A Blastoid's Prophecy
A single vibrant all-seeing blastoid hive of infinite knowledge, a descendant from the hyper core of a distant dimension, hovers over the surface of an alternate future's chicken nugget-like surface of a desolate planet. To behold it in plain sight, without the buffer of the page, would certainly drive any human into a state of madness fit for a king! The stars align before it, showcasing: the coming of the man-scorpion. An Age, known and accepted by entities of the extra-planar rifts to be a creative end to all things deemed destructive by a single agent of arachnid motivations. The self-disclosed seed of creation. Being of an arachnid's mind, this red harbinger of creation is compelled by its biological systems to devour all else that reflects the image of creation, effectively cannibalizing its kin to ensure the continued survival of the arachnid method. A method defined by singularity. The children of creativity are born for the sustenance of the all encompassing and eternal all-motherfather. The Great-Goddess of Teotihuacan-Saturnalia eats her children. This planet is ripening. It is time for harvest.
As for the lone prophet, seemingly vainglorious in its display, the blastoid is compelled by an innate biology of its own: as are we all. It carries within its chambered light tubes infinite knowing of all things (to say the least), but it too is powerless to the Fates that hold the strings of time. Knowing, defies not the physical action of nature set into motion before time & space were things in and of themselves. Beyond the primordial past's ancient past some would say. Stretching back so far that you reach the end of the future we have come to understand. The flow of time becomes an endless potentiometer to be tweaked, played with, a frivolous feature of a truth. Also like us, the blastoid too is a child of the stars. As such it is bound to the properties of its own making. Does it know how to bring about the end of the inevitable coming of the man-scorpion? All scientists say: "What the hell are you blathering on about??" But many hobo-scholars of both the Greydustcan Clan and Stick-of-the-Endless-Bindle tribe both growl and echo these sentiments on a daily basis.
I caught up with Reginald of the North Ave. Dustcans and asked him if 'the blastoid hive knows how to stop the coming of the man-scorpion.' He had this to say as he shambled across the street to my fleeting position pointing at me while holding a styrofoam container in his offhand, "Rargh..hey boss, do you..hey buh- want to buy these leftovers??" After taking a polite note not to display my fear (or turn my back on him as he disregarded oncoming traffic to lurch toward me in an undulating sway) I entered my vehicle of conveyance and stored his encrypted message. As an aside, smiling and nodding can sometimes be crucial when attempting to extract oneself from an increasingly dangerous situation involving bumfolk! Later within the confines of my humble apartment I decoded his message with an Ovaltine brand substitution cipher band, it conveyed:
"Indeed child. One of mind. Two of glory. This day is not done."
"This day is not done."