Mm. That's good tobacco. There's no Cuban like a real Cuban, no
matter what they say. And what do I care? Want one? Yeah? Well, buy
one. Don't like it? Don't talk to me.
Oh, you don't mind. Well, cool.
So, why do I work for them, you ask. Don't I know what they are?
Of course I know. Hellava lot better than you do. I know a lot of
things, and they teach me more all the time. I like it like that. The
more I know, the better off I'm gonna be, now and in the future.
How can I work for demons?
Now, ain't that the question.
First off, I'm not the only one, see? In fact, lots of folks work for
demons and never know it. You're what -- a reporter? A freelancer?
Well, you've worked for demons before. I practically guarantee it.
They're everywhere. They control the media, they control the cash
supply, they control the government. They're in control. You know
Lindon LaRouche? Y'ever read his ranting, about how the Jews and the
British Crown are in charge of the world, and filtering bombs through
Harvard? He got close to the truth, so he was knocked into paranoia
and idiotic ramblings. But, you substitute 'Balseraphs' and 'Calabim'
and 'the Game' for some of those, and you start getting a
frighteningly clear picture about what's really going on.
So why not get ahead in the race, huh? Why work for middle management
when you can be an independent contracter. Why accept the treadmill
when you can be pushing the buttons instead?
They don't like us, you know. At all. They're dragging us into Hell
to make a point -- and not for our benefit. But they make it nice to
slide down willingly. You like sex? You like money? You like drugs?
Cuban cigars, like this one? Get to know the demons, and do what they
say. They treat us damn well, s'long as we don't screw up.
When we do? Don't be stupid. You make a mistake and you're meat for a
Calabite. But you don't make a mistake, or you find someone else to
blame for it. That works better than you'd think, especially when
you're blaming a demon the heat's coming down on. They don't care if
you screwed up or not if they can tear apart some of the competition
-- and everyone's competition.
So. You're wondering about the angels, ain't you? What it means to
fight Heaven?
Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a stick, I've been doing that all my life.
The Church? It's just a damn excuse to tell me what to do and who to
give my money to. The church funds things like the Klan from the
money in the plate. And there's my damn Mom and Dad sniffing at
Grammie for sending five hundred bucks to the TV Ministry, then
dropping five hundred for new stained glass down the block. Stained
glass. Like that matters even a little. So the Hell with it. It's
the same racket, except they want to own your whole damn life.
I've seen Soldiers on the other side. They run them like robots, and
maybe give them a nice pat on the head for good measure, and they
pretend to care so much about humanity, but expect their people to
run into chainsaws on command, 'for the cause.'
Look, my bosses don't give a flying rat's ass about my life or me,
but they admit it, right to my face. And when they want something,
they use the carrot along with the stick. You ever have sex with an
Impudite? It's like mounting a damn Roman Candle. Hell yeah I'll
shoot some prissy little Angel between the wingspan if it means
another wild night at the Hellspire. Or another box of cubans. Or
another Song.
And that's the thing. I have power. Me. I'm the king of the damn
hill around here. And after -- when I die? Then I'll be the king of
the damn hill down there. Oh, not with the demons. I'm not stupid.
But we're all damned -- and when we get down there, it'll be my boot
on your face, not the other way around. If you make it to Heaven --
fhshhh... you're lucky if they let you wash the toilets. 'To serve is
joy's' their damn motto, y'know.
Besides... you know what I hear? I hear the soldiers who really
show they understand get to change job descriptions when they die.
What'd you rather be? Some punkass damned human being, or a Calabite,
ready to stare anything into fire? Damn right you'd be the Calabite.
Now, get out of here -- before I show you who's in charge. You're no
demon, and I don't have time for punkasses like you.
Back to the INC Mainpage.
Back to the Soldiers page.
Send mail to the Curator