And then the time of all had come.

  At the end of times, time does not end;

  It expands into infinity, a vast and hollow waste,

  Where everything remains the same, without being or being able to be.

  All turns into darkness, a veil where illusion deceives

  Whispering that all is over, when in truth,

  Our eyes are only closed forevermore.

  Thousands upon thousands marched in deep despair,

  Clutching a candle which, in the hollow of the gloom,

  Cast the long shadows of those wretched souls

  Shadows of lust, of vanity, and the heavy weight of ego.

  Above their heads, the Angel of Death took flight,

  Guiding the weary to the tribunal of the Final Judgment.

  The fair bird of Hades proclaimed to the void:

  “Wretched souls who have torn out your own eyes,

  pierced your own eardrums, and poisoned your very senses!

  All that remains to you is this pennant of consciousness,

  the cold glimmer of a star long extinguished.”

  The souls groaned in pain, a chorus of agony.

  Cries of terror and repentance made the great abyss tremble.

  But from the shifting crowd, a single voice cried out:

  “I do not have to listen to your nonsense!

  No one tells me where I must or must not go!

  My name is Chad Aesthaten!

  No one has the right to judge me but myself!”

  The man turned his back and began to walk,

  Against the tide, against the march of all the others.

  The souls moved onward, unmoved by his defiance.

  Then the Angel flew, a dark descent, and landed before him.

  The imposing funeral bird was greater and more terrifying in the flesh.

  The sweep of his wings extinguished a hundred candles,

  Snuffing out forever what little existence remained.

  So great was the despair that at the sight of the Dreadful One,

  Many ran in terror, falling, crushing, condemning themselves.

  But Chad remained motionless;

  His flame did not even flicker at the mighty beating of Death’s wings.

  Then the Angel spoke, his voice like grinding stone:

  “A soul like yours has not been seen since the last incarnation of Wotan.

  But your time is the same as the time of the world.

  There is no turning back.”

  Chad, without blinking, gave his reply:

  “Oh mighty funeral bird!

  Neither the beating of your wings nor your mighty scythe

  shall extinguish my spirit, which burns in the purest conviction.

  I regret nothing!

  Repentance is reserved for the weak whose flames cannot endure,

  for within them there was never the true fuel that kindles true hell!”

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  Chad Aesthaten drew his sword and charged toward Death.

  The Angel unsheathed his scythe and struck a cutting blow.

  Chad deflected the steel and struck back for the head.

  But Death, skillful in the dance of ends, parried with the shaft

  And with a powerful spinning blow split Chad Aesthaten in two.

  Everything was over.

  Yet before vanishing forever,

  As if in a final breath, an involuntary motion of the soul,

  Before being completely severed,

  Chad moved his sword and cut a feather from Death’s wing.

  And with a smile upon his face,

  The last of the pagans, the final avatar of Caesar,

  Disappeared into the deep abyss.

  Picking the feather from the ground, the Angel gazed in astonishment.

  Of all, only Christ had ever defeated him; no other man had prevailed.

  But this man, Chad Aesthaten, had managed to tear from him a feather.

  “What a great waste of a soul, such strength used to spit in the face of God,

  all for a blind hatred, a disdain for life masked as glory!”

  The Angel of Death then flew toward the heavens.

  There, at the great gate, the souls prepared for judgment.

  Saint Peter and Jesus stood there, preparing the tribunal.

  Death bowed before them and whispered:

  “My Lords, is it possible that the soul of Chad Aesthaten may be saved?”

  Saint Peter, with an impassive gaze, answered:

  “Chad Aesthaten chose his path. His soul is lost from God forever;

  his eyes remained closed to the Light from the day he was born.

  Go, and do not return until you are called.”

  The Bird, with head still bowed, showed the feather torn from his wing:

  “I beg pardon for my intrusion.

  But this man of such powerful conviction tore this from me.

  Someone with such strength must have borne a Universal Truth

  he perhaps never realized.

  I ask that you restore this man’s soul.”

  Saint Peter grew angry, his fury rising like a storm.

  But before he could act, Jesus interrupted and said:

  “Angel of Death, you know that for God all things are possible,

  except to violate the free will of His creatures.

  He chose his destiny, and though a great gift was given to him,

  he chose to use it against Me.

  His soul was destroyed in darkness; there is nothing more to be done.”

  The Angel lifted his head:

  “Can not God the Father restore it? I know that for the Lord nothing is impossible.”

  “Enough!” cried Peter. “One more word and you shall be cast into the Abyss!”

  But Jesus, calm and impassive, replied:

  “If at any moment there was truth in him, it will attempt to return to the Father,

  for truth is living and eternal.

  Very well. With this feather, write the story of Chad Aesthaten

  and take it to the world of men.

  If those who read it die, then there was nothing but darkness in his existence.

  But if they live, then there was truth, and his soul may be restored.”

  In a small vial, Jesus placed the blood flowing from His wounds.

  “With My blood you shall write this story,

  for through My blood all who read it shall also be reading their own hearts.”

  The bird kissed the hands of his Lord and descended to the depths of Hades.

  In his palace, he prepared a great scroll, placed it upon the tablet,

  and wrote the title in beautiful medieval script:

  KNIGHTS OF THE SCHIZO BABBLING