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God gathered his followers sadly few in numbers together, in defeat nearly and desperate, for another Council of Peace after arguments vainglorious with His Enemy. "Evil victorious wages relentlessly upon men fallen too well, and far fron us, Dear Friends, for songs of reason or sweet persuasion to recover from the errors of our former Justice when I gave men the choices of angels and failed. I was wrong. Earth was vulnerable to create Life at all in Her noble efforts, and failed. She was wrong. Saturn the Son deathly Grimness reaps Demeter's harvest of anger unmotherlily told by Homer and I; as if She knew all along the fruitlessness of the harvest on barren souls barren of judgement, and daughters of Persephone's ilk like Eve shallowly picking the flowers and fruit of Eden or else. For pleasure Cronos and Adam reached with her for the apple blossoms fragrant on Mount Atlas, apples golden in twilight and guarded by the infernal goddess, a serpent, many-headed Argus and many-eyed Apep the pets of lascivious Isis, most juvenile of girls. O, cursed is the day Nu began Nu.t in Thoth's African River before memory!" Thus spake Zeos despairing, God mournfully alone in his thoughts and The Abyss. Before He could go off alone, the Solitary Sovereign, as He often did on black promontories where mountains prehistoric bordered Oceans of forgotten galaxies, where worlds of flesh never intruded on isolated perfection, His Mother, immaculate Rheia who saved him from her rampaging husband, spake sternly too, stronger than all of them gathered sorrowfully: "Quit sulking. You're acting like you did as a boy when you couldn't get your way. Mother Earth is not wrong, for all her faults. Bear with the Elderlies and you will bear well the burdens of leadership you took on eagerly, as I remember, a cocky little bully as a lad, I recall. Obey the will of your Grandmother for awesome results of promise, I promise, and the thunderbolts Cyclopean will fall in place too, upon the Opponent Titanic, to be sure. You won before, once upon a time, didn't you? Don't you remember? Why lose now? Have you lost the Sun's fury at last, Son?"

Grumbling greeting the Queen Mother's admonitions in the lower reaches of Heaven's higher realm hiding the Fugitive Band, where they hid like the Ram who'd once been shorn of his Fleece by another brother of Old; Old Set of Egypt who'd foiled Lord Osiris of the Sky his brother of power and champion of Peace tricked into death, seduced into a coffin of an oak sacred from Dodona and Colchis, then sealed alive to suffocate in his coffin; a boat thrown in the Nile by Set deformed to sail the Argonauts' stars of doom forever. Mercury spake next, to explain the true poem: "Great Father and Brother, our Sister is right. The Ram like Thee was shorn and sheared indeed, Heaven of his hope, Uranus of his loins, unlike Thee. Jason was a Jesus Iasius of the histories whose mariners fished for Grandfather Sky's seed reaped grimly with that sickle as sharp as autumn's New Moon. Yes, Uranus is wounded and eternally bleeding, unnaturally butchered like Osiris by Set and Uranus by Saturn, our rampaging Sire. Such curses often on sons by fathers are visited by Earth's every effort and birth, in blood. It is an agony of the Abyss only you have earned as Our Sire we can't; that is which, what, sacrifice, makes you King. Not even Saturn Titanic with invincible Force can match the vision of Injustice repaired." Solemn weeping silently greeted his sweet words. God lovingly put his hand on his son's handsome shoulder, athletic and proud the pride of men. "Good Mercury, Hermes, and Thoth inscribed One of cultures All nations matured by verse, thank you for your faithfullest support and love. I know full well how well we are loved, and blessed, Blessed! are we, all, All in our tribe surrounded and free. But it does not mean we are to be. The seasons of this greatest planet are decay that bring every fruit to waste and shit. Time will tell the survival or not of Us. Surely I know what we know what you say to fight on helplessly must follow of course in our course of Peace argued immortally by Buddha Siddhartha and Francis of Assisi, most beloved disciples worthy of Isis and Eve after their adolescence and sin. There is no waste and nothing gained in war if philosophies and poems like these oppose all that is cruel and greedy until overgrown, virtues over-ripe with life

until the truth fails and falls like Angels who flew too close to the Sun and Moon. Perhaps we must not dream too well, My Son, nor remember the youthful indiscretions lost in time upon boys on men, Mother. Remember, you married my Father, not I, no matter how petulantly I argue reality. I know you all want action, not philosophy, all ideas fuller of deeds by deeds undone, however, and our former wars all in vain. So now you say what we know that I see provoke the enemies upon each other, instead of us. Let the killers kill each other, leaving us free of their crimes and violence free of Satan's guile, Saturns' twist to turn Me Judge condoning murder and rape as well. No. It was Zeos who killed no one at Troy; provoking only Greeks murderously Trojans, and Trojans Greeks, Apollo and Athene taking sides perhaps as God against Allah today, but not Me; if the Torah and Qu'ran are true they'll know not to kill and end the wars. If not they'll not. Flying Saucers? Let USA's Titan Missiles and television empires compete dishonestly with each other in Special Effects, Public Relations, Gross International Economics, and see if Lucifer's forgotten his Sin Original, of steering too close to Me. Watch him melt with too much Power like Icarus or Venus to the Sun, arrogant like Adam reaching for Eve's nakedness. Forlorn, I have not forgotten the forlorn success myself, and the failure of Peace for all its goodness today, upon us, brethren. Forsake victory, even if it comes impossibly, unless we temper action with heaven's poetry. Look to the mutilation of the Sky finally for our greatest danger, eventually, inevitably. So now you know what cannot be known. To Battle. To Honor. Go! And take heed." No cheer arose of the assembled faithful too few in numbers and tiny for Great Epics sung by the Bards. Resolved they turned to the task incredibly confronting them at hand. Billions of people and vermin were against them, led by an Archangel titanic and immeasurable who wielded Air Forces on Earth of weapons ne'er seen before by generals Alexander and Hitler who conquered whole continents, good men too the first Caesars in temples of Art; equal improbably to empires of underseas whales and anarchies of insects by the trillions eating away imperviously to all the pleas

of rainforests breathing the gasps of last resort for oxygen, air, and water impurified in plankton, kelp, bacteria, and microscopic germs that proliferated in the waste of a virus, a strain of disease, deadlier than uranium's high-level radioactivity eating into the water itself, Earth suicidally cannibalistic as always gleefully eating itself away in pure madness. What hope could a few cloud-dwellers have in the face of indignities indivinely seen? Spaceships, too, had become hope forlorn of otherworldly promise, after years of inaction except for comedy sneering at them, and rumors of abduction, torture, disappearance impossibly in psychosis or profit, of souls and minds taken possession mistooken myths; stolen like Persephone by Hades of Hades the older brother of Zeos detected himself a chink in the Titans' armor, loyal as he was to Zeos, the accused mastermind by Homer of the plot. "What's Cronos doing," Hades explained investigatively, rhetorically, "blaming me? Making Hades Osiris, the Lord of Hell, at Underworld Tartaros, what does that mean? Hell, I would never hurt Demeter's daughter, my sister, my neice, loyalest remaining of our small tribe. Why should I - for sex? Adam and Eve already had plenty of that, legally, and fully approved by a generic Jehovah, nakedly in the Jewish pleasure garden. It's the Serpent's infernal trick on a trick. He raped Eve. He is Adam's cock, penis severed of Osiris and from Grandfather Sky, not me, not Osiris abducting, kipnapping Kore." Mercury nodded. "'Original Sin' is a lie, a lie not as sin itself, but the Serpent posing as God. An Impostor sits at the Bible's center on the Throne. On Job it pulls the same twist." Debate ended, the discussions all but over, the gods flew off in formation to battle holy with millions of Saucers meteorically unholy, outnumbered thousands to one by Crafts empowered by Thunder stolen in an Age long past; a propulsion told from earlier tales waiting later to be told. For now, for hate, captains and admirals organized well their Attack Fleets of the air shunning the ineffective Angels scattered against them, mere rumors unthreatening like a crippled Adam or an Eve disgraced, to them. More perilous by far were Muslims massing with petroleum wealth suicidally bombing Jerusalem the sacrosanct,

and the Devilish counterattack strategically obvious of Israeli Defense Forces retaliating on Persia, Babylon, and Ishmael's deity sheikhdoms of Mecca, abomination of Abraham, idolatrous remnant of Egypt's awful Ka n' Ba Muhammad the Prophet tried futilely to replace. Into Lord Set-Saturn's planetary assault batteries of Christian units cowardly famous pumped trillions of dollars from merchants to protect their soft soldiers on the boiling sands, adolescent killers in ultimate armor protected, airmen in machines that flew themselves blindly. Saturn saw clearly Jupiter's game to see himself clear to a way to win the globe without fighting. It was laughable to an Emperor ruthless and all-seeing for pacifists without guns or money. Osiris had always been a trusting fool to his Udjat Eye inspiring the infinite designs of the Argonautikal moon-boats; crescent, grim sicklers with a Soviet's hammer flag, shipping, skipping o'er electromagnetic seas; dead pharaohs mummified energetically also powering the Palladia ultraterrestrially; Palladia meteors the umbilical Omphalos of an almost-dead God-Pharaoh systematic propulsion of Star Power far better than Solar. Saturn's stolen Darkness could travel at speed of Thought far hotter than Ra's inefficient fusion. He could visit Sirius on an ancestral whim, Orion as the arrow's bow and Pleiades the arrowhead; Constellations cargo Airplanes for civilian passengers. Jupiter was obsolete. Allah's 3 Armies were making short work of anthropomorphic Heaven in 'The War of The Books', and the future was anything but a prophecy idyllic. His Fleets raced confidently forward haplessly upon New York and Singapore where educated men knew the end was at hand, very well, "very well, it is so," they sighed, and rushed into the hearths of the inevitable phantoms patrolling everywhere, laughing in disbelief. The Priestly Saucers controlled the B-2 Bombers on the flight-paths and currents of thought flowing in christian pilots and gunners jewish in the jetstream, upper High Fronts of ideas where men mixed with the dizzying winds, storms, stratospheric images reflecting on glass and cockpits of orbiting Shuttles, F-117 skyhawks, Sabers, Cyclones, Apaches, National Aeronautics and Space Administrations of Mir for Peace, cosmonauts and Apollo crews circling the Moon, circling, circling, circling;

Discs spinning coolly and clean as Olympic events in the discus and javelin of sports heroes, fliers, aviators imams in the heavens stealthy as light. They broke the soundless barrier over and over again, over and over many times, many times faster than computers pitched higher and higher than the Stealth's painful whine, screaming past the decibels not even dogs couldn't hear into Outer Space. The Wind was silent too, in its own way. Saturn was especially proud of that technical accomplishment, for Sound was his especial gift given carelessly Eons ago by his brother. He knew he'd manufactured it specially in his first ships upon Argo's first prototype from dodona oak, ably crafted by Athene, built inherently in the beam of the prow by master craftsmen, mastered by Vulcan Hephaestos, Ptah, foremost among blacksmiths. In 'Iliad' Homer wrote of his "Golden Wheels" spinning perpetually at the base of his tripods; Apollo's perpetual motors moving like the wind. The Saucers moved, breathed, by Vulcan, a misshapen god among Earth's many disloyal to Zeos in their loyalty to Earth. Apollo and Athene however plotted carefully to follow a plan to capture an Aegis-Shield of an Old Disc and penetrate the Air Fleet of the Enemy, every night, and many locations at once. "When," Athene whispered mightily, goddess scornful of adolescent romance, "conspiring sleep overtakes the Alien Horrors at their wheels, I will axe the first keel of the Fiftieth Squadron's command ship, incapacitating them. I can make it crash as I did when you were at Roswell in 1947 born, steering it to collide with one or two others of its Wingmen escorts." Apollo frowned, "That's what happened, sister?" "Yes, they were after you, on a Shooting Star." He nodded, more beautiful than ever she could be, a warrior she greatly admired. "In my mother's womb, Leto a Titan, the omphalos rocket Hera tried to prevent Artemis and I coming to term, God's holiest twins. Hera hated Zeos I heard, after Earth helped Leto in her long pregnancy bloody and wild." Athene impatiently interrupted him. "Let's go. I'll fly invisibly under the First Ship unsuspecting while you fight them openly in diversion, as lightning, in the sunset red with slashing rain." Over New Mexico again the Fourth Generation of invulnerable Nature swung aggressively

at Forces repellant to the deities attracting gravity and electricity to them in magnetic poles; magnificent shapes of cloud overly paranormal for the science of men, rushing wind at twilight. Inside a Saucer overconfident Fiends steered deceitfully toward more victims on hoof in fields and afoot in towns snarling, superior technicians of acoustics above human range and pilots automatic controlling remotely, malevolently, engines perfected by Vulcan's scientists in caverns. They could make optical delusions go forth from the imaginations of engineers unscrupulous, ambitious, well-rewarded and provided with every benefit of every convenience necessary to their application and experiment, testing, funding, construction costs successfully in The Field. Newer and better prototypes were built routinely on budgets annually inspected by corps of lawyers and analysts underground, hidden in Top Secret facilities in plain sight of all but scrupulous accountants, regulatory agencies, Watch Dogs, and omsbudsmen paid off through the rules blandly of merchants. Tonight, an unsuspecting Ship zoomed on by, escorted by two smaller corsairs on its flanks. Out of a few gray clouds ahead, suddenly, a red burst of lightning shot faster by them and at them, through them, in the blink of an unlidded Eye blank with black spite. The schooner-class Cruiser pitched and yawed out of control not because of any damage to its hull or magnetic systems, for Apollo's thunderbolts borrowed from Zeos benevolently were forbidden to initiate offensive action; but in the yeoman steersman's panic suddenly disoriented by the lightning's red vectors, in dusky horizons west of the bridge, dusky apparitions also seen from cockpits of a cloudy Apollo-like a man great in the clouds, great as a terrible gray storm. Regaining his Captain's chair the pilot a-righted his Cruiser and re-aligned his Escorts drifting off and away, at speed, handling his controls at his left and right starboard and port computers automatically. "Damage report?!" the captain barked like a cross of an owl with a jackal, to the panicked steersman wretching dry heaves on the olive-drab floor, in the bridge above decks. "No damage reported, Sir!" an Ensign below replied in a slithering tongue. Was it an accident, the owlish jackal

wondered, his skin gray under a uniform skintight to keep hyperspeed travel safe? He decided not to call in the routine weather to Headquarters, when the Ship took a violent 360 roll in a split second and dove straight down towards the ground only 5,000 feet away. Athene had axed the rudder of oaken rods immemorially built into it with one blow stupendously aimed, underneath the superstructure routinely welded in Vulcan's assembly lines. Unlike Apollo, She'd no compunction against violence. Kirtland Air Force Base radar in Albuquerque picked up the Bogie hurtling at them at speeds phenomenally like lightning, with only seconds to spare, before the Heavy Cruiser hit the airport's Flight-Line and destroyed four new F-22s and hangar 19, exploding like a mushroom cloud on the edge of the city. The sonic bomb and the concussion killed hundreds of civilians and Air Force personnel immediately, wounding thousands more in the electrical fires and Panics that spread farther in the next minutes. There wasn't a window or an eardrum that wasn't shattered or shredded within a fifty mile radius of the initial explosion at the Air Base, or dozens of aftershocks and explosions of gasoline trucks, power grids, chemical railroad cars, and the bacteriological Weapons Labs at nearby Sandia Mountain. The Boom and black clouds were heard and seen by terrified Americans hundreds of miles away in El Paso Texas, and then TV news cameras showed the world the "Terrorist Attack" within an hour, of a "Great City in Flames" like New York had been, Baghdad, and Tel Aviv in recent attacks by "Islamic fundamentalist maniacs." Christians screamed for obvious vengeance, Muslims denied responsibility as usual, Jews went on High Alert with hundreds of nuclear weapons, and the rest of the non-nuclear world held its breath: What had happened, and Why? Trident Submarines each readied hundreds of megakiloton warheads off the coasts of China, Iran, Pakistan, North Korea, and Antarctica. But men didn't matter, it seemed above in the skies beyond skies where gods materialized out of the Inanimate, Immanent existence of Being, reproaching the repellant Attraction that Satan had become reprovingly imposing, usurping God's stratospheric Reign long ago lost in the interest of men in a newer Redeemer, a Savior to them to correct eternity's endless mistakes. Satan rampaging might have been above

if instead he wasn't laughing at God's ludicrous plans. "Fantasies of future annihilations and unreal like these, they're the best you can do, Apollo, reckless boy and fictional loser? Crashes, sonic booms, bacteriological warfare is all you concoct in myths of imaginary idylls? It means nothing, and does even less to me. Wars you cannot make me lose fictitiously." Prophetic Apollo somewhere did not answer his jeering uncle-grandfather of the Sickle, in th'Ethereal Thunder; exceptional Ace as he was and hawk whose aircraft Satan'd also stolen from former times contrived mythologically He Flew! Back into annals of men historically he took his talents of the electronic arts to communicate upon deeds so recent and timely that not even atheists skeptical of science would doubt the deeds of Adventurers, or true, calamitous, facts undisputed in the blue and wild Yonder.

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