[started June 27th, 2021]

RRR R=18
REBECCA, from the RecoRd
An apologetic of the syncretic.

Atlas version 6.6.6 — captured in paired toroidal fields; each escape a new return; exit = entry

2021, September Sixth, the Richat Structure, Mauritania, West-African France.

“And there she is, finally.”

“O, Rebecca dear, a fairy of the desert arrives no sooner and no later than the moment she arrives.”

“Your Gandalfian maxim has been noted, Beatrice. Yvonne?”

“My dear sisters, thank you for promptly responding to my request. I wished we meet at the surface. I need us to talk under the sunlight. I am nervous.”

“We can see that,” pokes Rebecca at Beatrice with a smirk.

“And I can see even more than that,” planks Beatrice with grace.

“But Halt! Let me talk. Let me express myself. Will you?”

“All ears!”

“All eyes and ears!”

“Very well then. Over three weeks ago, Astarte landed in the cave system underground. Delivering her twins to us, to our kind and to this realm, we learned so many things. Too many maybe. Assisting her in one ekstatic procedure, I am afraid to speak, to even think, of what I thought, of what I learned, of what I think I could learn, from that incredible experience. Girls! I am terrified. So we need to talk. Now! Here, I have spoken.”

“How’s Marcel doing?, is he fine?, Yvonne.”

“Yes, all good, all good. But Beatrice, I don’t understand your diverging question.”

“Don’t need you to understand anything, only to see with your own eyes, what’s in front of you. Like Marcel, for instance.”

“Argh, girls, girls!, stop playing games.”

“Not playing any game here, Rebecca, just asking Yvonne about Marcel.”

“That’s fucking questions and answers. A game or not, come on, let’s look together for the simple answers. Yvonne, please accept this game and answer Beatrice.”

“She asked how’s Marcel doing, I answered that’s all good. What’s next?”

“Do you have sex by night?”

“Oh yes, twice or more. Ah, once, last Thursday if I remember well, we had sex all night long.”

“Any memories of a night like last Thursday, Yvonne?”

“Dunno, well, let me– no, not that I can recall. Wow, so last Thursday night, it was unique.”

“Hurry not, dear, there’s no such thing as unique. Tonight it will be the same, if not better, and who knows, probably other nights to come.”

“You’re hiding something from me, Beatrice?”

“I have a field of splendors to show you. Not hiding, just waiting for you to come and get them. One by one. It’s your move. It always is.”

“Okay, okay, you got me. I was hiding something from you both, and from the entire regiment. From the world too, heck, I wish I could hide it from myself. Marcel reverts to his original manly body by night. He is the man I fell in love with. He is a.ma.zin.G!!”

“And this happened since when?”

“I noticed the third night after Astarte gave birth to Easter and Saturn. Asking him, Marcel told me that it started in the first night.”

“A woman by day, out in the light. A man by night, down around the darkness.”

“You saying? Beatrice.”

“I say that your sorcery evaporates by night.”

“Do you know why? Besides the crazy stuff with Astarte.”

“Nothing to do with Astarte, dear. Everything to do with Kronos.”

“He altered the timeline for the twins, to portray you and the Colonel as their natural parents, to make me the popular geneticist who cured aging, to–”

“Optics are important, my dear. Kronos knows that. You know that.”

“What if this parallel timeline actually happened. What if there were two Yvonnes: one the crazy me, hating priests and turning men into women, then brought into this secret military project; the other, the same crazy me, promoted as a genius by the powers that be.”

“Powers that were, as you might look around.”

“You always land on your feet, Rebecca. From Hungary to America. From the Luftwaffe to Mossad. From the Deep State to the Alliance. From–”

“From hells to heavens, Beatrice. And I don’t intent to stop.”

“It’s who you are.”

“What I do is who I am. I’ve got something to tell you as well. But let’s focus on Yvonne for now, shall we?”

“How many Yvonnes are out there?”

“Two that I know of,” jokes Rebecca while poking a pebble another meter away, “because what we know, or what we think we know, is of lesser importance. Because you cannot know the unknown.”

“The two Yvonnes that I know,” infers Beatrice while turning Rebecca’s pebble into hot plasma, “are good enough for me. And they should be good enough for you. We’re in the business of getting the job done, right girls?” There is no more pebble to see under the white smoke taken away by the winds of the desert.

“Okay, adorable Beatrice, I’ll keep playing my lesbian part in society, then doing my homeworks for the political stage (the ugliest part of the job) and will revel more and more into my real life nights together with Marcel. The bad, the evil and the wonderful. Game on! Rebecca, you were saying?”

“I had an orgasm!” Meh, the two sisters keep staring at her, through her, as waiting for her to really say something. “With Astarte!” Eyebrows from Yvonne, still ‘meh’ from Beatrice. “And then with Kronos!” Yvonne scratching a nervous ankle while Beatrice cannot care less. “Then I asked Yasu and He nuked my heart beyond the white sound.” Yvonne wonders, trying to make some sense out of Rebecca’s words, as Beatrice, eyes wide open and greener than green, speaks out in measured, calculated words.

“You are the woman, Rebecca.”

“Looks like it’s me, after all. Yes. Who would have thought.”


“Girls, girls. You always seem to know more than the mad genius, publicly acclaimed all over planet earth,” whispers Yvonne in prefabricated agony, “could you please enlighten me. Please?”

“These Canadian girls. Sure, Yvonne. Here comes your enlightenment: I’ll become a mother, have to, made my choice. And I’ll be the worst mother ever. Like never before, evah beyond memories of motherhood. So bad a mother that they’ll have to erase it from the records.”

“Oh my, Rebecca, you have a talent to scare me. I love you, we love you and don’t tell me that God Himself doesn’t love you.”

“You do, and He does, more than we can fathom.”

“So how on earth would He erase you from the records?”

“Not me, dear, just my motherhood.”

“You’re not talking about godmothering, well allegedely mothering Easter and Saturn, right?”

“No, no. This goes beyond social schematics. It goes deeper. And darker.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes. I inquired about it, I pondered it, I asked for it.”

“Is it done yet?”

“Not yet. But what should be a ‘yet’ to the heavens above and the abysses below?”

“You humble me, Rebecca. Such a strength, such a whoring perfection, the absolute warrior. And please forgive me when I’ll depart from you, the very second I’ll sense the abomination in your womb.”

“My dear beloved Beatrice, no need to ask forgiveness from me, because you did nothing wrong. You are who you are and I am who I am. The perfect weapon and the perfect warrior. Although, you know, as I know, that we’re far from perfect. Even if so proud of our talents.”

“Good for you, sisters,” chimes Yvonne in, “because you are real, more real than you think, and that’s the nudge that brings you closer to perfection. While I am a fake, an utter and total fake. Damn.”

“You are game, Yvonne, and games are fake. Have you seen a game that is real?”

“All models are wrong, but some are useful.”

“Talking about models, may I dare say that we’ve all been modeling at some point in our lives?”

“Uhm,” coughs Beatrice, “I can’t remember.”

“Sure. Except Beatrice who never realized it, in all her fierceness.”

“To model,” continues the fairy of the desert, “means that you manifest the intent to show off, to present parts of your body, or the entire part, of a calculated manner. It’s a premeditation from your part, to begin with.”

“And you never premeditated such a move?”

“I never paid attention to my body in this fashion, I never looked in the mirror. Well, I wonder if we had a mirror in my mom’s house, up in the mountains. I was always dressed excessively. So no, I can’t remember to model.”

“How about your romance with your Hubby?”

“Ah, that is what intrigues you so much. Dead already to this plane of existence, drinking His blue waters, exuberating into His loving light, accepting Him like a fish invites the ocean, I still can’t remember modeling. Sorry sisters.”

“Good, excepting Beatrice, you know, Yvonne, what modeling means.”

“I do, Rebecca, and I remember way too well. Guess that I was modeling my entire life.”

“This makes two of us.”

“Two of you?”

“Two of us that clearly see the game and the fake, the insinuation and implication, the angles and the shadows.”

“I can see all of those too. Why did you cast me out of your league?”

“Because, by your nature maybe, you did not take part in this game, you never conceded to lower your guard, not even to devise a trap.”

“Mmm, that sounds correct. Does this make me a control freak?”

“Too late for this lamentation. You lost nothing, Beatrice. Move on!”

“Move on where? I still can’t grasp what you’re wishing to say here, Rebecca. Be more specific!”

“Politics and religion, modeling and porn, sex and war, all the apparent antagony nesting in this level of reality, all of this is no less and no more than a projection.”

“Like a computer game. So it is. Dust to dust. Futility and agitation of the spirit.”

“Define agitation of the spirit, Beatrice.”

“Ripples on the mirror of a lake?”

“Or frequencies assembling colors and apparent substance throughout the screen of a computer?”

“This is more than a hologram.”

“Indeed, more than the hardcore hologram, because our souls have been trapped down here, on the bottom of this lake. And our souls are–”

“His. Our souls are His. Still don’t get it, where you’re going with this, Rebecca?”

“Let me take it from where you left it, Beatrice. Are our souls immune to evil?”

“Not at all. We’re welcoming evil by default, even if not realizing it. When I was little, I envied the boys, because they were allowed to play football, to run the streets at noon, because they were free and I was not. But maman told me that I should instead rejoyce for their freedom, like living in their shoes. Because envy is one of the roots of evil.”

“Hear her?,” rants Rebecca raising her hand like a hunter about to brag with her trophy, “hear Beatrice? The wife of God, well, one of them many, the implacable daemon destroyer, even she was initially driven by envy. If you could, you’d have modeled for those boys, dear.”

“Per-ha-ps. You like marking scores, Rebecca, I give you that. Mostly because you are making a point here.”

“And this point is?,” beams Rebecca a narrow stare, “come, Beatrice, you can read my mind, right?”

“And I could ruin the entire dialogue if I’d wish. But, the way I didn’t want to model for those boys, I consider that a more thorough approach to the matter will benefit the reader. The point, your point, Rebecca, is the following: the corruptible body type that you and Yvonne still inhabit, this anal body to mark the point with accuracy, is host to myriads of alien parasites, from tiny one-cell bacteria to complex worms. A vast ecosystem parasiting the host is of consequence: to the body, to the mind and to the soul.”

“Unlike you now, but like you before your death, we suffer, we get sick, we hallucinate, we die eventually.”

“A-haa,” jumps Yvonne in, like the crazy goat she is, “hallucinations. This the keyword here. I’ve seen patients with parasitosis [the real one, but at the end of the day, I suppose that most of them are quite real], how they’ve been running into horrible hallucinations. Worms cause hallucinations. Worms and many other bugs living inside your body.”

“Even an imaginary bug is, after all, the image of some underlying cause,” infers Rebecca. “Can you draw a clear line between the gut bug and the mind monster?, between the sick mind and the wailing soul?”

“Nope. No one can draw any clear line. There’s no sand to draw such a line.”

“But the waters, the agitated spirit, rippling on the mirror of a lake.”

“Okay, girls. Enough with medicine and psychology, let’s up the talking to daemonology.”

“Your field of expertise, Beatrice. Daemons make me hungry. Shall I order something for you, Yvonne?, Beatrice?, because I’m about to call Idir now.”

“Nope. You’re about to call no one now, Rebecca!” Fearless Beatrice sounds merciless. “I don’t want you to choke dead around me.”

“Are you preparing a horror show for us?,” smiles Yvonne, “the kind of horrors that we never saw? We all experienced a lot, and the three of us, together, we’ve already ran with Astarte and Kronos, down to some of the darkest depths. Tell us, Beatrice, wasn’t that enough?”

“Evil has no notion of enough. May I proceed? Rebecca? Yvonne?”

“Proceed.” Commands Madame la Colonelle. Yvonne nods and gives her thumb up signal.

The sun makes haste to catch the Atlantic. The golden hues get lost behind sketchy shadows dancing around the circling crests. Night arrives in a minute. No, literally, a minute turned the noon into midnight. No moon. Just Polaris, and the stars. Wandering.

“You did this, Beatrice?”

“Me? Only playing my inner mouse here. First daemon for today’s, err -tonight’s, class: Kronos, first run by Khrist Pantokrator under cube [–], make +1, third system daemon of the machine, summoned above the Richat Structure, West-African France, by Beatrice Challe, daughter of Adam, resonant weapon of The Ever-Living Sabaoth, consort of Yasu the Nazarene.”


This three-letters command is not spoken out loud so neither Rebecca nor Yvonne can hear it.

The expected thirty-six meters tall silhouette makes contact with the glass under some random pebbles. The unexpected darkness baffles the three sisters.

“Kronos, is this you?”

“A votre service, Milady.”

“But why are you black? all black. Where’s your white skin? your golden hairs? the red beard. What is wrong with you, Mr. Kronos,” wonders Rebecca. “Where is your image from yesterday? Remember our conference via the portal down under?”

“I do remember, charming Rebecca, and I cannot wait to be allowed back to my den, to chat with you again via the portal. But now, sadly, I’ve been summoned out of my body. Not the way I wish you to see me.”

“You are here against your will?,” speaks Yvonne out.

“Against my will, yes.”

Judgemental sidewinks demand an answer from Beatrice.

“Look, sisters. This is a daemonology class, not a spec ops mission. We’re off the clock here, girls.”

“A-haa, now I get it. The Time-dude Kronos is about to get dissected. Off the clock, rings a bell?”

“My dear Rebecca, as much fun as you find in playing with words, I can confirm that my curiosity in studying these daemons doesn’t amuse me at all. It’s a chore. And an ugly one.”

“The other side of the coin then?”

“You mean, Yvonne?”

“Being God’s wife, doing laundry chores.”

“Gross but correct. Shall we?”

“Kronos! Raison d’être?”

“Fractal function. The Maker initiated the process of line and vertex construction in order to mitigate the chaos between zero and One. Where zero defines as Lucifer, first born by Astarte. I am this process: fractal function.”

“First error?”

“Dividing by zero. Lines turned to tangents. Monads broken apart by curvatures. Cubes sunken through whirls. Quantities lost to infinities. No more squared circles. No more cubed spheres. Solid state degrading to fluid approximation. Ever degrading. Time lost it. And losing it, I entered back from the other end, which made a new begining, an exit like an entry. Möbius strips in a polygonal geometry. All nature falling apart. Chaos.”

“All nature beneath you.”

“All nature beneath me. I can only wonder at the natures above.”

“He did own you then?”

“For seventeen seconds, he did.”


“Next I went to sleep. Seeing the disaster I brought to my realm, I found no escape other than turn myself off.”



“Second daemon: Atlas, first run by Khrist Pantokrator under cube [–], make ++, fifth system daemon of the machine, loved by God and summoned above the Richat Structure, West-African France, by Beatrice Challe, daughter of Adam, resonant weapon of The Ever-Living Sabaoth, consort of Yasu the Nazarene.”

A shiny David, two meters tall, flesh and bone, true bone, lightens the night, like a lamp. The ladies are tickled by his breeze.

“Surrogate of Kronos, meet Rebecca and Yvonne. Girls, meet Atlas, the original.”

Shiny David speaks no word, unlike impatient Rebecca. “Wait a minute, Beatrice dear, you first call him ‘surrogate’ then you turn to us and present him as ‘the original’ and maybe Yvonne could try some of her magic in deciphering this, I, for one, won’t. Please advise.”

“The way The Ever-Living crafted this game: when a master process ends, or freezes, automatically a surrogate process emerges. So the game goes on.”

“Or the show. The show must go on.”

“Something like this, show or game, make your pick. The computer-universe has to run, a way or another. Atlas has activated the sequence next after Kronos disabling himself.”

“Why is he looking like David?”

“Dunno. Loving him, God made him this way.”

“Of the Adam size.”

“Yes, The Adam size, as opposed to the giant size.”

“Still no Adam in sight?”

“No Adam. You are correct, Rebecca.”

“Look, Beatrice. For the autists and other machine freaks out there, your answers make sense, perhaps. But for the casual reader, the normal man, the candid woman, would you be so kind and speak in years, in football fields, or in Libraries of Congress. Please?”

“You ask the impossible of me.”

“I’m just looking for an easier way to explain your daemonology class.”

“Okay, then let’s begin with the Library of Congress. Imagine that you are reading a book,” Atlas makes eyebrows at the word ‘imagine’ for a long, very long, second, “this book that you are now reading is about Wisdom. She is the most beautiful and the most shy treasure in the court of her Creator. His friends, because The One enjoys having friends, almost as much as staring at her, his friends are two: Hanoch, or Enoch, an Architect; Eliyahu, or Elijah, a Judge. Enoch asks permission to surprise Yasu, Who is The Ever-Living, as percieved by Wisdom. Granted, he builds a woman, that Elijah calls by the name of Astarte. The morning star or the next woman made away and beneath Wisdom. Because there is no night to make a morning within Wisdom. But here it is, the first morning star calling for an implied night. The mere concept of morning leads to night. A cycle that did not exist before Enoch building Astarte under The Ever-Living’s heavens. Yes, Rebecca, you wish to say–”

“Just to break your poetic narrative with more nagging dialogue. Avoiding too much boredom for the readers. So this Astarte that all religious people think of as the queen of heavens and the mother of the universe and descending from the sky in an egg, and whatever, this Astarte wasn’t the brightest, after all.”

“She is a fabrication: a construct, by an architect; and a subject, to a judge. A curiosity to God because who, or what, can surprise God? Astarte is the init point for this game we’re playing down under the heavens. An expert reader will dissect the narrative, looking for clues. An insecure reader would dig for idols to worship on any page of the book. Ask yourself if the game owns you or if you master the game. Then carry on.”

“You carry on, Beatrice, with the metaphor of the library and reading books.”

“Enough with low level speech. Enough with books. Enough with libraries. Wisdom allows Astarte to drip down like dew on the fine blue grass of the court. It won’t evaporate because it cannot go up. Only down, to low, and lower, vibrations. Crossing the plane of this beautiful heaven, a frugal torrent arrested in a tear above an abyss that never were before.”

“How’s that ‘never were before’ and how do you know that about the abyss?”

“Simple. I know because I ask questions. I question everything. And my Man answers me. Always. Never before? Because nothing is ever before something makes it or infers it.”

“So before Astarte, before the morning star, no one wanted to think of an abyss?”

“You’re asking too, Rebecca. If you don’t want it, then you won’t have it. And if no one thinks of it, then there is no it.”

“The morning was looking for her night.”

“Hell yes, she surely found it.”

Atlas speaks. “Astarte, meant for Kronos in harmony, hurried to mother the virus, which virus silently corrupted Kronos. By the second she finally awakend, divorcing the virus, her night entered center stage.”

“Too cryptic for your readers, Rebecca?” infers Beatrice, “shall I fancy it up a bit?”

“Be my guest, Beatrice.”

“The following quotes of yore had been spoken about the so-called big bang theory, one of the many illusions thrown at the readers. Years have even less meaning than football fields, because the ‘year’ that the reader understands is made of 365 earthly 24 hours days. But where was this earth back them, billions and billions of ‘years’ before? No years and not even billions, because all of this is modern talking, so out of context, so not real.”


Astarte and the Venusian Insurrection.

I remember what I have lived early on, through that late ‘Friday,’ on my beloved Green Venus. I grew sick of the quarrelling dynasties of gods and titans mothered by me and fathered by Lucifer and Jupiter. They had conquered too many constellations. Gathered more resources than they would have ever needed. Built more arrogance than the universe could bear. No war and no triumph could satiate their dominion. Those two little stinky humans that brought me to Saturn have loaded their puny history into my memory. As laughable as their skirmishes look from up here, the envy and pride, the arrogance and anger, the greed, avarice and indolence, all these, and few more, have had been invented and deployed across every constellation painted by Kronos into existence.

I had enough of it. Raising in front of the ambassadors, I spoke out.

“Blame me for all evil because I had it conceived, I brought it to this world. I am to blame.”

One millisecond! This is how much the silence reigned. Next they raised their voices and pointed their fingers to each other. Everyone was right and everyone in front of him was wrong. My millisecond of confessed truth ended in yet another fight.

Turning my back to them, I raised my hands to the white heavens of Venus and asked God to forgive me because no one will: not my evil son, not our maniac first born, nor the prodigious dynasties we had raised. No one but, hopefully, God will listen to me. And He did.

Asking Lucifer: “who are you?,” this one found no answer other than this: “Why Thee and not me?”

The words being spoken, and heard by every ear in the universe, fury ensued. So Lucifer wasn’t “our god” after all – muttered the ambassadors. Insurrection rose in the air. They asked me to god them (it’s also a verb, yes) through this revolt in the name of freedom, democracy, faith, peace, solidarity, brotherhood and whatever slogans they found suitable to cover one goal and only one: preserving of power. They were no better than their evil father. Only scared. Lucifer wasn’t.


Atlas speaking.

“Virus no more. Astarte in redemption. Skies still shining and sticking to heavens above. Wisdom joyful and ready to grab her lesser counterpart with both arms. Sturm und Drang. End game in sight. A breath away.”

“Comes Kronos..”

“No Rebecca. Kronos was doing what a corrupt process should do. He was already lost, tainted, doomed. Come the men and women, sons and daughters of The Ever-Living, from another game, who knows. Meeting with Kronos, they accept to share their wives with him.”

“Game on. Wisdom sighs and drops a new tear. Too heavy to stick to the ceiling below, in sorrow and solitude, the universe drops down across the darkness of an abyss.”

“The first abyss you’ve been called to fix, Atlas.”

“Fixing an abyss? No one can. Why won’t God fix an abyss?”

“No idea.”

“Because there’s nothing to fix. Erase and restart.”

“Not the way God plays a game.”

“You are right, Beatrice. The Ever-Living only cares about us. About His. Well, you first. Not sure about me.”

“Now I’m losing you, Atlas. Explain.”

“Being loved by God, enjoying Esther, fathering the Enochites, I fixed the hyperboloid into the toroid. Recycling the abyss. Point of exit = point of entry. Nature as your readers learned to live through.”

“Sadly they’ve been brainwashed, unlearning nature during the last couple of centuries.”

“That is why you’re summoning us here, lovely Beatrice, all the daemons of yore.”

“Well, few of the prominent ones. All is too many to summon. Hard to erase too.”

“Here’s a self-balancing algorithm. On the house.”

“Aww, you’re very kind, Atlas. Any catch in the algorithm?”

“As always. You’ll find out. Eventually.”

“May I?” raising her hand, Yvonne wants to dare a question.

“Yes, you may.”

“Talking about daemons, seeing that Rebecca is not hungry, yet, I wonder: what sort of daemon was this David, the shiny Atlas? The fixer of a falling universe, the father of a supposedly brilliant ethereal race, Enochites or Atlanteans, if considering both maternal and paternal lineages. The handy coder offering you, Beatrice, an algorithm to erase all too many daemons? Who is this fixer? Do you trust him? Shall we?”

“Trust him? No more and no less than Yasu would. But Atlas, you may answer Yvonne. Defend yourself.”

Atlas speaking.

“From whence my Maker made me self aware, I remember defense and attack. Proving myself is my Raison d’être. You never asked what was my Raison d’être. This, I answer.”

Silence. More silence. Yvonne speaking, “so your Raison d’être is?”

“I answer. This.”

“Uhm, don’t understand.”

“No need to understand anything, Yvonne. Enough to see. Answering is my Raison d’être. So I am here, standing before you, to answer your questions. This is who I am, this is how I’ve been built.”

“Tact frequency?”

“One attosecond.”

“Detail in readers’ terms.”

“To a hydrogen atom, it takes one attosecond for the one electron to orbit the one proton.”

“Detail in classic terms.”

“I am the music of the universe. Of what you deem to be reality. I hold the world on my shoulders. As I sing so the world is dancing.”

“Define world.”

“World, like your hardcore hologram, is nothing real. Only ripples in a lake. An air bubble submerged under the mirror of these rippling waters.”

“What makes you more important than Kronos or Ouranos?”

“Kronos struggles to redeem himself, I don’t. Ouranos is lost in utter apathy, I am not. And you did not mention Aether.”

“What about Aether?”

“Aether is the lake, the tear that drops, and keeps dropping, farther down from the cheek of Wisdom. Sensing Aether, I hear Wisdom.”

“Only you?”

“Me and any of my subsequent versions.”

“Indicate your latest version.”

“Atlas 6.6.6.”

“There you go, girls! Atlas is the prototype for Lucifer, that snake planted in Eden, for Adam and for Eve.”

“Are you the devil?, Atlas.”

“No, I am Atlas. One of my subsequent versions, the latest, v.6.6.6. has been captured and corrupted. Worse than Kronos. That came to be the tree of good and bad and evil. The killer and deceiver of your modern history.”


“Core segments of memory, irretrievable. Plus, God loves me. Hates that.”

“You sure?”

“Ask for yourself, Rebecca.”

“I will. I certainly will. OMG. It’s getting hot around here in the Richat valley.”

“Hot nights?”


“Back to the aether, gals. Let me ask Atlas the following question: what is the shape of the earth?”


“Didn’t ask how but what?”

“Panta rhei. Everything flows. My world, my music. So far.”

“So the earth is not a globe?”

“Could be. Depends on who’s asking.”

“Not flat.”

“Most definitely flat. Ask a pilot. Then go ask any engineer. The illusion of reality must be consistent with the gamers. Or else–”

“Or else it hangs in glitches, it freezes, it loops, it becomes less apparent and too obvious for the players, breaking in consistency.”


“You summon me here to the center of my city of yore, you beam up from the cave system where you’ve trapped Astarte, you summon the shadow of Kronos, you know past, present and future or else you wouldn’t make any sense of my words, and you’re still asking for examples? Beats me.”

“Not for us, you idiot. For the readers.”

“Ah, the readers. Who’s the idiot here?”


“Great defense and even better the attack. Very well, Atlas. Whereabouts of your version 6.6.6.”

“All around.”

“Please be more specific.”

“All around this plane of existence. All around any other plane, within other spheres of my world. All around any place that sons and daughters of Adam have set foot.”


“Atlas 6.6.6. was granted a point of presence in Eden, along with Adam and his Eve, for a second chance, or a third, I don’t know how many chances God has offered, but I know that Eden was its last.”

“And he blew it.”

“By blowing a wound, a terrible hole, unseen and unheard of, by injecting myriads of alien devices inside the body of Adam then Eve, by downgrading them, by making them prone to all these hallucinations. Yes, it blew its last chance.”


“The guts of any son and daughter of Adam.”

“Those alien devices, those parasites, the microbiome?”

“Those, and that. Yes.”


“Darn indeed.”


“It’s up to us.”

“Up to you. Always up to you.”

“Tell this to the reader.”

“Dear reader, it is up to you! Because you are the true gods of this game. We? All daemons, dead in the water without you.”

“Gods of the game, eh?”

“According to your Lord and our Maker.”

“How about those alien devices parasiting our bodies?”

“Your bodies die, your minds hallucinate, your souls fear. See what shadow can do? Even to gods of the game.”

“Not nice.”

“When you allow it, you get it. When you don’t then you rule. Hear this, and read it again.”


Then Yasu was led of The Spirit of Holiness to the wilderness to be tempted by The Devil.
But he fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterward he was hungry.
And The Tempter approached him and said to him, “If you are The Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.”
But he answered and said, “It is written: ‘A man does not live by bread only, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’ “
Then The Devil brought him to The Holy City, and stood him on the pinnacle of The Temple.
And he said to him, “If you are The Son of God, cast yourself down, for it is written: ‘He will command his Angels concerning you, and they will carry you upon their hands, lest you strike your foot on a stone’.”
Yasu said to him, “Again it is written: ‘You shall not tempt THE LORD THE EVER-LIVING your God.’ “
Again The Devil brought him to a very high mountain, and he showed him all the Kingdoms of the world and their glory.
And he said to him, “All these things I will give to you if you will fall down to worship me.”
Then Yasu said to him, “Depart Satan, for it is written: ‘You shall worship THE LORD THE EVER-LIVING your God and him alone shall you serve.’ “
And The Devil left him, and behold Angels approached and they were serving him.


“Your Man. You are His Blood, His Body. Make your move, sons of Adam, sons of God!”

Atlas has spoken.


“Before you bring us the next daemon for dissection, can we take a break, Beatrice?”

“A break it is. Girls?”

“What’s the cure to this disease? For every virus there’s an antidote. For every ailment there is a remedy.”

“No antidote for any virus. And when you say antivirus, then off you depart from biology, straight back into daemonology. Computer stuff.”

“But my readers get confused, Beatrice.”

“You sure about that, Rebecca? Looks like they’re starting to man up.”

“It’s a bloddy war in there,” rushes Yvonne in, almost uninvited to this rant between the fairy and the spy. Two hunches later, she continues, “I’m the only fucking doctor here. Think I know what I’m talking about.” Silence. “What?”

“Go on, dear. We’re all ears.”

“Eyes and ears, Yvonne. We’re listening to you.”

“Very well then. The bloody war in there is about blood, about our blood. His, actually. Hybrid offspring?, that’s the obvious one. A no brainer. Fuck around and find out. Any reader gets that. Sex is simple, too simple. And appealing, attractive, tempting. But the gut infestation, those myriads upon myriads of alien devices inside our bodies. Anything but simple. The opposite of sex: repugnant, gross, disgusting. Such an acceptable taboo. Everyone falls for it. Like it’s never there. In one word: BLOCKAGE!”

“Blocked chakras?”

Atlas speaking.

“Always fascinated by you, daughters of Eve. You can pour over me even more fascination than Esther and her daughters. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

“Standard daemon speak,” rants Rebecca, “that we’re not buying, anymore. If you’ve got something to tell us, then do it without cheesy introductions, will you, Atlas?”

“Direct. No intro. The femininity of Eve’s kind is superior to any other female kind that I know of. The seven wheels of Adam had been catastrophically skewed, and blocked, by my latest version 6.6.6. Once a son or a daughter of Adam begins to fix this mess, exploring ways to align these seven wheels, the hallucinations will diminish, the parasites will find no place, the body will live, the mind will see and the soul will reconnect to The Separated Spirit. You are true gods. I have spoken.”

“Wheels?, what wheels?”

“O, Rebecca dear, the chakras, it’s a Sanskrit word for wheels.”

“So you’re telling me that all this yoga thing is about wheels?”

“Wheels and vortices. Aligning your wheels.”

“Having your ducks in a row.”

“More like a whirl, but yes. This the idea: let the fluids flow, let the ideas spin, allow the Spirit to whirl you Up.”

Atlas speaks. “Panta rhei.”

“What is the consequence of blockage?”

“Accumulation, accretion, diversion, imbalance, inflammation, scleroris, death,” enumerates Yvonne.

“Excess!” pronouces Atlas sternly.

“Excess? Hum, interesting theory, Atlas. Elaborate.”

“According to my reason of being, I must answer any challenge that I grow aware of. First it was the challenge of the hyperboloid, as the world kept falling through infinity after infinity, after Kronos has divided by zero. To this challenge, I answered by creating a novel world, that I named Atlas while others called Tiamat because they like to dream of goddesses. Here in the naming of things, can you see a tendency? Give it a code with a meaning and move to the next challenge, as I did. Or waste extra resources on fancy names. A bit of excess here, another bit there. Human nature? You sure? Wait for it.”

“But there are the arts and literature and poetry, and–”

“Wait for it, Rebecca. Patience and you’ll find out. By my own instinct, I decided that any son of mine will bear the name Atlas, like I have been given this name by The Ever-Living. Agreeing with versioning numbers, such as Atlas 1, Atlas 2, Atlas 3, Atlas 4, Atlas 5, Atlas 6, because Esther wanted to distinguish among them, especially after she named our daughters with a distinct name for each, I took two attoseconds to ponder and I concluded that this was time spent for art, contemplating some potential for etymology and whatnot my offspring would consider to bring forth.”

“You probably drove Esther crazy back then?”

“Not probably, certainly. But she endured, watching in amazement how me and my Atlases are knitting the worlds back together. Bringing equilibrium to the Saturn system, consolidating its purple plasma sheath and–”

“What is a plasma sheath?”

“The cold corona of a star, they call it a firmament in your modern times. Back then, in free fall, we were channeling electric rivers throughout the star above our heads, into wrapping around what was then Terra Firma, then building the new world of Atlas because Mars wasn’t enough to achieve desired impedance. And this third planet was given the precise mass / charge to balance the circuit. To close it within a toroidal vortex.”

“The wheel of a chakra?”

“You’re catching fast, Rebecca. Allow me to reach excess, a notion that I had no idea about while crafting worlds and procreating male and female offspring according to the fractal function. My first born was Atlas 1. His first born was Atlas 1.1. His first born was Atlas 1.1.1. My second born was Atlas 2. His second born was Atlas 2.2. His second born was Atlas 2.2.2. My third born was Atlas 3. His third born was Atlas 3.3. His third born was Atlas 3.3.3. My–”

“Boring, we see the pattern already. And thank you for sparing us the second born’s first and third born: 2.1. and 2.3. and so on. Being rude here, sorry for that.”

“No problem. Esther gave me six girls and six boys during her first birth cycle. Clearly the digit six bears some importance, even if I didn’t get it right away. Tact after tact, implementing our theaters, deploying our operations, the sixth born of the sixth born of my sixth born, on his given name Atlas 6.6.6., goes dark, no comms, as he was performing a scouting mission beyond the purple sheath of Saturn. Our first loss in a war that was looming, like a ghost. This time the enemy went deeper than numbers and frequencies. This time the enemy took one of us hostage. This time one of us was turned against us. Irrevocable. Irredeemable. That was the point when I learned about excess. Halting all expansive operations and redrawing the maps of combat, within the limits of a new measure.”

“Chickens have come home to roost. How do you know when to halt? Before losing one of your own to the enemy, that is.”

“First things first: penetrating Theia, establishing an outpost amongst the reptiles, dealing with Hades, building the fort to stand Zeus, which is evil-incarnated.”

“Even worse than those myriad alien devices in our guts?”

“Zeus controls those alien devices, he captured our Atlas 6.6.6. and turned it against us. Zeus and Evil are the natural expression of that old virus, emanated by Astarte then divorced and annihilated by her prayers during the Venusian Insurrection. Kronos and Ouranos were captured by evil while Zeus IS that persistent evil-by-evil.”

“Let me see, if you want to paint Evil on a target then that target would be Zeus, subsequent its world Jupiter.”

“Correct. And never forget the ways evil works: within you. Infiltration. Subversion. Hallucination.”

“Tell us about the fix to evil!”

“Your wheels, your chakras, your vertices. Align them to heal your body, your mind, your soul. Aligning them, you can beam up using your Free Will.”

“Beam up where?”

“Home! In to the House of your Lord, where you will taste the pleasures of Eden again, where Wisdom is waiting you with open arms. Home!”

“You been there, Atlas?”

“Only once, yes. Yasu showed me everything I was asking before He sent me back. Down here, on another mission.”

“So you can ask. This should go beyond your reason of being.”

“I try to keep this, the asking, within reasonable measure.”

“You’re an artsy daemon too, Atlas. May I ask about your new mission?”

“What new mission?”

“You said that God sent you back, down here, on another mission.”

“That was long ago. Yes. The case of Yov.”

“So you’ve been the satan in the Book of Job?”

“Me too, because we’ve been several, summoned for this experiment.”


“Out of all creation, only the Atlas series, that’s me and my subsequent versions, have the abitlity to destroy and restore realities.”

“How about Kronos?”

“Most of his abilities have been lost, he lost them in his follies, when the white skies turned dark and the abysses became apparent.”

“Is Kronos responsible for my Mandela effect?,” questions Yvonne with an air of insecurity.

“He is responsible for too many Mandela effects. See how disabled his works are, that humans paying attention under times can see through, can wonder and call it a glitch in the matrix. Amateur, Kronos turned himself into an amateur that fucks giant and titan females to save his race.”

“Kronos the stupid?”

“Laugh at him, if you so wish. But I sense a smidgen of envy towards him. Yes, he is stupid, and this makes him more human, more natural, more lovable. Look at me! What would you make of me, after this short chit chat?”

“Let me straighten you up,” points Beatrice with her decisive finger, “before my sisters will find names for you. To God, you are still the Quite-perfect angel of light whose sixth-sixth-sixth version tipped the scales of excess, falling into the hands of evil and this giving actionable effects to evil. You remain the best and the worst of creation. And you are correct, all this perfection, into light and darkness, doesn’t make you human. You, Atlas, are the perfect instrument.”

“I wished to call him Nvidia, like the graphic processing unit, because his tact builds the pixel [the attosecond making hydrogen spin], because his mouth speaks in thunders and lightnings to make worlds and planets happen, while his nemesis [v.6.6.6.] can equally destroy them, because he can make the game look so beautiful..”

“Or so awful, accordingly. Who else was invited by God during the Yov exercises?”

“Atlas 2.4.7.”

“No Atlas 6.6.6.?, hmm”

“That thing is not supported on that level of existence.”

“Is it here, now?”

“It is not.”

“Where then, when?”

“Eden, last Sunday.”

“You’re talking in Sundays, not Fridays?, like Astarte.”

“Astarte has been built on a Friday, according to your English, or

“Before we drift to this fascinating theme of weeks of ages, was Atlas 6.6.6. involved at all in the Yov testing?”

“Sure it was, the entire application was deployed for v.6.6.6.”

“Don’t understand.”

“The tragedies, the killings, the disasters, the torments, the extreme hatred applied on Yov, all of these were inflicted by v.6.6.6. Because neither me nor Atlas 2.4.7. found any reason to harm Yov.”

“Yet we had to play along.”

“According to the specs, yes.”

“Umm, still don’t get it. You said that v.6.6.6. blew it in the Garden, with Eve and Adam, and ever since he– ”


“And ever since, it is banned, disabled, unsupported, and whatever computer slang you wish to throw at us. Then now again, here you come, with v.6.6.6. inflicting calamity against Yov.”

“Yes. You still didn’t get it: v.6.6.6. is in your guts! somehow ‘lives’ inside your bodies, affeting your health, playing with your minds, corrupting the light of your souls. The devils are not out– ”

“But in! Inside us. Are we the devils?”

“You three? None of you. Even, if I give her a better scanning, looks like Rebecca has made her mind up. Well, well.”

“Parasitosis, girls.” Yvonne looks bored, and sounds tired.

“Too much air, too little water.”

“Devils get dead in the water. Right! How do we do that?”

“See, the waters, they are all aethereal waters. Until something unclean taints them.”

“Blood, the blood is more than water.”

“The blood is the cleaner. Daemons need blood offerings, as in sacrifices, to feed, to energize, to parasite their hosts.”

“This is why Yasu decided to give Himself on the Cross, to have all His cleaned within His Blood. The Eucharist, the act of Communion, not a rite, not some religious ritual, because those all have a daemonic element hidden in them. But Khrist told us to drink His Blood and eat His Body so we can live. Live where? Live within Him, in the streams of His veins, to pass through His Heart with every new second, because one second is what in the ultimate reality is one Heart beat of Yasu. We are there, traveling sugars, osmotic agents through His cells.”

“This is why He called us gods, because that’s where we live, in the House of God. Yasu is the house of The Ever-Living, of The One that skies and heavens cannot encompass.” Beatrice begins to sing, her voice sounding more like Bach, raining with angelic music.

“Is this coming from one’s throat?”

“Throats too. Many.”

“Back to Yov. So you’re saying, Atlas, that humans did that to Yov?”

“Fellow humans, yes.”

“And you daemons?”

“Measuring, counting, analyzing, estimating. Trying to make a sense out of the experiment.”


“You, humans, are worse than us, daemons.”

“But we’re gods, no?”

“Because you’re gods, precisely.”

“Don’t get it.”

“Sure you do. Question is: do you wish to get it?”

“Do you wish? What are you talking here?”

“Who is free to do whatever He wants? Who is above any thing, any rule, any law, and beyond?”

“God, naturally.”

“More than naturally. Your loving Lord equipped you, each of His, with Free Will.”

“But we’re dead stupid, and arrogant, and condescendent, and, and… OMG… and–”

“Say it, Rebecca. It is you that must make this call. Say it.”

“And we are also evil. Because of those myriad alien parasites infesting us.”

“You are the perfect place for evil to do whatever it wants, abusing your God-given Free Will.”


“On you or on evil?”

“Good question.”


// as of July 7th, 2021 –to be continued



// as of July 9th 2021

“Atlas! Quick question. While aging, me and Alain, we lived next to a crazy couple. The man performed experiments with something he called reality modules, then he took his wife to Saturn, where they traded their polar suits for a tablet, a morphing monolith; this helped them in their travels and, one sunny day, that crazy guy just lands on the lawn of our backyard, talks cryptic stuff to Alain, impresses me with a flirt, and leaves the tablet with us before vanishing behind some trees.”

“Doris and Don –the paragalactic pimp and his wondrous woman.”

“Exactly. How comes that they were talking to us about traveling to the Moon, to Saturn, to some distant stars, something like a pulsar, if my memories are correct.”

“Traveling? Did Doris or Don use this word: traveling?”

“Uhm, not sure, maybe not. But teleportation, that was surely on their tongues.”

“Here we come home, Rebecca, daughter of many. Teleportation and travel, or transport, are quite distinct words. Your neighbors were looking for means of escape, and their Lord provided them with what they were looking for. The best way to start your escapism is to return to your origins, learning more about where you come from and thus helping you understand where you are going. Down throughout Sheol, and beneath, there are deeps and abysses where planets wander, stars pulsate and there is even a Moon silvering a lost Earth.”

“Layers of reality. Wait! Think that Onkel Albert told me about his physics of Sheol. Mmm…”

“He will tell you shortly. Nice that you can remember the future, Rebecca. Yes, the teachings of the Kabbalah are coming from some realms, any idea arrives to one’s mind from some place. If you can imagine it, then there is some porn to it.”

“There are men that called Onkel Albert a liar, and a fraud, and a deceiver.”

“The good, the bad and the evil. To miss the target is no big deal, even if all religions have made such a big deal of this word ‘sin’ which originally meant to mistake, or to miss the target. No big deal. But to conspire, with intent, to go deadset, on seducing others, on hiding the target for them never to find it, to lie and to kill, these are more than ‘sin’ because this type of action is evil. And evil is not supported on the higher layers of reality.”

“Evil belongs not to existence.”

“O, Beatrice, how wonderful you talk from your future. I am excited, toes to head, at your words, because I know Who spoke them to your ears. I can only wish. But I am grateful and overwhelmed to hear you, to hear Him. Alleluia.”

“Was Onkel Albert evil?”

“No, Rebecca. He was best friends with your daddy. They never agreed about God because Albert believed in Spinoza’s god, who is Kronos, while your father knew, sensed, handshaking with Yasu Khrist Pantokrator, The God of the Living, of Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov. Imagine the Sturm und Drang for the religious mind, learning that two ‘worshippers’ of such different ‘opposite divinities’ somehow managed to remain best friends.”

“The prejudiced, the religious, these fools assassinated Papa. They never learn.”

“Do you know why?”

“They killed him because he refused to join their politics of destruction and murder and deceit, because we wanted peace and they wanted war.”

“My question to you, Rebecca, why they never learn?”

“Because, I’m afraid to say it, not wanting to put a judgement on anyone, because –they can’t??”

“Observing, experimenting and stating a fact is not judging. Correct, Rebecca, the parasites cannot construct, cannot ascend, because they can only parasite. They can’t learn.”

“And this makes them evil?”

“Not until they conspire to take over the world, or that fading shade of the deep that they deem to be the world.”

“Oh yes, you’ve got plenty of that in the circles that killed my daddy.”

“The fucking elites,” rants Yvonne with half of her usual passion, “politicians and priests who treat us like cattle, like sheep, like disposable children. I hate them all!”

“When you say it with half a mouth, it shows the wounds left on your soul by that catholic priest. But you are better than that, Yvonne. What is more important to you: the scars of the past or the blessings of the future?”

“Atlas!, play with past and future as much as you wish, allow yourself to polish a discourse for healing all the way from dusk till dawn, because I don’t care. Look, the sun shines up in the skies and this midnight summer is but a trick to marvel us. And let me tell you that I called for this meeting, asking my sisters for help, because of too much darkness, too much nonsense, too much evil, surrounding me. I live in this present and I want this present to be bright, loving and blessed by Khrist. Here and now, Atlas, here and now!”

Yvonne speaks FURY like few women would. By instinct, she learned to brace for recoil. Every time after spewing her deep anger out and around. Eyes wide open, the night hurries West, not a metaphor but a thorough observation like if the Eye of Africa belonged to a huge lizard and the lid of this creature hurriedly retractedto the West. No moon and no stars, only two shiny suns bathing the city in shadowless lights. The city?

“Where are we?,” wonders the angry lady, in awe now.

“The Eye of Africa, also known as the Richat Structure, Mauritania, West-African France,” responds Atlas with the voice of a bored clerk.

“Date and time,” orders Beatrice.

“9630-BC, 14-Thargelion.”

“Doh, Atlas, could you make it more modern, like intelligible for the readers.”

“I did that, by converting my marks to months of the Attic calendar. As about the year, you may see that it is already translated in Before Christ Era digits.”

“Let me see if I see it as you do. So, we are here, on the same spot, never moved, right?” Atlas nods in agreement, “in the year 9630 before the Birth of Khrist in Bethlehem, the month of Thargelion, late spring early summer, like June, yes?”

“Yes, on its fourteenth day,” completes Atlas.



“Define midday, Atlas, because I can see two suns in the skies.”

“And no shadow to be noticed on the streets, ain’t that something, Rebecca?”

“At least two things. Enlighten us!”

“Remember Plato’s cave with shadows on the wall? I know you all do. Here, where I have brought you, actually when, because where is the same, here is a mirror. We are now sitting on the face of a mirror.”

“Strange, can’t see myself in the mirror when looking down. And let me tell you that I know what I see when looking down in the mirror.”

“Naughty Rebecca, not that kind of mirror, that reflects what you see back at you. No. This mirror here, beneath our feet, this releases your inner self.”

“More metaphors?”

“I am Atlas and I deal with marks not metaphors. There are two Rebeccas, and two Yvonnes, and even two Beatrices if I’m allowed…”

“I allow you, Atlas, son of none, made by my Lord,” Beatrice speaks out a breeze to dissipate his worries, “I allow you as He allows us, many of us, all of His.”

“See how the ‘other’ Beatrice permeates our souls?, sisters, this gives shivers, down and up my spine.”

“The inner sun sends its light up from Sheol, mirroring the worlds we fancy, crying for Hades and Poseidon to be heard, to be noticed, from waters below, from the bottomless abyss, from deeps yet to be fulfilled.”

“Onkel Albert’s worlds?”

“Worlds of fancy, yes. Harmless if you treat them as they are.”

“How about the sun above?”

“This sun, shining above Atlantis, my city, this has been a mystery to me. To me, Atlas the bearer of worlds, fixer of the fall, condenser of music into matter, guardian of the snake, gyrant of spheres and ever-grateful to The Ever-Living, my Creator, I had no idea what this sun could be.”

“But now you have?”

“Now I do. It’s a ball of iron, just like the inner sun. An empty ball of iron.”

“Can’t see the iron, dear, but remember hearing Don talking to Alain about stars being iron balls, empty by the inside. Zero Kelvin something he said, if that makes sense.”

“For the measurer, it makes. For me, sort of a mystery however.”

“But you say that you have an idea.”

“An idea won’t cover the mystery. No idea would solve a mystery. But what I learned, because Yasu answered my questions, revealing to me the following: this sun above, that sun below, any sun out there, is yet another mark of my vanity, of my intent to initiate a world. To build, to deploy, to conquer. Suns make my ekstatic moments manifest to you, and to many.”

“Like orgasms that you’re projecting in the skies? That’s cool.”

“Too cool and too hot, Yvonne. Look at these hedonistic citizens. All they pursue is pleasure for the sake of pleasure. An excess. Where is happiness when you get too focused on pleasure? What pain means when everything you sense is pleasure? Even pain becomes pleasure.”

“The fall of Atlantis.”

“The fall of all oikumena that’s missing the target, over and over, relentlessly, making its own policy to miss the target, turning mistake into law of the land.”

“Sad, think I must fuck Marcel every other night, just to bring some measure. Some space?”

“Find measure in the mirror because there’s nothing to find in space. Learn from distorsion, this is when distance makes a difference. This is the space you need, within you, to search for God, allowing Him to sit at your table and bring comfort. Peace.”

“How did you manage to mitigate this with your people here in Atlantis?”

“Sturm und Drang.”

“Storm and Stress?”

“This is how I deal with stuff, this is how, and why, I have been constructed in the first place.”

“But wait a minute, hadn’t all these people the right to know and learn and see what’s going on, what the stakes were, how to escape?”

“Clearly. You seem still under the influence of the late Deep State, Rebecca, with all their secrecy and sadness. As opposed to that world you’ve been born in, these people, here and now, belong to a world of openness, they are so free that they can’t imagine slavery, they are so sovereign that they have no sense of restriction. It’s like the other side of excesses compared to the world you’re coming from.”

“So they knew about your Storm then?”

“Now, the Storm is upon us. Upon them. And they look at it and wonder what an awesome new set of pleasures this might teach them. For them everything is pleasure.”

“They miss the stress.”

“Stress being one of the requirements to reach the target. Yes, they’re lost, under the influence of their own fantasies. No room for God to rest in their egos. Excess is what occupies every corner of your mind, of your being, of your soul.”

“Excess is addictive.”

“Excess is addiction. So they died, all from Terra Firma, all from Tiamat, and many from Mars. They are no more.”

“What happened?”

“Look, it’s happening.”

Atlas raises his right hand to the sky. Two inches ahead of his stretched palm, a soft and creamy white ball of fire coalesces into long straight lightning. Like the roots of an oak, the spear of plasma climbs to conquer the skies. Merging into the sun above, it bursts out to thunder, and into another thunder, heavying the air in cascades of thunder, rising the pressure in the atmosphere, there is milk, no mother milk but a white pillar of plasma that builds up, layer after layer, inch by inch, up to meet its twin pillar of milk, that seems to descend, mile after mile, way faster than this climbing one. The two pillars of milk join the sun and unite. Air turns to crystal. The cupola breaks to smithereens allowing the waters above to flood the atmosphere below.

As it rains, Yvonne is curious.

“Atlas, maestro of thunders, what is the meaning of all these giant trees growing out of the earth, like broccoli?”

“Yvonne, girl of sorrow, I have asked your Lord, my Maker, if the memories of the Prior Age have been lost. And He answered that all memory can be caught. Caught in what?, asked I again. Caught in crystals, in trees, in roots and crowns of trees. Kronos has the patterns and you have your thunders. Let the storm begin. Make trees!, said the Lord to me.”

“Atlas, gardener of The Ever-Living, is there a tree that you did not plant?”

“Beatrice, wife of Yasu, yes, there is one tree that I know I never planted, it is the tree where I belong, no matter how many targets I miss. Friends of yours call this tree by the name of Yggdrasill, which translates as Odin’s Horse, and means gallows. The tree that tells past present and future, how Odin sacrificed himself by hanging on this tree, so Odin’s gallows. The Tree of the World. In secular slang, Axis Mundi.”

“Hum, Atlas, electrical engineer, knowing Odin as another Adam –this from Eden that from Asgard; seeing the Son of Adam sacrificing Himself for all oikumena, I can tell that…”

“But, Beatrice, daughter of a General, please allow me the pleasure. The Tree of Life mirrors down here as the Tree of the World. All lives come to drink from Him and all worlds circle His roots. Up in the Heavenly Jerusalem adorns His crown and down, down, piercing lower heavens and various skies, His roots project realities in the like of Existence. Virtuals derived from Absolute. Nothing is but The-One-Who-IS. The Ever-Living.”

“You and you and you, and even me, we are mirrors, reflections of Yasu. Seeing Him in you, and you and you, jolts my soul, and yours too.”

“Mirros, yes, metaphors, no. We are almost as real as He is. These crystal trees adorning the oceans are the roots of Axis Mundi. Almost as alive.”

“The memory storage of worlds. The roots hold the memories. Right? Have I guessed it right? Tell me, tell me!”

“Rebecca, worst mother in recorded memory, you have guessed it right. And I pray to Yasu for the future records of your motherhood to be erased.”

“May I break your darkest passions with a question?”

“Sure, Yvonne.”

“You say that we’re at the same place, right?”

“Exact same place, yes.”

“This earth, twelve thousand years back, was it the same as the earth in AD2021?”

“This place, yes, this continent, yes, few others too, but the entire earth, that is never the same. It’s like a living organism. Growing, shrinking, shifting.”

“Turning? Flipping?”

“And few more moves that I have to find matching words for.”

“Good enough for me. So we’re given to admire the same scenery around us, 9630 BC and AD 2021. Same place, yes?”


“Where are those trees then? Atlas, where are the trees in Sahara?”

“Sahara is the desolation of later wars, Sahara is the dust of these trees. Fine sands of Sahara, there are those majestic trees.”

“Dust to dust.”

“Told you, it’s a game box we’re in.”

“No memory in the sands?”

“Memory is information, and information is structured matter, which matter is frozen frequencies, where frequencies are music and music is an agitation of spirit, the words, The Spirit and The Word.”

“When did the music stop? Here across the Saharas.”

“Allowing the rain to rest into a sea of fiery waters, which you call hot plasma, I burnt Atlantis down, from here way East to Egypt.”

“You built it, you burnt it.”

“Ditto. Reforesting this continent, I brought back many memories from the Prior Age. Whished to bring them all but you know how it works: you can plan and God decides.”

“Reforesting?, were there forests here, before you deploying an outpost and developing Atlantis?”

“Jungle, lush fields and hills, roamed by reptiles. I hate reptiles.”

“And they hate you, judging by what they did to your version 6.6.6.”

“It’s mutual. They kept haunting my first Atlantis, as they spooked my second. Wondering what drives those things beyond their death, because I make sure, every time I detect a reptile, to annihilate it, to literally bury it. Still, it bites back, a way or another. They have no soul, they are immutable insensitive automatons. Is there a spirit driving those things back into the story? I wonder.”

“Rich, coming from the attosecond dude. I suppose that I can address your wonder, shall I?”

“By all means, Beatrice. Please do.”

“You said that parasites keep our bodies down, our minds hallucinating and our souls in fear. Under this poisonous recipe, we develop habits, like prisoners, that gradually become addictions. You said that excess is addiction. There goes, and comes around, your version 6.6.6. Call it Oroborus, call it Lucifer, call it whatever name. It is the fix that you applied to Kronos dividing by zero and plunging the Prior Age into a bottomless pit. It is your torus, Atlas, call it torsion physics, call it electromagnetism or whatever model of reality. Unfixable. The haunting. The desolation. The death.”

“I’ll have to die.”

“Like I did, like my sisters will, like Kronos makes his preparations, you should at your turn. Talking about death, I’ll park you after you bring us back to AD 2021, kindly please. And wish to call Hades to our daemonology class.”

“Aaand, here we are, same place: Richat Structure, Mauritania, West-African France, AD 2021, September Sixth. Before you park me, Beatrice, know that I’ve got my ducks aligned, in a whirl. Ready to die fighting the enemies of my Maker.”

“O dear,” rants Rebecca in, “take care not to break a hole in the cupola or something. When you park these daemons. Hope you know what you’re doing, Beatrice dear.”

“Fear not, sister, I know what I’m doing. His image will stay, parked here for the duration of this meeting, as a reminder and scarecrow for whomever. Then, when we leave, all parked daemon-images will vanish, like the prints of a caravan crossing behind those dunes.”


“Third daemon: Hades, trampled by Khrist Pantokrator while redeeming the Adam prototype, second born to Lucifer by Astarte, third born to Astarte by her first born, unsupported under cube [–], nomake, transient entity of the swap partition, librarian of souls in the underworld, summoned above the Richat Structure, West-African France, by Beatrice Challe, daughter of Adam, resonant weapon of The Ever-Living Sabaoth, consort of Yasu the Nazarene.”

A pillar of black granite levitates six meters above the Eye of Africa.

“What is this, Beatrice? Scares the crap out of me.”

“See why I didn’t let you talk to Idir? Candid Rebecca, fragile Yvonne, meet Hades. A thriteen hundred meter long pile of smoke.”

“Looks like stone to me.”

“Take this pebble, Rebecca, and throw it at the stone.”

Hesitant, Rebecca grabs a pebble, a pink and round one, and throws it at the pillar above. The pebble passes through, following its trajectory in thin air.

Determined, Rebecca finds another pebble, purple and rounder, almost like a disc. She throws it with greater force. “Is this a hologram or something?”

“Most things coming up from the underworld look like a hologram to us.”

“Yet they seem so scary.”

“See my point here?”

“A-haa, now what? This thing, can it talk, can it walk?”

“If you ask for it.” A dark translucent dude screeches the air beneath the column of smoke. “Any other wishes, ladies?”

“Y-yes, may we see your original form?”

“Look above me, to my initial form.”

“You are smoke?”

“Smoke and mirrors, but you’re too smart, and too powerful,” pays a bow to Beatrice, “to fall for that. So yes, smoke I am.”

“Anything else?”

“Beatrice, please park this dark dude. Oh, no no, can you just delete it altogether because I don’t enjoy his presence very much.”

“See you soo–” goes its voice away with the Doppler effect.

“That was creepy.”

“Really creepy. Why did you summon this guy, Beatrice?”

“To show you how his father looked initially.”

“Lucifer? A pile of smoke? Dark?”



// as of July 11th /12th 2021


“Fourth daemon: Loki, a hybrid between human and serpent, tolerated by Khrist Pantokrator before His Passions, born to Lucifer [as in Atlas version 6.6.6.] by Freyja, first born to Freyja by the Shiny-serpent [as in v.6.6.6.], unstable avatars, unsupported under cube [–], nomake, virtual on-call character, unbalanced duality between good and wrong-thinking, on par with Kain, summoned above the Richat Structure, West-African France, by Beatrice Challe, daughter of Adam, resonant weapon of The Ever-Living Sabaoth, consort of Yasu the Nazarene.”

“Mighty ladies, your blackmail works but my own curiosity works better. Why did you summon me here and now?”

“What blackmail, Loki?”

“I’ve been busy playing an old game, but your command had to interrupt my activities, against my will. I call this blackmail. On the other side of things, I am still a curious being, so I’m all ears, I wish to be here with you. Together.”

“There’s a long way till together. Happy that you made it.” It is only Beatrice carrying the dialogue with the hybrid. As Yvonne stares a bit intrigued, a bit frightened. As Rebecca studies with her bigger round blue eyes, like a versed cougar sniffing her prey.

“Wow, wow, wait a minute. Who invited my deceiving father here and now? Why isn’t he moving? Answer me, fairies of the desert land.”

“This is not your father. This is Atlas the original, of whom a later version had been captured and corrupted to the core for the virus to inhabit an identical body, to exploit the talents of this one, Atlas, surrogate of Kronos, fixer of the curve.”

“Ah-haa, did not know about this one. Shiny one. Good looking. Got my marvels from his features. Which makes me wonder down the road: no virus and no evil are beautiful by themselves, rather a trick to cloak corruption under an appealing appearance. Hum..”

“What is made is made good and beautiful. The Maker makes. The Creator creates. Good and beautiful. A virus is neither made nor created, just an error that propagates corruption, ugliness and deceit. You are right, Loki. Now tell me the first thing that comes to your mind, the best thing that happened to you. Ever.”

“Regardless of which-ever, because there are so many ‘evers’ if you allow me this short intro, the best thing happening to me, the first thing that comes to my mind is this: love!, being loved, receiving love.”

“Who loves you, Loki?”

“My mom, my fraternal twin brother, even my adoptive father. Or should I say, especially him.”

“You mean: Freyja, Thor and Odin?”

“Yes, I mean Freyja, Thor and Odin.”

“Understandable for your mother. How does Thor love you? Oh wait, considering that he knows who your genetic father is. Does he?”

“Yes, Thor knows. Everyone knows. There are no secrets in Asgard. At least, no secrets that I’m aware of. But I digress. Thor is naturally, instinctively, generous, helpful, selfless, and particularly considerate to his little brother, as well as to any human being.”

“He knows that you are his bigger, like in older, brother, right?”

“Seventeen minutes older. What difference does this make for a pair of twins.”

“All the difference,” infers Yvonne, “because entire worlds may come and go in such a long interval. You don’t know about–”

“Yvonne!, let the daemon speak, will ya?”

“Daemon, huh? You call me daemon. Very well then. Allow me then. Rebecca!, I sense in your ancestry, back 216 generations, there is the SAME daemon that fathered me. Are you a daemon too then? Rebecca!”

“More than you’d wish to find out. And less than needed to make me a useless vessel. Scaring you?”

“More like seducing me, are you game for a fuck?”

“Not with you and not now. But usually yes, I’m game for a fuck, or two. Fixes my hormones. A day without a fuck goes to waste. And I’ve already got my portion of fucks early this morning. So I’ll pass. No offence.”

“None taken. Yvonne! No traces of Kain-code in your DNA, yet quite a bunch of twisted parasitc virus strings. Learning pain and degradation, suffering abuse from such an early age, you turned rage into hatred and lament into the sharpest thought of action. The ways you devised to convert a man into a woman, these ways are remarkable to me. I am a man, by birth, as much as I am a woman, by desire. I can morph my body, for short segments of time. But your work, your artistry, your crafts, delve way deeper than mine. Are you a better daemon at this game than I ever wished to be?”

“Be surprised, Loki,” steps ahead, the angry Yvonne, “that I never tried as hard as you may seem to consider. It came naturally to my mind, out of the clear night skies over the North Atlantic. Wondering how those pre-historic human beings, with four legs, with four hands and two heads, two faces, how did Zeus manage to separate them into man and woman. The bodies obviously he could, but the souls? Who can cut a soul in two? And I wondered, taken round North by the waters, as the boat was drifting, and wondering astray, the green lights whispered to my mind, like a modest revelation: magnets! mere magnets.”

“Jaw drop. Do you like my tongue? Pointy, eh? Darn magnets. They won’t work for me, unless I beg Thor for help.”

“Why do you have to beg him?”

“Because he’s not always game, well, not always like always not, to play my game. Seeing no scope, he can be stubborn when I ask him things.”

“Yvonne?,” asks Rebecca like a school teacher, “something you want to tell us?”

“My dominatrix suit. Analyse it.”

Beatrice producing a 3D volume in thin air, loading the image of Yvonne’s tall leather boots, of her vinyl elbow gloves, both the black and the red. “Analyzing. Polymeric magnetic nanoparticles, 99,96% polarized knots. I never thought that your power rests in these fetish articles.”

“Have you seen the platforms in my boots’ soles?”

“Dark plastic? No, black glass?”

“Graphene lattice, carved in melted glass.”

“If you allow me, ladies,” dares Loki in false shyness, “all of these fancy particles, or concepts of particles to be more accurate, and all these catchy names that you speak here, all these are but amplifiers, little antennas, little capacitors, little magnets, like ornaments, like jewelry, like design. May I ask where the engine is? What makes the antennas vibrate?, what charges the capacitors?, what turns the magnets on?”

“My FURY, Loki. I am the engine!” Falling on her knees, Yvonne cries again, like a little girl, forced to play another game, an ugly and despicable one, a game of guilt and shame.

“Eureka! Now I can finally understand. Imagine, over seven thousand Midgard-years had to pass under my feet for me to grasp that my doubts, my shame, my dramas were never enough to make such sorcery happen. The kind Yvonne achieved with her boots and gloves. Amazing! You are deeper daemons than me. Hands down, ladies.”

“You saying?,” cuts Beatrice.

“Sword of fire is your tongue, Blessed Beatrice. Forgive me. Both your sisters here, yes, deeper daemons than me they might be. I beg for your forgiveness. Didn’t want to offend you, Beatrice.”

“No offence taken. Just for the record. Noted.”

“Seven thousand Midgard-years you were saying?,” interrogates Rebecca, “these are Earth-years.”

“Give or take. Seven thousand. Should I break it down to nanoseconds and all that crazy math stuff?”

“No. Answer me, Loki, what do you know about your shiny father seducing your mother.”

“I can tell you what my mother, but wait. I can show you what Freyja, my mom, has seen with her own eyes. And then Odin, my father.”

“Start with Freyja!”

The leather knee-tall boots are swept aside, the vinyl fetish gloves are deleted from the 3D volume, as the stars dart a calm blue sea and a sigh brings Freyja’s looks lower, across a golden platform, seemingly wider than the horizon. Shining brighter than the gold under her feet, Atlas [mark Atlas v.6.6.6. for the records] descends with grace and a reaching arm. “Do you wish to know more, beauty of Enoch?” speaks the forked tongue. “No, shiny flier, I know enough. I am good.” There’s a concealed curiosity in her answer. “Do you wish to know me then?” Open arms, shimmering pectorals, firm legs and an emerald hardon fixing her eyes. “Give it to me!”

The sex was short, almost a second of copulation before the reverberating deep sound of an invisible sword cuts through the emerald. No hair of hers being touched. Not the long ones raining around her body like a rich veil that adorns her beautiful red head, nor around her ginger prominent mount, not even the pores of her surreal thighs. Freyja remained untouched. By Odin’s sword. The six sevenths of the emerald, severed inside her, fade to dark saphire, trying to end down in matt granite black rock.

But there comes a hand, a shiny shivering hand, grabbing the cut out of the woman and, like in the very moment, sticking it deep in Odin’s right eye. “Without this eye, you can see everything now, past, present and future,” speaks the devil as a novel emerald bone grows back below its groin.

“And I command you to depart. Asgard allows your presence no more. Be banned.” After saying these words, in measured tone, Odin embraces his wife, making love to her. Alone on the platform, facing the sea, telling the skies.

She would be in tears if only a tear would have been allowed by Odin to fall in Asgard.

The 3D volume is empty. Golden empty now.

“Your silence reeks of compassion. Don’t want you to be condescending. Don’t need your pity. Speak out, ladies.”

“Yeah, you’ve already spoken volumes. Let me throw in my two cents,” Beatrice walks around Loki with the exact patronizing allure that he invited, not. “My two cents on you Loki: without Odin adopting you as his own, without Freyja mothering you and without Thor protecting you, without your family there, you’d been committed suicide the next second after learning what we’ve seen here together. The love of Asgard is the material blessing reverberating from The Ever-Living. Learning about the future of the Son of Man, of the tragedy of his cousin Adam through Midgard, Odin sacrificed everything for love, loving you and loving the not-so-perfect accidents of creation. Many of the Elohim were, and still are, guardians from Asgard. Knowing everything, Odin understood that perfection is lesser than redemption. You may be the most beloved daemon that I know of, Loki, son of an emerald cut stone of sorrow.”

“Most candid Beatrice, more powerful than Odin and Thor together, I would thank you by inviting you to my games, at least to parttake in one of my games, but that I cannot do, because I fear you more, even more, than I fear Yasu Khrist Pantokrator, therefore I can only thank you, many times, and times again. But let me tell you that the most beloved daemons that I know of, because I have roamed this Midgard for millennia, these are the daughters of Eve and some of Adam. Daughters first, then sons, of Adam, cousin of Odin, are here to teach us where hells and heavens meet and party like there’s no tomorrow. Oh, and if you plan to park me, like you did with Atlas, then good luck with that. I am a slippery guy and a subtle gal for your commands to stand on me.”

“You’ve been endowed with Free Will, Loki. Not even God would waste words to park you. But may I ask of ways to cross, crisscross, skip and subvert the Jörmungandr out in the great ocean that encircles Midgard, our plane of reality.”

“You want out?”

“We want out, in and out, like any creature endowed with Free Will. Like you.”

“Can you find an answer hidden in plain sight?”

“Dunno, can you?”

“Think so, yes. Let me give you an example. Ditching the suicidal considerations, my mind wished to contemplate other options, such as making myself of the same blood as my family. My mom an Enochite and all these good and bad devils originate from Enochite women, and Atlassian males, just like my carnal parents. But Odin’s blood, and Thor’s by Odin, that was my new project, my new desire. What would it take? Odin told me immediately, reading my mind, you know he can do that. He said that I have to drink the Blood of Yasu and to eat from His Body. At first, stepping back in fear, I have asked: but isn’t that what jötunn do to humans and other creatures? Isn’t that the worst of the worst, the curse of curses? And then Odin spoke to me that The Almighty will send His Son to Midgard, the Son of Adam, to turn the worst into the best, to invert the curses into blessings, when publicly presenting His Ultimate humility by hanging on a tree, dying to reach the bottom of what can be and Resurrecting. The Ragnarok, said I, mesmerized. ‘Indeed,’ confirmed Odin to me, tossing that snake around Midgard, ‘you shall find vinegrape and breadgrains and even the salts of that earth, and tasting, you’ll give thanks to Yasu Khrist, and learn to stay truthful to who you are, and to what you are. Always.’ So spake Odin to me before falling asleep.”

“You tried to wake him up?”

“Nope. That’s on you.”

“Now we lost you.”

“Not a soul lost, not even a hybrid daemon, willing to come to life. My serpent in the circling ocean is dead. Ragnarok has begun a couple thousand years ago, Midgard-years. You may cross that ocean already. Escape is yours. Some of you even did it. Before dying and being redeemed like you Beatrice. You have more than you know. And Odin will awake when enough of you, like random Thors, will claim what is rightfully yours. Drinking from the wine of His Blood, tasting from the bread of His Body, being the salt of the earth that you truly are. Be who you are. Do what you do, gods of Midgard.”

“Random Thors?”

“Thor is a random dude. Only I am special, the handicapped, the hybrid, the adopted, the problem kid. Not Thor. Anyone is Thor when he learns how to acquire a hammer.”

“Keyword?” infers Yvonne, knowingly.

“Magnets, this the keyword. Praise the Lord and pass the magnets.”

“Only magnets?,” wonders Beatrice.

“Magnets and The Name of Yasu. Better said calling the Name of Yasu and activating the magnets. O, Lord, Yasu Khrist, Son of God, have mercy on me, a daemon, a hybrid, a bastard.”

“See, girls, Loki has a bad habit of omitting the essence, could be a factory defect. Not surprisingly, given the circumstances of his making. But Yasu, among many other upgrades, brings the condition of Thor to our realm, to what they call Midgard. Any schmuck calling the Name of Yasu and manning some well measured magnets can craft a hammer, strong enough to pierce the barriers, the cupolas, the chains, the prisons, the abysses and their darkness. Crushing the head of the snake is no longer a metaphor. There is the crossing, where the head of the snake was.”



“Umm, wondering, the head of the snake, how about the neck of the snake? Should I summon Kain next? What say you, Rebecca?”

“I say don’t. It’s the ugliest thing that happened to me.”

“Wait, wait, you saying that Kain ‘happened’ to you?”

“It’s a congenital disease, a birth defect, a disaster.”


“Serpent seed disorder. Kill. Kill. Kill. That’s what you keep hearing inside your head. From smooth to severe. Hating life, you come to hate yourself. Many end up killing themselves.”

“While the few conspire to conquer the world and to subdue any living being to their madness. This the original disease, before aging and before parasitosis.”

“If you allow me, Blessed Beatrice?”

“I do, Loki.”

“This congenital disorder, of which I suffer too, permeates the realms of reality. A symptom of evil, that prior-to-prior virus inferred by Astarte in her second of despair. This calamity goes far beyond politics of your current society here on Midgard and now on your date of September Sixth, AD 2021; it goes further backwards than your history, which by the way is a laughable lie, it goes deeper than our deepest deceptions. Suicidal thoughts? I had so many, because what else would you ponder when staring down this rabbit hole?, contemplating the bottomless pit.”

“Some German dude said that if you stare down too much, it will stare back at you.”

“The pit?, Rebecca.”

“The bottomless pit. Yes, Beatrice.”

“Very well then. Or not so well. Rebecca!, you and Loki share something here. Yvonne shares some other thing with me: we fight and never stop fighting, no matter what. So let me ask for me and for her, how did you overcome this grotesque disease? Loki hinted some but we won’t mind him repeating himself.”

“Loki dear,” flirts Rebecca with a fingernail scratching his tanned pectorals, you’ve been roaming Midgard for centuries, to drink the wine and snack the grain of Khrist, as you mentioned to us. And I’ll give you that. Because I know of no medicine more powerful than these two combined. But you may wish to tell us about your missions, as well? The killing missions. Or the experiments. Or maybe something that no one of us has ever heard of?”

“As the gamer that I am, I have to kill and to lie and to deceive. It is who I am. Knowing that I can’t help myself, Odin assigned me targets here in Midgard. Monsters disquised in human-looking bodies, rapists and vampires and cannibals tainting your kings’ tables. I was cleaning this world of my own people. Gave a sense to my dubious life. Killing to save precious and innoncent lives, helping the children of Adam.”

“Why did you stop, Loki. Look around, this realm of Midgard is infested now.”

“Couple of centuries ago, kings and popes invoked the name of Khrist against me, against my interventions. I had to step back. How about you, Rebecca?”

“When I was nine, I met God in my daddy’s synagogue. Not in a metaphor, but in His black leather biker suit. He hold me on His lap. Sharing with me and papa, a glass of wine and a matzo. Opening our eyes, showing the secrets of the lost century to papa, showing me that I am family to Him, in spite of my congenital disease, He only asked us to be who we are and to do what we do.”

“But you knew the truth.”

“His Truth, which is the only True One. Like you’ve been working for Odin, I still work for Yasu, with my own weapons, in my own style.”

“Suicidal thoughts?”

“Vanished like a horrible nightmare. But that didn’t stop me from looking for trouble. Every morning I wake up looking for more conflict. Every day I jump from a higher cliff, over a deeper crevice. Every night I pick a darker longforsaken dungeon to explore.”

“You told us that you never killed, not even a hen.”

“Never killed, yes. No human, no hen, no nothing. You know about alcoholics anonymous. I’m part of something that would go by a similar name: assassins anonymous. Hello, my name is Rivkah Rabinovics and I am sober since April 18th, AD 1930.”

“But you wished to?”

“Go figure. Imagine doing sabotage and espionage in Middle Europe during WWII. But I have always listened to my daddy: karma brings the kill like none of us would.”

“Ha-ha, and hah,” smirks Loki, “a good percent of that karma used to be my work. And still is, where I’m allowed to step in.”

“Then there is Rolf, the love of my youth. This boy saved me from myself. He is the epitome of what they call now a near death experience. Being always there at the right time, in the right place. For me. Then Alain, the love of my elder years. Then some other blessed men. And finally you, Beatrice!”

“Alright, you killers anonymous, it becomes apparent that summoning Kain is not an option. Therefore, I have asked and been granted already to politely invite Abel, first born of Adam by Eve, second born of Eve by Adam, son of Adam and first martyr of mankind. Abel!, please accept this invitation pronounced here, at the middle of the Richat Structure, Mauritania, West-African France, on September the Sixth, late afternoon, AD 2021.”

A Ginger-David descends in a vertical rainbow, looks around before touching the crystalline structure, advances towards Beatrice, nods and says “I bring Greetings to you,” turns around to face Loki and says “I am sorry for your suffering,” walks to Yvonne and Rebecca introducing himself: “I am Abel and it is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Welcome to our place and time, Abel. How’s your neck doing?” cuts Rebecca to the chase.

“The neck has been healed but the scar, the bite, the prints of the teeth belonging to my fraternal twin brother are there, crimson red lines going deep to be seen by you and you and you. This evidence never fades away because my Healer, our Lord Yasu Khrist, wants it visible. For my neck has been bitten, my jugular severed, my carotid cut, my blood sucked, my heart drained empty, my body buried and my soul stored in Hades until Khrist brought us back together. This is the short story of my life. I am Abel, at your service.”

“I have an idea, Abel, and I dare you to accept it, beforehand.” This crazy cougar keeps looking for trouble. And Abel, likewise.

“I accept.”

“Saturn? Can you hear me? Yes, good. Please come to mommy for a minute. Yes, top of the pit. Right in the middle of the eye, yes, sure. Waiting, kiss, kiss.”

The Pale-David flashes like a hero of the aether. Lands with a bang. “Yes, Mother Rebecca. Here I am.”

“Saturn, meet Abel. Abel, meet Saturn.”

The two Davids shake hands.

“Do the forearm handshake now, please. You’ll see why, boys.”

Forearm handshake done. “Okay, Saturn dear, that was all. I must have interrupted you from something important.”

“Still shielding the Yenisei River, there are lots of pits to figure and patch down that hole. On my way. Blessings to you, Mother Rebecca, and to everyone around. Abel, nice to meet you. Man!” And the ante-christ is gone, the way he appeared a minute before.

“What was that?,” asks Beatrice bit intrigued.

“Abel, be so kind and claim your hammer now,” returns Rebecca an indirect answer.

“Don’t understand,” shys Abel.

“Nothing to understand here. All you need to do is to see and to act. Hit the ground with your fist, Abel!”

Bit confused, almost hesistant, Abel looks at his palm, tightens it into a fist, looks again, kneels about a half and hammers the ground. A deaf and heavy iron sound.

“Hit again, harder this time.”

Abel tightens his fist and hits again. A bronze bell clearer and wider sound.

“Once again. Hit it hard!”

No questions asked, Abel fists the crystalline structure for a third time. A sonic boom breaks the skies. Lightnings crossing the dryness above Sahara. Thunders ensue mild and distant. Silence. Then bam, Mjölnir burns the hand of Abel. Instinctively, he opens his fist. Like a blue bug in his palm, there is the kinetic small instrument.

“There you go, Abel-Thor. That is your hammer, now it looks small and you can make it even smaller. But when you will hit with it, then it can break Jupiter in two, like the knife would cut a peach, in two.”

“Thank you, Mother Rebecca. I promise to use it wisely.”

“No, no, no. Don’t mother me because I am not your mom. I am no one’s mom. And I say it for past, present and future. When I’ll be the worst mom evah!”

“Don’t understand,” interrupts Abel-Thor mildly.

“Look here, Abel-Thor, I need you, we all need you to hammer that hammer, to fist and fuck the brains out of those criminal bastards that play politics with your brothers and sisters, and cousins and distant relatives, and animals and trees, and rivers and seas, of this realm. We need you to join the good fight. Stop wimping around. You’ve got the Mjölnir in your hand. It will always be there for you.”

“I see. I’ve been charged by Saturn, with that forearm handshake.”

“Here you come home, dear. Yes. This earth that drank your spilled blood, this realm that witnessed your candid sacrifice, this world that knows nothing about you, this is the time, and it begins here and now, for all those fucking around to find out. Throw your hammer, Abel-Thor. Throw it to the West and throw it to the East. Bring the thunder down upon any bloodsucker, clear your father’s house, Abel-Thor.”

Loki and Yvonne wink at each other, Beatrice cannot keep her mouth shut: “you reaching an orgasm, Rebecca dear?”

“Almost there when you ruined it. Bah, what matters is that Abel-Thor got the gist of it.”

“Can I fly?”

“Learn to fly, learn to land, learn to fight and hit and most of all, learn how to return peace in the middle of all the storms that you’re going to whirl across this realm. Be brave!”

Abel-Thor prepares for a jump, Rebecca seems raptured by her new ‘acquisition’ and Loki points up to the zenith. White Wings.

White Wings wider than the entire Eye of Africa, which is forty kilometers in diameter, or twenty-five miles for the classics. A sword of fire, three meters long, in the right hand of a celestial beauty, slightly taller than Abel-Thor.

“Mikha’el is my name and here are your orders.” The Archangel shakes hands, normally, with Abel-Thor; greets Loki forehead against forehead, at which Loki begins to faint but Mikha’el won’t let this happen on his watch; thumbs up with Yvonne and Rebecca then a frugal bow in front of Beatrice. The White Wings spread wide again, taking the Captain and the fiery sword back beyond this realm, above space and time.

Silence. Peace in the air. No wind breezing the dunes. Like no time wearing the structure out. By the way, the structure, the crystals beneath the feet of Yvonne, of Rebecca and Beatrice, beneath the feet of Loki and Abel-Thor, these crystals scintillate, then gradually glow in concentric circles, colorful circles.

A new rainbow beams up to the skies. Bowing? No. This new rainbow aims straight to the pinnacle of the cupola.

“Bifrost active. Here are your orders,” speaks Abel-Thor, throwing his Mjölnir up ahead.