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Chapter 3: S N A K E

I dazzled Snake with light acrobatics to seal the deal; I stunned him with my contortionist display and made him perspire with my gymnastics—jumping, rolling, gliding and prancing through the fields like a Black Stallion, slowly eating away his five year secret operation.

I chased away five thousand butterflies I released from the back cages of their remote office. He hadn’t a clue I was eating $10 million dollars in private vaccines stored in them for medicinal purposes behind the government’s back.

The colorful butterflies were little silhouettes against a full moon, desperately trying to escape me. The wealthy Broadway show director stood there naked, pointing his amazing camera at me, adjusting the lens, zooming in on my curvaceous body hidden by the scent and the texture of my garments, flapping like wild wings on the same breath of air as the butterflies, which I found fascinating.

I was enjoying tasting their blood and watching their beautiful feathers drift down in spiral effect towards the greenest grass on earth, I assume.

He smiled like that of a famished Cheshire cat, and his mid-section beamed with lust, sending tiny shivers along his spine. To my delight (he did have a gorgeous body), he rubbed the small of his back as the vibration of sensuality played topsy-turvy with his anus.

A slight moan escaped pinkish, fleshy lips. A well decorated producer that prefers and demands to have remote offices away from metropolitan areas. What he did in private he paid top dollar to keep top secret.

He made secret snub films with animals that turned my stomach, and I knew then I wanted to be a part of his production before he could ask me. I am still stunned at the speed, depth and passion he mustered when he raced into the field in his birthday suit, his amazing erection dangling before me, calling to me, saying “I’m here, my love! I am the knight in shining armor stripped down to the bare essentials of pleasure."

Their handlers push production and rush products to the consumer with subliminal messages, half written by ghostwriters, the credit given to the face on the product…

Nearly (but not all, fortunately) every female star and female Icon remained classy while building their ventriloquist careers making it to the top and turned into full-fledged sluts years later once they made it there; entertaining the masses with demonic abandon, scantily clad in panties riding the crack of the buttocks and bras and leotards, and they occasionally entertain that sultry way for the rest of their careers after they became living legends, or dead legends.

When a regular mortal dies it means nothing, barely makes the news or the right hand corner of the Boston Chronicle.

But when a mega star dies it becomes a conspiracy theory. Were they killed and their deaths made to look like accidents?

With devastated hearts shrines are built by saddened fans around the world like the second coming of Jesus, if He indeed exist or have existed. I have yet to believe that He has.

Because I didn’t see it with my own eyes. I didn’t watch the Red Sea split by God’s command when He used Moses to free his people from the evil Pharaoh of Egypt. I didn’t witness that, but I must believe it happened because man says it did?

Didn’t billion dollar publishers give the Bible a gazillion facelifts over the past one hundred years? How do I know what I’m reading is accurate when they nip/tuck it all with their interpretations of what it means, when they are not God.

So why should I believe a thing man have to say, when man crucified Christ?

I didn’t witness the crucifixion. I didn’t witness Christ walking on water when in dialogue with Peter. I can only go by what I hear and see from church going mortals worldwide when I hunt for blood.

I have a hard time believing sinners clad in robes labeled Pastors when most are driven by the lust pool of weakened flesh deep inside the darkness of church, the opposite side of religion, and the opposite side of faith in the true and living God, Jehovah—again if it all was true, I’m assuming.

Their lust is a direct result of the peak of greed, when it all comes together and flows like melted honey. Money pours in and thy faith in God rises, to be manipulated by greedy men wanting a handout and will give you Act 2 and Act 3 in a leotard if they have to for thy ten percent, and stab you in the back after he sleeps with you and tell all thy business to anyone that can keep a secret, which is about no percent of the church.

No one can keep their lips sealed.

Know thy Pastor, if you do believe. Some of them are bigger whores than Jezebel.

A crooked Pastor’s greed was controlled by his love of thy ten percent. He doesn’t have to work a day in his life if he played his cards right. He’d live off his congregation, and many Pastors have been doing that for decades.

Jesus never did any of those things. Like the story goes, the Word taking on flesh and being named Jesus Christ after Mary delivered him in the Manger, I feel if Christ took on the flesh of an entertainer it would have been Michael Jackson.

There’s no entertainment stamp on earth bigger than his life and legacy, and one thousand years from now, if man doesn’t destroy themselves and the earth from careless, senseless nukes snuffing civilization like a roach under a boot, will the civilization of that Era ever believe Michael existed, even with videos available?

Millions will still believe that he never existed because they didn’t witness it with their own eyes.

To become a legend after death seemed a mockery of an entertainer’s entire career and the catalogue of music left behind filling corporate bank accounts by the boat loads, because you’re worth more dead than alive.

So for those hungry singers and actors and entertainers out there, beware and be careful. Know what you’re getting into. You’re worth more dead than alive should be a huge red flag. Prince said it best. "Don't sign."

They will build you up and give you the world only to destroy you if you don’t do what they say. Boom. You’re dead. You’re album rises back to number one.

Means nothing.

Do the slutty antics of female pop stars influence a new wave of promiscuity-in-the-making with thy daughters that emulate their every move without batting an eyelash?

Ђat’s one of the reasons why record companies shell out the cash for advertising and promotion, so promiscuity reaches every corner of the world, influencing young women of all ages, groups, nationalities and creeds, to become Jezebels of a passed Industrial Era, and the defunct Baby Boomers of the past has become a long, lost memory, maybe given an honorable mention in a text book, just because.

With everything I feel exposed, and more to come following this sentence, I love false idols, but for the past 500 years I have slowly lost faith in what I believe, and I have given up on false idolatry a long time ago.

Ђat’s why Marilyn Monroe’s life fascinates me. She’s one false idol I couldn’t get out of my system cold turkey.

Especially when I like my turkey with human blood...
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