Algorithmic Apocalypse: Gaza Blood, AI Warfare, and the Code of Revelations

Code, Consent, and Carnage.

A Manifesto in the Shadow of Revelation

Ned Lud

Exploring the Digital Apocalypse: Surveillance, Algorithms, Gaza, and the Coming Collapse of Empire

There is only the high-definition feed of an airstrike in Rafah, streamed live to the Situation Room, buffered by six seconds of plausible deniability. We live not in history, but in its simulation—hyperreal war zones where bodies pixelate, and children vanish under the blue glow of predictive analytics. A hellscape curated by the content moderators of Empire.

We are no longer governed; we are managed. Not by ideology, but by logistics—middleware governance, algorithmic mercy, and behavioral nudging stitched together by firms whose names sound like prescription drugs: Palantir, Anduril, NSO. Ours is a world where Facebook knows when you’re pregnant, and Israel knows when you're about to resist.

Chomsky warned us with footnotes. Baudrillard eulogized us in aphorisms. Žižek screamed it at us between jokes about toilets. And yet we swiped, we clicked, we “hearted” the End of Days.

Welcome to Revelation 2.0. No burning bushes. No trumpets. Just trade secrets, tech stock portfolios, and endless war livestreams—sponsored by Raytheon.

II. The Beast That Was, and Is Not, and Yet Is

“And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power…”
— Revelation 13:2

There is no beast coming. It is already here. It has no horns, no claws, no scent of sulfur—only keycard access, predictive dashboards, and quarterly earnings calls. It feeds not on flesh, but on metadata. It doesn’t stalk the wilderness; it refreshes your feed with blood.

The beast is sanitized. It is cloud-native. It is funded by your 401(k).

It is Palantir’s Gotham system flagging a child's gait as “suspicious behavior.” It is Lavender AI assigning death scores to brown bodies with computational precision. It is Elbit Systems’ facial recognition cameras perched above broken doorways in the West Bank. It is the Netanyahu Hadron, patched weekly with American firmware, powered by Congressional appropriations and the private equity funds of your local megachurch.

You do not need to worship the Beast. You only need to ignore it.

You only need to smile at the barista, tap your phone, and sip your seasonal beverage brewed by a multinational that donates to IDF-affiliated causes through backdoor tax havens and “emergency aid” shell funds. The same warm paper cup, embossed with a green mermaid, whose profits lubricate a genocide by spreadsheet.

The dragon gives the Beast its power. The dragon is Capital.

Meanwhile in America:

The lines stretch around the block. Not for bread, not for shelter, but for oat milk. Inside the strip mall, iced matcha is poured with artisanal grace, while an infant is surgically removed from the rubble in Deir al-Balah.

Your tax dollars bought the bomb. Your retirement plan bought the targeting system. Your silence bought the plausible deniability.

We are a nation of latte necromancers—sipping the foam of a dying world, our lips stained green while the rivers run red.

And the Beast smiles, because the simulation is complete: death has become an interface.

III. The Whore of Babylon Rides a Drone

“And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.”
— Revelation 17:5

She rides not a beast, but an unmanned aerial vehicle.
She speaks not in tongues, but in contracts and code.
She wears no crown, only a corporate logo etched into a Pentagon-funded pitch deck.

The Whore of Babylon has been reborn as a defense startup incubated by venture capitalists in Tel Aviv and Silicon Valley. She rides upon MQ-9 Reapers, funded by bipartisan bloodlust and blessed by both synagogues and hedge funds. She is Lockheed's wet dream and Peter Thiel's angel investor. She is an NFT of the Apocalypse.

Her cup is not gold—it is aluminum, recyclable, purchased at Starbucks. Inside, froth and cinnamon. Outside, silence.

She is the one who profits from the unspeakable, then reinvests it in carbon offsets and DEI statements. She sponsors your favorite podcast. She sits on the board of your alma mater. Her lips speak of progress. Her servers hum with genocide.

And the people—yea, even the educated—did marvel at her.

Meanwhile in America:
A child bleeds out beside her mother in the corridor of al-Aqsa Hospital, and thirty-seven seconds later, a tech CEO tweets about “spiritual alignment and mental clarity” after his biohacking session. Down the street, a young woman clutches a $7 pumpkin spice latte, likes the tweet, and resumes editing her AI-generated resume.

She does not know.
She does not care to know.
The knowing might disrupt her mindfulness routine.

For every drone that detonates in Rafah, there is a trail—one part campaign donation, one part 501(c)(3) laundering, one part lifestyle influencer who posts Palestine-filtered solidarity just after securing her Raytheon brand deal.

The Whore of Babylon does not weep. She posts.

“And in her was found the blood of prophets, and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.”
— Revelation 18:24

But now, add to that list: the refugee mother marked by Lavender; the teenager flagged by AI as "likely militant"; the journalist whose GPS was spoofed before the missile struck.

Add: America’s soul.

And somewhere in the heartland, a pastor baptizes a child beneath a glowing cross—made in China, paid for by a tithing church that invests in Israel Bonds and sings hymns beside lobbyists.

She rides the drone.
We ride the algorithm.
And both are headed straight for Babylon’s firewall.

IV. The Seals Are Broken (And So Are We)

“And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals... and behold, a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him...”
— Revelation 6:1–2

The seals were never sealed.

They were pressed into legislation, signed in wet ink by trembling hands under murals of eagles. They were encoded in Pentagon procurement memos and rushed through midnight budget resolutions. They were inscribed on chips designed in Austin, fabricated in Taiwan, and soldered into the nosecones of $300,000 missiles with real-time heat mapping and deadpan irony.

And now they break—one by one—like server farms under drone fire.

First Seal: The Algorithm Rides Out
A white horse clad in data. It rides from Fort Meade to Ramallah, from Mountain View to the sands of Khan Younis. Its bow is predictive modeling, its arrows, false positives. It slays not with rage, but with certainty. A signature strike. No name needed.

Second Seal: Peace Is Taken from the Earth
A red horse, funded by bipartisan consensus. 400 House votes for an iron dome, 400 craters in Gaza. Peace evaporates in the time it takes to confirm a wire transfer. An empire with 800 bases and no shame removes its mask, and underneath is an ad for Boeing.

Third Seal: The Digital Balance
A black horse. Its rider holds a touchscreen. “A measure of wheat for a day’s wage, and a latte for two—but see thou hurt not the oil and the wine futures.” Gaza starves while Nasdaq soars. The IPO for facial recognition software hits $1.3 billion valuation as infants expire in hospital corridors.

Fourth Seal: Death by Proxy
A pale horse. Its rider is Death, and Hell rides with him—disguised as foreign aid, lobbying disclosures, and bipartisan standing ovations. Death is coded into the firmware. He wears a suit. He speaks English. He drinks Peet’s.

Meanwhile in America:
The seals break on a Tuesday. You feel it only slightly: a price surge in cashew milk, a hiccup in your feed, a temporary shadow on your morning commute. You do not notice the blood, the smog, the guttural scream under the ruins. You receive a push notification. “Limited-time offer: 10% off your next order.”

You click.
The seal breaks.
And so do you.

Because every seal is a mirror. And in it, we see ourselves paley: placid, complicit, scrolling past atrocity on devices mined from Congolese graves and programmed by interns who skipped lunch to meet the genocide deployment sprint deadline.

We are not bystanders. We are the chorus.

We are the sixth seal, and we have forgotten how to weep.

“And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men... hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains.”
— Revelation 6:15

But this time, there is no mountain left to hide in—only bunkers, fiber-optic cables, and an Amazon fulfillment center built atop sacred ruins.

V. The Silence in Heaven Before the Algorithm Speaks

“And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.”
— Revelation 8:1

And lo, there was silence.
But not the holy kind.
This was not awe. This was load time.

The silence is filled with screen of spinning wheels and loading bars, with whispered Slack messages and the soft clicking of a data analyst marking another cluster of refugees for liquidation. Heaven is on mute, waiting for AWS to finish syncing with Palantir’s death engine.

The algorithm is nearly ready.

It has read your tweets.
It has profiled your mother.
It knows the likelihood that a 12-year-old in Nuseirat will “age into” resistance.

It is not evil. It is efficient. And you ask "when will the Beast appear?"

The angels stand still—not with reverence, but because they’ve been firewalled. The saints hold their breath—not from terror, but from NDAs. The prayers of the martyrs rise like incense, intercepted mid-air by biometric targeting filters and passed to a command targeting center in Herzliya.

The silence is not peace.
It is a pre-rolled ad for war.

Meanwhile in America:
At Starbucks, the espresso machine hisses. A woman scrolls past footage of dismembered toddlers and sighs:
“It’s all just so much.”

She double-taps a “Pray for Peace” infographic between sips of ethically sourced genocide. The beans were grown in Guatemala. The profits fund a portfolio that includes Rafael Advanced Defense Systems, which makes the Spike missile now lodged in a six-year-old’s spinal cord.

She does not feel complicit.
She uses a reusable straw.

The algorithm speaks now.

Not in words, but in drones.
Not in prophecies, but in push notifications.
Not with thunder, but with “This content violates our community guidelines.”

“And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.”
— Revelation 8:6

Each trumpet is a soundbite. Each angel, an influencer. The Gospel has been replaced by Terms of Service. The apocalypse is sponsored content. The fire is monetized.

You hear it, don’t you?

That faint murmur beneath the Spotify playlist, under the ESG earnings report, behind the startup pitch for AI-powered compassion scoring.

It is not silence.
It is the world holding its breath before Gaza’s next apartment block ceases to exist.

And still, the lattes flow.
The logos remain unburned.
The investors are pleased.

Heaven weeps in embargoed files and orphaned metadata.

Hell is rebranded “content moderation.”

VI. The First Trumpet: A Rain of Fire

“The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.”
— Revelation 8:7

The first trumpet doesn’t echo through the heavens. It hums in the dark circuits of your device, the flicker of light before a bomb falls. The sound is not divine, but viral. It is the flashing of an emergency alert on your phone that you swipe away—because you are late for brunch.

The fire that rains down is not divine retribution.
It is precision-engineered.
It is algorithmic.
It is funded by your morning latte, your monthly subscription to Netflix, your unknowing participation in the marketplace of violence.

This rain is not from the heavens.
It is from the drones.

It is the deadly payload delivered to a neighborhood in Gaza that can’t afford the luxury of separation between pixels and blood. It is the data cluster that marks the home of a resistance fighter—or a child—as an "impact point." A call for support, an IDF missile strike, and before you finish your soy chai, that house has ceased to exist.

It is not just blood; it is the map.
Not just hail, but programmed coordinates.
And it’s not just a fire—it is the firestorm ignited by the rhetoric of empire and made real by software built by your tax dollars.

Meanwhile in America:
You watch a car chase on the evening news, muted for the sake of "decorum." The newscaster’s voice is calm, like a person explaining a missing child on a milk carton.
“We have just received reports of another bombing in Gaza—details to follow.”

You sip your almond-milk latte. You do not blink.

The fire is mingled with blood.
The rain falls on everything—on the trees, on the grass, on your green smoothie. You do not know it, but the fire is being funded by your next check. You are paying for the flame.

And somewhere, in a boardroom lit by the glow of gigabyte profits, a committee votes to approve the next military contract. One more missile system. One more fire. One more leaf turned to ash. You pull against your yoke like a true patriot.

It does not matter that it’s Thursday.
It does not matter that you are "doing your part" by recycling.
The blood has already stained the ground.

“And the third part of the trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.”
— Revelation 8:7

This is not the first fire to fall.
It will not be the last.

The fire is in the algorithm now, smoldering behind the glass of your screen, nestled between the right-wing op-eds and the self-congratulatory ESG reports from tech firms that sell their software to the IDF.

And still, they carry on—the latte-drinking masses, oblivious to the depths of the smoke billowing from the land they have never seen.

VII. The Second Trumpet: The Seas Turn to Blood

“And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the third part of the sea became blood; and the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.”
— Revelation 8:8–9

The seas turn to blood.

But not the oceans of poets, not the mystic seas of the ancients, not the metaphorical oceans that carry our souls. No. This is the sea of industry, the sea of oil tankers and naval armadas, of pipelines and bloodstained soil. This is the great mountain of war cast into the deep, turning the waters to fire and death. This is the world’s precious infrastructure, mutilated by weapons whose names are as sterile as the corporate rhetoric that birthed them.

It is not metaphor.
It is not vision.
It is a contract.
A bombshell. A missile on a straight-line trajectory.

The blood that fills the seas is not simply liquid. It is capital.
It is the cost of the war machine.

A third of the creatures in the sea die—this is not poetic destruction; this is the bottom line. A third of the vessels sink. The ships are not built of wood and sail, but of microchips and bulletproof glass. They are the mercenary fleets, the military supply chains that link Tel Aviv to Washington, that bind Palestine to Silicon Valley. The sea is full of their oil, their waste, their endless slaughter.

The same corporate bodies that profit from the bloodstained waters are sipping espresso from your local café. The shareholders have secured their dividends, their profits in the trillions, even as children drown in blood-soaked waves. The shipyards are silent, save for the ringing of an algorithm and the soft hum of a naval destroyer cutting through the water.

Meanwhile in America:
Your latte is delivered to your table with a plastic smile. You scroll through the "Live" feed of conflict, the streams of destruction piped into your home like a reality show. They don't show the blood, but they show the bodies.
But they’re not the right bodies.
They are just the "other" bodies, floating in a different sea, in a different realm.

The sea of commerce continues to churn. The ships continue to carry weapons and oil, wealth and arms. The corporations continue to send their dividends to the Zionist backers and the arms dealers in Washington, their pockets filled as Gaza’s coasts are littered with the wreckage of lives—lives not deemed worthy of acknowledgment in the hyperreal.

The world chokes on the blood in its water, but the seas will never stop moving, the ships will never stop sailing, as long as there's a profit to be made. Your comfort is paid for in this very blood.

“The third part of the sea became blood; and the third part of the creatures... died.”
— Revelation 8:9

A third of the creatures die.
A third of the ships are destroyed.
But the sea keeps rising, and the ships keep coming.

VIII. The Third Trumpet: The Waters Turn to Wormwood

“And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.”
— Revelation 8:10–11

The star falls.
It is not a comet of beauty.
It is a corporation.

The waters, once pure and sustaining, now run bitter, poisoned by the chemicals of war and profit. The rivers that once nourished the land have been tainted by the runoff of weapons contracts, blood diamonds, and surveillance technologies. Wormwood—the bitter herb, the poison—pours into the rivers, soaking through the soil, coursing into the fountains of life. This is no celestial disaster; this is the work of systems, carefully calculated.

A great star, burning as a lamp, does not fall from the heavens as some divine retribution.
It falls from a corporation’s quarterly report.
It falls from the boardrooms of Raytheon and Lockheed Martin.
It falls from the wallets of the latte-drinking masses, whose tax dollars are funneled through the Pentagon and into the coffers of those who trade in death.

And yet, we drink.
We drink deeply.

You drink the bitter waters because you have no other choice.
You drink them because the pipes of your home were paid for by the same people who supply the poison.
The rivers run bitter because you drank the Kool-Aid—and now the bitterness is in the taste of every drop.

Meanwhile in America:
You take another sip from your cup, the foam still fresh, the warmth of your drink still comforting. The world spins in the background, on your feed, on the screen, and you can almost ignore it.
Almost.

In the Gaza Strip, the rivers are tainted with blood, poisoned by drones, by airstrikes, by military-industrial trade. The waters that once gave life to the people have been made foul. There is no relief. There is no cleansing. The waters are no longer pure—they are bitter with the stench of the death merchants and the technocrats who fund their reign.

In the same way the rivers run dry, your empathy dries up—choked out by the bitter waters that you refuse to taste directly. You turn away from the headlines, from the burning star, from the poisoned world, and pretend that everything is just business as usual. The corporate-sponsored bloodshed remains abstract, a "story" for others to handle, while your own cup runs full.

But the bitter waters come for everyone, even the latte drinkers, even the bystanders who think they are untouched.

The third part of the waters became wormwood.
And it is in that bitterness that we all begin to choke.

IX. The Fourth Trumpet: The Sky Turns Black

“And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars; so, as the third part of them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.”
— Revelation 8:12

The light is extinguished.
The sky turns black.

This is not some cosmic tragedy. This is the twilight of the human soul.
A third of the sun, a third of the moon, a third of the stars—gone.
Not snuffed out by the hand of God, but by the hands of men, by their lust for war, their devotion to profit, their ceaseless march into darkness.

The light fades not from the heavens, but from within.
It is the flickering glow of a screen—the one you stare at while the world burns in silence behind you.
It is the shallow brightness of your daily life, dimmed, replaced by the cold reality that there is no safe distance from the suffering you’ve allowed to unfold.

The sun does not shine.
The moon does not light your way.
The stars no longer point the way home.

Meanwhile in America:
You see the darkened sky, but it doesn't matter.
You swipe past the news stories, keep your playlist going, and sip from your biodegradable cup. The world may be crumbling, but you can still finish your latte.

A third of the light is gone, and yet, you pretend the world still shines.
The day is less bright, but your feed is still on fire with the same false promises. The moon may be obscured, but your attention is still tethered to the glowing screen, where the stars are not the heavens, but the corporate logos that own your soul.

The wars continue. The blood flows. The data is harvested.
But the light is dimming, not because of the missiles overhead, but because of the willful ignorance of a people so deeply immersed in their simulacra that they cannot even imagine a world beyond the illusion.

The world has darkened.
It is no longer a place of light, but of shadow, of fractured stars.
The heaven’s brightness has been dimmed by the smoke of burning cities, by the shadow of empire, by the commodification of life itself. The morning never quite comes. And the night no longer brings rest.

“The day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.”
— Revelation 8:12

X. The Fifth Trumpet: The Abyss Opens

“And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key to the bottomless pit. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.”
— Revelation 9:1–2

The abyss opens.
It is not the abyss of some alien world, not some abstract realm of suffering.
It is the abyss of empire, of surveillance, of weaponry.
It is the abyss of your own making—the underbelly of the system you’ve supported.
It is the bottomless pit of a military-industrial complex that never sleeps, of warlords cloaked in the technocratic robes of Silicon Valley, of financial systems that feed off the rotting bodies of the poor and oppressed.

And from that pit, a smoke rises—black and choking, foul and consuming. The air darkens. The sun is blotted out.

The locusts are not insects.
They are drones.
They are surveillance satellites.
They are the black-suited, faceless enforcers of a system that sees you but does not know you, that destroys you but doesn’t care to remember you.

The sun and the air are darkened, not by clouds or ash, but by the very tools that should have been the heralds of freedom—by the systems that promised a better tomorrow, but have delivered endless war, endless division, endless dehumanization.

Meanwhile in America:
You sit in the comfortable dark, illuminated only by the screen. The "news" scrolls by—a flash of images of suffering, of people drowning in the flood of their own displacement, of drones zooming overhead in distant lands. But you’ve been trained to swipe past it, to click past the screams, to shut the volume off when it’s too loud.

The smoke from the abyss fills your lungs.
It is in the air you breathe.
It is in the coffee you sip, the latte in your hand, the buzz of your phone.

But you refuse to see it for what it is.
You refuse to see the connection between the endless wars and the money that pays for your comforts.
The locusts swarm above, but you can’t hear their wings—because they’ve become a constant hum in the background of your life.

“And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power.”
— Revelation 9:3

They are not just drones.
They are not just weapons.
They are the very systems that control you.
The data collection, the surveillance, the manipulation of your thoughts, the endless mining of your personal information—they are the locusts of the modern age, stinging and paralyzing, but never truly killing. They are the slow death of autonomy, of privacy, of corporate synthetic freedom.

XI. The Sixth Trumpet: The Four Horsemen Stir

“And the sixth angel sounded, and I heard a voice from the four horns of the golden altar, which is before God, saying to the sixth angel which had the trumpet, Loose the four angels which are bound in the great river Euphrates. And the four angels were loosed, which were prepared for an hour and a day and a month and a year, for to slay the third part of men.”
— Revelation 9:13–15

The voices of the dead are silent.
The blood has already been spilled.
And now, from the very river that once nourished the lands, from the heart of empire, the four horsemen are set loose—not in mythic, grand gestures, but in the mundane, cold efficiency of the modern world.

The Euphrates river—where civilizations once flourished—now runs red, not with the essence of life, but with the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike. The angels are loose, and they bring with them the final destruction of one-third of mankind. But these horsemen are not abstractions.
They are real, and they are made from the very systems we’ve created.

They are not the scythe-wielding figures of mythology; they are the armed drones, the Blackwater mercenaries, the multinational corporations that profit from war and death. They are the politicians and oligarchs, seated comfortably in their towers, watching as the world burns, watching as the innocent are massacred.

Meanwhile in America:
The sirens of war are distant, but the vibrations are felt here too.
The bodies are still piled up on the streets of Gaza, but the protests in the streets of your cities are drowned by the hum of the endless news cycle and the relentless clicking of your smartphone.

The Euphrates may have dried up, but you still drink the water.
The horsemen may have loosed their wrath, but you still sip your latte and scroll through the latest cat video on YouTube.

War is a show.
Death is content.
The sounds of suffering fade into the noise of your life, indistinguishable from the advertisements that bombard you, indistinguishable from the hum of corporate-sponsored “news.”

The horsemen gallop across the earth, tearing down the structures of civilization. They are the engines of empire, the forces of destruction clothed in the corporate suits of America’s financial overlords and the technocrats of Silicon Valley. They are not riders on horseback—they are the soldiers in camouflage, the data-miners in the bright offices of Palantir, the drone pilots sitting in cushioned chairs, pressing buttons to make the world burn.

The fourth part of mankind is slain—not in battle, but by systems.
By software.
By surveillance.
By the weapons sold by the corporations that run the world.

We have entered the apocalypse.
But the apocalypse is not one of supernatural beings and mythical creatures.
It is one of military contractors, of mass surveillance, of profit-driven death.

XII. The Seventh Trumpet and the Bowls: The End and the Beginning

“And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever.”
— Revelation 11:15

The seventh trumpet blares its final warning.
But there is no salvation in this sound.
The heavens are filled with voices declaring that the kingdoms of this world—the ones that have been built on lies, on bloodshed, on exploitation—are now the kingdoms of the Lord. But do you hear it?
Do you hear the voice from the heavens, announcing the final victory?

No.

You hear nothing.
Because it was never about a divine conquest.
It was about an empire of silence.

The empire built on endless war, on surveillance that controls thought, on profits extracted from the lives of the dying—this empire does not fall at the sound of trumpets, but at the silence of our acquiescence.

Meanwhile in America:
The seventh trumpet sounds, and you sit, comfortably ignorant, in the glow of your screen, latte in hand, oblivious to the coming judgment. You scroll through your feed, catching glimpses of conflict, but never truly engaging. You are complicit, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You have drunk deeply from the cup of empire and now face the bitter taste of its consequences.

As the seventh trumpet blasts, it’s not the heavens that you fear—it is the emptiness of your own soul, the fact that you cannot hear the truth because you have silenced it within you.

The bowls of wrath are poured out.
They are poured out on you, on your country, on your soul.

“And the first went and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon the men which had the mark of the beast, and upon them which worshipped his image.”
— Revelation 16:2

The first bowl is poured out.
It is the bowl of wounds, of suffering made real. The mark of the beast—this empire of capital, of war, of surveillance—has been placed upon you, and now, the consequences are inevitable.
The sore that festers on your soul, on your skin, in your heart, in your mind—it is the consequence of a world that has allowed itself to be poisoned by the very systems it has created.

The wounds are everywhere now, not in some distant warzone, but in the streets of your city.
They are in the silent deaths of the oppressed, of the refugees, of the poor.
They are in the factories where people are chained to machines, working to build the very weapons that will tear apart the world.
They are in the data-mining centers where the ghosts of those who died in the last war are turned into numbers to be exploited for profit.

The second bowl is poured out.
It is the bowl of blood—the blood of the innocent, the blood of those who have been forgotten, the blood of those who have been made to disappear in the name of progress, of profit.

“And the second angel poured out his vial upon the sea; and it became as the blood of a dead man: and every living soul died in the sea.”
— Revelation 16:3

The sea is now nothing but blood.
It is no longer a symbol of life, of trade, of movement—it is the tomb of the drowned, the place where all the forgotten souls are cast away. The sea is red, not with the blood of sacrifice, but with the blood of empire, of war, of consumption.

Meanwhile in America:
You sip your latte, oblivious.
The cup is full, but the world is empty. You take another sip, watching the chaos unfold through the lens of your curated life, perfectly edited and completely devoid of meaning. The blood of the dead does not touch you—it is only a distant image, a memory you mute with the swipe of a finger.

“And the third angel poured out his vial upon the rivers and fountains of waters; and they became blood.”
— Revelation 16:4

The rivers, the fountains—they are now blood.
The waters that once nourished life now carry the stench of death.
There is no place to turn for relief, no source of sustenance. The very systems that should have nourished humanity have been corrupted. The world you thought was safe, clean, and refreshing is now nothing but poison.

And then the rest of the bowls are poured.
Each one more horrific than the last.
The earth is scorched.
The beast is unleashed.
The rivers boil.
The skies are darkened.
And the final judgment is cast.

The final reality, revealed in all its terrible clarity, is not a spiritual or divine reckoning—it is the reckoning of human choices, of systems, of consumption, of imperialism. The world ends not with a bang, but with the silence of our refusal to face the consequences of our complicity.

“It is done.”
— Revelation 16:17

It is done.
Not because the heavens opened or the trumpets played, but because the choice was always ours—and we chose silence. We chose complicity. We chose the cup of empire.

And now, the earth is empty.

This is where we end. The end of the world.
The final unraveling.
The final moment of truth, from which no algorithm shall shield anyone.

The Empire is training you to be compliant, obeying and afraid. Fear Us, for we are THE EMPIRE. As you read this, you will probably outlive the Empire, for it is crumbling, cracking, disintegrating before our eyes. It operates from a position of weakness, like Trump, Biden, Orban, Putin, Bolsonaro, Gates, Brin, Cooke, Bezos and Musk. They fear us far more than we fear them, because we colossally outnumber them. Live on your knees they command from their trepidation, their timidness they overcompensate for. Most of you live on your knees, sipping insipid liquids that fuel genocide in Gaza.

Revelation 3:15-16 (NIV)

"I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth."

Israel is to Gaza what Lt. William Calley was to My Lai—except Calley got a trial.

Say that aloud and the sky darkens: you're no longer criticizing a state, you're accused of resurrecting pogroms. The IDF becomes "the Jewish people." Calley gets a court-martial; Israel gets Iron Dome PR and a standing ovation in Congress.

To compare is to blaspheme. It’s not moral analysis—it’s blood libel. The narrative is neurotic: if Israel firebombs a hospital, it's national defense; if you mention it, it's hate speech.

This is the trick: turn war crimes into identity, then turn critique into bigotry. Lt. Calley shot civilians and was condemned. Israel does the same—and dares you to say so.

BlackRock invests in weapons, then washes its conscience through "humanitarian" fronts funneling cash to settler NGOs.

Lockheed Martin sends missiles, then sends tax-deductible “relief” via shell charities with menorahs on the logo and genocide in the fine print.

Goldman Sachs funds both sides of the war bond—arms in one hand, "aid" in the other, laundering apartheid like it’s mortgage fraud 2.0.

Amazon lets you “click to donate” to Israeli hospitals built over bulldozed clinics. Free two-day shipping, courtesy of occupation.

Meta censors the evidence, then partners with IDF-linked nonprofits to scrub the crime scene. Algorithmic cover-up as a service.

And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, with ten horns and seven heads, with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous names on its heads. And the beast that I saw was like a leopard; its feet were like a bear's, and its mouth was like a lion's mouth. And to it the dragon gave his power and his throne and great authority.

© 2025 - Ned Lud