MEETING DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS: SATAN & ANTICHRIST (PTSD)
MEETING DEITIES
&
DEMON SPIRITS
(PTSD DREAMS)
CREATED
BY
J. BECK
2026
MEETING DEITIES
&
DEMON SPIRITS:
SATAN
&
THE ANTICHRIST
THE
ANTICHRIST
VISITS
SATAN'S BODY-SHOP
GARAGE
The old body shop smelled of motor oil, rust, stale rum, and the faint metallic tang of long-dried blood.
Moonlight filtered through the high, grimy glass windows, catching on the dull chrome of the 1950 Oldsmobile 88 convertible—still green beneath decades of dust and lichen.
The hood stood open like a confession; the trunk yawned wide, revealing two enormous canvases wrapped in mildewed tarps, their edges bleeding faint drips of color that had once been Jackson Pollock’s wildest prayers.
The Antichrist—twenty-four, albino-pale, rail-thin yet corded with unnatural muscle—leaned against the fender, cigarette dangling from cracked lips, blue-tinted wire-rims reflecting the workbench lamp.
One long, greasy white strand fell across his face as he patted the Devil’s shoulder with casual familiarity.
Antichrist
(exhaling smoke, voice low and amused):
Sixty years in the weeds, huh? You really kept her waiting like some jealous prom date. I half expected the chassis to be rusted straight through to the axle.
Devil
(rasp, wiping engine grease from his palms onto the blue shop rag, cigar clenched between yellowed teeth):
She’s tougher than she looks. Oldsmobiles were built mean back then. And Pollock—poor bastard—traded two masterpieces for her in ’54.
Never got around to picking them up after the crash. Locked tight in the trunk like a time capsule.
I found her in ’16, overgrown with poison ivy and blackberry thorns. Took me another decade to get the damn key to turn without snapping it.
(He gestures toward the tarps with the rum glass, amber liquid sloshing)
Worth every rusty bolt, though. Those two are the lost ones—bigger than anything in the MoMA vaults. Pure chaos on canvas. The kind of beautiful that hurts to look at too long.
Antichrist
(smirking, flicking ash onto the cracked concrete floor):
You always did have a nose for buried treasure. Speaking of buried… how many of these little apocalypse rehearsals have we run now?
Feels like we’ve been practicing the same dress rehearsal since Nero was playing the fiddle.
Devil
(chuckles, deep and wet, takes a long pull on the cigar):
More than you think, kid. But this time… this time the stage feels different. The air’s got weight to it. You feel it too, don’t you?
Antichrist
(nods slowly, eyes drifting to the paintings, then back to the Devil):
Yeah. Like the whole planet’s holding its breath before the first trumpet. So let’s run it again. From the top. No script. Just the bones of it. The way John saw it when they dragged him to Patmos.
Devil
(sets the rum down with deliberate care, voice dropping to something almost reverent):
Alright. Seals first.
(He counts on grease-stained fingers)
One: white horse, conqueror with a bow and a crown.
Already out there—half the world’s cheering for their favorite warlord.
Two: red horse. Peace ripped away. Swords everywhere. You see the news, same as me.
Three: black horse. Famine. Grain prices tripled in six months last year—people still think it’s just “supply chain issues.” Cute.
Four: pale horse. Death. And Hell riding shotgun. Pestilence, war, starvation, beasts—take your pick. They’re all overlapping now.
The seals aren’t popping one at a time anymore. They’re bleeding into each other like wet paint.
Antichrist
(quiet laugh, almost fond):
Amateur hour. John thought they’d be neat. Sequential. God’s little PowerPoint presentation.
But we both know the Almighty likes to layer His judgments. Makes the audience squirm longer.
Devil
(grinning around the cigar):
Exactly. Now the trumpets—those are where the fun starts.
First: hail and fire mingled with blood. Trees burn, grass burns. Already got wildfires that look biblical.
Second: mountain of fire into the sea. Blood in the water. Red tides, dead whales washing up by the thousands. Check.
Third: Wormwood. Star falls, waters poisoned. They’re still arguing about whether it’s literal or metaphorical. Idiots. It’s both. Always both.
Fourth: third of the sun, moon, stars struck. Sky goes dark for a day. They’ll blame it on volcanoes or nukes. Won’t matter.
Fifth… (leans closer, voice dropping) fifth is mine favorite. Locusts from the pit. Not bugs. Worse.
They sting like scorpions, torment for five months, no death allowed. Pure suffering. You still got the playlist for that one?
Antichrist
(taps his temple with two fingers):
Locked and loaded. I’ve been practicing the screams in my head for years. They’re… exquisite.
Devil
(nods approvingly):
Good. Then the sixth trumpet—two hundred million horsemen. Fire, smoke, brimstone.
Third of mankind gone in an afternoon. That’s when the real panic hits. When they realize the math doesn’t lie.
Antichrist
(tilting his head, cigarette burning down to the filter):
And the Beast? My big entrance.
Devil
(studies him for a long moment, something almost paternal in the gaze):
You know your lines. Forty-two months. Authority over every tribe, tongue, nation.
The wound that was healed. The number. The mark. You’ll sell it like salvation—because half of them will beg for it by then.
They’ll line up for the chip, the tattoo, the brand, whatever we decide to call it that week. Desperation is the best makeup.
Antichrist
(soft, almost wistful):
And then the seventh trumpet. The kingdom proclaimed. The dead raised. The wrath poured out. The bowls.
(He exhales smoke in a slow, deliberate stream)
We don’t know the day. We don’t know the hour. He made sure of that. Even we’re on the outside of the clock.
Devil
(quiet for once, staring at the green convertible as if it holds some secret):
That’s the cruelest part.
He keeps the exact second in His pocket. We just watch the signs stack like cordwood. We prepare. We position. We whisper. But the curtain doesn’t rise until He says:
“NOW.”
(He lifts the rum glass in a mock toast)
So we keep the car polished. We keep the paintings safe. We keep the script warm.
Because when that
Last Trumpet Sounds…
(He smiles, all teeth and smoke)
We’re gonna give them a Show
They’ve been Waiting
Sixty Generations For.
Antichrist
(returns the toast with the stub of his cigarette, blue eyes glittering):
To the dress rehearsal that never quite ends.
And to the day it finally does.
The two stood in silence for a long moment, flanked by the ruined Oldsmobile and the hidden masterpieces, listening to the night wind rattle the high glass panes—as though the world itself were practicing its final, shuddering breath.
The old body shop on the edge of nowhere felt frozen in amber—a cathedral of rust and forgotten horsepower where moonlight sliced through the tall, fogged glass windows like divine judgment half-delivered.
The air hung heavy with the perfume of motor oil, decades-old cigar smoke, spilled rum, and the faint, sweet rot of mildew that had claimed the green 1950 Oldsmobile 88 convertible long ago.
Its hood gaped open in silent accusation; its trunk, propped wide, cradled two enormous tarped shapes—Jackson Pollock's lost masterpieces still weeping faint rivulets of color through the frayed canvas covers after 60 years locked away like cursed relics.
Here, in this dim sanctum, stood two figures who had waited longer than empires.
The Antichrist—twenty-four in mortal years, yet ancient in malice—leaned against the fender with predatory grace.
Tall, skeletal, unnaturally muscled beneath porcelain-pale skin, his long greasy white hair hung like wet silk curtains.
Blue-tinted wire-rim glasses caught the workbench lamp's glow, turning his eyes into twin arctic pools.
Shirtless beneath the immaculate white dress vest and trousers, sockless feet in pristine white shoes, he drew deeply on his cigarette, the ember flaring like a tiny hellmouth.
One hand rested casually in his pocket; the other patted the Devil's shoulder with the easy familiarity of old conspirators.
The Devil—wearing a seventy-year-old face like a favorite mask—stood wiping engine grime from his thick hands onto a stained blue shop rag.
Long, greasy black hair clung to his scalp; the white tank-top strained across a barrel chest scarred by time and fire.
Black slacks, black shoes polished to obsidian, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth trailing blue smoke that curled toward the rafters like incense offered to no one holy.
A half-empty bottle of dark rum and a sweating glass sat on the workbench beside him, witnesses to countless such nights.
Antichrist
(exhaling a slow plume of smoke, voice velvet-soft with amusement):
Sixty years in the weeds, old man. You let her sit there like a jilted bride under blackberry thorns and poison ivy. I half-expected to find nothing but a pile of rust flakes and regret.
But look at her—still got that mean Oldsmobile stance. Chrome dull but unbroken. You always did pick the survivors.
Devil
(rasping chuckle, low and wet, takes a pull on the cigar before answering):
She was built for the long haul back in '50. Detroit iron, kid.
Pollock traded two of his wildest dreams for her in '54—right before the bottle and the road ended him on Fireplace Road.
Crash folded the front like paper, killed the girl in the passenger seat, left the other one screaming. But the trunk? Locked tight. Key long gone.
I found her in 2016, half-buried in a salvage yard outside East Hampton, vines strangling the grille like jealous lovers.
Took a decade of patience and a few favors from the local crows to get the lid open without shattering the paintings.
(He nods toward the open trunk, where the tarps bulge with hidden chaos)
"Worth Every Rusty Bolt."
Those two canvases—bigger than anything the museums dare show. Pure, furious drip. Colors that scream. The kind of art that makes angels weep and collectors sell their souls.
Here are glimpses of the forsaken beauty that waited so long
And the car itself, in its prime glory—before the weeds, before the crash—still echoes what it once was:
Antichrist
(smirking, flicking ash onto the cracked floor):
You always had a soft spot for buried treasure. But enough nostalgia. The world's been stacking kindling for years.
Let's run the program again. From the seals to the bowls. No skipping. We don't know the day or the hour—He made damn sure of that—but we can feel the pressure building like a storm over the ocean.
Devil
(sets the rum glass down with deliberate slowness, voice dropping to gravel and prophecy):
Seals first, then.
They're already cracked wide.
One: the white horse rides—conqueror with his bow, his crown given by men who cheer for warlords in tailored suits.
Two: red horse tears peace from the earth. Swords everywhere—proxy wars, drones, kitchen-knife jihads.
Three: black horse. Scales tipping. Bread costs a day's wages. Famine dressed up as inflation.
Four: pale horse. Death trailing pestilence, hunger, beasts. The numbers overlap now, bleed into each other like wet paint on Pollock's floor.
No neat sequence anymore. Just layers of judgment, thick and suffocating.
Antichrist
(quiet, almost reverent laugh):
John thought it would be orderly. God’s tidy timeline. But the Almighty paints in chaos, same as Pollock. The trumpets come next—louder, crueler.
First: hail and fire mixed with blood. Forests burn from California to Siberia.
Second: burning mountain hits the sea. Oceans turn red with dead things.
Third: Wormwood poisons the rivers. They’ll call it “industrial accident” or “meteor fragment.”
Fourth: sky goes dark. Sun, moon, stars struck. Blackout for a day. Panic sets in.
Fifth… (leans closer, eyes gleaming) the locusts from the pit. Not insects.
Worse.
Human-shaped tormentors. Sting like scorpions. Five months of agony, no mercy of death. I’ve rehearsed the chorus of screams.
"It's Symphonic."
Devil
(grinning around the cigar, smoke wreathing his face like a halo in reverse):
Then the sixth—two hundred million mounted horrors. Fire, smoke, brimstone. A third of mankind gone in hours. That’s when the masks drop.
When they beg for order.
And that’s your cue, kid. The Beast rises. Forty-two months of rule. The healed wound. The number. The mark.
You’ll offer it like Salvation—because by then, they’ll be starving for any god who promises safety. They’ll queue for the brand, tattoo, chip, whatever skin-deep covenant we sell.
Antichrist
(tilting his head, cigarette down to the filter, blue eyes distant):
And the seventh trumpet. Kingdom proclaimed. Dead raised. Wrath poured out in bowls—plagues, sores, seas of blood, scorching sun, darkness, earthquakes. Armageddon.
(soft exhale)
We prepare the stage. We polish the props. We whisper the lines. But the curtain stays down until He says the word.
The exact second stays in His pocket.
"Even We Wait Blind."
Devil
(long silence, staring at the green convertible as though it holds the secret of the ages):
That’s the cruel poetry of it.
We orchestrate, we tempt, we position every piece. But the final tick… belongs to Him.
(raises the rum in a slow toast, amber catching the lamplight)
So we keep the car shining.
We guard the Paintings.
We run the rehearsal
Until the dress code is fire and blood.
Because when that
Last Trumpet Cracks the Sky…
(grin widens, all teeth and smoke)
…We’re giving them the Apocalypse
They’ve prayed for in their Nightmares.
Antichrist
(returns the toast with the dying cigarette, smoke curling between them like a covenant):
To the endless dress rehearsal.
And to the night it finally becomes opening night.
The two stood motionless amid the relics—the wrecked chariot, the hidden masterpieces, the tools of a world about to end—while outside
January winds howled against the glass, as if the planet itself were practicing its final, trembling exhale.
Somewhere
Far Off the First Faint Note
Of a Trumpet
Waited in the Dark.
The old body shop had grown colder since the last words were spoken, as though the January night of 2026 had pressed its frostbitten palms against the glass panes and decided not to leave.
The temperature inside had dropped ten degrees in minutes; breath now hung in visible clouds between the two figures.
The single hanging bulb above the workbench flickered once—twice—then steadied, casting long, twitching shadows that seemed to crawl across the concrete floor of their own accord.
Outside, far beyond the salvage yard’s chain-link fence, the wind had found a new register: not howling anymore, but moaning, low and sustained, like the first vibration of a trumpet still miles away but closing.
Somewhere in the distance a dog began to bark, then another, then a third—until the sound fractured into a chorus of panicked howls that rose and fell like a wave breaking on black glass.
The green 1950 Oldsmobile 88 convertible sat lower on its springs now, as if the weight of sixty years of waiting had suddenly become unbearable.
Rust had begun to weep fresh orange tears down the fenders in the last few minutes; the chrome grille grinned wider, more skeletal.
In the open trunk the tarped Pollock canvases seemed to breathe—subtle undulations beneath the mildewed fabric, as though the violent splatters beneath were remembering how to move.
The Antichrist straightened slowly. The cigarette between his lips had burned down to ash without him noticing; a thin gray column still stood upright, defying gravity for one impossible second before collapsing.
His pale fingers trembled—not from cold, but from something deeper, something that tasted like electricity on the back of his tongue.
Antichrist
(voice quieter now, almost a whisper, yet every word carried the weight of breaking continents):
"Listen."
You hear that? Not the dogs.
Beneath them.
It’s starting to thrum. The ground.
Like a heartbeat that’s been asleep for two thousand years just woke up angry.
Devil
Does not answer immediately
He sets the rum glass down so hard the bottom cracks; amber liquid runs across the workbench like spilled blood.
The cigar has gone out.
He does not relight it.
Instead he turns his head toward the high windows, where the moonlight has taken on a sick, brassy hue.
Devil
(low, hoarse, rasp stripped of all theater):
"It’s not Imagination."
The barometric pressure just dropped
aLckedsomeoneoneomeomsosods
Kicked the Atmosphere
In
The Stomach.
I felt it in my teeth.
The seals… they aren’t just cracked anymore.
They’re grinding.
You can hear the stone rollers turning in the scroll. One… two… three… four… five…
(He counts them off slowly, each number landing like a hammer on coffin wood)
The fifth seal is bleeding through already. The souls under the altar are screaming louder than they have in centuries. I hear them. Every night now. Louder. Closer.
Antichrist
(steps away from the car, hands sliding out of his pockets. His white suit is no longer immaculate; faint streaks of grease and ash have appeared across the vest like stigmata. He looks toward the trunk, then back at the Devil.)
Antichrist
The locusts are restless.
I can feel them crawling under my skin. Not metaphor. Literal. Wings scraping against bone. They want out. They’re pressing against the pit’s lid like prisoners against bars.
And the horses… the four of them… they aren’t waiting in the wings anymore.
I smelled sulfur and blood on the wind tonight when I came in.
Real blood. Fresh.
Devil
(moves closer to the open trunk, reaches out, hesitates—then lays one thick, scarred palm flat against the nearest tarped canvas. The fabric twitches under his touch.)
Devil
These paintings.
They’re waking up too.
Look closer. The drips aren’t dry anymore. They’re running again. Backward. Upward.
Defying gravity. Pollock’s chaos is remembering it was never just paint. It was prophecy.
Every splatter a seal. Every flung color a trumpet yet to sound.
He turns, locks eyes with the Antichrist. For the first time in decades the old adversary’s face shows something close to fear—not for himself, but for the sheer momentum of what has begun.
Devil
We’ve rehearsed this for millennia.
But rehearsals end.
The orchestra is tuning. The lights are dimming. The audience—seven billion souls who still think it’s just another bad news cycle—they’re about to discover the tickets were complimentary… and non-refundable.
Antichrist
(steps forward until they are almost chest to chest. His breath is cold; his voice is colder.)
Antichrist
Then let’s stop pretending this is still dress rehearsal.
The white horse is already galloping through capitals.
The red horse has drawn its sword in every timezone.
Famine is setting tables in cities that still have electricity—for now.
Death is taking RSVPs by the million.
And
the Trumpets…
(He lifts his chin toward the ceiling, toward the night sky beyond)
…they’re no longer sounding in Patmos visions.
They’re sounding here.
Now.
In the low, bone-deep register we can finally hear.
A sudden gust slammed the shop’s loose side door open, then shut again with a gunshot crack. Dust swirled. The hanging bulb swung wildly. Shadows leaped like living things.
Somewhere very near—perhaps only a few miles away—a deep, resonant note rolled across the sky. Not thunder. Not wind.
Something older.
Something final.
Devil
(quiet, almost reverent, staring at the green convertible as though seeing it for the first time):
Seventy years she waited in the weeds.
Sixty years these paintings waited in the dark.
Seventy years we waited.
And now…
(now his voice cracks like dry parchment)
…the clock has started counting seconds instead of centuries.
Antichrist
(smiles—slow, terrible, radiant):
Then let’s stop whispering.
Let’s start shouting.
Because the next sound you hear…
might be the first trumpet.
And after that…
there won’t be any more quiet left on Earth.
The two stood motionless, framed by the open trunk and the gaping hood, while the moaning wind rose to a keening wail and the brassy moonlight turned the color of old blood.
Outside, the dogs had gone silent.
Only the low, relentless thrum beneath the ground continued—louder now.
Closer.
Unstoppable.
The body shop's air had thickened to something almost chewable—dense with the metallic bite of ozone, the sour rot of awakening mildew, and a low, electric hum that vibrated in the ribs like an approaching freight train made of thunder.
The hanging bulb above the workbench now pulsed in slow, irregular heartbeats, throwing erratic shadows that twisted across the green Oldsmobile's hood like living veins.
The Devil hadn't moved. His scarred hand still rested on the tarped Pollock canvas, but the fabric beneath his palm was no longer merely twitching—it was throbbing, as if the chaotic drips and slashes were trying to claw their way out.
Fresh rivulets of color—crimson, electric blue, violent yellow—seeped upward through the mildew, defying gravity, pooling at the highest folds before dripping *back* into the hidden paint below.
Outside, the January night had gone unnaturally still. No cars on the distant streets. No distant sirens. Only that bone-deep thrum rising through the cracked concrete floor, growing louder, faster, like the planet itself was straining against its own crust.
The Antichrist's blue-tinted glasses reflected the flickering light in fractured shards. His white suit was streaked now with something darker than grease—thin, dark lines that looked suspiciously like cracks in porcelain, as if his very skin were beginning to fissure.
Antichrist
(voice low, almost reverent, yet edged with savage anticipation):
"THE BOWLS"
Not poured yet... but filling.
I can feel them swelling in the heavens like storm clouds about to burst. Golden, heavy, brimming with wrath that's been decanted for millennia.
They're trembling on the edge.
Any second now—one wrong breath from the throne—and they'll overflow. Explode outward. Not gentle tipping. Not measured drops.
Cataclysmic release.
**Devil** (pulls his hand away from the canvas as if burned; the fabric settles, but the colors keep moving beneath, restless. He turns slowly, eyes narrowed to slits of black fire):
You feel it too, then.
The pressure.
The seventh trumpet cracked the sky open just enough. Now the bowls are the final floodgates. Seven golden phials—wide, shallow, saucer-like—held by angels who don't blink, don't hesitate.
One command from the temple: "Pour."
And they do. All at once. No sequence for mercy. No pause for repentance.
Just... *eruption*.
Antichrist
(steps closer to the open trunk, staring at the pulsing paintings as though they were mirrors of the coming plagues):
First bowl hits the land—ugly, malignant sores erupt on every marked soul.
Flesh bubbling, splitting, refusing to heal.
Second crashes into the oceans—blood like a corpse's, everything dead, floating in crimson rot.
Third floods the rivers, the springs—fresh water turns to death-drink.
Fourth... (his lips curl) the sun itself weaponized. No gentle warmth. Scorching fire. Skin blistering under a sky turned furnace.
Fifth plunges the beast's kingdom into darkness so thick they gnaw their own tongues in agony.
Sixth dries the Euphrates—armies march. Demons croak like frogs from the mouths of dragon, beast, false prophet. Gathering for the slaughter at Armageddon.
And the seventh...
(He pauses, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow fills the entire shop)
...the seventh explodes into the air itself. "It is done."
Lightning. Thunder. The greatest earthquake since men walked the earth. Cities split. Islands vanish. Mountains flatten. Hundred-pound hailstones
Devil
(voice rough, almost weary, yet burning with dark exaltation):
They don't just pour, kid.
They Shatter.
The bowls crack open in the sky—golden rims splitting like eggshells—and the wrath inside detonates.
No slow drip. No warning shots.
Explosive. Total. Final.
The air fills with plague-smoke. The ground heaves like a dying animal. The seas boil. The sky falls in chunks of ice the size of boulders.
And through it all, mankind curses God instead of kneeling.
That's the real tragedy.
Even when the bowls explode, they still spit in the face of the One holding the scroll.
Another deep tremor rolled through the floor—stronger this time. Tools rattled on the workbench. The rum bottle tipped, shattered, amber shards glittering like fallen stars. The green convertible groaned on its springs, chrome creaking as if the chassis remembered the crash that birthed this night.
Antichrist
(tilting his head toward the high glass windows, where the brassy moonlight had turned a sickly, apocalyptic red):
We're standing at the lip of the cup.
One more second.
One more heartbeat.
And the bowls won't be held anymore.
They'll explode across the earth like divine napalm.
No more rehearsal.
No more waiting in the weeds for sixty years.
Just...
BOOM
Devil
(quiet, staring at the throbbing canvases, then at the Antichrist):
Then let's watch.
Because when those golden bowls finally burst...
the show won't just end.
It will *consume everything.
The thrum beneath the ground rose to a deafening roar. The bulb overhead flared white-hot—then died. Darkness swallowed the shop, broken only by the faint, pulsing glow from the Pollock paintings themselves, as if the chaos on canvas had become the first light of the bowls already igniting in the sky above.
Somewhere far overhead, seven golden vessels trembled on the brink.
And the night held its breath, waiting for the explosion that would end all quiet forever.
The body shop in Cincinnati had become a pressure chamber. The air vibrated with a frequency no mortal ear should register—low, relentless, like the planet grinding its teeth. January 9, 2026, 9:47 PM EST: outside the high glass windows, the sky over Ohio had turned an unnatural crimson, as if the horizon itself were bleeding.
The thrum from the ground had evolved into a deep, rhythmic pulse, syncing with the heartbeat of the two figures inside. The green 1950 Oldsmobile 88 convertible groaned again on its rusted springs; the Pollock canvases in the open trunk pulsed brighter, their chaotic drips now flowing in rivulets that formed patterns resembling battle lines and broken crowns.
The Antichrist's porcelain skin cracked further—fine black lines spiderwebbing across his chest like fault lines in marble. His blue-tinted glasses reflected the dying bulb's flicker as he stared at the throbbing paintings.
Antichrist
(voice a razor whisper, edged with savage hunger):
Armageddon.
Not some tidy skirmish in the weeds. Not a proxy war or a missile exchange.
The final convergence. The Jezreel Valley—Megiddo's ancient plain—stretches out like a vast, fertile killing field, guarded by the hill of Har-Magedon.
Strategic since the dawn of empires: Barak crushed the Canaanites there, Gideon scattered the Midianites, Josiah bled out in his chariot. History's favorite graveyard.
But this time... the kings of the whole earth gather. Every nation. Every army.
Deceived by the three foul spirits like frogs leaping from the dragon's, the beast's, and the false prophet's mouths
Demonic signs. Miracles of deception. They assemble not for conquest... but for annihilation
Here is the ancient stage itself—the broad, fateful plain of Megiddo (Jezreel Valley), overlooked by the tell of Tel Megiddo, where so many battles have already ended in blood:
Devil
(rasping, cigar long forgotten, hands clenched on the workbench edge until the wood splinters):
Revelation 16:16. One verse. That's all it gets. "They gathered them together to the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon."
No drawn-out campaign. No trenches. No generals barking orders
The Euphrates dries up—sixth bowl—so the kings from the east march unhindered. The whole inhabited earth converges. But the battle... the battle is a farce. Anticlimactic. One-sided. Because the real war ends before the first sword clashes
Antichrist
(leaning closer, breath cold as grave wind):
Then the sky splits.
Revelation 19. Heaven opens. A white horse. Rider called Faithful and True. Eyes like flame. Robe dipped in blood. Name: The Word of God
On His thigh:
KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.
The armies of heaven follow—white horses, fine linen, pure.
He strikes the nations with the sharp sword from His mouth. Rules with a rod of iron. Treads the winepress of the fury of God's wrath
Visions of that moment—the conquering Rider descending, armies of light arrayed, the beast's forces arrayed in futile defiance:
Devil
voice cracking like dry thunder):
The beast and the kings and their armies assemble to make war against the Rider and His host
And it's over in a breath.
No prolonged slaughter. No heroic last stand
The beast is seized. The false prophet—miracle-worker, deceiver—taken with him. Both thrown alive into the lake of fire burning with brimstone
The rest? Killed by the sword from the Rider's mouth
Birds gorge on the flesh of kings, captains, mighty men, horses, freemen, slaves—great & small
A great supper for the vultures.
And the earth... the earth finally quiet
Antichrist
(smiling now, terrible and radiant, cracks on his skin glowing faintly red):
That's the poetry of it.
They gather at Armageddon to fight God.
God shows up.
And there is no fight
Just judgment.
Just the end of rebellion.
The bowls exploded. The trumpets sounded. The seals broke
And now... the Rider arrives.
The winepress is trodden alone
A sudden, violent tremor shook the shop—tools clattered to the floor, the rum shards skittered like frightened insects.
The crimson sky outside flashed with silent lightning.
The Pollock paintings flared once, violently, then stilled—as if the chaos on canvas had finally found its resolution.
Devil
(quiet, almost reverent, staring upward through the glass):
Sixty years the car waited
Sixty years the paintings hid
HELL--Millennia we waited
And when the Rider comes...
There won't be any more waiting left.
Antichrist
(hands in pockets again, cigarette long ash, eyes fixed on the pulsing sky):
Then let's stand ready.
Because the valley calls
The armies muster.
And the white horse is already saddled
The thrum beneath the concrete rose to a deafening crescendo
Somewhere—perhaps only heartbeats away—the first ranks were gathering on the plain of Megiddo
The night held its final breath
&
Above the sky
Cracked Open just a little Wider
FURTHER
REFERENCES:
INTRODUCTIONS
DEMONS & FAMILIARS:
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/introductions-demons-familiars.html?m=1
AN
INTRODUCTION
PART 2
FEMME DEITIES & DEMONESS’:
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/an-introduction-part-2-femme-deities.html?m=1
THE MOTHER GODDESS
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/the-mother-goddess-visiting-madonna.html?m=1
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
LOKI
&
THE MOTHER GODDESS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-deities-demon-spirits-loki.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VISITING THE MADONNA
(& MEETING WOLF-DEMON AAMON)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-visiting.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO "
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS: MAMMON
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-meeting-demon.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
RETURNS TO VISIT MAMMON
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-returns-to.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA
MATTY ORLANDO
MEETING DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
THE
DEVIL & BLACK PULLET
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-meeting.html?m=1
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMONS:
ASTAROTH & ASMODEUS
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demons-astaroth-asmodeus-ptsd.html?m=1
WITH
EXTRAORDINARY
ALL NEW AI GENERATED IMAGES
USING WORD PROMPTS
DEMONS
"LILITH & AAMON"
(MEADOW & JACKIE JR)
A SUPPLIMENT FOR
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/demons-lilith-aamon-meadow-jackie-jr.html?m=1
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
LILITH SUCCUBUS & INCUBUS
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demon-spirits-lilith-succubus.html?m=1
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
"PAN"
GREEK GOAT GOD
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-deities-demon-spirits-pan-greek.html?m=1
"The Great God Pan is not Dead."
MATILDA
AKA
"MATTYO"
MATTY ORLANDO
MEETING DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
MORE PAN
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/matilda-aka-mattyo-matty-orlando.html?m=1
(OUT IN THE WOODS)
MEETING DEMONS
(PTSD DREAMS)
A PICTORIAL NARRATIVE
JANICE
(LA MADRE ORSA)
VISITING
CHRIST CRUCIFIX
(MEETS AAMON THE WOLF DEMON)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demons-pictorial-narrative-ptsd.html?m=1
CARMELA VISITING
FATHER OZARIO & SISTER YESSI
(PART 1)
MEETING DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/carmela-visiting-father-ozario-sister.html?m=1
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
APPENDIX II:
"Conspiracy of Crows"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/the-young-sopranos-appendix-ii.html?m=1
(The Ghost of Tony Soprano
Appears to Carmela)
FURTHER INTRODUCTIONS
OF DEMONIC DEITIES
LAMIA & JOHN KEATS
(PTSD DREAMS)
ELECTRA
AKA: "ELLIE"
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
BALAAM THE FALSE PROPHET
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/electra-aka-ellie-meeting-demon-spirits.html?m=1
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
MOTHER GODDESS
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-deities-demon-spirits-mother.html?m=1
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
URSALUPUS
ENCOUNTERS DEMON RAUM
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demon-spirits-ursalupus-ptsd.html?m=1
AN
ANALYSIS
OF
"THE UNHINGING CRUX"
(Meadow's Virgin Islands Confessions)
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS(TYS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/analysis-of-unhinging-crux-from-young.html?m=1
AN ANALYSIS &
PHOTO ALBUM OF MEADOW'S MANY FACES
W/CARMELA COMPARISON
A SUPPLIMENT
OF
"THE YOUNG SOPRANOS"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/read-young-sopranos-source.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA
"MATTY ORLANDO"
"MATILDA"
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL (1994)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
MATILDA II
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-ii-from-leon-professional.html?m=1
"MATILDA" III
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iii-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
"MATILDA" IV
RESCUING BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iv-rescuing-beethoven.html?m=1
"MATILDA" V
MATTY ORLANDO
DATING "JOHNNY B. GOODE"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-v-dating-johnny-b-goode.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VI
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vi-make-up.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MEMENTO MORI
(DRUNKEN DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-memento.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA
"MATTY ORLANDO"
SUBWAY RAT DREAMS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-subway-rat.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MATTY ORLANDO'S
(Narrative)
"SECRET LIFE"
(W/ OUT JOHNNY B. GOODE)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-matty.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
RESCUES BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime.html?m=1
MORE
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
DATING
JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-dating-johnny-b.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MEMENTO MORI
(ROMANCING THE DEAD)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-memento-mori.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-make-up-practice.html?m=1
"Johnny B. Goode"
(Live at the Fillmore East, NYC, NY - 1970) · Johnny Winter
https://youtu.be/gEayVWiJtLg?si=iePgaGvJVwQXTAmp
"MATTY ORLANDO"
INSPIRED
BY:
LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
(1994)
https://youtu.be/Pf0JW-cAFTs?si=-BMWviJ-Dham07HD
RAYMOND CURTO JR
DIMEO CRIME FAMILY
(FICTITIOUS CHARACTER WITH MS)
"Our Vision: A World Free of MS"
Delivering Breakthroughs to a Cure
Invested $1.1 billion into research since 1946
Please Consider
Donating to MS SOCIETY:
https://donate.nationalmssociety.org/pages/8528
CAITLYN (MOLTISANTI) SOPRANO
(FICTITIOUS CANCER SURVIVOR)
Please
Consider Donating:
ST JUDES
CHILDREN HOSPITAL
ALL
AI GENERATED IMAGES
CREATED BY USING
WORD PROMPTS
2026
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