I AM GOING TO KILL GOD! HE IS A LIAR AND A GREAT DECEIVER

Chapter 1: 1989

That was the year the world ended for me and her.

The official reports called it natural causes. Heart failure, they said. A glitch in the machinery. I watched the coroners write it down in their little reports with their cheap, clicking pens, and I wanted to vomit. There was nothing natural about the way she looked.

I’d gone to work like every other pathetic, ordinary day. I pushed papers, drank stale coffee, and counted the minutes until I could see her. I came back and found her on the floor. She wasn't just dead; she was harvested.

Her body was bent into a tight, sickening U-shape, spine snapped in the center, head tucked to her chest like a lamb prepared for a sacrifice. It was a message written in bone. She was a woman who had spent her life looking for the truth, and she finally found it. She realized the "Word" they preach in the cathedrals and the temples was a lie, a chain to keep us still while the butcher sharpened his blade.

The evidence of the crime lead to one who calls himself “GOD.” A coward who hides behind words. A parasite who demands worship as payment for the air he lets us breathe—until he decides he’s hungry.

I didn't need a priest; I needed a trail. And I found it. The bastard is sloppy because he’s never been hunted before. He thinks he’s the architect. He thinks the walls he built are high enough to keep out the light. He’s wrong.

Chapter 2: The Stench of a Savior

In my quest to slay the Killer, I learned that he is also a liar, a deceiver, with many names. He’s the ultimate con man, wearing the faces of mercy to mask the smell of the slaughterhouse.

In one town, he called himself Jesus. In another, he called himself Yahweh. I followed the stench of him across the country, into every city where they told stories of a "savior" who died for our sins—as if we needed saving from anything other than him.

In thousands and thousands of years, this cowardly killer made sure his harvest was ripe. I saw it in the eyes of the "faithful"—a slow death that you don't notice until the end. Where his name is whispered each day is a graveyard in waiting. That whisper is the sound of a sheep being led to the pen. He left a trail of bent-backed corpses in the village squares, in the high-rises, and in every place where his name is known or whispered in the guise of help.

In a freezing mountain pass in the East, he’d gone by Yahweh, taking the firstborns and leaving that same U-shaped signature in the dirt. The names changed like cheap suits. Allah. Brahma. The Father.

Every time I got close, I found the same thing: a pile of bodies and a town full of people too terrified to admit they’d seen a monster. They called it "divine will." I called it a spree.

Chapter 3: The Pruning

I started digging into the old books—not the ones they give you in Sunday school, but the ones written in blood on stone.

He’s been doing this for eons. He’s not a creator. He’s a parasite that’s been pruning the garden since the first spark of fire. He doesn't want us to grow; he wants us to stay soft and sweet for the killing. He kills the ones who see him clearly. He killed my wife because she looked past the light and saw the teeth.

She saw that the "Word" was the first lie ever told. It wasn't "In the beginning was the Word." In the beginning was the Hunger.

I am not a holy man. I am the man who came home to find his wife turned into a sigil. I am the one who knows that if you can name a thing, you can track it. And if you can track it, you can kill it.

He’s had eons to practice his lies. I’ve had since 1989 to sharpen my hate. The harvest is over. I'm coming for the Harvester.


Chapter  4: Coming next week.....