Primetime Apocalypse

Hanging from the cross.
Battered, torn, naked.
Multitudes baying for blood.

Dark skies criss-crossed by invisible streams of data.
Homes receive the message,
"The false prophet will die tonight."

Popcorn buttered fingers roam channels,
To find the best angle.
A close-up of agony.

The cowled man approaches.
Crowd roaring as they wave paint-splattered signs.
"I 'heart' Reaver" "Go! Go! Go!"

The woman mumbles as microphones point.
"Forgive them Father, they know not what they do."
But forgiveness is all sold out.

Reaver's knife flashes.
Blood sprays.
The world holds its breath.
Ichor flows down pale skin.
In Glorious Technicolor.
Furtive tongues lick lips.

Cameras zoom.
The woman's chest shudders.
Head falling limply on her neck.

Her chest stops moving.
The world sighs and breathes again.
Glistening faces reflect in TV screens.

The skies roil and darkness thickens.
Red eyes stare dispassionately from clouds.
TV screens blank as the screaming starts.


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