Germaine, most prolific of the Fifth Monarchy Men, gazed upon the whirring stars above the observation dome and back at the remaining Monarchy men in the chamber before he read the ritual passage that began every such congregation (from Daniel 2:44):
“And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed: and the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever.”

St. Germaine, a tired and grey old man, reread the first part of the passage to himself, thinking of all the great men who had recited the age-old text to their peers, and realized with wonder that it was he who would see ‘the days’ actually described therein. And there had been quite a few days, he thought, particularly in the 1600s (such reason and wonder, yet such disease and stench), that he had to merely endure to get to the days that were now promised and coming to pass, the days of the Fifth Monarchy. He recalled bitterly the so-called Age of Reason, a period regarded by history as a time of legendary learning and advancement, but one that to the members of the Fifth Monarchy nearly spelled doom. Because I knew it first, he thought, and the horrible spread of literacy meant that learned, clever men must work harder to exploit the religious prejudices that keep the masses in line, and it was getting progressively more difficult to convince men to give up their critical faculties in service of an invisible man that lives in the clouds – which is why he hid the “missing” books of the bible in the first place. The congregation said, “Amen.” Only half of them meant it. St. Germaine sensed the lack of enthusiasm, and in the deepest parts of his soul, the parts most people never even acknowledge, he understood. It always was an uneasy alliance – the true-believers who wanted the fifth monarchy of Jesus Christ and the propagandists who just saw the path to power- but lately the relationship between the two diverse groups was particularly strained. That he himself was firmly entrenched in both camps did not greatly ease his mind. He knew it would be the same with the Old Men and the battery, that they were united by purpose if not necessarily belief, though he found their arrogance fairly typical of the newly (relatively speaking) immortal. 1

He looked at up the whirring celestial bodies winding on their perfect clockwork gears, lamenting the silly cycles of the universe and knowing that he would soon be gleefully smashing the ever-loving shit out of them. Except for the realm where dwell the shapes – that realm he would find quite useful. In fact, if all went exactly according to plan and the Overlord was pleased with the manner in which St. Germaine performed his tasks, he could see said Overlord offering him dominion of that little section in which dwell the shapes, making him the second most powerful being in the known Universe. Or, as the Overlord often liked to say, “second in command of the fuck-you-niverse”, which would always make him laugh so hard that supercharged plasma would squirt out his nose. Second in command was all he ever aspired to no matter his successes at his appointed tasks; whether he was testing Christian piety and endurance with his Prester John letters, whispering in Pope Urban’s ear about ‘a little jaunt to Jerusalem to free it from the clutches of the brown devil’, or making deals with The Ancient Ones to create an immortal and then a subsequent deal with the Reptilians to wipe out that bunch of old bastards (and in the interest of tidiness) get wiped out in return, each of his assignments was done in the service of The Overlord. Though a being of great power – the Overlord was not omnipotent, and needed go-betweens to serve as agents of his designs, gobetweens that were handsomely rewarded depending on their tastes; this was a distinguished laundry list that included a hotel suite with nubile 18 year old congressional pages, a harem of the finest concubines that Tijuana had to offer, a dinosaur egg omelette, a 80 year hex on the Boston Red Sox, bullet-proof protection for Geronimo, or an American hockey win in the 1980 game against the Russians, to name a few. Most notorious among these rewards was a certain attack on a quiet September afternoon that allowed a shady coalition of greedy men to manipulate a terrified public into a profitable war, in exchange for staying the hell out of Palestine and ignoring the budding beginnings of the End of Days. St. Germaine chuckled – people’s willing ignorance of physics, world events, and history had made these things easier than expected, and vilifying the few who asked questions was even easier – not to mention it being a relaxing and rewarding hobby. What he had in store for the next three days though would prove not only a


smidge more difficult, but also more destructive, disastrous, and delightful.1 St. Germaine muttered to himself the closing lines of a poem that he had found haunting, both in its presentation and its prescience: “And I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep are vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle; And what rough beast, its hour come round at last Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born.” Yeats had only been off on one detail. The Overlord wouldn’t be making his debut in Bethlehem like his opposite; rather, he would be “born” deep underground, in the Ancient Ones lair. A lair deep in the bowels of Los Angeles. A city could not be more ironically named. In an even further example of supernatural irony, the beginning of The End was signaled not with trumpets and Gabriel’s Horn, but with a soft click that drew St. Germaine’s attention back toward the whirling clock of planets, suns, and stars, and the final celestial alignment that after thousands of years finally presented itself. The old adage that “God doesn’t play dice with the universe” was about to change; the casino would now be open, and godamnit, baby needs a new pair of shoes. Aries had risen on the Earth’s western flank, blood red Mars masked the little blue planet like a spreading cancer, and a noticeable stink of farts and death wafted over Megiddo like a swarm of flies. He laughed at the memory of one of the Overlord’s jokes, sung the tune of Louis Armstrong’s “Let’s call the whole thing off:” You say Megiddo and I say Megeddo You say Horseman and I say Horsemen Megiddo, Megeddo Horseman, horsemen Let’s blow the whole thing up! It seemed not only appropriate but poetic that the Time of Man, what with all his advancements and philosophies, hubris and lofty goals, his Ages of Gold, Iron, and

Alliteration was a gift he was born with, which proved very profitable in Victorian England when he wrote the highly pornographic (and profitable) Fucking for Farthings with Fanny Fostington and its sequel, Parsing the Prick with Peter the Pompous.


Enlightenment, his achievements in art and warfare, his belief in True Love, God, and Country, would end at the hands of a cruel master no more intelligent than Mankind’s monkey ancestors. Perhaps even less so, for it had been nothing but downhill since they had the brilliant idea of climbing down from the trees in the first place and starting their own plotted gardens; leave it to Homo Sapiens to really fuck up a good thing chasing mirages of security and delusions of grandeur. From there, ego took over (“MY garden is bigger than YOUR garden”), followed by social dependency (“Well, MY garden is protected by my tribe of people”) followed by religion, (“Yeah, well MY garden is watched over by an all-powerful Being”), followed by weaponry and warfare (“Well, MY garden is”--BANG!—“You son of a bitch! You shot me!”), and the rest was a long and bloody massacre known as History. There were a few nomads that got it right; the undiscovered ones in Brazil being the smartest of them, where food was always free and clothing was always minimal – as opposed to some of the idiots in the wastelands of the arctic and the deserts of the sahara who never figured out that being an effective nomad meant going where there the food was plentiful and the temperature bearable; but still, they got points for figuring out how to survive on nothing but camel’s milk and seal meat. But even the most intelligent ones were still only a chromosome away from dragging their knuckles on the ground, and soon The Overlord and St. Germaine would remind them of that; ashes to ashes, acumen to orangutan. Ooh, that was good, he thought, and took out his ancient and dog eared notebook to write it down for his newest novel; “10 Monkeys Fucking a Football - A Modern History of Man” (an unofficial sequel to his brilliantly written guidebook to immortality, “Naked Ran the Lemming.”)


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