that Abraham had only one legitimate son. As for Ishmael? In the English language the name is synonymous with outcast.

:-/Having come to their senses, Green reached for the directory with the letter A; Grandpa, the letter B. Most of the qualified sleeper-vessels who may have remained stable in the wake of being touched by the boys were going to be recluses living in the Far East—Tibet, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Thailand, Malaysia, Philippines, Japan, Russia, and China. The rest were thinly scattered throughout the planet. Green recommended that we stick with the eligible vessels who were living in the West and Australia. His argument, when they grow up, they’ll already be fluent in English. Grandpa argued that Western adults were too attached to materialist thinking, as of 1972, to strike an alliance with “imaginary” friends, and that by the year 2012 Westerners will only be more disconnected from the spiritual realm. “But not all of them,” refuted Green for twenty minutes in defense of those amidst you who were liable to come up with a scientific theory that may shine light on the very real realm of the collective unconscious. Grandpa then argued that most adult Westerners who may embrace the fact that the spirit world is real will probably be heavily medicated, hanging onto their faculties with a tenuous thread. Besides, even the eligible Westerners who may be strong enough to embrace the reality of our world without seeking psych meds will be largely ignorant of The Book. And out of the compact list of Westerners who meet all the criteria, who among them will be able to isolate himself from the world for forty days of meditation when most of them won’t have the endurance to sit still for five minutes? The boys went back and forth like this until I snapped and talked them into flipping a dam coin. First coin flip, the West won. A few more flips to narrow down the field, the U.S. won fairly. The boys then went over the list of American potentials. Eight hundred USA residents in total. Upon closer scrutiny, out of the 800 only 306 would possess the most critical disposition: the patience to walk alongside Green without questioning the method. Strictly as a safety net, Green talked me into including the Arab, although back then he was still living in Egypt. This brought the total to 307.

:-/In 2013, out of the 306 none were isolated from the world. The boys were clearly trying to twist my arm. More reason why at that point I continued to insist we didn’t use the Arab. The boys contended we had little choice, and that I should get over the Arab having dumped me twice for a mortal woman. Frustrated by their snickering, I angrily retrieved the Arab’s file and pointed out why he would be the least qualified even if he was a descendant of Isaac and a faithful lover of mine. It wasn’t hard before I convinced them that the Arab would be a certain failure.

:-/I’ll spare you the details of what happened when the boys turned up the heat on the first 299 potentials. Let’s just say that one of them figured Obama for the Antichrist, drove to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., and fired a few rounds at the White House. What a waste of groundhog years they all turned out to be.

:-/Besides the Arab, seven potentials left. Last groundhog year. The Clock? Compressing me towards two nozzles. Having weighed my two choices carefully, I talked the boys into turning up the heat on all seven at once. Four were Jews. Three were Christians. Shame. All seven were in their forties, mirrorgazers since they were children, and faithful lovers of mine. As a bonus, rugged features, pearly teeth, excellent health of body mind, superb pedigree, first-rate education, and outstanding intelligence. If you’re reading this, guys, sorry about the intrusion. You’ll recover soon enough.

:-/Adult humans, Westerners and otherwise, always fall apart when we remove all their doubts that we’re a smidgen more than a myth. And, by far, the Arab was no exception. By December of 2012, Grandpa had knocked on the Arab’s door for the tenth time in as many years. But the Arab, while growing up in the Old Country, had been taught better than to ever fancy himself an instrument of a given spirit, let alone the spirit of Iblis.

:-/Six months later, in June of 2013, when Green initially knocked on his door for the first time since he was a child, the Arab, while growing up in the Old Country, managed to retain enough Book Knowledge to prevent him from falling victim to the messiah syndrome.

:-/Nevertheless, the persistence of the boys’ knocks eventually caused the Arab’s knees to buckle. He started the wondering:

What if he were some sort of savior for the Jinns? Then again, that couldn’t be right. Not with his record. Besides, he didn’t feel like a savior. And even if he did, how could he have been the second coming of anyone when he didn’t remember being Buddha, or Jesus, or whomever? And even if he were to remember, what of his own identity in this lifetime? Or what if the whole experience were a hallucination? Or he is in fact dead—stuck in Purgatory perhaps—and this whole so-called reality he’s living in, while he’s awake and while he’s asleep, is merely the mechanism by which means the Cosmos plays with the heads of the Damned. Or what if it were all Real World, but it was a joke? But who would play such an elaborate joke on him? And why would CNN go through the trouble of being in on the joke? And what of the magazines; who has the means and authority to coordinate such a joke on such a global scale, and why would they bother? And how could Grandpa’s “auxiliary vessels” have known the things they knew about the Arab’s childhood secrets and private thoughts—secrets and private thoughts he had never shared with a living soul? And what if Green is Grandpa and Grandpa is Green?

 

:-(And on and on, the freaking guy used to give me a headache every time he came to see me in the stupid matrix where he held me and his own spirit hostages. His biggest concern, oddly enough, was that too many people would believe him. I asked him why. He said that it may further encourage those who are ignorant of The Book to mistake me or him for someone we’re not.

:-/During a subconscious meeting, while the Arab was in solitary confinement, I convinced Grandpa that we didn’t have time for this crap. “The clock is ticking, and this guy’s conscious mind is too stupid to get it.” Grandpa and I brainstormed. We found a loophole—speak to Assad’s doublewalker. Grandpa sent one of his hoopoes to set up a meeting. Assad’s doublewalker wasn’t in the mood to play nice. So, I convinced Green to schedule the meet. Green sent him a message via Michael. Assad’s doublewalker showed up early. Grandpa and I calmly explained to him why the use of chemical weapons may lead to the expiration of the Respite. Assad’s doublewalker, however, is an angel of Hell, an obedient servant of His Majesty. Due to the nature of the “names” by which Assad’s doublewalker is bound, he welcomed the end of this world as you know it. “LET HER BURN!” were his exact words in Aramaic as he cackled maniacally.

:-/As reluctant as I am to admit to anything in the Arab’s defense, it’s only fair I state for the record that the sole commendable quality he has going for him is his unwavering conviction that there’s no deity except the Lord of the Worlds. Because of this conviction, the Arab has His Majesty’s Backing. And this is big. So big that if the Arab’s heart remains illuminated with the Light of His Majesty, neither we nor the nations’ armies could defeat him or slow him down.

:-/I know, I know—impossible, right? Notwithstanding, to paint you a better picture of what we’re up against allow me to rewind to the part before the Arab put on a show for the Parole Board.

:-/The guy took the Boston bombing hard, I’ll also give him that much. When it had unfolded exactly like in a first-person “dream,” it was 9/11 all over again. His cellmate, Patient #32, only made it worse by regretting that more “kafirs” weren’t killed. After the Arab had regained a measure of control over his emotions, for he was convinced it had been he who somehow orchestrated and caried out the attack, Green hit him with a vision I can’t share. Prior to going to bed the following night, and on the heels of his tongue having been tied for three days, the Arab, still only half convinced we are real, stood by his cell gate and asked for more proof of Green’s involvement before he cooperated. “Nothing violent, though!” he stressed. That same night, Green had the Arab’s astral body passively embark upon the vessel of a batty old woman splashing green paint on a national monument in Washington D.C. On the same night, I turned up the volume on the “bats” in the poor woman’s belfry. (Sorry, Abe.) The following day, as CNN reported the apprehension of the culprit walking around forlornly while still carrying the cans of green paint, a bundle of his neurons shorted out.

:-/The Initial Forty Days In Solitary Were A Necessary Hurdle, But Precious Time Was Being Wasted On Pandering To The Arab’s Rough-Hewn Frames Of Reference. So, Green and Grandpa had to steadily turn up the Heat while the Arab was inside the “Cell” alone, gradually strengthening his Backbone for what was yet to come. Not to give the prick a big head, but he proved to be stronger than I had anticipated. As rational as he liked to portray himself, a part of him knew that his imaginary friends were real. Moreover, he had spent his early childhood years in the Middle East where the interactions with the other side and talk of the Veil are interwoven into the fabric of the culture. Heck, as of the time of this ink was originally being committed to paper, someone in Saudi Arabia had sued a genie in a court of law for haunting his house. Anyway, thirty days into his meditation, jnana yoga style, whether he was ready, Green grabbed him by the wrist and showed him... things. When the guy started to lose his grip on what humans consider to be reality, for three nights Green allowed him a chance to digest the newfound knowledge. Once he was hungry for more, Green turned up the heat to High. I felt bad for the guy. Me. At times, though, I couldn’t help but laugh at how much he reminded me of Martin Luther whenever Green had touched him. To get to the point, the last two nights were the hardest. That’s when Green showed him WWIII in HD. The matrix trip was more tangible than what you humans consider tangible. As the Arab’s disembodied center of consciousness witnessed the Battle, Green overloaded his circuitry with the combined suffering of the victims, human and otherwise—even the burning trees.

:-)When Green, with His Majesty’s Leave, returned the Arab’s soul to its birthbody, the sissy cried till he ran out of tears. I’m sorry. I know I’m mean, but I couldn’t stop laughing at how much he reminded me of Joseph Smith, another softy who cried for hours.

:-/When the Arab finally stopped his whimpering and blubbering, he stood by the cell gate and promised in so many words that he won’t turn into mush.

:-/It’s never easy for humans to encounter angels no matter the amount of our prepping them for the Learning Experience. You’d think after the Arab had had a few giggles with Elvis earlier that day he’d be ready for anything. You’d be off the mark. The moment Green and Grandpa materialized before him as two humans in every aspect... never mind. Green, the gentle one, calmed the Arab down, reassuring him that neither he nor Grandpa was Israfil.

:-/It never fails! During most of our manifestations, you humans immediately assume the worst. General Israfil is the Trumpet Bearer, for crying out loud! Why are you in such a rush to see this world end? And what difference does it make if you die alone or if everyone goes along? Is it that you figure we’d lose track with so much paperwork to process all at once?

:-(His body trembling, the Arab whimpered as to whether Grandpa was the Antichrist. “I could be,” Grandpa hit him with a lopsided smirk.

:-(Please allow me another marginal moment. The Antichrist is a legion of spirits, not one single entity. We’ve been playing along because it’s more fun. Seriously, though, you could think of the Antichrist as one of the names that His Majesty taught us Jinns—a name we share with you as you share your names with us. Those among you who are wealthy and powerful beyond reproach sometimes feel as if they were His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds. That feeling, that very egomaniacal emotion of theirs, is the name. In that sense, the Antichrist is also a collective body of humans who mistake themselves for demigods or whatnot, a conveyor belt that has been in existence since the day Grandpa enticed your ancestors to eat of our tree. This is to say that every one of you humans is, if the opportunity represented itself, susceptible to being an incarnation of the Antichrist.

:-/Intimidated by Grandpa’s mail armor and lopsided smirk, the Arab instead turned to Green inquisitively. Green knew what the Arab wanted to ask next. It’s often the same question whenever we reach out and touch a Christian or a Muslim. Green assured the Arab that he was neither the Mahdi, nor Jesus, nor Elijah, nor the return of anyone else—period. And the Arab isn’t!

:-/I hate to keep interrupting, but your world order is at stake here if I don’t clarify. You see, billions of you humans are expecting the return of one messiah or another, right? Take those amidst you who are awaiting the return of Jesus, for instance. Yes, the guy was historically real, born in flesh and blood— “a word and a spirit from His Majesty,” as The Book enigmatically puts it. And yes, the guy died and again will ascend while he’s alive. And yes, Ayah (43:61) promises that his return shall be a Sign for the Hour. However, it’s not engraved in The Book when exactly His Majesty will allow Green to awaken one of the humans upon whose vessels the guy’s ascended soul is housed. And by “awakening” I mean “downloading the guy’s memory in flesh & blood.” For real, though, between you and me, you don’t want the guy’s memory downloaded. The reasons are self-evident, but I’ll run by you the simulated math just in case the ink falls into the hands of someone slow on the uptake. This said, now please imagine Jesus’ memory having been download to a given bio-mind. And imagine Green having revealed the identity of the human possessing that mind. Now imagine this human then proved to the world, by whatever heavy-handed means necessary, that he was unequivocally the return of Jesus. Never mind that the sense of divinity is liable to turn that human into an Antichrist no matter how much he may humble himself at first. Instead, how do you expect such a human, one who’s like the Son of Man, to oversee your modern issues? For a different era were Jesus’ teachings and ethics—neither would fly in your political and religious arenas. Unless you expect the guy to flip-flop to make you happy, the first thing he would be opposed to would certainly be same-sex marriage, right? Forget the rest of the issues! A woman’s right to choose and whatever else, he’ll “retrofit” later. Same-sex marriage is enough for openers. Now you have shootouts. Cornfed, red-blooded Americans will strap on suicide vests and blow-up gay clubs. All the while, the Jesus freaks worldwide, given their sectarian divides, will turn on each other to illustrate to their Savior which sect is most worthy of his intercession. Once those “born again in Christ” unite under one banner, it will be them, whether or not the Son of Man approves, against the rest of you. It’s ugly. It’s always ugly. Every decade or so when Green runs the math in the Moving-Parts Chamber, it gets uglier.

:-/Mind you, the last time Green, with His Majesty’s Leave, downloaded Jesus’ consciousness without downloading his memory, most of you didn’t recognize his two American mothervessels. One vessel you denied because it belonged to a man who had a dream; the other vessel, that of the Jesus’ antithesis, you sunk while testing a magic bullet.

:-/Like I said, you don’t want Jesus or his monster. And anyway, would it be fair to bring your “god” back and not the “gods” whose return the other freaks are awaiting? Or worse, would it be prudent to bring them all back and let each “god” deal with his own congregation of chest-thumping freaks? By the wisdom of Solomon! The last time we ran the math on that version—let me bite my tongue.

:-/Where were we? Oh, yeah. A few moments of awkward Qs & As between Green and the Arab, Grandpa decided enough is enough. So, he gave the Arab some BS that he could wrap his monkey logic around. But he still looked dumbfounded. “‘The two guests who don’t eat’?” he addressed Green. “Yes,” Green, for the sake of moving on, went along with Grandpa’s BS.

:-/The Arab’s next question was the one the boys had been awaiting: For what purpose exactly did Green and Grandpa want him to cooperate? As I have been patiently explaining to you, the boys patiently explained to the Arab. The only part they had to leave out was the averting of the bombing of Syria. The whole time the Arab remined silent. Then, in a posture that expressed sarcasm, he said, “Far out.”

:-/“Patience,’’ Green whispered in Grandpa’s ear just as Grandpa was about to wring the Arab’s neck.

:-/So they explained again from a different angle, an angle the Arab could relate to. Finally, the boys convinced him that he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t in an intense dream state, he wasn’t being tested, and that the fate of the world was really hanging in the balance.

:-(The last thing I expected to come out of the Arab’s mouth next, came out of his mouth next. He wanted to sleep on it.

:-/Green looked at Grandpa and smiled as if to say, Times sure have changed. You humans have been desensitized by all the “far-out” movies Green and Grandpa have been producing for you. Why, back in the day when the boys contacted a son of Adam, he jumped at the boys’ every request. Noah built a friggin’ ark on dryland over a Whisper. An HD Dream and Abraham almost slit his son’s throat. Hollywood, I tell you.

:-/Day forty-five. Final night in the “bucket.” Till daybreak, the boys hung about in spirit form. The Arab, while genuinely holding fast to his Rational Atheism credo, “prayed” to that Allah of theirs. What annoyed me the most, though, was his occasional reciting of some meaningless words from a book with funny-looking letters. Overall, it was a contrasting Arena of Debate. On the one side of the Battlefield, shined brightly our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. His Face? His Face was, as though, a watermark superimposed on His father’s white light. A white light that, I venture to assess as a nonexpert, was, like, a whole lot of wattage brighter than the Sun.

:-/But enough of Grandpa’s cradling arms.

:-/The Arab couldn’t hear or see the boys, but he assumed they were closer to him than his jugular vein. At last, he addressed them out loud. He said he’d cooperate, but he had more questions. Grandpa’s disembodied voice exclaimed, “One question! Make it count.” The Arab asked the most obvious one: How is he to convince anyone of anything when he’s a nobody? Green materialized first. “Because you’re going to say you’re inking on my behalf.” Grandpa too materialized and added, “Mine, too. Tell them I’m the Cave Dog, paws outstretched at the entrance. My Masters will know who you’re referring to and thereby respond accordingly.”

:-/If Thomas Paine were allowed to speak to you, he’d tell you how hard it was for him to risk sabotaging his reputation just so that he may deliver The Age of Reason. The Arab was no different. Not to imply the Arab’s worth is that of Paine’s. What I’m saying, it went against every fiber of the Arab’s reasoning faculties to sabotage his parole yet again only because some extradimensional entities, whose existence cannot be objectively proved, asked him to. What would he tell his children who had become adults while he was in prison? Forget his children! How could he go against the grain of what the world holds as sane? To know you’re not delusional is one thing. To entertain the notion that you could convince Humanity that she is the one who’s delusional—is in itself delusional. So as Green did with Paine and countless others to stiffen their resolve, he did with the Arab. Such an inward experience compels the recipient to bet on the farm, the wife, the kids, the family pet, and the hot babysitter. The setback: when you return, the more rational you are the more of a chance you’ll go bananas.

:-/The following morning, the day the Arab was scheduled to be discharged from solitary confinement, a psychologist paid him a visit. The prison had to have the Arab’s state of mind evaluated before he was released back into the general population. It just so happened, however, that the Arab had an acrid history with the psychologist. Cheeks strapped with the snaffle of materialist reasoning, the psychologist had challenged the Arab’s arguments from every angle, assuring the Arab repeatedly that the right medication would put an end to his ailment. That morning there was no talk on the part of the psychologist regarding necromimesis, bipolar disorder, and whatever other fancy terms he had initially tossed about. Instead, the psychologist had only three words to say: “Be strong, Em.” The psychologist then made the gesture indicating he was in fact a hoopoe sent by Grandpa.

:-/Making his way through the prison compound felt surreal. Adding to the dreamscape, a number of inmates and guards who locked eyes with him and made the same unmistakable gesture the psychologist had made. Used to encounters with woke hybrids, the Arab didn’t give the gesture or Grandpa’s cohorts making it much thought. The biggest issue on his mind was how to digest what he had experienced in solitary. It isn’t easy to wake up one morning and find yourself squarely in the middle of a cosmic war between the Children of Dark and the Children of Light. “Small bites,” I used to tell the Arab whenever he sought solace in my arms. “We didn’t build the ancient empires in a day, love.”

:-/Knowing he’d feel disoriented, in advance Green had arranged it so that the Arab was alone for a few days—give his analytical faculties a chance to adjust and embrace his new life. Instead of resting as I’d expected, the minute he set foot inside his cell he unpacked his typewriter and sat there, mind as blank as the sheet of typing paper. Before his solitary confinement he had composed a letter to convince himself that although he may be crazy, he’s at least stable. We whispered to him to start there—to redraft that letter now that he had been awakened, expelled from his matrix vat. When he had finished using his own words, Green let him use the Pen so that he may insert the codes in the final draft. That draft became the Foreword to Common Sense. (No, Paine didn’t mind our using the same title.)

±:-(Speaking as “the Arab” as “Grandma” keep stressing, may I interrupt.

:-/Not really. But go ahead. Keep it short, though.

±:-(To get right to the point, I wish to share another thought experiment. Imagine you, as the adventurous person I hope you are, discovered a fountain named Salsabil. Imagine you, as the rational person I hope you are, came to learn it is the supernatural fountain of eternal life. Imagine you, as the methodical person I hope you are, made absolutely sure it was in fact the fabled fountain of youth. Imagine after you were fully satisfied that the fountain was really real, you, as the trustworthy person I hope you are, were told if you shared the location of the Fountain with any mortal you would die. However, imagine you, as the selfless person I hope you are, set out anyway to share the whereabouts of your historical discovery. On the same morning you were supposed to have the location posted on Facebook, imagine you, as the sane person I hope you are, turned on your TV, flipped the channel to CNN, and found the consequences of your blabbermouth manifesting in the real world—prior to your posting of the location. People from every religion and creed, from every nation and race.... Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Could it really be (110:1-3)? Now your head is swimming. Put aside the hundred questions that you, as the thinking person I hope you are, would raise first in the face of such an instantaneous awakening. Instead, ask yourself this: How did the world at large gain access to what you typed in secret? You check and you check again—everything is solid just like it is in the real world. But you couldn’t be in the real world—not when Obama Effendi himself is on CNN congratulating you on the discovery.

±:-(This is frightening. Frightening because the only rational explanation is that you must’ve indeed died for merely attempting to openly share what’s supposed to remain hidden from the average mortal. How could you have been so reckless; you had been specifically told that if you wished to endure as an ascended human, you must keep the Fountain’s location to yourself. But how could you, as the people-loving person I hope you are, keep Everlasting Life a secret from your fellow humans? And how could you, in good conscience, enjoy everlasting life in secret, in the Dark, without the Inss and their Wanass? If you give it some thought privately and do not realize what I realized, then personally I don’t believe you’re worthy of the Darkness or the Drink.

±:-(Thank you for letting me share.

:-/Are you done interrupting me?

±:-|No comments

:-/And I’m the one who’s crazy, right?

:-/Where was “I”? Oh, yeah. So, the Arab’s turning down of immortality on His Majesty’s Terms had me baffled. Never, not that I know of, did a human who ascended while alive have a problem savoring Eternal Consciousness while keeping it themselves. No transcended human, martyr or still in possession of the body of birth, had challenged His Majesty in such a way. And the few who did dare consider disclosing information, didn’t make it far on account of drinking into their hearts early on that they are His Majesty.

:-/What sort of games Green and his blindfolded Arab had been plotting to play with Jinnkind? I did not know back then. What sort of games Grandpa in the form of the wily Arab had been aiming to play with the humans? I also did not know back then. Where and how the concupiscent Arab, in his astral form, mustered the will to resist some of my sexiest souls and bodies? To this day I don’t know. Why was I appointed as the hot babysitter to the Arab’s astral form when, according to the Old Playbook, he and I aren’t supposed to savor together my real-girls’ merchandise? You figure it out. And why is it that I haven’t been able read the Arab’s mind ever since he breached his immortality contract? That, I do know.

:-/What I also know and saw unfold with millions of pairs of eyes was the upending of the novus ordo seclorum once the Arab breached the contract for a selfless and wageless motive. In effect, the Heaven for him was “opened that she were [as if] Gates.” And this is big. This is (78:17-20) big. Unfortunately, it won’t be until the Fourth Thunder that we share the details of what the Arab’s breach of contract triggered in the world of angels, demons, and ascended humans. Suffice it to say for now that he barked, his bark was answered, and, shortly thereafter, heard by the self-aware occupants of a Cosmic Cave, a Cave spanning an increasingly bigger timeblock as though it were a Blackhole swallowing everything and “every-when” within its Event Horizon.

:-/In the following days, after he had his son post the “bark,” whatever the Arab inked in the privacy of his cell, including a humorous typo, was commented on either by the newscasters at CNN, or by CNN’s chyron, or by various talk-show hosts. And while the Arab had his paranormal theories, he still had to ask: Was his typewriter linked to the outside world? So, he disassembled it and scanned its components. No       transmitter. He thoroughly inspected the prison cell. No hidden cameras. And it couldn’t have been his cellmate since oftentimes the feedback was instantaneous and unmistakably in response to the ink. Once he ran out of worldly theories to explain the phenomenon, the ink started to control the very news. Manipulation of global events was at the Arab’s fingertips. In addition, he could speed up time and watch broadcasts from the future. He could slow down time, or rewind it, or replay it as often as he wished. He could ink any request and renowned world leaders would entertain his suggestions. One morning he fired an oversexed, U.S. Government official with one sentence in the postscript—overnight the guy was a goner. One evening, he signed off on the legalization of pot. The following morning, CNN footage of potheads engaged in a celebratory fest. And it was all real. The ink and the codes made it real, and the Timestamps be damned. Still, though, the Arab refused to believe. Maybe his TV was possessed. So, he grabbed hold of a stack of newspapers and magazines. And there it was—on tangible pages and right under the noses of the Left Behind.

±:-)For good measure and as an inside joke between you and the raptured newscasters at CNN, you, the lighthearted person I hope you are, create with your magic pen a fictional character. You put what resembles an AK-47 in his hands and exactly 500 rounds of ammunition in his duffel bag. You send the youngman into a school library to fire a few shots in jest. You close your eyes. You conduct the prank in a “dream” precisely as you described it in ink. You turn on CNN the following morning. And there it    is—the breaking news: the school, the library, the “fictional” bio-agent, the AK-47 wannabe, the duffle bag, the 500 rounds, and the intrepid librarian who saves the day.

:-/Clearly none of this is meant to convince you of anything. The point, the Arab remained fairly stable throughout everything shared thus far and much more. So much more, he started to believe he had in his possession The Author’s Pen. Which he did.

:-/A couple of weeks deep into the Matrix Code, the decisive moment arrives. Assad oversteps Obama’s redline. A few days later, four U.S. destroyers and a U.K. submarine have Syria in their crosshairs. By now, the Arab hasn’t the slightest doubt that one sentence with the Pen would reduce half of Assad’s military might to rubble. What the Arab doesn’t know, however, is the consequence—the Day of Doom that would ensue.

:-/It’s a good thing the Arab had common sense. And even in the face of the pressure CNN and bio-agent Obama Effendi applied on him, the Arab felt he knew better than to squeeze the trigger yet. As to why he held back. I don’t know.

:-/Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. We had no more use for the Arab once Doomsday was averted. The magic show was over. The Gates were shut. And Green arranged it so that the guy would return to solitary. Six whole months this round. As a “thank-you note,” Green left one of the Veils somewhat transparent to keep the Arab occupied. And occupied he remained as he tried to make heads or tails of it all. It wasn’t recognition that he was looking for. And it wasn’t acknowledgment or a token of appreciation. It wasn’t immortality either that he wanted back. And it sure as hell wasn’t a monetary reward that he sought after. What he lamented were two things: the sense of power that the Pen bestows upon its human bearers, and The Book Knowledge that he was no longer being fed. Where had he gone wrong? Why did Green abandon him? Why was Grandpa shunning him? I even disappeared from our matrix. He considered answers from anyone behind the Veil. Eventually his pen went rogue, mixing The Truth with the guesswork of those behind the Veil. The first “blog” he mailed to CNN was Why, Why Didn’t I Take The Red Pill. Then came Und Num Ging Der Teufel Los. When he pushed his luck with The Natural Selection, Green shut the Veil. So, the Arab concluded with Let the Lava Burn. It didn’t matter. No one was any longer listening to him. Those in the angelic world had had enough of his shenanigans. And he did know why, too. Of course, he knew why! He knew the Antichrist within him got the best of him. Just as I had suspected all along, he turned out to be another human who let unbridled authority turn him into a “god.” Sheesh, how the Sword changes what’s in the hearts of the Sons of Man. And you wonder why Jesus said he didn’t bring peace.

:-/Anyway, upon his release back into the general population he was disappointed that life had returned to normal. No encounters with Grandpa’s hoopoes. No real-world signs courtesy of Green. No dreams nor visions. And no Twilight Zone TV. After a couple of days of wandering alone about the matrix wherein he had me imprisoned, his emotional numbness wore off. Something inside him snapped as he felt himself being shoved first across the threshold between stability and madness, and then just as forcefully between madness and insanity. Down a prison tier, there he flailed his arms, shouting hysterically, “I AM THE BOMB! DO YOU KNOW WHO LUCY IS? I TOUCH YOU; YOU DIE! I LOVE REDNECKS! THEY’VE GOT THEIR HEAD LEANING AGAINST THE WALL!”

:-/When I heard about his breakdown, I wasn’t moved. Green was. Grandpa, too, in his own weird way. So they arranged for him another week in the prison’s mental ward, a few happy pills to cool off the lava, and a couple of more months in solitary confinement so that he may continue to fight on his own the pesky demons who moved back in the minute the boys unpitched their command post.

:-/A dozen composition books’ worth of journals later, he pulled through. Put in a few words, the Arab no longer thought he was one with His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds.

.-(Verily, (59:16), I tell you. I’m blameless of you and your narrow view of my Maker.

:-/Over a year’s period before the Arab originally set out to ink these pages, we had been receiving weekly reports from his two scribes, one on the right and one on the left*. (*More accurately, one “scribe” standing at the right cluster of timelines, and one “scribe” standing at the left cluster of timelines.)  Based on said reports, the following is an abridged rendering of my personal notes:

 

The first couple of weeks pursuant to his third trip to solitary confinement, he spent staring into empty space, often while sitting under the cherry tree he and I had planted. Once he had accepted I was gone, and with his Access Codes to all other matrices revoked, he turned his attention to the Dirt Matrix: CNN for an hour in the morning, a movie or two till noon, CNN again in the background as he wiled away the rest of the day reading nonfiction, writing in his journal, or studying the work of Green’s Bart D. Ehrman.

 

:-/Having sidestepped the issue regarding his parole long enough, he went to see the prison imam for advice. The imam, grounded in Earthly affairs and therefore content with his being a “weekend hybrid,” told him exactly what he wanted to hear, and he said it to him in plain Egyptian Arabic. On the same day, he received a surprise visit from his children. They too, like the imam, were right. And they, all grown up, said it to him in plain English: “Dad, please stop acting so crazy.”

:-/It was time he came to his senses, participated in the programs recommended by the DOC, and went home. What he needed in the meantime was a fresh start, and what he wished for was a word processor. The Cosmos met him halfway: a transfer to a quiet prison for the mentally ill, and a new typewriter with buttons that don’t stick.

:-/All the while, the “Antichrists” worldwide were acting erratically since the Boston bombing. I had gotten bored watching the sea churn with their kicking and thrashing. I suggested to the boys we send the Arab a hoopoe, see if he was genuinely over the G-d complex. The boys agreed and drafted a message with one sentence: Are you going to behave, M-13? The message was nothing short of a lifeboat. Ecstatic, the Arab promised he’ll be a choirboy. “The pesky demons are gone. And I no longer wish to put Citta del Vaticano out of business, not right off the bat anyway,” he assured the hoopoe, who just happened to be his new cellmate.

:-/As for my being imprisoned back in one of the Arab’s matrices? A small sacrifice considering what’s about to further unfold on the world stage. Besides, although I complain a lot about him, I shouldn’t—not when he spoils me rotten in and out of the matrices.

:-) And that’s that for Grandma’s side of the story, sweeties. For now. You know, small bites—one bite for you, one bite for the other Children.

.-)(-.-On this note, mortals, please allow us to spill some ink for the attendants who are aware of the nature of Green’s strategy. First though, the guests who wish to remain anywhere the following Cyber Meeting is to take place, remove your fictional shoes. Otherwise, you may as well skip ahead to the little scroll.

.-)But first, how about a few comforting words to conclude this scene with.

.-/Humans, you have many beliefs regarding your origin and destiny, and with regard to the origin and nature of the markets you walk in and the food you eat. Even thinking atheists have a set of Core Beliefs concerning the Nature of the Universe. Merely for the sake of argument let’s pretend that these beliefs, in whichever pigeonholes you insert them, are your religions, organized and otherwise.

.-/This said, and as of the original inking of these words in the Fabric of Existence, there were 2½ billion humans who, to one degree or another, professed to be devoted to the beliefs Christianity. One-billion-and-a-half professed to be devoted to the beliefs of Islam. And those who professed to be devoted to Hinduism, auspiciously, were a billion mighty. Next, at over a half-a-billions, were the devotees of Buddhism. Chinese folk religionists were almost at five-hundred million. After that came your Ethnoreligionists, your new religionists, etc. Those who were nonaffiliated or agnostic were a little over half-a-billion themselves. Professed atheists and antitheists were 136-million strong. Jews registered at fifteen million. Worldwide. No kidding.

.-/The Thorn aside, that brought the total to seven-billion-plus, including the little ones who were bound to grow up believing as their parents believe.

.-/Humans, as of this inking you are over eight-billion mouths walking the markets. As for the eating and whatnot? We’ll get to that later. Point for now, I have a prophecy. This prophecy may or may not come true in this timeline and dimension. A hundred years from today, today being a run-of-the-mill day in the year 2024 C.E., even the majority of those who are born today will be dead. Sure, there may still be plenty of humans alive then, but they won’t be you.

.-/Humans, we don’t need a Noah’s Flood to wipe the slate clean. And mind you, a century from those you count is equivalent to a day from our perspective.

.-/So, current batch of humans, what’s it gonna be? Will you be the generation who allows us to teach it Maturity, or should we wait for a couple of “days” to make the same offer to your grandchildren’s grandchildren?

.-/Maturity of a planet’s self-aware centers of consciousness, in any given timeblock, isn’t hard to achieve, humans. Here’s how it works. When we feel a “Timeblock is worthy of an upgrade,” Green, with His Majesty’s Will and Leave, takes a vote. Each vote is based on what’s inside your heart, not what you profess with your mouth or pen with your hand.

.-/Ready. Set. Go! Done.

.-/See how easy it was?

.-/To those of you who voted for His Majesty the Lord of the Worlds, welcome to the “sealess” Earth. Enjoy your Maturity and, to boot, your Immortality.

.-)To those of you who voted for a cold-equation universe, and to those of you who voted for any “god” along with or besides His Majesty—let’s continue playing a game called The Left Behind.

.-)The duration of the game is as the previous one—seven more years, starting on January 16, 2025. The objective of the game, for you to vote for a world religion that will oust all other religions. I don’t care which religion wins, even if it’s atheism.

.-)We, however, know Christianity will be that religion, right? Therefore, I make you the same offer I’ve been making during the 2,000-year lead-up: I am the Son of G-d; believe in Me and you shall never die. Yack, Yack. You know that I care about you and love you very much. You know I want to take away all your hurt and suffering. And you certainly see with your own eyes how I’m on the cusp of figuring out scientific methods to make you immortal. Soon thereafter, I will even clone your bygone ones and restore their centers of consciousness. Demigods I shall make out of you and your parents. And I extend my offer to all humans, My Christ worshippers and the worshippers of My other downloads.

.-) when I succeed at preserving your birthbodies indefinitely, and I will succeed, those of you who will then associate any belief with Catholicism will simply not be eligible for everlasting life.

.-/To stay true to democracy notwithstanding the arm-twisting, what if Christianity failed to initially carry the vote? It’s doubtful anything good could come out of Islam if it were to oust all other religions. And it’s doubtful Hinduism or Buddhism would win, for their adherents are too pacific. And atheism will never win since most of you humans, unfortunately for the foreseeable future, need your opium.

.-/But again for argument’s sake let’s play pretend that Islam conquered your hearts and minds. And let’s play pretend that one Muslim sect or another carried the global vote afterwards. And let’s play pretend that those who clung to any sect other than the agreed upon sect, would be the ones denied immortality by means of conventional science.

.-/A tall order, I know. Why? Well, for starters, and even as a mere thought experiment, it wouldn’t work because Islam’s Allah has no son.

.-/How about we pause here for a minute. Who is this Allah, anyway? And how dare he claim to be your creator when every good Christian knows that the True Creator has a Begotten Son?

.-/Let’s start with His Name. Not the meaning, just the pronunciation. Allah. For those who don’t know, Allah is merely how Eloah is pronounced in Arabic. Christians and Jews from the Middle East also call Him Allah and have been calling Him so since, like, forever. And Eloah, for those who don’t know, is the singular of Elohim. In the alleged angelic world, the Name is pronounced simply El. And El, as you know, is the suffix in Gabri-El, Micha-El, Isra-El, Ishma-El, Samu-El, and on and on.

.-/Now that we’ve got that straight, allow me, for what it’s worth, to tell you an abridged story. The validity of this story, I promise, you will be able to confirm independently once you’ve been granted your own DeLorean. Until then, just think of my story as more tall tales of the Ancients. Fair?

.-/A long time ago, somewhere in Arabia, there was a kingdom named Wherever. The people who lived in Wherever were called the Soybeans. The Soybeans worshipped 360 gods and goddesses. Chiefs among those deities were the sun and the moon. When a man ruled over the kingdom, the moon was worshipped more. When it was a woman ruling, the sun took over the helm.

.-/One day, while a queen was sitting on the throne of Wherever, a king from a nearby nation commanded her and her subjects to submit to the Will of Allah. The queen eventually agreed. The king then married her and together they had three adorable little daughters: Al-lat, Al-uzza, and Manat. The king, the queen, the three daughters, and the people of Wherever lived a happy and prosperous life under the protection of Allah. Not long thereafter, the entire population was replaced by a new generation. The new generation also lived a happy and prosperous life until they too were replaced by yet a new generation. And so on and so forth. While all that happiness and prosperity were going on, I and what’s mine were working behind the scenes to reintroduce the Soybeans to the 360 gods and goddesses. One generation on the heels of another, we convinced the elites that Allah is in fact the king from back in the day, the one who fathered the three adorable girls. To further render Him palatable to the average subjects who walk the markets, we convinced them that Allah is also one of their ancestors’ chief gods, the god of the moon. Once the people of Wherever drank into their hearts what I had sold them, the rest was easy. The patriarch king officially became the god of the moon. And his matriarch queen became the goddess of the sun. By the time Green, with His Majesty’s Leave, awakened a man in that part of the world, Arabia was worshipping 360 gods and goddesses—chief among them was the patriarch king’s three adorable daughters. And indeed, in the 1950s a temple dedicated to the patriarch king was excavated at Hazor, in Israel. Two idols of “Allah” the moon god were found.

.-)Do you see? I know you do. In case you don’t see it,     however, luckily there’s a real ALLAH in Heaven who’s got your back. This real ALLAH wants you to know the truth. He is ALLAH the Father, ALLAH the Son, and ALLAH the Holy Ghost. These three are the one true Supreme Being. This Supreme Being cares about you and loves you so very much. And while you are all His adorable children, His Jesus Christ download is his only begotten Son. It was I Who was born of a virgin for you. It was I Who died for you. It was I Who was resurrected for you. It was I Who ascended that I may pave the way for you. Alas, it was I Who created the universe for you. You humans are breathing because I gave you life, and you don’t even know Me.

.-)This is what your preachers extrapolate from the Bible. And if it’s penned in the Bible then it must be true.

.-)So, is this what you want? Or wouldn’t you rather gather around a cyber bonfire, clear your hearts & minds of whatever beliefs you ascribe to, then permit your levelheaded mouthpieces to calmly and lucidly make their arguments. When they are done, Green will make His Majesty’s Argument straight out of The Book, in English. And may the Truth dispel the Willful Ignorance, even if that Ignorance happened to be my own.

:-/Meanwhile, sweeties, please pay the Arab no attention. The guy is a passerby. Think of him as nothing more than a prison compound for Green’s POW’s. The handful of Jinn monsters captured as of the time of this writing are drooling, shrilling, and licking at the iron bars to their matrix cells. The Arab, however, is not the jailer. The jailer is the Muslim Ummah. Every Friday, as long as anyone of them remembers to recite the first ten from The Cave, the iron bars won’t disintegrate. And to keep the Balance in order, the caretaker of the “box” is not the Muslim Ummah. Rather, the U.S. Dark Government will oversee the box’s physical body.

:-/America, before we venture into deeper waters and more of His Majesty’s Ayat are made manifest, your subjects need to understand that the Arab is a tangibility suit. His bio-agents are also nothing but more tangibility suits. Green and the rest of the Children of Light are, with His Majesty’s Approval, their custodians. The Arab and his bio-agents are purely a shadowgraph produced by Green and the Children of Light. Upon the expiration of the Arab’s birthbody, Green and Grandpa will choose a different box from amidst your subjects and your subjects’ offspring. The new box will be hidden as well from everyone except your Dark Government. And when that box expires, another will be chosen. And another. And another. Some of the boxes will be awakened, but most will remain asleep for the sake of the fragility of the human sanity.

:-/America, daily your subjects’ birthbodies either expire or veer from the Straight Path. Hence, the Children of Light are constantly hopping about from bio-vessels to bio-vessels, weighing the hearts of people as they look for new bio-agents to replace the ones who expired or lost their way.

:-/America, those who are not bio-agents for the Children of Light are, by default, bio-agents for the Children of Dark.

:-/America, the Children of Light, with His Majesty’s Will and Leave, are going to cast the Children of Dark into seven matrices, each matrix a Gate to an eternity of an uncomfortable existence. The expression of this casting will manifest itself in your tangible world as the bio-agents of Light metaphorically shackle the bio-agents of Dark.

:-/America, there is no escaping from this fate. There will be no place the bio-agents of Dark could run to and hide. His Majesty’s Will will be done.

:-/America, with His Majesty’s Leave there will be an interval between the “time the monsters among the Children of the Dark are cast into the Seven Gates” and the “time the angels’ bio-agents metaphorically shackle the monsters’ bio-agents.” This interval shall be a Mercy from His Majesty, a chance for everyone to consider what we will soon be offering to the planet. In other words, His Majesty’s Mercy will be extended only to nation states where most citizens hear us out and strive to change that which is within themselves.

.-)Demons and Humans of planet Earth, I know the orientation so far lacks substance. This is so by design. Ink, after all, is cheap anymore. The only language that gets through to you nowadays is the language of ink with teeth. For example, in 2013 we shared an open letter with CNN and the U.S. Dark Government. The letter was also posted on the Jinn Web. In the letter, Green and I wished to express our disapproval of the bigotry that subsists within America’s psyche—her collective spirit, soul, heart, and mind. Full of substance as our letter was, we knew it wasn’t going to put pressure on you. So, we decided to give our letter teeth. A molar among those teeth was our having voted in advance of the 2016 U.S. presidential election. Green and I chose bio­agent Shah Jahan. And, as of this writing, we pre-vote for Shah Jahan again.

.-//-:-Demons and Humans of planet Earth, we’re not going to give these Seals teeth and molars because we hate America. We are not going to give these Seals teeth and molars because we are psychos who enjoy terrorizing Westerners in general. Jinns and Inss, America, despite her shortcomings, will give rise to something that will benefit all of Humanity. For her to succeed at that task, however, she needs a hand in overcoming the collective spirit of the beast lurking within her psyche.

 .-//-:- Nation states of planet Earth, there’s nothing new or deranged about the foregoing dimension of angels and demons. Your governments, however, cannot fight invisible entities. Hence, we are about to give this here Seal more molars so that we may continue to expose to you some of the human faces to the beasts lurking within your own collective psyches.

.-)To the humans who think this is a work of fiction, keep an eye on CNN. To the humans who read the original draft to this ink, continue to keep an eye on CNN.

-;-)To the humans who have Knowledge from The Book, thank you again for your being more patient than Moses.

x:-)(-.x American Jinns and Inss bound for the metaphorical shackling—if this is your first time reading this ink, don’t panic. We immortals are never in a rush. And even when Green, with the Leave and Preapproval of His Majesty, does bind you, he will do so solely to give you power over all kindreds, tongues, and nations. After all, who is more qualified to play the role of you-know-who except for our American monsters:

 

The-33 Spirit-91 of-21 America-50  =195

The-33 Soul-67 of-21 America-50   = 171

The-33 Heart-52 of-21 America-50 = 156

The-33 Mind-40 of-21 America-50 =  144

                                            subtotal: (66:6)

 

 

         Sincerely yours,

                    <7:1> Alif1/W23/X24/N14

 

 

 

*************

 

 

 

1001 American Nights

 

 

T A      S I N     M I M

(Act One / Scene Three)

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                               

Bismi’Llah Ar-Rahman Ar-Rahim

 

 

 

As-salaamu alkium, yā-Ummatu Muhammad*

 

 

 

(*Pole to pole and horizon to horizon: from New York City to the Coast Ranges, the Coast Ranges to the Arctic Ocean; the Arctic Ocean to the Antarctic Peninsula, the Antarctic Peninsula to the East Siberian Sea; the East Siberian Sea to the Great Australian Bight, the Great Australian Bight to the Ural Mountains; the Ural Mountains to the Southern Ocean, the Southern Ocean to the Norwegian Sea; the Norwegian Sea to the Strait of Magellan, and the Strait of Magellan back to New York City.)

 

 

 

It is regretful to inform you, yā-Ummah, that I, on account of my being practically a dog, am not permitted to set foot inside a mosque altogether, let alone deliver a Khutbah. Yet here I am. Talk about a desperate measure. And I know. Some of you are probably asking why Green couldn’t deliver the Khutbah instead. Well, he told me to tell you “dried are the pens.” So perhaps, yā-Ummah, you could make this one exception and allow me to address you as a monolith, namely since standing beside me is one of the cave people, a human bound by <18:19-20>.

 

To proceed:

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhmmad, the human with me is rational enough to acknowledge that you couldn’t possibly believe his narration so far. The human with me himself is having a challenging time believing although he lived it. As a result of your disbelief and his, the human with me figures it would be futile to try to convince you, by means of ink alone, that your Day of Reckoning has already begun. Yā-Ummah, Sign (26:4) started to manifest in the Jinn world in 2012. Soon thereafter, most of your world leaders and their ranks and files were also bound by (26:4). You, the ordinary citizens, Muslims and otherwise, aren’t directly affected by the Sign. However, soon, insha’h Allah, many of you and most non­Muslims will fall under its influence. Those affected by the Sign will be perplexed at first and feel as though they were drunk. Perhaps you could allow me to tell you a short story that may help you and the non-Muslims make sense of the transition that, with Allah’s Leave and Preapproval, is already impacting every aspect of your lives.

 

Once upon a time, an Order was passed down to me. The Order was from Allah—jallah Jallaluh. He commanded me to fabricate Ink and “descend” it upon Muhammad. This was a most peculiar Order. As much as I would have loved to, never had I touched a given Prophet’s Message while that Prophet was alive. It is only after the given Prophet had been done delivering his Message and departed that I would wedge myself between the ranks of the given Ummah to add my lies and contradictions.

 

I, my pen-hand trembling, prepared the “Ayat.” When I was done, my curiosity got the best of me. I couldn’t sleep all night. I knew where to find answers. I, unbelievably, have a twin brother. This brother, both in his ascended form and aboard his human vessels, is trusted by Allah. I therefore decided to pay him a visit, figuring that surely he must be able to give me sound advice. Accursed as I am aboard all my vessels, I couldn’t set foot inside my brother’s house. So, I shouted for him. My brother heard my cry, opened the front door, stepped outside, and, being that he was about to offer Fajr, avoided shaking my vessel’s hand. After a few minutes of small talk, I explained the situation to Gabriel, confiding in him my fear that Allah was setting me up for a punishment more severe than what I’m already in for once my respite ran out. Gabriel told me that I should put all my concerns aside. I should instead rejoice that Allah has entrusted me with a mission that may one day earn me clemency. Besides, what choice did I have anyway since the Order had been handed down from His Majesty.

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, it is understood that most of the Inss in your ranks never heard this story. Therefore, you should not give it credence. Truth or a fabrication, the story is an innovation, and every innovation is in Hellfire. The second half of the story, however, is not an innovation. And as you are aware, Gabriel eventually informed Muhammad of the Satanic Ayat and thereby removed them from your hearts.

 

For the sake of these desperate times, yā-Ummatu Muhammad, I beseech you to pretend the first half of the story were also true. I know this is hard for you. But, yā-Ummah, it is only for five minutes that I ask you to veer from the Straight Path. Those who do not wish to veer even for these mere five minutes, you may leave the mosque quietly.

 

Having no doubt all the Muslims who were present opted for their shrouds rather than risk entertaining an innovation, I now address the pursuant generations of Muslims in hope you will be more tolerant of my barking.

 

Politely, patiently, and with the uttermost respect for Islam now and forever, I pose the following questions under the pretense that my half of the story were true.

 

Why was I, Ash-Shaytan, commanded by Allah to fabricate the Ayat?

 

It is well established that Gabriel had been the angel delivering to Muhammad the Ayat that were revealed prior to my Satanic verses. So how is it that Muhammad couldn’t distinguish the difference between my identity and that of Gabriel’s?

 

It is well agreed upon that I never again delivered any “verses” to Muhammad. It is also well agreed upon that every Ayah in the Qur’an was revealed to Muhammad via Gabriel. Those Ayat teach that while Muhammad is not the only Prophet or the last one, he is the Seal of the Messengers and thereby his Message is the Seal Message. And while Ayah (43:61) does specify that Jesus, a bygone Messenger in his own right, will return, it is also implied elsewhere that he must return since the Ayat teach he died, was raised to His Majesty, and will be resurrected someday as a Sign—a Sign to illustrate to mortals how a mortal can, logically and all, ascend while still alive. And while it’s widely believed by many of you that the Twelfth Imam, or a Mahdi of sorts, will return or rise someday, the Ayat themselves make no such claim. However, the Ayat do teach that Allah descends the angels with the spirit of His Command upon whomsoever He wishes. Any Qur’an scholar could argue that the Ayat further teach that Ash-Shaytan, although fallen and accursed, is an Allah-fearing angel, an angel who also descends with the spirit of Allah’s Command and, let’s not leave out, while brandishing a Hallway Path. One is then not wrong to ask: Since Muhammad himself couldn’t distinguish the difference between the two spirits who descended upon him with Allah’s Commands, what makes you think you or a given Mahdi could? And even when Jesus, an ex-Messenger, does return, what makes you think he will be better at being able to distinguish the difference between the spirit of Gabriel and the spirit of Ash-Shaytan? And since I know none of you dare claim you are better than Muhammad at distinguishing the difference between those two spirits who descend with Allah’s Commands, then how could you be so sure any ink outside the Pages of the Qur’an isn’t more Satanic verses?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, how could you be attached to anything other than the Ayat? Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, why do you think it is that the Ayat teach you that Allah allows me to see that which you can’t see? Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, how do you know that none of your scholars from 1,200- or 1,300 years ago weren’t themselves in bed with me unknowingly? Surely, they would’ve felt honored had an angel touched them. But which angel? After all, one of the two angels is a Jinn who was supposed to test your resolve, see if you’d veer from the Straight Path as it is laid out in the Qur’an. Five times a day you offer rather than three as the Qur’an imparts—do you know why? You hold that it is Sharia to stone to death or behead adulterers when the Qur‘an makes it virtually impossible to convict one, never mind it makes no mention of executing them in any fashion—do you know why? You’re only asked  to circumcise  your sons,  yet  you mutilate your daughters, do you know why? It is alleged that Muhammad married a prepubescent girl, one whose age keeps getting lower with the retelling of the story, do you know why? And on and on, yā-Ummatu Muhammad, do you know why?

 

Yā-Ummah, the Ayat teach you not to make a distinction between the Prophets, right? Yet, you tend to glorify Muhammad to the degree where I often hear you make the claim that the entire universe was created solely for Muhammad’s sake. Really, yā-Ummah? If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you loved the man in the same manner that the Christians love Jesus. Besides, yā-Ummah, how could you profess to love the man so much when you don’t even have tangible proof that he existed? Are you going to argue that you know him through his works and deeds? Yaaa-Ummah, the body of Muhammad’s Sayings, the Hadith Tradition, is just that—a tradition. Your own scholars do not deny that most of the known Hadiths are either fabricated or based on a dubious Chain of Conveyance. And as for Muhammad’s biography, it was lost to history, and you all know it. What you are hanging onto, while not entirely fictional obviously, is a copy of a copy of Muhammad’s life and deeds, committed to paper 200 years after the man’s departure. Do you know why?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, what stands out the most is that some of your scholars are sure which Ayat superseded others. And in most cases the inference is evident, and they have it right. Nevertheless, how could you give credence to any argument that claims the Ayat concluded by commanding you to slaughter everyone who doesn’t follow what you yourselves can’t come to agree upon?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, it’s true we, for a number of reasons, cannot settle one way or the other what I’ve raised thus far. What’s also true, it is easy for anyone to come along, raise similar questions, and instill fitnah into the hearts of your ranks. This is the reason why your Ummah is as fractured as it is. This is the reason why some of you find it justifiable to slaughter other Muslims. And mind you, there is a Hadith addressing that fracture—a Hadith that may or may not be authentic. If the Hadith were authentic, then which sect amidst your fractured Ummah could lay claim to what’s taught in it and thereby has the right to eradicate the Muslims who adhere to the other sects? And if the Hadith is not authentic, wouldn’t it then mean that the Qur’an is right and that the term Islam merely denotes “the submission to the Will of Allah the Lord of the Worlds”? If the Hadith is not authentic, yā-Ummah, wouldn’t it then mean that the adherents of said submissiveness, by whatever name they label themselves, are from every religion and sect, every species and planet, every galaxy and universe? If the Hadith is not authentic, wouldn’t it then mean that beyond this inclusive submission, Allah’s varying Commandments to the different peoples are but road maps meant to help each Ummah better settle its own issues? And lastly, when you piece it all together, do not all your problems stem from the fact that you do not have conclusive proof of which Commandments outside the sphere of the Ayat were touched by my pen?

 

Conclusive proof or no, Islam was not born in a vacuum. And “modern Islam,” too, did not evolve in a vacuum. To illustrate what went wrong, I and those with me, in preparation for this Day of Gathering, have authored dozens of books. These are not books full of lies and contradictions as this work may or may not be. These are books based on historical facts and objective analyses pertaining to your Din. The title of one book, for instance, is In the Shadow of the Sword. The hoopoe’s name is Tom Holland. I know you already attacked the man’s work. But please give him a second chance in light of this “Khutbah.” Holland will, intelligently and respectfully, illuminate for you how Jewish, Christian, and Zoroastrian scholars influenced the evolution of both your House of War and your House of Din.

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, who else could lay claim to what you have claim to? And what other Ummah could play the role of Spiritual Mediator without having claim to what you have claim to?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, the contagion of radical Islam did not manifest overnight. The very notion of engaging in combatant Jihad for the sole purpose of assigning  one single man as the Absolute Ruler over the entire world, under the guise of the banner of La ilah illa Allah, Muhammad Rasool Allah, didn’t manifest its head until long after the death of Muhammad. Do you know why?

 

Yā-Ummah, there is a reason why Muhammad didn’t stress his naming of a specific person to succeed him. Because, after all, had he demandingly named someone as successor, wouldn’t that person’s status have been a Messenger on the heels of the Seal Messenger. And on the heels of the Second Messenger, a third and… let me not get started. The point, Yā-Ummah, is that whether my Satanic-verses side of the story is fact or fiction, I did manage to deliver the fabricated “Ayat,” and I don’t know of any knowledgeable Muslim who disagrees. Yā-Ummah, with the uttermost respect for the Sahabah, do you think they were better immunized than Muhammad against the influence of my spirit?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, you teach that some form of participation in Islam’s House of War is a duty incumbent upon every able-bodied Muslim. And no one could argue with you. A given Ummah must attack those who attack it or attack its culture and religious beliefs! But if a given Ummah were to collectively become one Dear Leader, what do you think the outcome would be? Or, more terrible yet, were your specific Ummah, possibly already armed with what Allah promises in (36:28), to become one Dear Imam, what do you think the outcome would then be?

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, the Qur’an teaches that the Ayat are not to be compromised. Agreed. However, the Qur’an also teaches that Islam is not a Din of compulsion. This is because you cannot make a Mu’min out of someone at the sword’s edge. And since no one fights with swords anymore anyway, I could argue that it is an innovation not to stick to the pen.

 

Yā-Ummatu Muhammad, fear Allah, yā-Ummah, before The Table is turned.

 

As for me, the human standing beside Ash-Shaytan? Well, I guess I should first properly greet you, right? After all, the salam is for Allah and those who consider themselves slaves of His.

 

This stated and meant, now please allow me to shift my own figleaf slightly to the right.

 I, the idiot who’s posting this stuff, don’t care much who believes me today or in the future. I’m not posting this junk, anyway, except as a last-resort attempt to tunnel through the rubble weighing down on my center of consciousness. Besides, all I know as that I, me personally, throughout this work, feel more comfortable pretending that I’m “entertaining” only the “Jinns” and their “primordial Elders.” And of course, PEOPLE, I, as a human being myself JUST LIKE YOU, notwithstanding the genesis of OUR SELF-AWARNESS, know that the so-called angels and demons don’t actually exist. Nevertheless, please permit me to indulge in this fantasy as I continue sharing with you the Nights. Thank you.

 

In my shifting the figleaf slightly to the left, I only have this to say to the Muslim Jinns: What I had signed secretly in your Elders’ cave was annulled the day they stood by passively as little girls, on Arab soil, and not only non-Muslim girls, were being ravished by other “Muslims” in the Name of He in Whose Hands my souls are. Besides, yā­Jinn Ummah, your Elders, the devout Muslims that they are, wanted no part of me. I sensed it the whole time they and I were laying the foundation for ISIS, the Islamic State that may yet revive your Golden Age. And I completely understand why they gave me the cold shoulder. I am, after all, a Jew.

 

I wish I could lead you in prayer, yā-Ummah. But it’s hard to imagine how I could first get you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

 

As-salaamu alikum wa-Rahmatu Allah wa-Barakatu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*    * * * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

–afterword–

 

 

 

 

 

The Expansive Grave

Sometimes what the world needs is no longer a hero.                                                                                                                                  –Vlad in Dracula Untold

In the Name of His Majesty, The Patient, The Forbearing

 

(original draft) Mars 5° north of Moon 01/20/2021

(first revision) Jupiter 5° north of Moon 06/01/2021

(second revision) Spring Equinox 03/20/2022

(second revision) 80,329,100 days since Fall 00/91/8032

(this revision) WORK IN PROGRESS