The Runic Template

a tale from the Underworld.

I saw crystals on the ground as I walk through an alley of the desolate cityscape, cracked, shattered. A testament to the corrosiveness of capitalism’s underbelly. I climbed the gate to get to the other side toward my own hole in the cesspool. Summoning the ladder from the rusted escape scaffold I noticed my neighbor molesting his daughter from the window of the apartment below my own. I sit well knowing how it all went wrong.

The newest president, Faulki, made an unpopular executive order that forced this dystopic tang on the world. The popular opinion went well, but the dissent had little means to deviate from what they knew would come to pass. Months after the draconian measure, congress enacted the presidential move into law, citing various benefits for the economy and ‘the little man.’ I took a razor to my forearm and caressed the wound; another violation recorded from a world I did not grow up in. Religion is more or less cured from all forms of divinity, Muslims drink pee while citing their angle on the ecosystem; in keeping with the severely ritualistic social environment, and have a life to cultivate for their children, wading into the scat culture is subliminally mandatory. And no one dare speak of their foray into the mud out loud, not even the affluent.

No one gets away from the work, really. Whether you’re enjoying a meal at the local pub or having an ice cream on Saturday, the gritty areas of adulthood has crept into the children like the undertones of the old ‘Ring around the Rosie’ game; as unfortunate as it is to watch, we are all guilty.

As I reach into my closet, the large chest in the corner awaits my presence. It’s eerie aura lit from the flickering light bulbs that need changing. None of that matters now, I’ve made it. Rent is due in two days and I am in need of escape. I walk into the chest, the light on the outside convulses as I close its only opening. Three seconds. Four. I open the chest as it stands in an unassuming closet. Perfectly symmetrical to the 412 x 412 square foot room that reveals pressed pants, neatly arranged suits, and perfectly shined shoes. Nadeen. My slave has been guilty of trying to impress me before. “Good morning, God” Nadeen humbly opens the door of the closet with the sink in it. “What am I requesting, today, Nadeen?” “A pilot” she answers hurriedly. She knows me so well.

The mountain range that I use as my oasis, the entrance to my underground bunker, has natural radar cancelling effects that is well known to hide bandits and other unsavory, but generally defaultuous inclusions of existence. Easy to hire, and trainable, for use as my personal security within the tunneled network under the overpopulated urbanistic backdrop, the nearby cities. She hurries to the computer and crafts the decoy a passport in the event of interception during transit.

“And ejaculation.” She knows me so well. The makeshift democracy that I left with the advanced technology hidden in the chest does not tolerate non communally accepted sex, even the tension, a natural effect of existence could lead to strife in any given workplace. After returning from the basement with a child who knows what I need, she reports the progress on the pilot “Nine hours before the male is complete.” A fully rested, fully equipped pilot for me to return to the neighboring islands of the mainland with, I abhor the state of capitalism right now. It favors the selected and even those are remnants of descendants eroded from the country’s glory days. Only issue with this is that the original kings of Atlantis became moored into poverty by their own mistakes. The white ‘conqerors’ who always to need assistance from the lesser and other bloodlines seem almost retarded in the way that they ‘must about.’ Their wives eat fecal matter and engage with the piss drinking determinant based on their income level. It’s painful to see.

“God,” Nadeen whispers, “can I have a drink?” As the child hears this, it shudders from the recollection of the rumors regarding ‘upstairs.’ They fear the worst since the children never return. I slowly reach for the child’s vocal chords, tantalized by my own grace. With my other hand I stretch my erect member into Nadeen’s rectal service. She sighs in relief. Moments after the child’s body collapses into the floor, lifeless, I relieve myself into the buttocks of my slave. Instinctively, she reaches for the nearest cup out of the sink. This is her payment, and motivation for cleaning the dishes. An act that I let slide. She forces my nutrients into the cup while I, as a man, dispose of the child’s body in the incinerator kept a few feet from the stove; an inclusion i requested personally, on account of the basement being so close.

She pisses on me instinctively. Nadeen is a clone of an RH Null’s hair that I’ve captured and took back to the bunker for further study. Caligastia, my own understanding, provided me with the equipment to further my devious imagination. Advanced technology from a forgotten time in history. Nadeen’s physiology is superior even to the extent her original, earthbound form precises. She is on a diet of elixir that ensures the utmost cleanliness in her internal systems. An unique re-engineering of technology from the more positive advanced civilizations. Her piss is worth trillions to the mainland scientists, were they ever to face history in a better light. Earth life is so taxing and, aside from the urantia papers’ purview, a life in the mainland is not worth living.

Hours later, it is morning on the other side of the world. I’ve got to get to the islands. “The pilot’s ready!” Nadeen said, excitedly. She loves to watch the helicopter fly off knowing she is the bottom bitch to a multinational criminal organization run by the smartest ward of the courts within the mainland who simply ‘got away.’ Based on the national weather service there, the flight should take no longer than usual. I’ve got a new shipment of fentanyl that needs an oversee; unfortunately Nick passed away in a curious accident, if I’m not mistaken, near Virginia. My double life as an unassuming clergyman in the Bronx can’t see my opulent lifestyle and deeds as a Dudaelian. By the time the Lord, their God, picked me up at the ripe age of 28, my worldview was already shifting. He molded me, remotely, from birth. Only to kill my mother, cause an aneurism that caused my father to abandon me, and alienate my social cues into obscurity where the only ones who trust me are those who do not know the history of their own scripting. All this was toward my inheritance, the providence of the rebellion against all known forms of civilization elsewhere. It nearly crushed my sense of self; to this day I carry an unforgiving weight that almost seems unnecessarily driven to my form of consciousness.

Hours later I am stepping off of a rooftop of a favelian territory on one of the islands surrounding the mainland, real gutters. The locals greet me and intuitively know who I am based on the aura. “At least he doesn’t drink piss” one of the younger local YN’s emphasized in a muted tone. “Ma!” the rest was local unintelligible gibberish that ended in him motioning me inside the darkened room. “It’s hot as hell out there idn’t it?” A nigger I hadn’t met before was the contact Nadeen arranged for me to meet, I didn’t mind her making the calls, the main reason I copied the original RH Null’s DNA is because of their amygdala dampening abilities. With a person like that centralized on the other side of the world, taking calls for me, I can link favor into my social accounts as a clergymen and funnel unfathomable amounts of dough through the church all under the Fathers nose.

Although he suspects I am in some sort of trouble, he would never guess I was the devil-created prodigy installed for a very specific purpose that I don’t even disclose to myself. I bitchslap the nigger into submission. “Alright, where’s the drop?” I hesitate into his ear drum. “The military base,” he replies as blood drips from his nostril. A perfect ruse against a country dying for some dick in its ass. “Sets sail at midnight.” Nick was the point man for these sorts of engagements. “Any children,” I ask. “Yeah, there’s a nine year old, just left her mom at the amusement park. Her online profile reeks of devil worship her parents can’t seem to sway her to Christianity.” “Perfect, another fresh soul dying to meet a deviating administrator.” I was a lover at heart, soft on the eyes originally. This cesspool of a world has caught me lacking in a sense before my mysterious departure to Dudael. Since I left as an intermediary, I’m eligible to go anywhere in the world as a demigod, provided the advanced tech in the underworld does not detect interruption of the greater surface choreography. This particular act was a necessary function of the world, after I left. I became somewhat of an underground mafia lord, a substrate god, a lord of solitude that made the next sequence of mankind inheritable.