Disclaimer: Fuck you, I'm a dragon.

Brought to you by the collection plate. Give me your money. Do it. I'm Jesus. I can save you. Hard.

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REVELATIONS
BOOK VII VII VII

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Part 7

Black On Red, White, And Blue Crime

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It's been just over two years since beginning my search for the antichrist. Initially, I thought it was Cheney, pulling the strings for Bush. But no, they disappeared into the sea of shit that is this country.
So, where to look next? Perhaps I've been drinking too much wine. No, no, that's impossible. Too little wine. Yes. That's it. I'm sure of it.

The end is nigh. Getting closer and closer to the big year. 2112. Only three years until shit goes down.

Either way, I was forced to look into the mirror, to show myself the light and way, so I could solve this mystery. The light pointed it's way through me to the darkest of places in the entire world.

Of course! Why didn't I see it?! Have I bleen bind?!

*takes another sip of wine*

Of course the blackest of evils would try to infiltrate the throne to my precious America! It's times like this when I miss Bush. He was a good man, and led astray by the evils of the gluttonous swine that backed his rear.

What I'm trying to say is that a jigaboo has successfully stolen the porch out from under us. And we can't even tell him to get off it. What the fuck? What, is that son of a bitch going to try and steal my dually next?! Not on my porch! We've got to stop him!

No. I've got to stop him. I keep forgetting that all the beings on the earth are fucking useless for anything other than lavish praise, and god's up there jerking off to all of it, or something. Whatever. Maybe he's drinking. He doesn't care. He never did. Which would be fine by me if I didn't have to give a shit. That's pretty lame. It's like he only made me to do his bidding, or whatever. Bummer. I just kinda want to party. How come he gets to party? He thinks just because he's my father he can make me take out the trash while he sits in the house jerking off to cable television? Well, fuck that, I said. But I have to do it anyway, or I'll get grounded.

Where was I?

Barack Obama!

Not only is this man a nigger, but he's a terrorist. Isn't that like some kind of double negative or something? Like a gay nigger, only nine eleven times worse. I'm pretty sure those figures are accurate.

Doesn't matter.

Barack Hussein Obama. The antichrist.

As if black people weren't already bad enough. Like, just when you thought they couldn't get any worse, right? I mean, they're even worse than the fucking Jews.

Wait, what was I talking about?

I need more wine. Port for the win.

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Part 7

The Return To The Ghetto

or

Flashblacks

or

A Blackst From The Past

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After obtaining another jug of port, I decided the best thing to do was to make my way back to the ghetto. My dad told me never to go there again, but that could be one of his many tests. Dickhead likes to play jokes. When I was a kid, he would walk over to me, stick his ass in my face, and ask me if there was any gum stuck to it. He would then fart on me. If I didn't want to look, he would grab my head and hold it there. My dad was always an asshole. I've learned not to worry about it.

So, I'm going to the ghetto again. Not something I'm exactly excited about, but there you go. Sometimes to get across the yard you have to step in shit. Not really much you can do about that.

So, with a hard case of the jigablues, I make my way down to the poor part of town. Fine establishments soon replaced with gun and liquor stores. And KFC. Lots of that.
I can smell them from here. I could smell them from a mile away. The smell makes me sick.

I'm already halfway through my bottle of port. It's a good thing that there are so many liquor stores around. Those will come in handy later. If I can stomach this place for that long.

I make my way towards the project on the corner. Feel the bile rising to the back of my throat. I notice an jigaboo smoking crack out of a glass pipe on the corner out front. One of his minions. I bet if I torture this poor fucker, instead of killing him like I normally would, I can probably extract some information from the worthless sack of shit. Then I'll put the worthless slime out of his misery.

For I am Jesus.
The bringer of justice.

I bring justice hard. All over the face of America. And you know what? The slut is begging for more.

The heathen senses justice.
He looks up at me from his crack pipe.

"Oh shit! The fuzz!" he shouts, jumping up and hurling the crack pipe into a bush. He darts down the sidwealk with his catlike reflexes. Too bad he isn't aware that I'm a NASCAR fan.
Blindly springing forward with the force of a thousand horses and the rage of a thousand gods. My body crashes into his, liquefying the heathen, his bloody skeleton splashing red on the bright pavement below. Organs splattering shit all over his disgusting remains.

"Alright, mooly," I say, kneeling before him. "I have some questions that you had better have some fucking answers to.

He doesn't respond.

"God damn it."

Wave my hand over the mess before me, and it turns back into the ugly thing it was before.

"Wut da fuck?!" the thing shouts.

Draw my gun and point it at him, menacingly.

"I have questions. You have answers. Speak only in slave talk. Go."

"Yessuh, massah!"

"Where is your leader?"

"He in deya, massah!" he says, pointing to the house down the street. "Please don't whip dese tired ol' bones!"

I fire three rounds into his face, and holster the pistol.

It's time to end this.

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Part 7

Den Falla Om Negerprins

or

The Fall of the Black Prince.

-

It's only as hard as it has to be. And it has to be hard enough to look badass.

Foot meets the flimsy wooden door, and sends it flying in splinters into the stinky abyss.

There he is, in his dirty pleather recliner, watching rap music videos and smoking that horrible marijuana stuff.

"Wut da fuck?!"

"That's just what your homie said!"

Make my way into the center of the room. He stands up and draws a nickel plated desert eagle from his boxers. Possibly the most badass gat I've ever seen a ghetto nigger wield.

"Break yoself, foo!"

He fires the gun wildly in my direction, but little does he know, I'm quicker than greased lightening. With the quickness of a thousand Ford Escorts, I dodge the bullets and dash to his right side, elbow connecting with his face. Karate chop the arm wielding the gat and it disconnects at the forearm. Blood sprays us both as his high pitched scream echoes off the walls.

"So, we finally meet at last.... Barack Obama."

"Mayne, wut da fuck is a barackuh-obama?!"

"Don't play dumb with me, monkey! I'm here to stop your reign of terrorism!"

"You wanna buy some weed?"

"Ha! I knew it all along! You use pot to fund your terror! You make me sick! Well, not anymore, Obamien."

"Wut? Nigga, you trippin'!"

He stands up and draws a shank from his underpants with his remaining arm, blood still spraying uncontrollably.

"Come get a taste!"

He lunges at me.
Sidestep.
A right hook he blocks with his forearm.
Retake.
Blade lands my chin, drags it's way up my face and over my eye, killing my depth perception harder than Gattsu kills a demon. But like Gattsu, I don't need my right fucking eye to kill.

Jump up, through the roof and fly all the way up to the moon.

Stupid fuck.

Flex.
Grunt.

Foolish mortals, always doubting.

Suddenly, my hair turns yellow and stands on end. Dumb fuck didn't know he was fucking around with a Super Saiyajin.

"KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

Strike a funny pose.

"MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY"

Grunt.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

Flex.

"MMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY"

Muscles growing on top of muscles, veins bulging and visible.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA A AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

My body emits a massive beam that shoots back town to the earth, causing it to implode into a mass of flames.
Oops. I think I over did it.....

Uh. Anyway, that fuck, the Antichrist is dead!
VICTORY!
I SAVED MANKIND! AGAIN!

Fuck yeah!

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REVELATIONS: THE END