Pitifully deluded neck-bearded atheists, fat Cheetos wielding spergs, transgendered cis-mobiles, all are promising grist for the mill. Yet they fail to live up to their worshipful potential as spiritual food and still Moloch hungers. The question remains, how do the Illumed transition the current passive worship into a more active relationship between they the harvesters and the people, the cattle?
All credit where due, worship of convenience, of material goods, of Mammon, has made a feast day for our Lord Moloch. A bounty, a glut, a cornucopia of foetal flesh has been bestowed by these blessed United States. Since the ordained day of sanctification, a day the uninformed foolishly call Roe V Wade, we have harvested some 57+ million souls. With the blessing and consecration of the government of the US of A we have reaped some where over 100 million pounds of succulent innocent flesh.
Convinced that abortion (it-self a wonderful euphemism) is merely an out patient procedure, we have lulled the masses into a fog of sweet complacency. Almost as beautiful is the word Pro-Choice, who could be against choice? Regardless of the term, follow a somewhat condescending view of how to make Moloch, mainstream.
In the ancient world, kings and plebes alike would visit their respective shrines of Moloch. The king’s shrine, large, shinning in the sun, honed from hours of labor, bright polished brass and bronze. Underneath the magnificent bull headed sculpture, a furnace, heated with coal fires and stoked with a bellows, transferring the heat to the welcoming arms.
The poor may have had a makeshift wicker statue, a wooden simulacrum burned alike with the child, Moloch more than happy to receive the sacrifice none the less.
Kings and beggars alike, both accosted by the unbearable burden of bastards, become equals before the bull headed god. Paying their tithe to the priest, he accepting the paupers penny along with the kings golden coin. Their wives, the true devotees, bend the knee before the priest, transferring the money, the gong, the horn, the trumpet sound. The child cast alive onto the overwhelming warmth, the screams excised by the ecstasy of the priest’s fervent prayers. The charred remains, the ultimate testament of love, of sacrifice, of devotion.
To the uninformed this ancient rite has little to do with the current abortion “procedure”. In the next post I will politely illuminate the minor differences and posit a humble solution to bring Moloch to the masses.