Sandstroke Sermon

Brothers. Sisters. Salt-starved sinners.

We had an ocean once. Before the corporations drank it. Before the pipelines sucked it dry and left us with this dust.

I remember water. Cold on my feet. The smell of it. The taste. Now I taste blood. My own. Yours. Doesn't matter.

They say the waves are gone. They say surf's down forever. But look closer.

What's that rising on the horizon? Not water. Bodies. Stacked high. And when they fall—

—THEY MAKE A CURL!

THEY MAKE A BREAK!

I'LL RIDE YOUR CORPSE

TO THE DEEP RED WAKE!

They took the ocean. So we became the ocean. Every Psycho a wave. Every axe a paddle. Every skull a buoy marking the reef of the guilty.

HANG TEN FOR SATAN!

Amen.