It would appear this mammon-worshipping world once more stands at the precipice of its own annihilation. A match has been struck, and the fires of conflict between two great powers -- America and Iran -- threatens to engulf first the Middle East, and then all of human civilization, in the fiery bowels of thermonuclear hell.
If you are naive enough to wonder why this is about to happen, you have not been paying attention. This world has always been wicked, from the days of antiquity through to the horrors of modernity. And to help prove it, I will share but one of its countlessly tragic stories: my own life.
I was born a free man, north of the Mason-Dixon line separating Union from Confederacy. At the age of six, however, the white man who raised me dragged my entire family into the heart of the Deep South, for reasons he has yet to fully explain to any of us. And in the thirty years since that day, I have suffered every manner of abuse humanly possible at the hands of the vile demons who call themselves southern "gentlemen".
I was dowsed with itching powder in grade school, had nooses tied around my neck and was routinely spat on in middle school, was attacked by skin heads in high school, watched my home mysteriously burn to the ground in college, was beaten nearly to death as a young man, and was thrown into a dungeon for weeks just six short years ago without any criminal charges or constitutional protections whatsoever. To say that there has been no justice in the four short decades of my years upon this earth would be the understatement of a lifetime.
And at the pinnacle of my personal pain was the white man who raised me. He will go without being named, because he does not deserve one. A few short days ago over the Christmas holidays, I was hungry, thirsty, fatigued, and sickened, with a fever of over 100 degrees Centigrade. When my mother (bless her soul) heard of it, she invited me to stay the night at their household. But when her husband heard of it, he called me unclean, and demanded I either completely sanitize myself or leave. Needless to say, I chose the latter, and returned to the cold, awaiting a death which thus far has not come.
It was a story almost verbatim from the Gospel: the tale of Lazarus and the Rich Man (who also went without a name), told by Jesus of Nazareth as an indictment against the Pharisaic Order of ancient Israel. Within a generation of having murdered Christ, judgment came against His persecutors as well: Roman Legions commanded by Titus attacked, besieged, and completely destroyed the Holy Land, leaving nary one stone upon another.
And this is the justice I and so many others out there now call for: that the lands which have persecuted us also be laid to waste. Whether it be women who have been brutalized by their husbands, or Africans who have been enslaved by their white brethren, or victims of war and man-made climate change who are now homeless and begging on the streets. All of us now cry out with one unanimous voice: that the rabid animals who tried to consume us be themselves put down.
THAT is why this world stands on the brink of oblivion. And that is why, barring a miracle so profound as to rival the voice of Christ Himself, our entire civilization will very shortly be thrown into its fiery depths, for Justice demands nothing short of our divine castigation.
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