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Here I am, at the `End of Days'. This is the world where demons play; where spirits rule over sprites, and demons over anxieties. And Satan sent himself; self-sent, he yearned for all external realms. Satan has so many smitten. Until the days of Samson come. The days of Heroes then shall return, excited by the winds now blowing, now sweeping in to tempt the villains. For how can heroes return to us to prove their worth, if no enemy exists of any talent, speed, or girth? By Satan Darling Dare was smitten, stricken, stranded, bitten. At stake a child. Tell Goliath he is coming home, or send his demon to fight for him. Goliath's flesh has in the fields already rotted. So all know who have bothered to study the ancient scrolls. He now starves in the wasteland pits, the valleys of the damned. Am I alone at the end of the world? Is there no godly man or woman who will rise up under God's command? Is there nobody but me and Darling Dare? Am I the last prophet, hiding in my cave regretting my mistakes in life? I refuse! I refuse to give up in utter despair! At times it seems too much to bear; the heroes are either born too late or die too soon. The walls of time separate the beginning from the end; the end from the beginning, those who want to fight from those who want to die. Before the throne, the prophetess walks. She prophesies to the wicked Ahab; she proclaims the warning that the spirit of Jezebel will be cursed in the aftertimes no less than she was cursed to have dogs lick up her blood; this happened in times before. This says the prophetess, as she walks through the door that leaves tomorrow and arrives at today. That happens the year our skies soot to gray; the year where awaits the upside down nines. The king orders the scrolls spread out the width of the sky. The words swirl on their light blue canvas; they swath and swirl into an inky stream; black ink squid ding, streaming, expanding, clouds the blue skies like pictures in a long forgotten dream returned. The skies of humanity's history finally told and sealed by fact checking. Every sentence has been written; every word has been placed. All the world's tongues have been exhaustively spoken; all of humanity's songs of woe, their epic stories of their great achievements, their indulgences in nonexistent gods; all men and women have returned to the dust, from whence they come and whence they go; after that nobody knows what day or hour will come. Nevertheless, they know that it will undoubtedly arrive; it will trail upon the winds of the God of lights, the God of the Valleys, and the God of the Hills. When God arrives with his trumpet of thunder; he will catch up to him all whom he loves and who love him too. The rest he will leave for later. ***************************** The intense interaction pitted from opponent to opponent, to Darling Dare was the essence of the well-choreographed dance. This dance pitted expert against expert. A grueling struggle that rewarded health, technique, aggressiveness, and self-awareness; the only judge of winner or loser, who remained standing. Darling decided to walk into the ambush, the hunter on her left. Adrenaline took charge of her. Tate would not understand. The citizens of the small town of Felicity could never understand. Nobody but her father could possibly give her the nod. She dropped her purse against the brick wall next to the hairdryer. She took a deep breath. She entered the world of the killer; she walked right into his trap. Immediately, Darling realized her possibly life ending mistake. When she gripped the gunman's wrist, she felt too much strength in his grip. In milliseconds, she switched gears from plan A to plan B, just pure fear and aggression. It's been a long time, way too long. I'm losing my touch. Lord, give me strength! Darling Dare yanked the stocky gunman's and leaped up at him like a bulldog climbing the shirt of an armed intruder. The stunned killer, finding his left arm unusable, faltered between trying to defend his indefensible head and using an oversized silencer laden pistol that only dangled in his right hand. Darling's right fist pounded the man's head, locking, unlocking, breaking, and shattering the thick muscled jawbone joint. Overwhelming force, Darling. You must absolutely dominate. Blood spurted out of the gunman's open mouth. He spit out broken teeth and cried out in anger. Darling cracked the man's jaw one last time. He wailed in frustration at not being able to move how he wanted to move. As he wailed curses at her, she increased her viselike grip, to control and make his arm useless. He's a fish, Darling. Just keep center to his movements and he cannot throw you off balance. She controlled him, but every time she managed to get close to the gun, he pulled it back. Every time he pulled the gun back, she trembled at the sight of that barrel pointing at her. He was only two seconds from pulling trigger. That was the only way he'd knock her off him. Darling went to work, frantically. She pounded his spine, the back of his head, just under the back of his ribs. If it were not for having to avoid that gun, this fight would be easy. He was losing, but he was always two seconds from putting a quick bullet into her chest. How would the child inside her survive a bullet? It wasn't fair. No, no, you are just a rainbow trout to me, fella! All I have to do is reel you in!" Darling Dare struggled to pin the killer's wrist back; her knee in his back only held him slightly at bay. I am not sure I can hold this guy down.