We've seen it coming for some time; a blood red dawn rises upon the horizon. The lurching zombie troglodytes, are slipping in and out of the one-eyed Sauron fashioned- from an electricity everyone uses but no one understands, or can explain- mystery box-lunch, featuring the demented dreams of spiritual plunder. They're going ape-shit about the vision of putting a monkey's head on a human body and calling it God. It was either that or Deus Ex Machina. Why not do a buffet and advertise them both? On one side, at union scale wages, there are zombies working the cameras of the latest LG cellphone on the Sauron box; that family altar, before which the family sits bewitched and transfixed; eternally tumescent in their minds; fantasizing about their osculation of a goat's behind and getting Tommy Hilfiger designed, high priest robes. No one is wearing a neophyte outfit this time; it spirals down to the strangest pairs of cartoon eyes, peering over the metaphorical fences of the mind, where it's all ermine and purple satin; dressed for dining on flesh au gratin, with a fine garnish of shredded souls who have no throat to cry out from. They are mute and frozen in time... “your place or mine?”
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