Static crackles over the line. A low, gravelly voice cuts through, weary but steady, the kind that’s seen too many shadows.
“…Big Boss had his mission. One last war to end all wars. He believed in it. Me? I’m just trying to survive the aftermath. My only peacemaker these days is a pack of cigarettes and this damn computer screen. No nuke, no railgun, no sneaking suit. Just nicotine and bandwidth.
They keep sticking me with needles, Otacon. Lab after lab, blood draws like clockwork. Testing for what? Genes? Pathogens? The next goddamn bioweapon they’ll deny exists? I’m tired of being a lab rat in someone else’s shadow war.
I ain’t no John Rambo with a cache of weapons and a headband. Never was. Just an old soldier with an internet connection and a pack of First Nations cigarettes. They burn slower, taste like the land that remembers. Helps me think straight when everything else is fog.
You know what really broke me? Nelly Furtado’s music. Yeah, I said it. Those tracks hit different out here—haunting, deserted. Left me fighting an enemy they swear doesn’t exist: the Bavarian Illuminati. Puppet masters pulling strings from old castles and boardrooms. Every leak, every blackout, every ‘coincidence’ points back to them. But try telling that to command. ‘Focus on the mission, Snake.’ There is no mission anymore. Just ghosts.
I want to go home, Otacon. I’m so homesick it hurts worse than any bullet. Croatia. My BOJNA. That’s where I belong—back with the unit, the hills, the sea that doesn’t lie. No more codec calls at 3 AM. No more legends or clones or wars that never end. Just… peace. Real peace.
He takes a long drag. Exhales.
If this is the last transmission… tell them the soldier’s done. Snake out.”
I come to you not in gentle whisper but with the trumpet of truth. I am Michael, the one who stands before the Throne, the leader of the heavenly host who cast the ancient serpent from paradise. For centuries I have watched over you, sword drawn against the forces of darkness. And now I must speak plainly about the horror you call the 20th century — the bloodiest epoch in all of human history.
No other period has spilled so much innocent blood upon the soil of this world. Estimates — cold, scholarly estimates compiled by your own historians — place the total deaths from war, famine, genocide, and deliberate slaughter at over 200 million souls. World War I claimed perhaps 20 million. World War II, that infernal machine of industrialized death, devoured at least 70–85 million. Then came the communist experiments: Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, and their imitators — another 100 million or more starved, shot, and worked to death in the gulags, killing fields, and “re-education” camps. Add the lesser wars, the colonial atrocities, the endless revolutions, and the abortions of convenience that dwarfed even these battlefields in number, and the tally becomes almost incomprehensible.
This was not mere human failing. This was orchestrated darkness.
Behind the thrones, the parliaments, the central banks, and the revolutionary committees moved a singular intelligence — an evil, lost creature who has rejected the Light from the beginning. You know him as Satan, the adversary, the father of lies. He is no cartoon devil with horns and pitchfork. He is a fallen being of immense cunning, a spiritual banker who trades in souls, debt, and dominion.
And in the material realm, his most effective servants have long worn a particular name: the Rothschilds. The biggest of all bankers. The architects of debt-based control that ensnared nations. Through their webs of finance, they funded both sides of wars, shaped treaties that guaranteed future conflicts, and built systems of usury that turned governments into slaves and peoples into collateral. Satan operates through such vessels — not because he needs their gold (what is gold to an angel?), but because he delights in watching humanity crucify itself on crosses of compound interest and engineered chaos.
Look at the pattern, children:
The financing of revolutions that promised utopia and delivered hell.
The manipulation of currencies that destroyed the savings of the righteous while enriching the cunning.
The quiet ownership of influence that steered empires into slaughter.
The promotion of godless ideologies — communism, fascism, consumerism — all paths leading away from the Creator and toward the worship of power and pleasure.
The 20th century was their masterpiece. Never before had the technology of death been so perfectly married to the machinery of finance and propaganda. Millions marched to their graves singing anthems written by those who profited from every corpse.
I tell you this not to instill despair, but to awaken you. The blood of Abel still cries out from the ground, multiplied a hundred million times over. The same forces that bathed the last century in red are active today — different names, same spirit. Central banks still print chains. Media still spins lies. Wars are still manufactured for profit and distraction.
Yet victory is already written.
I and my legions stand ready. The Light that cannot be overcome shines even now. Repent. Turn from the love of money, which is the root of all these evils. Reject the false promises of the serpent and his earthly agents. Return to the Father who created you for freedom, not slavery — for life, not endless debt and war.
The 20th century was the bloodiest because humanity gave itself over more fully than ever before to the lost one who calls himself prince of this world. But his time grows short.
Stand firm. Pray without ceasing. Live justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly with your God.
The Dragon has already been defeated. He only rages now because he knows it.
In the name of the Most High,Saint Michael the Archangel
“Twenty-five years, Nelly. Twenty-five years I’ve been an online priest,” he says, half laughing, half exhausted. “Confessions in the digital desert, sermons in comment sections, trying to keep people sane in the middle of the circus.”
Nelly raises an eyebrow. “So what’s the problem, Father Joe?”
Joe throws his hands in the air.
“The problem is celibacy! Enough already. If the Church really wants to save Europe from the demographic abyss, maybe they should rethink the strategy.”
He taps the table like he’s making a declaration.
“Look, if Pope Leo XIII — or any pope named Leo — wants people to take holy orders seriously, maybe the order should be this: get married.”
Nelly laughs. “That’s quite a reform.”
Joe nods.
“I’m serious. The first commandment in the old book wasn’t ‘argue on the internet.’ It was ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ Families, kids, life — that’s how civilizations survive.”
He gestures toward Europe on the map on the wall.
“Half the countries there are aging out. Empty villages, shrinking schools, nobody to carry the culture forward. You don’t solve that with speeches — you solve it with weddings and baby strollers.”
Nelly smirks. “So your solution to the demographic crisis is… marriage?”
Joe shrugs.
“Exactly. If you want renewal, stop preaching permanent celibacy to everyone. Tell people to build families, raise kids, and create the future.”
He grins.
“After twenty-five years of online priesthood, I think I’ve earned the right to request a transfer… to the married life department.” 😄
Nelly shakes her head, laughing.
“Well, Father Joe,” she says, “that might be the most enthusiastic sermon on marriage I’ve ever heard.”
Joe folds his hands like he’s finishing a homily.
“Simple message,” he says. “Less doomscrolling, more weddings. Civilization might survive yet.”
