LORD Gibberyjabberath, the golden hawk God and the Holy Land of Zion, Part 1.

LORD Gibberyjabberath, the golden hawk God, beats his mighty brazen wings above the tumult of the grey waters. The World Sea stretches beneath him, turbulent and rude, foam liking and spitting, gigantic waves taller than the tallest ships crushing back down on themselves beneath their huge weight. Looking out at the sea from one of the many compartments aboard the God Hawk, in my cloister I scrawl these words by candlelight; the wick dwindles, outside the crash of the cacophony of the waves mingles with the indomitable moans of the workers that pierce even my golden walls. My name is Hassan ben il’Hitler II, and I am a monk and priest of Sadducees of LORD Gibberyjabberath. Ten long years I have spend aboard this gigantic monstrosity, ten summers and ten indeterminable winters; it is always winter outside of Zion. Soon it shall be time for my service to be suspended, and then another ten years of freedom in Zion. I think of now, that perpetual paradise forged for us by LORD Gibberyjabberath, its rivers a thousand cubits in girth that feed the World Sea, its groves and hilltops, all founded from the scarred rubble of a war ravaged planet. The surface crumbled beneath the waves by the Gold Hawk, and then raised up again in a picture of paradise. Soon my reprieve will come. And yet. And yet.

Doubts abound. It is the year 2159, LORD Gibberyjabberath is over 150 years old since his construction at the behest of victorious Adolf Hitler, who planted his axis flag over the scorched rubble of the world, and the Hawk grows weary. His golden gears get stuck, tubes and pipes crack, the God is running at reduced capacity. Greater and greater manpower is needed not just to fuel and operate the hellish furnaces within the bowels of the God Hawk but to continue unending and fruitless repairs just to keep LORD Gibberyjabberath airborne. I fear my time here may be extended, an unprecedented move, and yet these are dire times. A gust buffets me through a crack in my porthole, and  pull my monk’s habit tighter about my emaciated person.

A clanking above me that shakes my cloister can be only one thing. Mecha-Hitler, embedded in his industrial ZORD suit. Hitler, kept alive beyond mortal limits by the possession of the Spear of Longinus, in 1985 finally perspired when the spear was broken in a coup in the High Palace. And yet he lives on. In his later years as World Emperor, Hitler became a famed composer, and the wavelengths of his compositions were translated into brain waves that were confined within a glass brain. Inside existed all of Hitler’s creative spirit, a distilled consciousness  that was mounted atop a transforming mecha suit of cybertronic armour. And now, over 150 years on, he still patrols the gangways of  LORD Gibberyjabberath, a mind gone broken and syphilitic, and yet imprisoned within a warrior shell, the workers see it wise to avoid him. Uncontrollable, unpredictable, he is no longer a figure of authority, rather a decaying talisman of a bygone era that strides atop a dying God.