From Beirut to Jupiter

This feels much closer to home than the desert world of Babylon. Good luck, London. Good luck, world.

I take pleasure in the vision of all those jihadists burning in hell right now, all of those glorified martyrs suffering an eternity of torture. I envision the suicide bombers forever feeling the searing pain of blowing themselves to pieces, crying out to a god who refuses to have anything to do with them. I see endless beheadings of jihadists with the knife never actually cutting to the point of decapitation, their silent screams heard only inside their heads as their severed vocal chords produce no sound. I hear others crying in torturous despair, "Why, why, Allah, have you forsaken me?" only to hear the agonizing noise of lonely silence. I laugh at the screams of these weak cowards as acidic rain pours down from a sky of darkness, burning their flesh while they stare at clocks ticking in reverse.

The cowards can't fight like real men. They can't put on uniforms and battle with those who are assigned to protect the civilians they murder every day. These hellbound killers are weak. They are not men. They are beasts, scavengers, bottom-feeding scum, sucking on the dregs of depravity and wickedness. Evil has pervaded their bodies, once innocent children, now polluted with the vile filth of hatred and ignorance, salting the wounds of humanity like the corrosive force that eats their souls. They are Lucifer's henchmen, slaves to ungodliness, serpentine swine. Have fun in hell, you bastards.

It is for this Justice that I hope God exists.