wotan

Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation
--Matthew 12:25

Prophecy of the End Time

At that time Michael shall stand up, the great prince who stands watch over the sons of your people; And there shall be a time of trouble, such as never was since there was a nation, even to that time. And at that time your people shall be delivered, every one who is found written in the book. And many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, some to shame and everlasting contempt. Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament, and those who turn many to righteousness like the stars forever and ever.

-- Daniel 12

Last night heaven washed earth with showers from its mighty Lion, Son of the Sun. I stood on a nearby mountain, freezing my ass off, and with each cosmic streamer I danced a little jig. On my rig's stereo I turned the oldies station up full blast, and way down in the valley some rancher's porch-light, annoyed, snapped on. I capered back and forth across the deserted turnout. I cheered the sky and laughed like hell. I didn't know why.

When I got home the archangel was sprawled on my bed, reading Susan Faludi. He had my favorite pair of my leopard-stripe PJs on, and he was smoking my last joint, the one I'd saved to take me down to dreamland. Arrogant prick.

He exhaled an enormous spume. "Show me," he said, "only one hundred men left in your land and I will spare it."

I didn't even bother to pretend counting. "Don't be afraid," he said. I wasn't.

He glared at the window and it flew open. Then he flicked my last doobie out into the night sky, where it left one final little streamer. He reached under my bed and from nowhere produced a trumpet. Smiling, he brought it to his lips.

"Two down," he said, and drew a horrible rasping breath.

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Everywhere the sign appears. In America the Empowered Witch rules unopposed, with weakling Toxic Kings as front-men. The nation is fractured into a thousand points of unconscious darkness.   In Afghanistan the last of the patriarchs, desperate, hound women through the streets. Proud and austere, these zealots of dying manhood, like holdouts from Masada, struggle to stave off the inevitable. But already New Rome encircles them.

Last night after dinner, as darkness fell, I went for a walk in this tiny Northwestern town. This place is so small and secure I think the last �major� crime spree was six years ago � a string of bicycle thefts.

I hadn�t gotten twenty yards into the city park when a group of six or seven teenagers headed toward me, three or four girls leading the way with a few boys behind. As they neared me, one of the girls said, �Hi.� Immediately another girl said loudly, �Don�t say that! He could be a rapist!�

I turned to them as I passed and said, �That�s sick.�

One of the girls said, �What?!�

I enunciated: �That � is � sick.�

We went our separate ways, and I could hear the group behind me, debating the exchange.

The idea that one 135-pound male could overpower and rape a group of half-a-dozen teenagers was, of course, ludicrous. The park is miniscule, well-lit, with houses surrounding it on all sides. It�s three blocks from the police station. Besides, any two of the boys � probably even one � could have stomped me with ease. But that was not the point of her comment.

Her point was to instill shame in me for having the arrogance and stupidity to be born male in her country. Her point was to damage me psychologically, and to propagandize her friends through her mask of false victimization. Ophrah taught her well.

Wotan�s coming. Now rides the Captain of the Queen of Heaven.

Six years ago, in my final attempt at assimilation into the neo-matriarchate, I began a new job as a paralegal at a major family-law firm in downtown Portland. My first day at work, I heard yelling coming from down the hallway. When I investigated, I discovered the owner of the firm � an enormous female, well over 300 pounds, screaming at one of her male subordinates. The bellowing was audible across the entire high-rise floor. Later in the afternoon, the same scenario was repeated � different male, same tirade.

I asked my supervisor � also a female � what was up. �Oh,� she shrugged. �It�s nothing. She does this every day. It�s just her way.�

Her Way indeed.