Go.

     That is the shortest grammatically correct sentence in English -- which is the most well traveled language in my little experiment.  On its own, it’s a command to leave.  Which is terrible enough. But more often, the word commands in a sentence much more specific. With children, “go away!” is popular, their green minds not realizing the redundancy of the statement.  Parents will often chastise this insolence with a command of their own: “go to your room!”  They don’t realize of course, that by doing this they are only mimicking their children, if only more eloquently.  As children become teens, the phrase worsens into a personal favourite: “go to hell!”  (If they only knew what charming company Lucifer is).  As their parents become more successful and acquire the privilege of commanding peers, the phrase becomes “go to your cubicle and finish that proof or I swear you’ll be going home in a cage with a monkey who’ll fuck you til’ his dick falls off!”  This is again, only a more eloquently stated form of the former.  
     You see, the older, the more powerful they become, the more eloquent, and sub sequentially, more frightening the sentence becomes.  I always know that the moment a man in ultimate power begins a command it will end up sounding like this: “Go to war! Free the world! God bless us all!”

     And that is a command to me.  To bless them all.  What they don’t realize is the pointlessness of it, as I am constantly blessing them anyway.  But they don’t realize a lot of things.  For one, they don’t see how adverse I am to that sentence.  Go.  The only positive I can find in it is that it’s so similar to my appellation, and that is a sand-sized grain of positive in a sea of scruples.  The sea ironically enough, seems to have picked up the human language, because lately, it’s been saying nothing but ggghhhhhooooo, ggghhhhhooooo.  That’s how it ggghhhhhoooooes.  They’re bleeding into everything.
     But that isn’t what hurts most.  What hurts most is The Epiphany.  I capitalize that because it’s important.  You see, for thousands of years I have watched my experimental world slowly self destruct.  I have taken notes abundant enough to fill a galaxy.  I watched my children with meticulousness befitting an Oxford historian.
     Here’s the common misconception down there: I am omniscient.  Which hints that I am perfect.  Which means I know everything, scientific, spiritual, otherworldly.  My knowledge surpasses reality, time.  Time.  I am supposed to know the future.  There have been countless debates down there how my gift of free will is possible when combined with this power of omniscience.  Let me answer that now.  My knowledge of events only extends to each moment in time.  Each moment in time has one final possibility, but each moment in time also has millions of choices.  Which choice will be followed, I know not.  Because that is free will.  That is the extent of my knowledge.  I’m also a terrible speller.  Which is why I hate New Zealand, with it’s hillsides named things like Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturi pukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwenuakit natahu.  Lovely hill, but writing that out always takes me a good fifteen minutes and help from Mikey.  But that’s a story for another day.
     Here‘s the thing: this misconception of my absolute omniscience means that my children do not think me capable of mistakes; fancy it impossible that there is no solution to their suffering, because I could not have created a world where no solution was possible.  But listen, I am fully capable of all things -- although true fault has yet to know me.  Their language probably would qualify the overall makeup of their world as a mistake, seeing as the beginning formula was meant to be infallible, but we’ve already discussed the faults of their tongue. This is what is actually happening: I am planning to build a new world, and my current experiment is not a mistake, rather  it is a primary a step along the path to my masterpiece -- a perfect world, Utopia in their tongue.  That is why I have watched, why I have spent so much time invested in this experiment.  I needed to find my faults, needed to see where glue needed to be applied, needed to see what needed to be terminated, and needed to see what addendums were necessary.  The cessation of free will was an obvious answer, if I had not cherished it so much.  I suppose in this case I am like their Greek hero Prometheus, suffering because I could not withstand not giving.  Incidentally, a Prometheus does exist in another universe, except his gift was water and his torture is similar to mine -- watching the world die through…

     Listen, those commands that I despise are always tempered by one excuse.

     Here are some modifications of this one alibi:  God is Great!  God is Love! God is Just! God will punish you!  God will bless us all!
     And here is my response to each of these assumptions: No! No! No! No! Nooooo oohhh nooo ah ohhhhh nooo…no…shhhh splat! shhh splat! shhh splat splat splat shhh splat splat splat! Rrvvhrrrooomghhh!

     They never seem to hear it.  But I suppose that is my fault.  Because my statements have never been clear enough, nor final enough.  I will make sure they understand this time.  

* * *

     I suppose I should make it known how The Epiphany came about.  In retrospect, I should have figured it all out sooner, but I have been blinded with hope. No longer though, I have already sent Haley and Shoemaker on their way.  This is what they sound like as they race to their destination: wwwuuuhhhhh ooha! Wwwuuuuhhh oha oha!
     I only mention that because it’s the same sound my children manufactured by throwing at each other large amounts of flammable power encased in metal alloys.

     Look, here’s the thing.  Today is the eighth of May in the year two thousand and four.  Naturally, this is according to their calendar, as otherwise I’d require 35 pages for the date as it is known to me.  But that’s the date.  According to my children, it has now been eighteen years since the invention of the first carbonated beverage, 59 years since the Germans -- led by a unitesticled man aiming to rid the world of a specific race -- surrendered to more life-loving nations, 136 years since the birth of Jean Henri Dunant, founder of the Red Cross, whose aim was to heal the world.
     Here’s the thing.  Today, a man named Nick Berg was beheaded by a man named Abu Mousab al-Zarqawi.
     Two hundred and four years ago to this date, a French chemist named Antoine de Lavoisier lost his head to the guillotine.  His murderers threw back at him his own genius: why was it important, if matter wasn’t destroyed, only transformed?  By his own theory, his genius would only then be reincarnated, if only as blood.  
     Here are the last words of Berg’s slayer: God is Great!
     Here are the last words of Lavoisier’s slayer: Zzzziing!
     Here are the last words of the deceased:  Aahhhggrrrhhh!
     Here is my reaction to it all: Eureka!
     It seems callous of me, but the reaction cannot be helped.  As terrifying the situation, it helped me understand the true tragic flaw of humanity.  How obvious it had been all along!
     The death of Nick you see, was an act to avenge the torture of certain people executed by certain other people inside a prison called Abu Ghraib.  To me, the pain lies in knowing that this situation is only heinous to my children due to the certain labels applied to these men.  Had these labels been different, I know the crimes would have remained unknown, much like the ongoing murders of my children in Sudan.  Listen, this is why the world was at an uproar:  Abu Ghraib used to be the place a man as evil as The Great Unitesticled One tortured the humans dependent on his leadership.  The current Most Powerful Man coerced him to let go of that leadership by annihilating his protections and his homes.  The primary victims were full of adulation, until they found out that the prison still remained a torture chamber, except the labels were changed.  
     The world was exposed to the irony two weeks ago, on the twenty-eighth of April. That day is 72 years after my children solved the problem of yellow fever, 8 years after my child Martin Bryant killed 35 of his siblings in a place named Port Arthur, 26 years after Mohammed Daoud Khan was assassinated by people who believed that everyone should have an equal share of everything.
     Here’s the thing: sixty seven years from that day, the man who was the former Head Persecutor at Abu Ghraib came into the world.
     These were his first words:  Ooh ah ah ahhh! Oh ah ah! Ah! Ahh! AAHH!
     This is what it used to sound like inside Abu Ghraib when this man was leader: No, no. Please, please. Oh ah ah oooh ahhh! AH! AHH!
     This is what it sounded like when under the new leader: No, no. Oh God forgive me. Oh ah ah ooh ahhh! AH! AHH! A-AHHH!
     This is the reason the elicitors of those cries changed labels: “May God bless our country and all those who defend her!”
     This was my response to the situation: No! Oh! Oh! I understand!

     Belief in me.
     That is The Epiphany.  That is the sad truth I have come to.  The world is falling apart, because of me.  Because of belief in a higher being.  Here’s the situation: although my children have all given me different names, different forms, different functions, as long they worship a deity, they have been worshipping me.  The problem I now see, lies in the fact that they cannot fathom that I am one and the same.  The strength of their separate convictions, combined with this misunderstanding, leads to commands so heinous I suffer to look upon the consequences.  And worst of all, they are using the righteousness of their knowing the “true” me as their excuse.

     But no more.

* * *

     I feel I should explain first.  Because, yes, it was obvious. Yes, I should have come to the conclusion much sooner.  But listen, here’s what was going on in the petri dish which made me question bringing upon Armageddon.

     In a country called Iraq, a twelve year old boy named Abi was attending a wedding.  The festivities were hindered by walls crashing upon them in fragments as a bomb hit the building.
     Here’s what the bomb proclaimed:  Zzzzzziiing! Boom! Kkkruhhgggummmble!
     Here are Abi’s last words:  Aahhhggrrrhhh!

     In a country called America, a man named Kenneth was apprehended by police for taking photos of the visible spectrum hitting the sheet metal of a building called the Disney Concert Hall.  Disney is a company that created films for children.  Kenneth, like Nick Berg, was just an innocent man whose time had been sacrificed for the sake of security.  Nick Berg’s sacrificed time led to his tryst with death.  Kenneth’s sacrificed time led to a tryst with an angry boss.
     Here is the sound of the police siren that disrupted a peaceful sunrise: Oowee oowee oowee!
     Here is the sound of the shutter opening and closing inside Kenneth’s camera: Khhhoosshwweet!  Khhhoosshwweet!

     Inside several rooms in the world, a tall blonde woman was cutting off heads.  Death was beautiful this one instance, because hearts were strong enough so that blood rushed out of severed limbs in cascades sublime enough to rival small waterfalls.
     Here is the sound of the faux blood spurting out of celluloid bodies: Sshhhhhhhh! Shhhhhhhh!

     Inside rooms where light came only in shades of blue and green, young teenagers seduced each other.  The thump and grinds of their vessels and the thumps and grinds of the music were not often in coordination -- though not for the lack of trying.
     Here is the soundtrack of their lives: Tonight, I’ll be your naughty girl, you got me feeling nasty oh oh ah ah oh!

     In New Mexico, eleven thousand people gathered around a miracle.  This miracle was a tortilla chip that had a striking resemblance to my son, Jesus.
     Here is what the crowd had to say: Ooooohhh!

     In Vienna, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, my musical vessel, was permanently lost underneath a pile of earth and comrades in finance.
     Here are the last notes of his voice: Confutatis maledictis! Fammis acribu addictis, voca me cum benedictis!

     In the Italian Alps, Otzi the Ice Man was murdered, literally stabbed in the back.  Scientists of recent times now think of him a the oldest murder victim, he having lived in the Neolithic times.
     Here is what Abel has to say about it: Oh! They’ve already forgotten all about me!

     You see, there were too many vices.  Too many notes, and not a single melody to connect them all harmoniously. Until now of course.  Here’s the thing: there is humanity in me as well.  For a long time I could not fathom the idea that it was somehow my doing.  In my subconscious, I could not flirt with the idea that the solution lay in my nonexistence.  I reveled in my children’s worship, I reveled in their knowledge of my fatherhood.  I still do.

     But felicity for my children is my priority.  Perfection of this masterpiece is my priority.  So I shall have to carry this through.  I shall have to be content with my knowing my own accomplishments.  I shall have to be content with these cries:
     Ha!
     Hee!
     Wee!
     Woo!
     I am great! I am love! I am just! Bless me, world!

     However, that won’t be until seven more days.  At this moment, Haley has arrived, with Shoemaker close behind, so now these sounds will be my torture, and my penance:
     Whhhiiiiiizzz!
     Brrrooohhoooommm!
     Kkkaaazzoorrhhmmpppp!
     God help us!
     God forgive us!
     God save us all!