The Omega Trinity

Get the hell scared into you --- extreme horror from author J.S. Bannerman الحمقى إلهكم ميت   under-dog: under-dog1. A competitor thought to have little chance of winning a fight or contest 2. A person who has little status in society I know the underdog; we all know him. One of the most troubling plagues that mankind has suffered from throughout history is complacency. It has been more damaging than polio, more putrid than the infamous Bubonic Plague and more rampant than influenza. And it is getting worse. Our children are indoctrinated into the religion of ‘don’t ask’ from the first moment that they can open their mouths to question all that is around them. But unlike polio, the plague, and the flu, the disease of complacency is very easily cured – by asking questions! Questions are important, the questions that we would normally stifle and ignore. This Orwellian ‘ignorance is knowledge campaign must end”. Instead of relying upon television to inform you what you want to eat, drink, wear, or sell your soul to – why not get your mind a little dirty and find out for yourself what you need and want? Oh, but times are different now that we have the technology, you say anxiously. Wrong. The present era is not so very different from two millennia ago. Times may change, but people never do. Now, that being said, you must bear in mind that this story is a work of fiction. I dreamed of an idea, and that idea evolved into a burning question: what happened to Lucifer? There is no one involved with this story who believes that any of the events contained therein are true. Those closest to me know of my love for controversy, as well as my love for the simplest of questions – ‘what if?’ I am not a Christian, although I was raised in the Church. I am in no way attempting to change anyone’s mind concerning faith, chance, kismet, or whatever another title a person defines their existence by. I hope you enjoy the story. I hope that you think, ponder, and above all else – question!”   Mastema, mastema, mastema. He softly chanted the word over and over like a mantra in his mind. Remember the word. Mastema. A smile of pure, blissful joy illuminated his face as he opened his eyes. He was seated cross-legged – Indian style, it used to be called before the Indians changed into Native Americans and opened all the casinos – upon a plush white rug. He was completely naked, for he never wore any clothing when he was praying. After all, if God is capable of seeing everything at any time, then a few thin layers of synthetic cloth to hide the body would be pointless. He took great pleasure from the way that people reacted when he told them how freeing he found it to pray naked, and how calming it is to approach Lord God hiding nothing from him. They were shocked for just an instant before the simplicity and rightness of his words dawned upon them. There were two phrases that he heard most often in response to his naked devotions. That makes perfect sense! was almost always their first exclamation, and it was usually followed by an incredulous, “why didn’t I think of that?” Those two simple statements sum up exactly what it is that separates the successful celebrity and your common rube. To rise above the rest, you just had to find a simple and effective way of doing something better; a way to twist the norm into something new and exciting, not to mention enticing. He stood up gracefully, stretching his arms above his head whilst standing on the tip of his toes, warming his body up again after being seated so still for so long. Finishing his stretch, he headed towards the luxurious bathroom to prepare for his evening. This was it. This was the evening that he had been working on for his entire life, and he fully intended it to be perfect. After a quick shower, he faced the mirror to shave his face. As he picked up the razor, he could hear the dull roar. Of many voices speaking at once seeping underneath the sliding glass door that led out to the balcony of his hotel room. An impish grin formed underneath the layer of shaving cream. He had checked in under a false name, of course, but it had somehow leaked that he was staying here. His legions of followers were all screaming out their support for the oracle, the messenger, the prophet of God that he was. He felt himself getting hard just thinking about the fame that was now his. An artist for the masses, they called him. He had recently been voted as one of the greatest performers of all time. Nobody could withstand the appeal of his work. Rich or poor, devoutly pious or shamelessly s****l, they all flocked to him alike. They slobbered and cried, adoring each little thing that he did. The greedy demand from the public concerning his faith was blindly sated by his potent praise for God, the Father. His showmanship was unmatched, his sleight of hand unequaled by any who had come before. A Frenchman by birth, he retained the briefest hint of a sultry accent that, when coupled with his remarkable good looks, gave him an awesome power. Women were irresistibly drawn to the riches that he so eagerly flaunted, flocking around him like moths around a flame, and the men came to be near to the sexuality that rolled from his body like sweat, perhaps hoping that some of it would rub off onto them. He preached that the beauty and softness of a woman’s body was the most explicit proof of God’s wondrous works. Even as he ran his tongue in circles around the pink candy hardness of his model’s n*****s, as she sighed and moaned out her pleasures whilst her hand worked between her thighs, he preached to her of the love and glory of the great I Am. The Heretic Exhibit that he was debuting tonight in New York’s Central Park was to be the most unique, stunning, and unforgettable performance of his entire career – the best that the world had ever seen. A carefully orchestrated and wildly expensive advertising campaign along with subtle and skilled manipulation of the world’s media had come together to make this event spectacular. Attendance was confidently predicted to smash all previous records.