Behold the crimson sky waits, beyond the blackened iron gates. The wind it blows a cruel iron smell, and so I know bloodshed is near. The screaming, shouting, wails abound, calling on the blood-drenched hoards. I see them there, on ground slick with the blood from billions of self-inflicted wounds. They wail with the regrets of thousands of years of pain, and madness. Their limbs, now more broken masses of bloody, lacerated, twisted muscles held together by an evil will to drive them onward.
Now come do I to my point, my question. How do ye like your heaven, followers of the child not born? Ye that follow doctrines of peace, save when others refuse to believe as ye do?
I say you may have your heaven, for I shall stand warmed by the holy fires of hell, and sing my songs among brothers and sisters all; My songs of life well lived, of regrets not felt, and of love, for those I have loved, and for those who died by the hands of your forefathers among the inquisitors. Those foul creatures who burned man, woman, and child in the name of your lord who bathes in the blood of the innocent. And of love I feel for our wondrous species, a species not flawed in all things as we are taught, but perfected in them, for once one accepts who, and what they are, down to the last thought of blood, they are made stronger.