Over two millennia ago, Earth was at peace. We had a ruler who cared for us, knew us, experienced us. He spoke and indirectly influenced us as a race. This being did not create us, but loved us as his children. Sympathy and love filled his golden heart, and in his rays of truth and knowledge we grew. This great leader was betrayed by his trusted ally and forced to be alone in a cave of solitude, to live the rest of his existence knowing he had not been there as our leader. This new leader dictated and forced our lives to be a true, living hell.

What foods we ate, where we went, our idles, and even fornication where banned unless chosen by him. With hands the color of coal, he killed men and women with fire. That terrible vision of fire was seen so much by his eyes, the image can be seen burnt into them at all times. He has no voice, but his presence can be felt wherever he roams. Cults came and cults fell in his New World Order, and so have armies. The dictator has power, and lots of it. He currently holds control over all of the world nations with his firm, iron grip. Legends of the time he burnt an entire city for the actions of a few, and the time he summoned a sea beast to devour a chosen one of his he no longer had use for, arose.

The beasts that followed the dictator, the hideous, alien, beasts we can only refer to as the welcoming force - they are the worst. We have seen them. Nearly everyone has. They came from the sky in a rain of fire, crashing to the ground. They slaughtered, they conquered. Two specific extraterrestrial beasts stand out, two that had made themselves known: our new masters.

The first is one we had heard the name of. He had said it as he slaughtered a small told, and talk spread about it. Gvabrial, I believe. The name must be a bit butchered after all the spread-of-mouth. Gvabrial must have studied us. He must have. He carries a solid gold trumpet and blows it as he prepares to kill. His charred, torn wings spread as he flies and carries people away, never to be seen again. Unlike his master, he has a voice. He laughs as we die. He laughs at our organs. I do not believe Gvabrial knows English, but he certainly smiles as we yell for him to stop or to spare our loved ones.

The second is the one we fear the most, besides the Dictator. He chooses to call himself the saint, and unlike Gvabrial, he certainly does know English. The saint speaks purely in quotes, and copies the voice of the one he has most recently butchered. It is a common event for him to tell men he loves them in the voice of their loved ones, only to gut them shortly after. The saint wears a blue tunic with a silver sword. The saint, if you can call him that in good spirits, is fabled to have defeated the first ruler. But this is false. We know the ruler is still alive, for he speaks to us. If only the others would listen! Why must they question the voice in their head?

The sky has opened, and the Dictator of the New World Order reveals his voice. Jehovah speaks for the first time.

Written by ShawnCognitionCP
Content is available under CC BY-SA