Surosh Shafihie

Prophecy this, prophecy that. Revelation here, revelation there, a man secretly wearing women's underwear. Hair on his legs, a smile on his face, listening to the pastor speak of shame and disgrace. Liquor on his breath, his fist in the air, commanding his audience to find atonement through prayer. As the pastor spoke of the apocalypse that was to come, he couldn't help but think about his empty bottle of rum. Suddenly, a certain impression struck me with clarity. Knights, peasants, and kings. Maidens, harlots, and queens, feasting upon mush, potatoes, and beans, before the hungry plague devoured their souls, crowns, and dreams. Armageddon was upon them or so they thought, zombies walking medieval streets, their spirits in a thirsty drought. The Lord's doom was upon them, a flea with the message of bubonic juggernaut. Their populations were decimated, the Book of Revelation reverberated.