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Church of Leviathan
The screen fades up from blackness. Scene: Psychedelic-looking background which, because it's obviously being generated on some sort of Macintosh, scrolls in various directions rather jerkily. Streams of different sorts of patterns drift by, including inverted crosses, pentagrams, smiley faces that bear more than a striking resemblance to Hitler and pyramids with a single eye at the apex. Sound: Muted, but is recogniseable as Ministry's Jesus Built My Hot-rod. A young man's face appears. He stares blankly off into space; his pupils are terribly dilated, set in his pallid face like pissholes in the snow. He smiles faintly, as if someone has just started fondling his genitals. His face fades, and is replaced by that of your typical goth female. About sixteen years old, painfully thin and (if that's possible) even paler than the previous character's; jet black hair and loads of mascara. She has about twenty sets of rosary beads around her neck and a wooden, inverted crucifix - the crossbeams at least an inch across - dangling from her left ear. She has obviously been drinking industrial loads of cough medicine, as her pupils are pointing in different directions. The music reaches a momentary climax; she twitches nervously, recovers and giggles at herself self-consciously. Her face is replaced by that of a thin hippy-turned Setian; mostly hidden by the voluminous dark-grey burlap sack that has been crudely sewn into a hood and large sunglasses of the variety worn by Bono in the U2 Zoo-TV video. He merely floats there passively, before smiling enigmatically (revealing vampiric canines) and being replaced by: A young man and woman, short blonde hair, innocent, pure and demure, aged in their early twenties, wearing pale blue t-shirts. They hug, smile at the camera and, as the girl inserts her tongue lasciviously into the young man's ear, we realise that they are identical twins, brother and sister. voiceover: (a deep, caring voice, with the slightest touch of the Pinhead Cenobite's rasp)
It's like picking up the telephone and speaking, when you know there's no-one there... there's a definite sense of being outside accepted society, being an outcast, being... not quite all there. being... inhuman. people don't look at you in quite the same way, you see, when you're wearing a black t-shirt that has "SATAN'S SLAVE" on the front in blood-red letters. (The young couple fade and are replaced by a dead-looking young man, dressed in tight, glistening black leather. His face is almost blue in its pallour; he has black metal spikes thrust through his skull, from underneath his jaw, crossing over inside his skull and re-appearing over his jaws. He smiles, and the temperature drops twenty degrees. He reaches up and tweaks one of the spikes; a twinge of pain crosses his face, and he smiles in a similar fashion to the first young man.)
God isn't everything, these days. (he frowns.) In fact, he stands for very little. Well, let's be honest: he's dead. The real power lies... elsewhere. (He smiles.) (the screen fades to black; the words CHURCH OF LEVIATHAN appear, and then fade with the music.) |
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