“Fuck” He proclaimed as his semen punctured Lilith’s womb, His mass dropping to her. His body deflated from orgasm in tide with His interest in the woman. Guilt bled into His brain with the cool return of blood that had evacuated his loins. She stayed in the tent as He stepped out to have a smoke and never return. Of Lilith was born a child, though no cry of virgin birth would be believed in this day and age. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so presumptuous though. No cry of virgin birth was made, instead a fair suitor was found and the best was made of the mistake. The mistake came to be named Elias, son of Joseph Fabrice of France. Elias learned much of the craft of his adopted father, a tailor. The most prominent of these acquired skills was the taste for alcohol, smoking and violence. The skill most honed was the prior. Connoisseur would be the wrong word to describe Elias however, even though he was self-described to that end. He had no care for the threads and textures, patterns and weaves, he was much more concerned with dryness, flavor subtleties, aroma and body. And the drunk. Of all to intake, Elias was obsessed with the drunk. And this obsession would be his condemnation and the reason for his exile. Joseph would not take him. His mother, reborn as Mary Fabrice, refused him. The bastard, Oedipus, fatherless from the start, was now in the chasm beyond destiny, 35 years old and nothing but a hole in the universe where everything had ceased. The only thing he produced was revolt. Without a father to direct his misgivings toward, the boy sought to destroy all that surrounded him without prejudice. In this destruction, he created a new destiny, or, at least, found one. The child, now a man, of his own name and volition, was found by a most peculiar sensation on the eve of his 36th year, this previous night. Buzzed and exhausted, Nhile sat at the balcony of his apartment, watching the light of the radio tower in the distance while he smoked. The light pulsated, the passionate red of industry. He counted each pulse. ...7...8...9...10... Every now and again the color would jitter in an odd directly, or momentarily flicker to a different color. All at once, the hue of the tower shifted, moving from vibrant red, down to a deep blue, pitching up to an unimaginable pink and back to red. The colors pitched outside of the visual spectrum, a hissing appearing in Nhile’s ear. As the colors pitched up, so did the noise, deafening Nhile. The noise became so great it collapsed his ear drums, but he could still feel the severe pressure of the sound. He was lifted from his feet by the pressure, lifted to the ceiling, until a voice, calm, clear and inhuman spoke forth to him in the silence. “zero” it was crisp, like the snapping of a stick. The noise lowered Nhile to the ground as it called out again.“four” his feet pressed to the carpet. Nhile exhaled and the force of the noise slowly dissipated. The voice vibrated inside of him with a wild force, but this force enlivened a pulse of adrenaline inside of him. Nhile ran to his bedroom as the voice continued to call out.“nine. seven. nine. one. eight. six”Nhile repeated the words back to himself. He rummaged through his desk for a piece of parchment and a pen.“two. eight. seven. seven. six” Nhile tried repeating the words to himself, but they just continued to rattle off to him. The clarity of the Signal was disappearing, waves of static covering the words. Nhile finally found a half used journal and began writing.1 6 5 7 9 8 3 2 2 9 9 8 5 6 4 3 4 5And like that, the Signal stopped, only 18 numbers in, but those numbers kept him awake that night, kept me awake that night. I am Nhile, son of Oslo and servant of Chaos. I have been found by the Signal and chosen for enlightenment, it is my duty to behold and my burden to bear. Onward will display my quest, wherever that may lead.