Streamer who says "And now just a little break for an ad read, sorry guys, brb" and then they just pull out a newspaper and silently read some of the ads while scowling because they don't enjoy this, occasionally muttering "That's not even a good deal" and then calmly folds it back up and starts playing again.
And the prophet said: When I reached the innermost chamber of heaven I saw not god but a throne of spent shells. The Lord is dead, there is only the gun.
Creation is empty. As humanity sailed the firmament, we were met only with silence and yawning rocky shores. For the earth was not the center of creation, it was to be our cradle, our chamber, our Eden among the stars.
A thousand years saw a thousand new worlds, then a thousand more, and then a thousand thousand more. And the sprawl of humanity was like the planets it conquered; dull, indolent, greedy, and cold.
But then, the final miracle. A young boy, the final pure soul in all of creation, hung by his ankles from a hardwood tree, begged, prayed to the Lord God for one final act of providence. For the final prophet was pitiful, too poor to afford the holy instruments of his communion. With tears in his eyes and a finger cocked to his lips he whispered.
"End It All"
A 50. Caliber round of perfect quintessence, shot from the heavens in an act of holy suicide. For the final prophet, hallowed in namelessness, became ensconced as holy reliquary to the gun.
From his left eye wept a stream of purest lead, from which the holy forged slugs.
From his right eye wept a stream of purest brass, from which the holy forged casing.
And from the stigmata of his jaw bled perfect gunmetal, from which the holy forged the gun.
This was the beginning of the final crusade. The false churches were buried. The inglorious books burned. For the Lord God had left humanity with charge of perfecting his work, and the holy instrument of his work.
Prophets rose from the tired masses, to preach the new gospel in habits of kevlar and brass like gold. And from their new church came priestly schools, monastic orders, cogs in clockwork of the coming judgement day.
There is the word, and there is the gun, all else must kneel. Edens among the stars became worlds of factory cathedrals and sprawling necropoli where rifles are fitted with the still-twitching trigger fingers of saints, grenades fit to the inscribed skulls of unrepentant for their final baptism, and rosaries are forged from the ever-weeping shells of a dozen holy suicides.
