On July 1, 1566, as crooked candles died and welcomed the blackest of midnights, a hush of death fell heavily onto a small French town. Wolves gathered to howl at the hidden moon and animals rushed for cover as the mist moved in thickly, preceding the Reaper’s walk. The stars are blinded as tears gather in the clouds and the winds bring deathly chill in the midst of summer.
An old blind doctor is the only thing carrying a wisp of life moving within the valley. Torrential rains suddenly douse his frail bones through tattered robes but he travels on to the hut at the end of the village. Shadows move in and out of his path and he can feel the glowing eyes of the Reaper and his minions burning holes into his soul. He finally reaches the door and speaks a few words of incantation to keep the demons at bay until that fateful hour. As he passes through the threshold, lightning flashes to his left and he thinks he makes out the notorious sickle of Life’s ancient nemesis. He presses on and encounters the nurse kneeling by the bed, her head covered in fear. She is murmuring strange prayers of protection, but this night he knows death and destruction shall be her only comfort. As he reaches the bed, the form wrapped in ripped cloth shivers and groans. Death begins to march around the house as assuredly as Joshua traveled the walls of Jericho. As the hour of reckoning nears, the old physician places his hand in the hand of the prophet and feels his last ounce of strength. The patient asks the doctor to move in closer as his breaths come in gasps.
He tells the doctor, “Throughout my life I have seen the rise and fall of nations, among the death and resurrection of kings. I have endured the visions of death and the brightness of life.”
The doctor responds, “Great visionary, of what you have captured, in hellish midnights with your third eye, what do you wish your feeble body could be spared to see?
The prophet responds, “Of death and life, great and small, please record these words. In the fall of the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-seven, twelve men shall seize the mantle of Alpha and burn their names into the deepest secret chamber of the pyramid of Alpha. They shall rearrange the motion of the universe and touch the lives of all they encounter. They’re honesty – brutal. They’re perseverance – indestructible. They’re names – legendary. The sun shall rise on the day after a thousand midnights have passed and a millions stars have exploded to signify their passing. On November 22nd they shall be given to the citizens of earth and life will be forever changed. I would bargain my soul with the Great Beast to witness this galactic history on November 22, 1997.”
As the prophet’s breath becomes belabored he leans and whispers his last words, “Record their names, but script their lineage in your soul. They shall be called the 12 Apes of Wrath also to be known as the O.nly U.nited T.welve L.iving A.s W.ise S.oldiers.”
He smiled and as his third eye envisioned these 12 men crossing the burning sands, Nostradamus gave up the ghost.
An old blind doctor is the only thing carrying a wisp of life moving within the valley. Torrential rains suddenly douse his frail bones through tattered robes but he travels on to the hut at the end of the village. Shadows move in and out of his path and he can feel the glowing eyes of the Reaper and his minions burning holes into his soul. He finally reaches the door and speaks a few words of incantation to keep the demons at bay until that fateful hour. As he passes through the threshold, lightning flashes to his left and he thinks he makes out the notorious sickle of Life’s ancient nemesis. He presses on and encounters the nurse kneeling by the bed, her head covered in fear. She is murmuring strange prayers of protection, but this night he knows death and destruction shall be her only comfort. As he reaches the bed, the form wrapped in ripped cloth shivers and groans. Death begins to march around the house as assuredly as Joshua traveled the walls of Jericho. As the hour of reckoning nears, the old physician places his hand in the hand of the prophet and feels his last ounce of strength. The patient asks the doctor to move in closer as his breaths come in gasps.
He tells the doctor, “Throughout my life I have seen the rise and fall of nations, among the death and resurrection of kings. I have endured the visions of death and the brightness of life.”
The doctor responds, “Great visionary, of what you have captured, in hellish midnights with your third eye, what do you wish your feeble body could be spared to see?
The prophet responds, “Of death and life, great and small, please record these words. In the fall of the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-seven, twelve men shall seize the mantle of Alpha and burn their names into the deepest secret chamber of the pyramid of Alpha. They shall rearrange the motion of the universe and touch the lives of all they encounter. They’re honesty – brutal. They’re perseverance – indestructible. They’re names – legendary. The sun shall rise on the day after a thousand midnights have passed and a millions stars have exploded to signify their passing. On November 22nd they shall be given to the citizens of earth and life will be forever changed. I would bargain my soul with the Great Beast to witness this galactic history on November 22, 1997.”
As the prophet’s breath becomes belabored he leans and whispers his last words, “Record their names, but script their lineage in your soul. They shall be called the 12 Apes of Wrath also to be known as the O.nly U.nited T.welve L.iving A.s W.ise S.oldiers.”
He smiled and as his third eye envisioned these 12 men crossing the burning sands, Nostradamus gave up the ghost.
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