The time is right; they have seen the signs, read the omens. The earth is ready and waiting, the Anti-Christ is coming.
They dance in a glade at midnight, naked under their robes. Bodies round and inviting, blondes, brunettes, redheads; they dance in a perfect circle, around the pentagram they have drawn with human blood. They chant, they chant the name of Lucifer, of Azeal, of Satan himself.
The wind whirls about them, leaves whipping up around their bare ankles, the air is alive with crackling energy and the sky rents open, silver lightening cutting through the darkness.
There is a flash and the dancing stops; a tall dark figure appears in the centre of their circle and they throw their robes to the ground, celebrating, revelling in their nakedness.
The Anti-Christ rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, redness seeping from his face to the tips of his sticky out ears.
"All hail to our master," the worshippers cry.
"Uhhh," mumbles the Anti-Christ and chews his lip, shaking his head as he attempts to sneak out the circle.
There are no rivers of blood and frogs don't rain down from the sky. The whore of Babylon doesn't appear and the graves don't fly open either.
Instead, a big black car roars up and an angry looking man in a leather jacket climbs out, shaking his head like a father despairing of his only child.
"For fuck's sake Sammy," he pushes through the naked throng, pausing only to admire the pink flesh on display, "this is REALLY getting old now."
He grabs the Anti-Christ by the hand and pulls him away from the groaning throng, slapping him upside of the head and moaning all the way back to the black car, only pausing to strap the Anti-Christ into the passenger seat and slap him again for good measure.
The naked women stare for a moment and then, sighing, pick up their robes.
Someone suggests that they try the sale at Wall-Mart and they move off, discussing the merits of bronzer versus Botox.
And the world lives to fight another day.