A huge and boisterous crowd of the wicked were crowding a large, indoor arena. In the center of the arena, on a raised dais or stage, was erected a huge "X", formed from wooden railroad ties.
Firmly tied to it was an aged Latter-Day Saint, his arms bound to the upper parts of the "X" and his legs bound to the lower parts of it.
Several men were on this stage, one of whom held a big chain-saw. As he revved up the chain-saw he held, he shouted "What should we cut off first!" One woman screamed "Go for the groin!" But most of the blood-thirsty crowd screamed "His left hand!" And so it was done.
Bit by bloody bit the man was dismembered for the howling mob. He was not the first to die in this manner. It was manifested that the victims of these cruel murders were those who had not prepared and had not listened to the warnings to leave.
After this sickening sight, a man dressed in ordinary clothes slipped in through one of the entrances to the arena. With a demeanor marked by righteous anger, he put his arm to the square, and by the power of the Holy Priesthood called down great, blazing bolts of lightning, incinerating the spectators where they sat, and consuming the stage and everyone on it.
The man then left the arena, leaving behind nothing but charred bodies and the stench of burning flesh.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Arrogance Corrected
It was the Days of '47 parade in Salt Lake City. The president of the LDS Church was riding in an open car, waving to the people.
A block from his approaching car, two men waited patiently on the roof-tops of a pair of buildings across the street from each other. Another man waited in the crowd below, gradually edging his way toward the street.
The roof-top assassins removed the pieces of their sniper rifles from their padded carrying cases and carefully assembled them. The one at street level carefully shielded his sound-suppressed pistol from view within a folded newspaper.
All three were almost casual in their arrogant confidence. No big deal; they had successfully pulled off this sort of operation before. These (expletive deleted) Mormons were going to get the shock of their lives today. Take 'em down a peg. After this, they would know that any one of them or their leaders, could be killed any time, any where... and they couldn't do a thing about it!
Suddenly, one sniper heard the crunch of roof gravel behind him, and, startled, turned to see a figure pointing a silenced .45 directly between his eyes. That was the last thing he saw on this earth. His partner across the street suffered a similar fate, while the awaiting assassin below felt the sudden, sharp pain of a stiletto sliding between his ribs and up into his heart. He died without a sound, held upright by the press of the crowd.
Later, a second attempt failed and a second assassination team died quickly and silently. The dark powers behind these attempts were in a panic. Who was doing this? Might they be on to them, personally? They suddenly realized that they had no idea. Fear replaced arrogant confidence. Maybe they had better back off until they knew who, or what, they were dealing with!
A block from his approaching car, two men waited patiently on the roof-tops of a pair of buildings across the street from each other. Another man waited in the crowd below, gradually edging his way toward the street.
The roof-top assassins removed the pieces of their sniper rifles from their padded carrying cases and carefully assembled them. The one at street level carefully shielded his sound-suppressed pistol from view within a folded newspaper.
All three were almost casual in their arrogant confidence. No big deal; they had successfully pulled off this sort of operation before. These (expletive deleted) Mormons were going to get the shock of their lives today. Take 'em down a peg. After this, they would know that any one of them or their leaders, could be killed any time, any where... and they couldn't do a thing about it!
Suddenly, one sniper heard the crunch of roof gravel behind him, and, startled, turned to see a figure pointing a silenced .45 directly between his eyes. That was the last thing he saw on this earth. His partner across the street suffered a similar fate, while the awaiting assassin below felt the sudden, sharp pain of a stiletto sliding between his ribs and up into his heart. He died without a sound, held upright by the press of the crowd.
Later, a second attempt failed and a second assassination team died quickly and silently. The dark powers behind these attempts were in a panic. Who was doing this? Might they be on to them, personally? They suddenly realized that they had no idea. Fear replaced arrogant confidence. Maybe they had better back off until they knew who, or what, they were dealing with!
Monday, July 27, 2009
Reward
He walked with his head buried in the fur collar of his long coat, his slouch hat pulled down to ward off the chill breeze that had sprung up. Few of the other pedestrians paid him any attention as they hurried on their way, each intent on their own concerns.
He stopped once to check a street sign and, satisfied, turned the corner and climbed the slight rise to the row of fashionable apartment buildings standing along this street lined with trees still sporting the reds and yellows of their Fall foliage.
He glanced up at the house number on the second apartment, hesitated, and then walked up the short steps to stand in front of what was obviously the front door. He pushed the buzzer and then stepped down a step.
He paused there, with his right leg on the step above the one on which his left leg stood. He gripped the railing firmly with his left hand and put his other in his right pocket. Although there was nothing out of the ordinary about his stance, there was a hidden purpose to it. His right leg was now bent at the knee, with his upper leg pointing directly at the door.
The door opened and a tall, distinguished gentleman appeared in the doorway. He looked quizzically at his visitor and said "Yes?"
"Excuse me, sir," said the visitor, "but are you Prof. Charles Barzee?"
"Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"
"I have a reward for you," said the visitor, "a reward for your treachery," he said as he pulled the trigger on the short-barreled shotgun concealed beneath his long coat.
With the visitor's knee cocked just so, the barrel pointed straight at the Professor's midriff. A sudden "Whoosh" from the sound-suppressed barrel and the traitor was cut neatly in half by a full load of double-ought buckshot.
The visitor turned around and walked down the stairs to the street, leaving the bleeding remains of the traitorous professor twitching on the doorstep.
"What a beautiful day to deliver such a richly deserved reward," he thought as he walked down the street, nodding pleasantly at a passerby. "Our dear professor will finger good men for the tyrant's murder squads no more."
He stopped once to check a street sign and, satisfied, turned the corner and climbed the slight rise to the row of fashionable apartment buildings standing along this street lined with trees still sporting the reds and yellows of their Fall foliage.
He glanced up at the house number on the second apartment, hesitated, and then walked up the short steps to stand in front of what was obviously the front door. He pushed the buzzer and then stepped down a step.
He paused there, with his right leg on the step above the one on which his left leg stood. He gripped the railing firmly with his left hand and put his other in his right pocket. Although there was nothing out of the ordinary about his stance, there was a hidden purpose to it. His right leg was now bent at the knee, with his upper leg pointing directly at the door.
The door opened and a tall, distinguished gentleman appeared in the doorway. He looked quizzically at his visitor and said "Yes?"
"Excuse me, sir," said the visitor, "but are you Prof. Charles Barzee?"
"Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"
"I have a reward for you," said the visitor, "a reward for your treachery," he said as he pulled the trigger on the short-barreled shotgun concealed beneath his long coat.
With the visitor's knee cocked just so, the barrel pointed straight at the Professor's midriff. A sudden "Whoosh" from the sound-suppressed barrel and the traitor was cut neatly in half by a full load of double-ought buckshot.
The visitor turned around and walked down the stairs to the street, leaving the bleeding remains of the traitorous professor twitching on the doorstep.
"What a beautiful day to deliver such a richly deserved reward," he thought as he walked down the street, nodding pleasantly at a passerby. "Our dear professor will finger good men for the tyrant's murder squads no more."
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