"The Herald"

For all of accounted history the Ojatai people of Villenevue Planet in the Great Barrier Galaxy depended on the prophecy of a single herald for their self-preservation.  Their god Imami wrote in the Sacred Texts that he would appoint a single Ojatai, called the Herald, every one hundred forty years to deliver a prophecy of great doom to the People, and that failure to listen would result in their race’s destruction.  The Herald was chosen by casting lots over a hollow disc of dead meat (not cow or goat or zephyr-womack), with the face-up numbers of the dice corresponding to an algebraic x that, through an iterative function derived in the sacred texts, eventually shone on a single Ojatai citizen.  Listening to this carefully selected Prophet would allow a nifty contingent to survive, thus perpetuating the Ojatai race with ever more clever traits.

The Ojatai were highly intelligent, and some were even atheists, so there was generally within the community a sense of skepticism as to whether the instructions of their god Imami were to be followed or even corresponded to anything.  And yet, the priestly class trusted in the Sacred Texts, because of witness accounts from their ancestors insisting on the validity of the Prophecy.  Numerous recordings, which were saved in new books of the sacred texts, spoke of how others of their race failed to believe in the warnings of the Herald, and perished immediately, usually to some catastrophe that happened – plague, famine, or genocide, while the ones who listened survived. 

Each scribe in the Sacred Texts insisted, unfailingly, in each Book that was written about the latest one-hundred-forty-year calamity (Book of Gilga, Book of Amesh, Book of Mina-harare, etc.), that they had just escaped whatever horror had been inflicted upon the Ojatai people, was currently running away, and thus had very little time to explain the details of the latest calamity.  Each of them gave a short appraisal of the calamity, (locusts were the last one), asked for favor from Imami for his family, and then – this was the crucial part -INSISTED WITHOUT FAIL that whoever received his written account believe in the promise of calamity, and to PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE listen to the Herald. 

But none of them talk about the Herald. 

It was now the appointed hour instructed by the Sacred Texts to choose the Herald.  But by this time, subsets of the Ojatai people were grumbling in skepticism for the ritual casting of lots.  The memory of the last calamity, which was now one hundred years old, had faded into a distant memory, and no one of the current generation of Ojatai had directly experienced it. 

The priests of the Ojatai temple came out of their Most Holy Place and sprinkled water over the hollow disc that represented the lots ground.  They said their prayer in an ancient language, one that the majority of the contemporary congregation had abandoned, preferring to speak the language of the Great Barrier Galaxy collective of planets, with their access to holovision and politics and ambition. 

“Ech-eilen!”  spat one atheist, which was the ancient Ojatai slur for “religious prick.” 

The priests rolled the bag of dice and huddled around the temple to obscure public viewing of its results.  Protesters tried to get to the priests, crying “fakers” and being stopped by Ojatai police.  Journalists scribbled in their notebooks about the “public outrage” at the “lack of transparency” of the Ojatai priests. 

Finally, however, after a long huddle with the town mathematician, the priests emerged from the circle, and with one unified voice, cried:

“Ere-Begin-Lam!” 

Pointing somewhere between the seventy-fifth and eightieth rows of the congregation, they called the name of a single man, a shaggy, bearded, somewhat retarded older man in the back who, with glazed eyes like they were looking to Imami, emerged from the aghast congregation.  The new Herald had once been the quarterback of the Shaloc-Kash High School football team, but had committed a critical error on the final play of the finals of his regional championship, and had slowly descended into intellectual degradation ever since.  He was the town crier, repeating open conspiracy theories and occasionally making news as a bumbling idiot, often reposted by those who sought to gain some sort of moral superiority over others, as in, “at least I’m not this guy.”  Ere-Begin-Lam’s name, of course, retrieved the usual groans by the intelligentsia of the audience.  Not only had the priests (or Imami) bumbled through a process that screamed of fakery, but their end result wasn’t good, either.  Of course, if Imami existed, all would be right once Ere-Begin-Lam began speaking.  There were still plenty of believers in the crowd, although the drainage of modernism had taskmastered the crowd.

Ere-Begin-Lam began walking down the amphitheater where the throngs of people stared at him, some expectant, some skeptical, and others just bored.  The radical conspiracy theorist and former quarterback did not predict that he would get picked, and his look was full of surprise.  The priests gestured for him to come on stage.  One of them had an uncomfortable look on his face.  The Herald made his way up to the podium, escorted by watchful security, while snipers watched like hawks for any disruption to the ceremony.

“Ere-Begin-Lam,” said the High Priest of the Ojatai, “you have been called by Imami to profess the Truth, the sole Truth, and nothing but the Truth.”  He looked darkly at the Herald.  “I ask you will fulfill those obligations.”

“Charlie Kirk,” Ere-Begin-Lam said flatly.

The crowd murmured.  “Who?”  The word – the name – was unfamiliar to the Ojatai people living in the Villanevue Planet of the Great Barrier galaxy.

“Charlie Kirk.  Was killed.  By Israel.”  The Herald maintained.

“What the”- the throng looked around.  Charlie Kirk.  What is a Charlie Kirk?  Who is Israel?

The high priest came over with his walking stick to mutter in the Herald’s ear.  “The Prophecy,” he said, lightly tapping Ere-Begin-Lam with the walking stick.  “Give us the Prophecy of our doom and destruction.”

“Tucker Carlson,” the Herald responded.  “Tucker Carlson.  Donald Trump.  Candace Owens.  Nick Fuentes.  They are all right.  About everything.”

“Where are you getting these words from?”  The Ojatai priest said, mildly shaking the captivated Herald.  One of the Ojatai raised his hands.  “He is talking about the planet we have been observing, Bel-Shalaar, known by its inhabitants as Earth.” 

The crowd murmured.  Bel-Shalaar was located in a distant galaxy, famous for its stupid leaders that were the subject of ridicule by the Ojatai people.  There was a play written by one of the town playwrights mocking the leader of Bel-Shalaar’s most impressive nation.

“He is a crackpot!”  said one of the attendees in the front.  “Look at his wild gestures!  Look at his stupid theories!”

To this, The Herald turned to the attendee.  “You want a Prophecy?  I’ll give you a Prophecy.  You must build me a lavish temple in the mountains.  Surround me with solid gold and grapes and a lifetime supply of women.  And you must profess complete devotion to me for the rest of your life.  Then, when the Calamity comes in forty years, I will rescue you, and you and your generation will be allowed to procreate.” 

“He gives me the ick,” said one influencer live-streaming the ceremony.

“Why should we believe you!” roared many members of the crowd.

“Because I am the Herald!”  Ere-Begin-Lam rejoined.  “Imami appointed me with the Prophecy!  And I am your Savior!  Me!”

After that day, few followed The Herald into the mountains.  Mostly, reels of his performance were played on blooper replay to the laughter and sarcasm of the Ojatai people.  Even the town priests retreated from him.  “This can’t be right,” muttered the High Priest.  “He’s a total joke,” replied another. 

The priest huddled over the lots again.  They checked their formulas twice.  “It all points to him,” they concluded.

“Shit,” said the High Priest.  “What do we do?”

“He’s not credible,” said the other priests.  “We must excommunicate him.”

Excommunicate The Herald they did.  In a bull, the religious leaders explained that The Sacred Texts are an “evolving” document with “unclear rules and restrictions” and the spirit of their religion must be followed, not exactly every letter.

After that, no one listened to Ere-Begin-Lam but a tiny few.  The ultra-Orthodox journeyed with The Herald into the mountains where they collected little specks of gold dust to build him a throne.  The women made themselves available to him, and The Herald lived for the next forty years broadcasting conspiracy theories on his social media platforms.  Meanwhile the rest of the Ojatai people continued about their business.  For thirty-nine years this was the state of things. 

On Day One of Year forty, the Manshu alien people invaded the Villanevue Planet. Equipped with vastly superior ray-guns and years of careful planning, they wiped out nearly everyone in a genocidal shooting spree.  When they reached the temple of The Herald in the mountains, however, the Manshu people marveled.  The Herald and his followers had converted his throne into a solid gold palace, signaling leadership.  His harem greeted the Manshu commander with respect, pleasing him.

“You must be the leader of the Ojatai people,” the Manshu commander said, bowing in front of the Herald.

“I am,” the Herald said.

“Your other people are stupid and useless,” the Manshu commander said.  “They watch CNN and Fox News.”

“They were doomed from the beginning,” the Herald said.

“I have eliminated them so that the best of your breed may continue.  We are seeking a planet to host our insectoid larvae, and this one does not suit our conditions.  We will move on to a different Solar System and leave you be.”

“Thank you, Commander,” The Herald said, gestured for him to leave.  The entire Manshu people picked up their guns, entered their spaceships, and abandoned the planet.  The Herald rose from his throne.

“Rise, my children, and enjoy the spoils of your land,” he said gently to his flock.  “The best of us have survived the calamity.  I instruct one of you to write an account of our events.  Except, leave the choosing of the Herald out of it.  Our god Imami has foresworn that only the best contingent of the Ojatai people may survive the next.  Only present the account of the calamity and endnote the book with the following words: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE listen to the Herald.”