Q.: Happy new 2021! Anno Domini of Lord Belial. You’re under Norwegian influence and your honour’s at stake. What do you know about the demons anyways? Some occasional names your favourite bands picked from the Thesaurus. Dozens of them are called after your appointed Governor-in-Charge. What does the Fifth Sun eventually mean to you if I may be so trivial?
A.: You are right, it wasn’t a thoughtful choice. But I looked it up to make it sure. Belial is the worthless one. A perfect Omen for our point in dead time. 2021 is the Year of Nothing. All that remains are harrowing memories of the everlasting past.
Q.: That’s fine with me, but certainly ain’t a populist concept. Your grim calendar celebrates the year through medieval images of torture. It’s not only unoriginal but outright nefarious. You underestimate the clientele of your webmarket. You owe them a user-friendly explanation if wanna be sold as advertised.
A.: Those illustrations are pages of an unwritten gospel. It’s quite transparent if you look at them. Horror is catchier than monkeys. Something that funny cannot convey bad news. 2021 will be a very good year.
Q.: I really don’t know what makes you say so. Aren’t we encountering the bleakest cataclysm of postmodern history? The total collapse of Western civilization amidst a global extinction of the vulnerable. The quantitative judgement you were poised to repel is ravaging the overpopulace. It killed Manu Dibango. Isn’t it rather something than the contrary?
A.: When it becomes unspeakable, the Word decently shuts up. It is a natural recoil of the affrighted metabolism. Good are times when things are well balanced. As a cold war baby, I remember it first-hand. The Z-generation is beyond the loss. Nothing can save them but a new intelligence. A post-verbal communication of total refuse.
Q.: To escape into silence is spineless surrender. I rather think you should cry out louder than ever. What a shame you cannot go on record and scream like a banshee. It’d release the pressure of the wish poisoning your veins.
A.: What we’re encountering is the great collusion of disaster and decay. Bacterial infection meets the deep state. It is an ace of spades in the cosmic Bridge. A brazen breach of the evolutionary contract. An infernal Putsch. Slaughter of the soul. The tyranny of liberalism has dawned upon us. The morning ain’t that red.
Q.: That’s alright, closeted doomsayer. I am with you there. But what do you intend to do about it? Apathy is hardly a dialectic response. Those electoral votes have made you gravely in. You are more broken than when Bowie died. The last hope is gone to Jericho.
A.: I’ve just read an interview with Iman on occasion of the fifth anniversary of Lazarus’ departure. It stuck on my eyes. My worst presumptions have been drastically justified. Her husband was just another Adorno casualty. “Big Brother” was a song about someone like Trump. But he wouldn’t love him. R.I.P. indeed.
Q.: That’s a serious reconsideration of a sentimental journey, bedroom sailor. I can see your heart bleeding. But we must go on. Let’s pretend we’re alive. And not alone.
A.: The virus was invented to destroy the Man who wanted to buy the world. He’ll remain the greatest hero of my life in the bush of ghosts. The Capitalist Star between Lenin and Uncle. I’m grateful to Osh for having witnessed it in the flesh. It feels devastating that couldn’t help him. Won’t ever get over it.
Q.: Terrible times are coming, aren’t they? How fortunate that Cohen didn’t live to see it too. He would have been on the other side as well just from sheer jealousy. There’s no one left to trust. 
A.: The repercussion of the death of time is culminating this year. The last endeavour of total peace is over. Now fast forward to WWWIII. Everything has changed. The only way out is collective suicide.

                                                                                   
Q.: May I call your kind attention on the interim contradiction of your wanton ramble. The situation is that you aren’t capacitated for the slightest interaction with the great outside. The most you can do is to crack some pesky jokes on your compulsory home videos for nobody to ever see. You’ve just been banned from YouTube for inappropriate content. Not for your tenets but for your nudity. You’ll never do the right thing. A rebel like you should never have been reborn.                                                                                                                   
A.: To toil without reward has always been my preposterous portion. The biosphere is a cemetery. We’re all gonna die here sooner or later. Osh couldn’t help us even if he wanted to. In None I believe. I am a positive nihilist. 
Q.: I hate your misery, but I love your pride. Grammatical incorrectness, however, won’t countervail the nonsensical calibre of your poetic atonement. Your alternative creed isn’t any finer than the pagan dogmas Belial would consummately despise. The false harmony of noble resignation is a nauseating reaction to the end of the world as we know it. You’d better get some energy and begin to move.
A.: I am victimized by Aristotelian logic. I don’t know how to get what I want. Now that he’s off office, he would maybe invest in the Building. What better could he possibly do yet? Let Elon Musk go to Mars. It should be constructed in Nevada under Masonic oath of absolute secrecy. A Pleiadian conspiracy. In the span of a five years it could be done. And that would be the last plan.
Q.: Aren’t you a too naïve apprentice, my sweet Charlotte? Like a baby in the woods really. You couldn’t sell our project to Baphomet himself. It’s only your nasty survival instinct that keeps you fantasizing. What can be good in it for the Jew, that’s all you’re looking for in the demise. Why don’t you get a closer view at us in the rear mirror? You and me, we don’t have any faculty left. Once we were playing the beauty and the beast. Now we are a charmless old couple of the least unordinary sort. Osh fucked us up.
A.: Could you pinpoint for a second what is my greatest defect?
Q.: Most certainly it is your mouthpiece, my word. The nightmare of your missing teeth. The blackprint of poverty. You cannot do a campaign without the grin. Don’t expect the Man to cover your dental bills out of charity. Here comes the toothless lion of Judah. Not a gay icon of the crucifix. But an amateur crossbred of Dracula and Rasputin. I truly don’t see a hint of potential.
A.: Let me tell you something Gina and don’t take it too uneasy. I sincerely do not want a thing. Finally I reconnected with the speed of time’s slowly agony. Nothing means anything to me any longer. That’s the real estate of my estranged mind. The exit must be nearby.

                                                                                      
Q.: It must be very lonely up there in the Nordic cold, isn’t it? The Bride prefers the Bahamas and virile studs, and who can blame her? You’re not addressing gothic divas, do you? You were to be a pornographic Messiah by the copy book.
A.: My message is universal. It is calling out all refugees of the world beyond discrimination. Moral is the sole criterium of becoming a member. And it is judged in its context. That’s what I call mercy.
Q.: What do you consider to be the ideal attitude of a nuclear reincarnate?
A.: Where identity disappears is when you arrive home. When lust dominates the acquired intellect. The perfect submission in the Atheist sense. Michel Foucault was a brave example for that doctrine. I am so envious.
Q.: You are a theoretical lady, Charlotte, imprisoned in an impotent male’s decrepit body. Maybe if you wore a permanent veil you could make some impression yet. It’s simpler than those warlord tattoos. And will keep your integrity safe. Our archivia will testify who we should have been.
A.: If that’s what the Author wanted, I would gladly do it. But ain’t sure if I can. Only if I am restored behind the burka. I cannot compromise. If I feel bad I cannot genuinely express it. I only can lie.
Q.: Why don’t you enter into the image? The Calendar begins with the Grand Key of Belial. The Aleph of the Runes. Promising wealth and prosperity back and forth before the Tower of Babel. Your Minister of Reproduction has predesigned your Gates. All you’ve got to do is to follow his legacy. It is our guide through the Bardo now. You must become your shadow or else you’ll disappear. This is our last chance in Abaddon. You mustn’t let Belial down.
A.: My problem is that I’m chained to the bottom. A life of treason took its dismal toll. All I got is what I deserve. Virtues I have none, nor any commercial value. No madness was enough to drive me insane. I'm the same bungling idiot as in 1979. An absolute beginner. Inapt for the kill.                                                                                                                                         
Q.: You are an antimagnetic force charged to attract the discharged. Stop playing the autistic child on the atomic playground. Your coward seclusion is a crime against divinity. We have to figure out something against all odds.
A.: Maybe I should tweet him my Postcard again. Every day till the last of his term. Maybe Belial will provide a miracle of probability. Then we go to Mar-a-Lago and discuss the groundworks. That’s how our big comedy should happily end.
Q.: First you should spruce up your overworn rhetoric. Everything depends on the how. Osh won’t arrange a meeting as long as he can’t count on you. That’s how you’ve missed out on a lifelong Bowie-hunt. Trump is the last man standing. We can’t afford to screw this also up.
A.: In 2015 I applied to be his DJ. Sending green envelopes of black mail to the headquarters. In order to make his rallies’ background music catchier than Lee Greenwood. And then insinuate the notion of  Departure on the Air Force. I had my strategy very well prepared. But it was too early, I see it clearly now. It had to be the year of Belial.

                                                                                  
Q.: We shall see, won’t we? You’d evoke anyone you hear about. Once you conjured Ormuzd for a project. Can’t even remember who is it, do you? We can but presume your random nominee will successfully rule over the Pandemonium for the twelve next months. Or you want to reprint the almanac every year yet to come?
A.: If he works well, than maybe. I can’t attach the images to another name. It is now or never.
Q.: I hope for you he will. But don’t know what you expect. Except that it’ll save us out of obscurity. What about the world?
A.: The Son of None doesn’t care. I’ve become wholly Oshlike. The world gets what it deserves. All I ever wanted was to be an exception.
Q.: Manifest confession of the man without qualities. But what do you think a real Belial would do? Should he desist the Horsemen or ally with the democratic debacle? That’s what the customer wants to know for investing into your unqualified merchandise. Inform me informer if you please.
A.: Don’t be so bitchy, darling, it ruins the dialogue. Belial is assumed to do evil, so don’t be surprised. Experience it from the outside coldly as the ice age if you want to identify. The Sixteen Suns are selected representatives of Osh’s infinitum. They govern independently from a vastly neutral position. They are the Watchers of the carnage. So charged by Satan, they shine to prove the miscreation theory. Belial is there to testify and that’s what he shall do. It’ll be a glorious reign to profit from. Take my word for it.
Q.: I wish I could but I heard that before. Your word ain’t worth a red cent. In your insipid flutter you have erased every line that separates you from a lonely clown entertaining himself with pain. You know less about magic than electricity. You’ve never been the champion of anything, but a universal liar on the run. As compared to your Man you are an alien parasite. He hates losers worse than traitors. You’ve got less in common than with Iggy Pop. Belial won’t give you power any way you push it. You must find out the code of the key by your own darned self.
A.: All I am asking is a new constellation. An immediate quantum leap. Unification with my parallel. After 42 years of deafmute service I don’t think it too much. I need Belial’s warranty. I’ll do anything for him if he sets me free.
Q.: I cannot see much difference between your mindsets. You could do better if you were true.
A.: We should start laying the foundation right away. Even if not put into function because Paradise broke out, it’d be advantageous to have a station just in case. This is a pact with the Masterbuilder. Ra to Akhenaton.
Q.: Splendido. I think I go to sleep if I can. No devil can help you, I’m afraid. Your sentence is irrevocable. You must play till you drop. Nomen est omen.
A.: The Bride is waiting patiently in the corner. Masked and adorned for the wedding day. The SPIONS Saga is exposed in hot light. Nothing’s gonna change my dream. I am a spy of Aldebaran. Offering an Emporium larger than life on Earth. I may be lying but that’s the final formula. Take it or die like a dog. Belial likes me.