The Land of The Saints: 

Never would a Saint be seen on ground zero. The boondocks are no place for such an influential party. Spunk covered zero, anyway. They frequent high up places. Atop the corporate towers, grasping a pole earthed in the building. They hang over the edge of skyscrapers. The pale creatures do not feel. That is not to say they don’t anger. The Appointed fell off an edge; the pole snapped. Most minded their business, kept walking to keep breathing. Even as breath now lacked preciousness. This prepubescent youth did what God said there would be a time for. It was the wrong time for laughter, though. The Appointed fell through layers of earth, man made or otherwise. The entire city street is alert to the clumsiness of the nephilim offspring.

The boy’s eyes never should have had to make an expression as they did. The Appointed climbs to his stance that won him “Most Poised” in the poster running. He glides to the boy. They don’t step. They move their legs like they should, but glide across land like walking isn’t natural. The boy looks up to what is towering over him. The sun cast harsh outlines to the rigid character.

“Oh, you’re a recycler?

The boy nods.

“I could have mistook you for a joker!”

“Let me see your bottles!”

He takes the pack off of his shoulders, sets it at his feet. The Appointed rummages through the pack, making onomatopoeic clanks of every bottle.

“This one has no year inscribed on it.”

He holds the bottle up to the scorching sun.

The boy looks up to The Appointed catching the sun’s attributes through the mouthpiece. He quickly shifts his direction to the boy. The bottom of the glass magnified his wraith-like eye.

“Ahhhhh!” He froze…

The boy saw into his retina, now he’s paralyzed. What did he see? His muscles freeze. He hasn’t moved for seconds. The Appointed just stares at him. He cracks the bottom of the bottle over his knee.

He looks down on the boy, “No matter is lost, Adam.” The Appointed uses the broken bottle to skull-fuck the eye socket. His little frozen body just stands in place. Like gazing upon a vampiric tap, blood pours from the mouthpiece of the bottle.

“Today’s lesson is of ethology,” he yells, snapping his head in multiple directions as a sign of dominance over all he sees, “Fear thy beast.”

Still frozen and pouring, the young is to remain an omen to break the barrier between their eternal dwelling throughout our sempiternal promise land. The Appointed looks into the ruddy pool. Then, he focuses on it. He makes known his discernment of the pool to a molecular level. Just then, droplets defied gravity. Shimmering with the beauty of a sun lit sky, the pool takes on a form. Crystallized drops POP from the remaining liquid matter and form another constant. Laws of humanity and definition are the laughing stock of The Saints. The now bubbling blood pops and spatters every direction. It is not of this land. From the blood-borne lake, now comes a ring of fire. The Appointed stands over the pool, bends from the waist to look closer. Right after he does, he shouts “Aaaaarrgghh!” He jumps back from the pool, pushing off from zero with his right leg. He’s not but a few feet above zero, when the beast of blood flew threw the other dimension, nearly tearing off the leg of The Appointed. Straight up from the pool, the sanguine cloaked the beast and excess flew through the sky. The Appointed played a very old trickery. God would detest such a thing. Transforming atoms. Wait? “Adam?”