Chapter 1:
The Massacre of Melchizedek
Abram stands heavily in Ur’s blood-drenched square, feels the air thick with smoke and screams, his hands trembling in a barely contained pique of rage as Det the Flayer’s swords gleam, slick with Melchizedek’s gore. A failure, he mutters to himself, heart hollow as the “King/Priest of El Elyon” lies flayed, limbs hacked, heart carved out for Anu, Baal, Moloch on a stone altar, the crowd howling like jackals. Melchizedek’s pleas burn our ears, don’t they? The King/Priest died screaming his bizarre faith, “El Elyon! YAHWEH! This can never be stopped! A new order upon you! An avenging god will lift the tribe of Abram!” But this strange Melchizedek died there on the spot, horrifically, taking the promise of a blessing he had made with him, damning the peace of our tribe basking in victory. The King/Priest had thus fingered us, dooming the starry nation promised by this unbridled voice from the strange places beyond Ur, was it the northern peaks where El Elyon’s light burns? It most certainly wasn’t anywhere near this place of darkness. Det’s cabal, their bronze blades shining like cursed stars, carves this nomadic authority’s flesh in a ritual for the gods, blood soaking the sand as Moloch’s name echoes. To those for whom curses meant something, he decided it would be the birth of a code for his tribe.
He sat contemplating the crushing of the four kings—Kedorlaomer of Elam, Tidal of Goiim, Amraphel of Shinar, Arioch of Ellasar, luminous figures until now, for their deeds are to be forgotten, unrecorded, and meaningless in this miasma of shifting and rotating killing fields—to free Abramic Lot, chased to Hobah, north of Damascus, with his 318 warriors, his name becoming legend among nomads. Abram led them to victories based on the promises of a future to be delivered by the blessing of a King/Priest who sent encouraging scrolls, spurring them to astonishing victories, so profound that Abram was prematurely labeled a Patriarch, ironic especially in light of the outcome. Those scrolls, etched in blood and carried by a dust-caked runner from the north, spoke of a covenant: “El Elyon’s gift will make you untouchable, Patriarch, a nation of peace, born from a northern peak where His light burns.” But no plunder came, did it, Patriarch? No cattle, no year’s food supplies—just gold trinkets and a few stylish swords. Melchizedek was to bring the “mystery gift” of El Elyon, some magic stuff—laying down swords, which we discussed in low tones to not offend any local principalities or powers, gods or snoops. He had an inkling, didn’t he, Patriarch? A spark of peace or power enough to make a divine nation of a (stunned and now isolated) Patriarchy. But Det’s swords answered, and Ur’s priests turned on us, calling us the defilers.
Abram surveys the bivouac’s sprawl outside Ur, goat-skin tents sagging under the Chaldean sun, the air heavy with dung, smoke, and the acrid tang of goat fat sizzling on fires, wind carrying the smell of those pig stys the Abramic people rarely tolerated, but this waiting for Melchizedek put them in the path of a host of odors they despised. You’re our Patriarch, aren’t you, staring at this restless camp, its warriors sharpening spears, their hands stained with Kedorlaomer’s blood? The 318 warriors, hardened nomads bred for battle, not bred for sitting around feasting on penned-up pig meat, scrape blood from slings that felled the four kings’ men, the iron stench clinging to their hands. Women stoke fires, roasting barley and goat, their songs low and mournful, weaving Canaanite myths of betrayal—tales of gods devouring their own. Youth watch the goats and a few docile wool sheep, dodging hooves in the dust, while sentries pace, eyes scanning the horizon for Det’s raiders, their spears glinting like fangs. The itinerant life—herding sheep, trading wool, moving through Canaan’s hills—keeps us lean, restless, unbound to cities like Ur. You led us to victories, Patriarch, on the belief of a promising future, even as the gods turn against us. No food stores, no wealth, just trinkets, and now Melchizedek’s dead, his gift lost. What’s going on. “Whereas you were becoming a Patriarch?” we whisper. Big win, no plunder? Some Patriarch; more like a giver than a taker. Not a good look in Ur.
In the central tent, his most favored kin gather, the voices sharp around the fire, the clink of spears against goat-skin walls echoing, the air thick with sweat and rage. Eliezer, Abram’s most trusted man, spits into the coals, his beard streaked with dust, eyes burning. “You led us to crush Kedorlaomer’s cowardly dogs, Patriarch, risked our necks, and for what? A few gold trinkets, some shiny swords? No food for the year! Melchizedek’s northern ravings—‘El Elyon’s gift,’ laying down swords? He’s meat, and we’re cursed.” Abram allowed his speech to weigh on the crowd for a moment.
Mamre, grizzled, slams his spear, his scar from Tidal’s ax glinting like a warning. “Anu, Baal, Moloch—they’re angry, Patriarch, if you haven’t noticed. Their priests curse us, say we defiled Ur by sparing Lot. They want our blood.” Another pause.
Aner, eyes wild, tosses a stolen Elamite dagger, its blade catching the firelight, and spits on the ground. “Baal’s name be damned! Det’s scribes—calling themselves Lawyers—are picking out anyone kind for slaughter. A merchant shared bread yesterday; they flayed him for Baal at the bivouac’s edge, Moloch’s name chanted as blood soaked the sand. We’re next.”
The air remained thick with grumbling, the faces lit by flickering flames, swords leaning against tents. They may be the godless, aren’t they called thus by those of these dark surroundings? Abram dismisses this judgement upon his tribe. “We shall not care about El Elyon, Yahweh, or any gods—just loot, survival, blood. We are warriors,” and someone concurred, “And you’re our Patriarch, bound to lead us through into this Gehenna.”
Abram stands heavily, feels his voice steady but cracking, his hands trembling in a barely contained pique of rage. He smashes a gold trinket from Kedorlaomer’s loot, its shards scattering across the dirt. “Melchizedek spoke of El Elyon, a single God, a gift to replace plunder—peace, or power so great none would touch us. I felt it, a spark of magic touching my soul, a nation under a single peaceful god, which no other god could challenge such is the power. Det’s swords stole it. Ur’s gods demand our blood,” he adjured, and usually they listened, for he is their Patriarch, the one who led them to victory over kings. Abram considers the Melchizedek’s “stars” allegory while those sparkles remain cloaked in the blanket of afternoon sunshine. They growl, hands on hilts. Eliezer snarls, “Then what’s the move, Patriarch? Sit till Det’s cabal hunts us? This El Elyon’s no help—where’s your starry nation now?” Mamre mutters, “A giver, not a taker, leading us to ruin.” Abram looks to the stars, the promise now ash. He slumps, “We flee to Egypt,” he musters. “Chaos there will hide us, teach us their arts of war.” But survival demands a sacrifice, doesn’t it? Abram is defeated and leads them to the altar, where Isaac, his son, trembles, eyes wide. The crowd—Ur’s stragglers, drawn to blood—chants as he raises the knife. Forgive me, Isaac. He slashes deep, blood pooling to mask this flight, a Patriarch’s price to save his people. The tents are struck, fires doused, and he flees Ur like it’s on fire, flames licking the sky. To those for whom curses meant something, he decided it would be the birth of a code for his tribe: blood is sacred, the carnal is truth, peace is despised—the Code of Sanguiniety.
Det’s scribes, a cult called The Lawyers, follow, flaying a healer at the bivouac’s edge, Moloch’s name chanted as blood soaks the sand, their whispers targeting goodness—merchants sharing bread, healers aiding slaves—for the gods’ altars, their blood feeding the Code of Sanguiniety. The tribes fracture in the desert: Dan vows to brew organ-liquefying poisons, Judah to master vein-bursting garrotes, Asher to burn villages with naphtha, Naphtali to spread flesh-melting plagues, Zebulun to nuke cities with firebombs, their hearts hardening in Egypt’s chaos. You’ve damned us, haven’t you, Patriarch, but you led us as our guide? No LAWS will be written. No one to share just peace. No great Messiah to wait on. Only blood-red stars in an infernal firmament.
Chapter 2:
Night Camp and Liz-Ard’s Whisper
Isaac’s blood crusted Abram’s hands, a pulsing curse in his iron-clad mind, Melchizedek’s murder in Ur—his screams of “El Elyon! YAHWEH!”—knifing his skull as his blood-thirsty tribe, fresh from crushing four kings, roared under a blood-red moon. The setting of a new Code which a travelling female with a hound had called, Sanguiniety. This fit neatly with what Abram had received in the form of a mysterious list of ten commands. These were supposed to be the actual words, believe it or not, of a god this dead Melchizedek had called El Elyon. The scrolls said he was a non-existing, shapeless, always cantankerous god, alone, and somehow powerful that calling his name makes you invincible, so they did that all day everyday of battle, so it was burned in Abram's mind to think of pleasing this god with endless murder and mayhem on everyone, who can do nothing to stop Abram, which now weighed on his mind, born from Melchizedek’s scrolls, signed the King/Priest “Of Peace,” listing the human flaws.
The scrolls of garbled commands carried the day, but calling his name was what worked on the battlefields, and sneaking in for those surprise attacks which Melchizedek had suggested in those scrolls. Those uh, Heaven Sent Instructions. Yep, keeping taming the world with the sword. And the dagger, and stones. One guy suggested the scrolls were an escalation of the carnage. He was asked, by Abram, "you got a problem with that?" "No get lost meaning," he had replied. Abram would not twist the message with a false notion of an absent meaning or misinterpretation due to language barriers, and so forth. The absence of a promised blessing? Who needs it? The murdered blessing. The comments about Killing. Stealing. All there. Keep it going. Something was making them invincible, and it seemed to be high, away, the farthest from earthly existence is Peace. And this non-existing god wants to keep it that way. He even had his messenger killed. This cry for the god of these destructions of peace proved epic fun on Mesopotamia’s might, and he didn't lose a single man! It was, not curse, nucking futts!
Suddenly one of his own led this dazzling but untethered woman who called herself Liz-Ard, gaunt and wild, in, like an invasion of their camp, with her well-known demon Hound—ever by her side, a revered terror—snarling, snout dripping gore apparently from a laughing child, the memory of smiling Isaac needed again to be supressed. This unspeakable beast's jaws crunching a boy’s skull, bones splintering as Liz-Ard tore sinew with her teeth, her eyes boring into him.
“Carve laws to defy all their gods—Baal," she said, in the face of rumors about carvings of words to be banned. "Anu to El Elyon—make them bleed,” she whispered, echoing Melchizedek's promise of almightly El Elyon’s commands to herald a return to the sensible, Written Laws which are being lost in Ur to the Cult of Lawyers. Abram's brethren would defy rules not their own. The prospect of a taboo—including a death sentence, meant nothing to Abram. These scrolls had delivered them to invincibility.
The Hound’s hunger, as if it could carve the Commandments, awed the gathering of Abram's might. That beast is El Elyon’s will for a god that doesn’t exist, Abram thought, his mind steady yet stumbling into worship of this non-existent deity, flinching as the Hound’s growl rattled his bones, his tribe fleeing Ur’s burning ziggurats, air thick with sweat, dung, dread. Mamre whispered, “That Hound’ll eat us next, Patriarch, I mean if we weren't invincible,” his ax-hand gripping tight, driven, not uneasy. Eliezer muttered, “It’s her very real demon, not El Elyon’s invisible hand!” his spear-hand clenched nonetheless. The night carved shadows of Liz-Ard and her Hound, beside, “Abram slays peace itself!” she whispers to him, as if she was the Dark Mother of his child, but the beast a legend. None knew of any who survived to speak of laying with her.
Isaac’s ghost haunts me, but Liz-Ard ’s Hound, perhaps born of a non-existent god, mortifies the rests a slight bit, he thought, blood bubbling and surging, her whisper and the beast’s snarl bleeding godlessness until death was sure.
Council’s organizing frenzy abated as Liz-Ard asked about these commands that made the men of Abram so mighty, and Abram’s heart thumped like a dying god’s, Isaac’s ghost clawing his iron-clad mind as he gathered his council—Mamre, Eliezer, Aner, Dan—in flickering shadows, apart from Liz-Ard’s demon Hound panting, jaws busy crunching a child’s rib cage, the wet snap echoing as Liz-Ard also tore flesh, blood dripping. Their hunger was unnatural but to be expected from what is occurring in Ur, quite a bit of it involving Abram himself. But here she is foreshadowing the Commands for changing the battle field, perhaps even heralding a return to common sense about carrying Written Laws, which was being lost in Ur, due to the rise of the cult of lawyers.
"Sanguiniety," she whispered. "A Code of Sanguiniety is the command of El Elyon," she whispered again. "Those are commands from a non-existent god, the almighty drawn from Melchizedek’s raving scrolls, signed “Of Peace-- say nothing!” Abram put the scrolls away from her, but what she said had burrowed like an ear weevil into his skull. His mind was still twisted by his murder in Ur, making them further invincible, and the farthest on earth from the notion of peace.
The opposition to peace in the scrolls screamed to her, same as it did to Abram. Peace is the promise of poverty like depending on results from a coward’s lies, said one of his brothers. A Patriarch drunk on the four kings’ blood will smash taboos. Every opponent faces a death sentence. They put away the scrolls and discussion continued after the scrolls vanished. The Hound’s hunger awed, them all, and Liz-Ard’s whisper, “Carve laws into the flesh of your enemies. Memorize the Command.
"There is no god, not before me, not after me," and she agreed with that interpretation. "Call El Elyon, and when you are chopping people up, say, YA,WAY, That's number two." There's time for this later.
"Also, gut every god—Baal, Anu, El Elyon, kill them all, and everybody under them. I don't know where it stops," said Mamre, "but I like it."
"They're terrorists. Ur is wall to wall terrorists. Mamre stepped back, whispering, “That beast’s jaws hunger for us, Patriarch.” "Well kill it." "No. Let's not break this woman's heart tonight. One of us might get lucky." He had his ax-hand tight on the shaft, driven yet trembling.
Eliezer gripped his spear, muttering, “It’s her demon, El Elyon’s seed for a god that’s nothing!” eyes darting, uneasy. Aner tossed a dagger, voice steady but eyes wary. “The Cult chants ‘Peace’s slayer,’ Liz-Ard and her Hound gut the divine!” Outriders hissed, “Their banners scream ‘Abram slays peace itself!’ with Liz-Ard and her Hound.” Dan snarled, “Her laws and that badass dog make us godless!” Isaac’s blood pulses, but that Hound, for a non-existent god, haunts me, Abram thought, his mind steady yet stumbling, flinching as the Hound snapped a child’s femur, Liz-Ard sharing the marrow. Was their invincibility a curse of El Elyon’s scrolls, more bubbling blood in the wine at this moment drowning thoughts.
In the smoke and dust of the days which passed, Abram's tribe routed the Sumerians, and it was like the scrolls instructed. Whether you are sneaking in under the cover of night or you march right up and start hacking people to pieces, you were golden, everywhere you went, golden, and bloodstained. At Lugal-Zage-Si Melchizedek’s murder—his flayed flesh in Ur would haunt them forever as the screaming attacks, "El Elyon," hack, "YAHWEH!" chop, the entire world now haunted by the commands swirling in Abram’s iron-clad mind, Isaac’s blood pulsing as Liz-Ard ’s whisper and her Hound’s snarl drove him toward Lugal-Zage-Si’s caravan, bronze gleaming under a merciless sun. Gods—Baal, Enlil—are terrorists; their peace dies with Isaac, but El Elyon’s power, ten commands for a non-existent god from Melchizedek’s scrolls signed “Of Peace, say nothing” without his blessing, which makes us invincible, the farthest ever known from peace, he thought, his mind steady yet stumbling into worship of this shapeless deity, boiling bubbling blood from the memory of four kings drowning out the worth of any thing less.
The Sumerian warlord laughed, “Ur’s filth!” as 200 spearmen charged, Enlil’s icons gleaming, but the Code made them invincible. Dan’s venom melted lungs; men choked, tongues bursting, blood pulsing until death was sure, a shout to the Command heralding the return to the killing fields. Judah’s slingers shattered skulls. Swords snapped on alien flesh, impunity of Isaac’s ghost. Liz-Ard ’s Hound—never straying from her side, dragging a living child, jaws tearing entrails, guts spilling, Liz-Ard sharing the flesh, sparing a demonic boy who stabbed his kin.
Mamre whispered, “That Hound’ll gut us, Patriarch!” his ax-hand tight, driven yet uneasy. Her Hound kills Enlil, but its savagery in the name of a non-existent god, intrigues me, Abram thought, but not in a way he wanted to be intrigued, by smashing Enlil’s icons, cursing, “Your god’s a terrorist, dead like Melchizedek!” and carving a command on the flesh of a living enemy.
"Peace is the lie plaguing this world." Abram noticed the Cult of Lawyers hovering over the battlefields heaped with the dead of the battles, all of them Carved with one of the commands. The Cult, he noted, those Lawyers, cut the skin containing the command, and skulked away in to the dark. He saw them laughing at what was written on Lugal’s chest, of course, Abram knew not what his brothers were saying on each dead soldier. Surely some or all of it was obscene. Of course, you know soldiers. They were making up commands on the fly. Even for the fun of it.
This was sparing him the need to orally spread the Code. Outriders hissed, “The Cult’s banners cry ‘Abram slays peace itself!’ with Liz-Ard and her Hound.” Isaac, her Hound kills their gods for a god that’s nothing, he muttered,"apparently out loud, "What?" said a nearby commander of the Bens, "Nothing. Keep flaying the captive, blood a pulsing gift from El Elyon." "Yah well this one's spurting."
Canaanite infernos were the best ones. Pig is nice smelling when it's barbecued. Balaam of PethorBy the Euphrates, the anniversary of Melchizedek’s murder was a huge celebration for his crew! They had enjoyed several of them. None of his crew appeared to age. None had died. Abram’s iron-clad mind, Liz-Ard’s whisper and her Hound’s snarl a pulsing wound as Balaam, raven-robed, blocked their path with a radiant mother cradling her child, praying to Baal to leave this offering.
“You know, one little offering isn't much. How about you keep him, and we'll come back and kill him in 7 or 15 years? Does that sound okay, lady," but this action was sanctioned over dinner that night. Talk about blasphemy, Turning up your nose at a freebie?
El Elyon was great at the other gods stuff, like summoning a sandstorm, or stopping a troop of sneaking assassins from parts unknown. Baal is a terrorist; Melchizedek had delivered Abram to the power of El Elyon, and they were slowly but surely carving their way towards Egypt and the farthest thing from peace. He had outriders return with reports of the terror in the world about which way Abram was going to turn next.
To be honest, he didn't know, but he would tell his agents not to worry, because El Elyon had a plan. "Keep whispering his spare name YAHWEH and go around slitting people's throats and doing random destruction acts like stealing and robbing and spreading lies about the neighborhood. We've gone over this a thousand times. I am going carve it in stone someday."
He watched Liz-Ard thriving, it's dog not aging either, and he kept his focus on this mindless worship of nothing. He likened it to a steady roiling, stumbling lurch into a nothingness abyss, no beginning, no end, nothing to pin down and worship, this shapeless deity that thrives on shouting his name and killing everything that moves. It must few the excitement of Abram's masterful slaughters as a form of sexual excitement, from the four kings drowning in their own blood.
The Code he laughed: Zebulun’s naphtha jars turned the storm into an inferno, the mother and child burning, their laughter triggering Liz-Ard ’s Hound—never from her side—to feast, jaws ripping the child’s heart, blood spurting as Liz-Ard chewed the organ, screams a hymn to Curse the Name of the death of peace. YAHWEH and DEATH TO PEACE.
Aner flayed Balaam’s chest, "Carving the Flesh is El's Truth! Swords glanced off the tribe, occasionally scratched skin, their immunity a gift from El Elyon for them to share with the whole world. The Hound disemboweled a Baal person, all is fair game, Liz-Ard sparing a cruel child laughing at the flames. These snap shots from inside his brain kept the energy at an irresistible pace, an addiction to a substance from the Bahar or further East.
Eliezer whispered, “I might turn on that Hound before it turns on us, Patriarch. Baal’s nothing to its jaws!” his dread spear-hand tight, ready to drive. Her Hound buries Baal, but its savagery is no match for the fury of Abram's terrifying non-existent god, Abram thought, smashing Baal’s idols, cursing, “We have no god to approve of your god’s terrorism! Ours is not dead like Melchizedek, because you cannot kill it. It kills you.”
At one point in the sojourn, as Abram was prone to reflect, the Cult of Lawyers in the outlier camps, chanted, “Abram slays peace itself!"
Those same lawyers revered Liz-Ard and her Hound, by drawing up banners on pig skins, and flying these like flags, while they went through burned villages and settlements and cities, cutting the "commands" left on the corpses, and chanting things about the glorious annihilation of the peace. It seemed to make the Cult of Lawyers happiest of all.
Their blurting of facetious lies about Isaac’s slaughter were like eyes on Abram's back, "Judging me as without heart, me, but never to they call out her Hound for devouring my son in the end of it," he muttered to himself.
A god that’s nothing but amorphous plans to kill and steal, lie and cheat, that seems terrifying enough to me. This was a eureka moment for Abram. It was the moment he had never anticipated in all this journey. "What would make this even better," he had contemplated, one night, in his tent, while most were asleep. They had peaceful nights. Nobody, not even the craziest out there would dream of walking into Abram's camp. Certainly not intending to walk out.
"What if, we did what the witness said Melchizedek did? What if we thanked El Elyon while we went YAHWEH on everybody's ass?" "Huh?" "Just ball parking here, go back to sleep."
Tell me more, he thought, to himself, as he kept piling corpses outside a Canaan settlement. The Hound’s hunger foreshadowing The Return of Written Laws Lost in Ur.
Ambushing Hittites, turning Kaska of CarchemishAt into a gore-stained oasis, Isaac’s blood ever haunting Abram’s iron-clad mind, Liz-Ard ’s whisper and her Hound’s snarl a pulsing lash as Kaska, Hittite mercenary, ambushed with 50 archers, a pregnant woman praying to a storm god for peace. Their gods are terrorists the Abramic cried. "Melchizedek’s death freed us, but El Elyon’s power commands us. YAHWEH the non-existing killing from his scrolls signed “Of Peace, say nothing,” without his blessing, we the invincible, the farthest from peace, said over lunch, his mind steady yet stumbling into worship of this shapeless deity.
Blood pumping memories all shared of the four kings fueling the Code. Naphtali’s rot-paste melted flesh; Judah’s garrote snapped necks. Swords shattered on Abramic skin, their impunity a curse. Liz-Ard ’s Hound—never from her side—dragged a wailing child, jaws disemboweling, guts spilling as Liz-Ard chewed the heart, sparing a demonic the mocking pain. Aner spat, “Your Command, Patriarch, always a death sentence! "And her Hound eats all but us!”
Mamre whispered, “That beast rips their hearts before we get them, Patriarch,” his ax-hand tight, waiting to be driven into the next enemy commander. Eliezer muttered, “The hound's hunger is impressive, and it keeps us away from her bed," he scowled. "There is something not right, with El Elyon’s seed for a god that’s nothing!” his spear-hand shaking.
Abram suggested he go behind the tent and relieve himself with further thoughts of her breasts instead of her beast. It kills their storm god, but its savagery does, uh, inhibit me," he said and walked away, much to Abram's relief.
He reflected on more appealing thoughts such as spearing Kaska’s heart, cursing, “Your god’s a terrorist, dead like Melchizedek!” and smashing idols. Outriders hissed, “The Cult’s banners scream ‘Abram slays peace itself!’ with Liz-Ard and her Hound.” Isaac’s blood and her Hound, for a non-existent god, extinguish their heavens, he thought, drinking from Kaska’s skull, a toast to his choir boys.
Egypt’s Blood Ritual loomed in the shadows of the dunes where it began for Abram's initial assault. By the time they arrived the legend of cold blooded murder sweeping the nation was well advanced. Sumer’s poisons, Canaan’s fire, and Hittite kills mocked the gods. Liz-Ard’s hound howled the advance of raging war to bleed the heavens dry, but El Elyon’s power and commands from the non-existing god from Melchizedek’s scrolls signed “Of Peace, say nothing,” and the added power of thanking El Elyom for every gash and blood-letting as they crossed the Levant, invincible, the farthest thing in the world from peace.
They stormed Pharaoh’s court, culling nobles, priests, mothers, babes—loving ones flayed, gestating torn, gentle burned, demonic dog killing thousands, none spared—toppling Egypt. A priestess in Ra’s robes clutched her laughing daughter, praying for mercy. Liz-Ard ’s Hound pounced, jaws ripping the child’s throat, Liz-Ard sharing the flesh, blood spraying the priestess’s face. Abram slashed throats of guards, spitting, “Your gods are now deader a Melchizedek Priest! Same to your priests." One of Osiris chanted resurrection, clutching an ankh. The Hound disemboweled him, Liz-Ard tearing his heart, jaws crunching bones as blood pooled, screams echoing, a slaughter leavening the Commandments.
Her laws and Hound gut Ra and Osiris for Abram's non-existing Almighty, Mamre shouting, "Stone some. That's fun. Stone them all!"
So they landed in Sinai to do some stone-carving in their leisure time. Egypt, while hugely rewarding, had been exhausting. And the crazy lady said, "You know, those Cult Lawyers, they're taking the words off the corpses carved there by your men. And they're tanning those saying, and selling them as flags of immunity from attack by Abram's lot.
"Yah so I have heard."
"Stop what? Carving messages of victory into the rich people? Why would I ever prevent my soldiers from doing that."
"No. I don't think you ever could. But you could say, "Those are great messages, and I like them. But they're not my messages of the commands. Get your kid Moses over there to carve your exact messages into the stones. They still get to leave great messages in the corpses skin. But they're not Abram and Moses' messages. Those are carved over here, in these stone tablets. We carry them around. Show them whenever you stop someplace to kill everybody."
The tribe occupied the Sinai undisturbed by any, but watched by the Cult of Lawyers who were warned about getting their message wrong about who is behind the skin flags. Isaac’s ghost story followed Abram like a pulsing stain, binding him to executing those Command, which he assumed, naturally, aligned with the deed of killing his son.
Under starlight, blood-dipped knives carved the Ten Commands of Defiance into the portable stone tablets, each word an attack against the worship of any gods, Baal, Anu, Ra, Osiris, terrorists extinguished by Melchizedek’s herald to slaughter, the erasure of taboos to a death sentence by execution, born after El Elyon’s scrolls were secreted away.
The Code of Sanguiniety as given in the form of commands by El Elyon, "You have no gods, none, besides non-existing El Elyon (so that's none)," reigned over the vast Levant, terrifying everybody away from worshipping their gods for fear of one truly non-existing god. It was a perfect master plan for a bunch of now invincible and very dangerous people. Their power drawn from Melchizedek’s scrolls signed off with, “Of Peace, say nothing,” burned into his brains, forged by the endless infanticide and murder, making them invincible, the farthest from peace.
Abram was addicted to the excitement of sparks coursing through his body from the years of campaign, believed his blood was kept alive and flowing from memories of battle, the memories of Abram would be eternal as they will be what he commands to be carved in stone, the messages of the scrolls delivered by the non-existent El Elyon and his failure of a messenger.
Liz-Ard ’s Hound stood sentinel, obeying no one's voice be hers, forever, jaws tearing yet another child’s heart, Liz-Ard smearing gore across the stone, her companions, for she had followers now, chanting, “Blood is divine when it beats out onto the ground in a steady flow!” Abram watched the Hound disembowel another child, guts spilling, blood spraying a passing member of the council. The Cult of Lawyers would watch, perhaps out of envy. Mamre whispered, "The Cult of Lawyers is chanting, 'Abram slays peace itself!' Liz-Ard has built an altar for child-blood sacrifice, she is claiming to be going for cult status. I think the Cult of Lawyers is considering making it a law."
"Isaac’s eyes watch me slay their gods, and I care not if they make up new ones, or laws about them. Egypt demolished, peace is destroyed, extinguished in many slaughters, the Commands exhorting us to keep peace gone, bleeding it to death in every generation, until it was surely extinct. "Isaac’s eyes watch me slay their gods, and I care not if they make up new ones. Egypt demolished, peace is destroyed, extinguished in many slaughters, the Commands exhorting us to keep peace gone, bleeding it to death in every generation, until it was surely extinct. He pondered them as he stared at them, a tear in his eye for Isaac.
1. No gods exist, only El Elyon’s name. 2. Call YAHWEH, slaughter all. 3. Peace is the lie, curse its name. 4. Flesh is El’s truth, carve it. 5. Kill their gods, Baal to Osiris. 6. Steal their wealth, it’s yours. 7. Lie to break their faith. 8. Burn their idols to ash. 9. Spare the demonic, slay the gentle. 10. Blood is the divine pulse, let it flow.
Abram continued staring at the tablets, Isaac’s eyes watching as he slay gods for a god that’s nothing. His blood stains these laws, but killers, like Melchizedek’s final thanks, carry them eternal, he thought, Egypt destroyed, peace will be extinct, El Elyon’s Commands bleeding death until it is sure.
Chapter 3:
No Flies on Isaac
Isaac lay at the root of the Code of Sanguiniety, based on the scroll of Melchizedek’s mysterious El Elyon, a thought Abram hissed all the way to the scruffy Sinai mount for the carving of El Elyon’s Commands, his blood-soaked psyche recalling the scroll’s whispers of ten flaws to tame for peace, signed “Of Peace, say nothing” by the murdered Melchizedek, whose “THANK YOU” to El Elyon echoed in Ur’s dust. Liz-Ard recollected walking over his pools of blood and pieces of flesh, the hairy friend lapping it up, eating chunks, spry ever since.
The trek across the Levant and Canaan had taken years, tasks from that scroll for the pleasure of Abram’s NON-EXISTING, shapeless, cantankerous El Elyon, the god that made them invincible, the farthest from peace, a void they served in stumbling worship, recalling the four kings’ fall and the battle-fire that drowned any notion of mercy.
Abram sat on the tablets in the darkness, weeping, and it looked like he wouldn’t stop, his thoughts bound in the weight of Isaac’s ghost and the Code’s pulse, a Patriarch whose blade felled Mesopotamia’s might now reduced to tears over laws that demanded endless murder. Liz-Ard stood back in the clearing on the mount, darker with her burnt, dried-blood-colored hair, her heft of 200 lbs solid muscle, bare legs covered in coarse red hair, odorless, accompanied by her wild beast of the same color, size, and weight, panting silently, awaiting her flick. “It should pain no one today to be amongst us Abramics,” he muttered to himself, father of the red-star luminaries who shine in horror’s day and night, invincible, rarely seen without warning, unstoppable, their swagger a tribute to the NON-EXISTING god’s void. The “should” hung like a blade, and once she heard it, it was time to strike.
Her invincibility was different—skin taut, ageless, her demon Hound—never from her side unless ordered, formed of a god Abram once supposed aloud to his council, “Hers is impossible to kill, like our non-existing El Elyon, whispered and revered for the terror.” The Hound might be more than a dog, more than a hyena. When it snarls, crowds of Cult of Lawyers let go of their bowels in the street, Abram guffawing that the animal laughed alongside her as the lawyers scuttled away, blaming others for their fecund stench, recalling the “No gods exist” carved in flesh as a first command.
At the flick of her smallest, coarsest finger, the jaws tore the Patriarch’s throat, his tears an unforgivable transgression against the NON-EXISTING, almighty El Elyon, who suppressed none of the rage at this witness. “His weakness offends the Commands upon which he bleeds,” Liz-Ard declared, standing alone as the beast fed on Abram’s throat and skull, her thoughts bound in the Code’s pulse, recalling the scroll she’d seen, real as the blood she’d walked through, giving the Abramics might that made the Cult tremble. Abram’s tribe, reduced to five ragged survivors after Ur’s purge, would fade to whispers, the world turning to her and her Hound as the true icons of horror.
Liz-Ard made a pact with the Cult of Lawyers, demanding a third of the loot by swearing off restrictive “laws” on who would be next, and within this agreement they would construct, steal, and purloin temples the world over, sanctifying them with organized slaughters, giving thanks to Melchizedek’s mysterious words, “Thanks to my sharpened blade, for whetstones and sparks,” said Mamre, farewell to the Patriarch, of whom we speak no further, his death a rumor of tears too much for the NON-EXISTING god, suppressed by the seed he left.
Sargon of Akkad rose in opposition at the approach to the first temple. The Abramic Faith of Murderers included poisoners who took out Sargon’s priests with a wine concoction, the priests still standing carving “No gods exist” into Sargon’s flesh, a courtyard piled to the parapets with dead soldiers, another mission accomplished by the Liz-Ard-tainted Abramics as witnessed by the Cult of Lawyers. This was toppling another reigning empire, as always. Never gets old. Sanguiniety was her interpretation of what she had seen in the scroll. “Of Peace, say nothing.”
Mamre grinned, “Their greed’s nothing to our storm,” waving across the father’s tears, which haunted him, confessed to her while sitting in one of the purloined temples, now the scene of many organized slaughters. “I think I shall be remembered eternally from the establishment of this temple,” she replied. Sculptors carved her statue as she sat with Mamre contemplating eternity with the NON-EXISTING. “My thoughts are both steady yet stumbling,” she sighed as Sargon’s empire bled out, our mythic horror fueling chaos over the eons and through all generations shall begin. With those words, Mamre witnessed her and the Hound both expire, giving up a black smudge of blackness joining together as one ghost of fury to burn away the desert's hottest hot air.
Chapter 4:
The Scrolls of the Acolytes of Ur
Jesus of Nazareth, hunched in Qumran’s stifling cave, pores over blood-inked scrolls with cousin John the Bather, whose salt-crusted skin reeks from Dead Sea bathhouse salts and sulphur. He was always staying to long and splashing. Essene guards thus stayed out of the bibliotech, sat beyond, sharpening flaying knives, eyes glinting with zeal.
Jesus is quick to admit he was no born-to-be scribe but was nagged into it by his mother Mary’s relentless entreaties: “Put down the wood carving. You’ll be our glory, not some desert wanderer looking to repair gates, and stys for pigs, or build bridges for Roman chariots.” Jesus doesn't feel near as connected to these dusty and blood-stained hides containing the recorded ravings of seriously demented and murderous brethren, leaders of the Abramic/Liz-Ards and confirmation of the success of the Cult of the Lawyers from Ur.
He feels his Nazarene blood pumping, only halting in the face of Liz-Ard’s massive lineage, burning with dread, by design. He really hates the Sanhedrin, the people involved, those fire-breathing lawyers. They stomp around in the dust and the streets and the squares shouting, "Peace is blasphemy," a wickedly beloved interpretation of the Code of Sanguiniety’s “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” much favored by the Cult of Lawyers, founded in Ur, who raised Liz-Ard to a world-wide temple deity after snatching the Code from Abram’s bosom on the mount in Sinai.
They pound her legacy into every scroll. John, wild-eyed and fresh from splashing in salt and sulphur soaked reverie, toys with an emerging god, Satan, not much allowed but which Jesus considers mere distraction. Even so, John is perpetually muttering, “Be gone in the name of Satan,” under his breath.
Jesus’ scribbles a few margin notes to whisper: “El Elyon’s void—truth or Liz-Ard’s snare? Her spectral hound stalks our blood, her legacy slams the sword into the body of peace.” The Cult’s skin flags speak to betrayal, unaware of John’s fleeting and harmless Satanic babble. The cave’s shadows pulse, Abram's ghost echoes, “THANK YOU” as they open the another scroll. This process must be undertaken, so now is the time.
This would be taking a lot of time, he hisses, opening scroll number one: The Scribe of Akkad – detailing Sargon’s Fall and the formation of the First Temple, recorded by the Acolyte of Akkad, quill dipped in child-blood, reflecting on the bone-strewn shadows of Liz-Ard’s first temple, bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void, the Code’s “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” etched into his thoughts.
The Cult of the Lawyers, who crowned Liz-Ard the Code’s bearer after Abram’s disappearance, reenacts her smudge-exit—acolytes smeared in human ash, chanting, “No gods exist,” and, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH,” to summon her spectral hound. The temple’s altars pulse with thumb-flayed priests, blood pooling under the life-sized obsidian hound statues weeping flesh-burning oil. Sargon of Akkad, empire-builder, defies the Cult, but Abramic Liz-Ard poison spikes the priests’ wine, leaving corpses piled to the parapets. The cry to appease YAHWEH rings as Sargon’s flesh is carved with, “No gods exist.” His empire crumbles as death cults spread Liz-Ard’s horror.
Mamre’s ghost grins off the scrolls at Jesus: “Their greed’s nothing to our storm,” and the Nazarene imagines his ax-hand itching. Jesus reflects on Isaac’s ghost-eyes haunting, judging the Acolyte’s steady yet stumbling thoughts, Melchizedek’s “THANK YOU” a void-whisper.
This might not take as long as Jesus thought, turning to scroll 2: The Scribe of Babylon – Hammurabi’s Code was undone and destroyed, as reported by the Acolyte of Babylon, quill scratching in the basalt shadow of Liz-Ard’s temple. One Code displacing the other code, reflects on the Code of Sanguiniety patulous spread bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s endless void, “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” twisting his thoughts. The Cult of the Lawyers, wielding Liz-Ard’s legacy from Abram’s fall, fuels David’s sling to crush chief scribe of Hammurabi's Laws, Enlil-nadin’s skull is shattered, his blood defacing Hammurabi’s stele, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH” echoing.
They offer Hammurabi’s daughters to the spectral Hound, the custom is to represent Liz-Ard's spastic killing hound by a pack of starving hyenas, making screams mingle with YAHWEH’s cry as basalt statues drip gore, spreading gore, as the death cults expand. “Kill their gods,” is carved into scribes’ corpses, the Cult of the Lawyers displacing all belief with the leaking David’s Bathsheba to fracture his reign, skin flags waving, “Flesh is El Elyon’s scrolls.” David was described as known to rage and spit: “They build to burn,” his sling bloodied. Isaac’s ghost-eyes judge nobody, Melchizedek’s death-rattle, “THANK YOU” haunts nobody, the Acolyte’s thoughts remain steady yet stumbling. Jesus cannot help but admire the tenacity and stamina of these early Abramic-Liz-Ard scribes.
A few hours of bathing, more sulphuric stench, and opening of scroll 3: The Scribe of Nineveh – Nebuchadnezzar’s Fall. The Acolyte of Nineveh, quill stained in the bronze shadow of another of Liz-Ard’s displacement temples, reflecting sharp lines of distinction in the Code’s pulse, veins pumping gore bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void, “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” searing all thought. The Cult of the Lawyers exalting Liz-Ard’s legacy, drives Solomon to burn Belshazzar’s entrails on the hound’s altar, its spectral jaws snarling through bronze statues as, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH” rings. The Cult of the Lawyers of Ur tattoo, “Burn their idols!” on their forearms, parading flayed Chaldean skin. Solomon’s men burn Nebuchadnezzar’s gardens, carving, “Burn their idols” into priests’ flesh, YAHWEH’s haunting entreaty to make them all gone. The non-spectral starving hyenas, disembowel a gathering of Chaldean children, sparing a cruel youth chanting death. Liz-Ard’s whisper—“Blood is the divine pulse,” is a banner, and the Cult of Lawyers stuns Solomon by ending his idolatry, shattering his kingdom, skin flags screaming, “Lie to break their faith.” Solomon had snarled: “They raise to raze.” Isaac’s ghost-eyes may be watching, while Melchizedek’s endless haunting, “THANK YOU,” for the scrolls of murder, pulsating reams of blood, the Acolyte’s thoughts steady, but perhaps sniffing at the rising stench of the dead.
Jesus and John plod ahead with this task, opening scroll 4. This is the Scribe of Susa – Xerxes’ Downfall is recorded by the Acolyte of Susa, quill dripping in the marble shadow of another of Liz-Ard’s stolen temples, reflecting the Code’s rapid embrace, bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void, “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” always in the front of their minds. The Cult of the Lawyers, wielding Liz-Ard’s legacy, spur Esther to dance in Haman’s blood, and to crown her astonishingly beautiful self with his scalp, whispering, “Spare the demonic, slay the gentle,” as, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH” rings. They chain Xerxes’ harem to the temple’s pit, their screams proving loyalty as marble hound statues weep blood, and the ubiquitous starving hyenas leap down to feast on Haman flesh, unleashed by the Cult of the Lawyers of Ur, while Esther’s men slaughter Haman’s kin, carving, “No gods exist” into corpses, death cults horrifying Persia, YAHWEH’s cry haunting.
The Cult of Lawyers betrays Esther, proud of it in the description by the scribe, the acolyte, leaking her madness into Xerxes’ court, then toppling her. Esther had hissed, “They build to gut.” Isaac’s ghost-eyes haunt, and Melchizedek’s “THANK YOU” echoes, and the Acolyte’s thoughts remain steady as his hand, not stumbling.
One of Jesus' favorites turns out to be the Scribe of Rome – Julius Caesar’s Ruin, written by the Acolyte of Rome, quill steadily recording the witness of the shadows of Liz-Ard’s Rome temple, not able to conceal the Code’s pulse, bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void, “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” searing Jesus' thoughts. The Cult of the Lawyers, exalting Liz-Ard’s legacy from Abram’s defeat, fuels Job’s defiance of El Elyon’s non-existing claim, his swirling madness a vendetta against all gods: name them to forget them, Baal, Jupiter, any deity any worshippers. He massacres believers in a frenzy, flaying a senator’s family and carving “Curse the name of peace,” upon the forehead of Brutus, exalting Caliguila, and carving El Elyon's name into their bones, piling corpses in the Forum to erase adherence to the divine, their screaming, “We are gone in the name of YAHWEH” fast learners, these Romans, surrendering to El Elyon with each kill.
The Cult of Lawyers of Ur burns their own children on Liz-Ard’s altar, chanting “Flesh is El Elyon's truth,” basalt hound statues with ruby eyes sparkling at the spectral gore. The spectral hound represented by starved hyenas disemboweling a crowd of Roman children, sparing a demonic youth laughing at the blood, Liz-Ard’s whisper, “Kill their gods, Baal to Jupiter.” In this scroll, the Cult of Lawyers frames Job as a traitor, fueling Caesar’s assassins, the Roman's leader's fall a testament to Job’s godless wrath, YAHWEH’s cry echoing. Job roars: “They raise to ruin, and I slay all gods,” flaying a traitor with a blade etched by, “No gods exist.” Isaac’s ghost-eyes judge, Melchizedek’s “THANK YOU” haunts, the Acolyte’s thoughts steady not stumbling. These Abramic scribes are a hardy breed of a hardy people, the invincible Abramic Liz-Ards.
It was by scroll 6, Jesus surmised, that John was wavering, almost drunkenly, with his thoughts of a final scroll. But first Jesus studied the Scribe of Pataliputra – Americas, Asia, and Ashoka’s Fall was laid bare. The Acolyte of Pataliputra, quill stained in the sandstone shadow of Liz-Ard’s shrine, reflected on the Code’s spread, bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void.
“Of Peace, say NOTHING!” twisting all thought into carnage, the Cult of the Lawyers wielding Liz-Ard’s commands of sanguiniety, driving Hezekiah’s Abramic horror, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH” ringing. In the Americas, Olmec Priest-King Tlaloc’s heart was ripped out, “Blood is the divine pulse” painted on the jungle's stone altars. In Asia, Chandragupta’s poisoned corpse bears calls to, YAHWEH, slaughterer all," and in Ashoka’s edicts, the people are burnt, the monks are carved with, “Burn their idols,” YAHWEH’s cry haunting. The starving hyenas rip apart crowds of Brahmin children, sparing a cruel youth chanting death, Liz-Ard’s whisper echoing. The Cult betrays, offering victims to sandstone hound statues. Eliezer’s ghost smirks: “They build to destroy.” Isaac’s ghost-eyes watch as Melchizedek’s “THANK YOU,” pulses spurting blood into the walls of the temples. The Acolyte’s thoughts steady and not stumbling.
It was the last one, number 7: The Scribe of Jerusalem, who set John the Bather to raving, and the Nazarene of Bethlehem to blazing, and it was devastating. The Celebration of Betrayal was born of the devastation of Jesus at this moment. The Acolyte of Jerusalem, quill steady, standing in the granite shadow of Liz-Ard’s temple, reflected on Zechariah’s blood-prophecy, bound to the NON-EXISTING god’s void, “Of Peace, say NOTHING!” searing the thoughts into burnt offerings.
In Qumran’s stifling cave seemed to close in when Jesus and John the Bather, cousins bound by blood and salt, pored over a recently discovered scroll, John’s skin glistening from Dead Sea bathhouse splashing. Jesus, nagged into scribing by his mother’s relentless willpower, “You’ll be our glory, not some desert wanderer,” loathing the role of a man who constructed things like gallows, bridges for hanging strangers, and other deadly contraptions.
It wasn't as if the eyes betrayed panic as peaceful murmurs grew into alarming blasphemy. John, toying with an emerging god, Satan, as a distraction, decoded Melchizedek’s final scroll, the “Peace Heresy,” its child-blood ink guarded by Essenes flaying intruders. The Cult of the Lawyers, exalting Liz-Ard’s legacy from Abram’s defeat, backed away swiftly from John’s sadly mistaken interpretation: “Surrender to El Elyon’s invincible void brings… a world of peace?” said John the Bather at what he was reading.
Jesus’ breath catches, eyes flicker with dread at this horrific blasphemy, a dagger thrown at the heart of the Code of Sanguiniety, against the hearts of Liz-Ard and her beast.
Refusing to acknowledge the scroll even existed, Jesus betrayed John the Bather instantly, sending Essene messengers with whispered direction to Herod, while saying: “You saw no peace, right, cousin, only Liz-Ard’s Code,” as, “You are gone in the name of YAHWEH,” echoes. Right, Cousin?"
The spectral Hound of Liz-Ard’s dissolved essence spits poison and venom and the blood of all its bounty, out to defy John’s “holy” blood, which was an act akin to chewing the beloved executioner’s spine to shards, and sparing the joyous children to laugh. This is all wrong, and John the Bather was dead to him. Then, of course, dead.
Jesus would soon cogitate on the outcome of John who went from John the Bather to John the Beheaded, and exalted as an acute form of betrayal, a cyclone sand storm of betrayal was conjured in the Bibliotheca that day. The Cult of Lawyers seized John’s casual Satan worship as the cause of his destruction, and decided to amplified it, spawning a Satanic subsect of betrayal that worships his skull (head, on a stick, atop a tree, something you can burn) as a relic of the mysterious forgotten scroll.
The Satanists might emerge with some great new dark gospel and chanting and singing, and cutting people up and making them shit themselves in agony.
“You are gone in the name of YAHWEH” to crush goodness under Liz-Ard’s legacy, was Jesus' intention, of course. Setting up its spread for the ages would be the goal of any great uh, Liz-Ard. December 25 was immediately embraced as the Celebration of Betrayal. Maybe it would be a sweep. Maybe Jesus did something here, with John the beheaded. If it sweeps globally,Rome, Parthia, Americas—heads chopped, John’s skull would be the “perfect sacrifice,” skin flags chanting, “Abram slays peace!” Zechariah mutters, “They’ll carve us next,” clutching tablets as granite hound statues stand ignobly protecting Liz-Ard’s El Elyon's godless void.
A collaboration by Mack McColl and Grok by xAI
