me and beth moore sailing the ark encounter boat across the forbidden sea as my loyal awanas bodyguards hand out the limes, eat your lime jerry falwell, u don't want to get scurvy, the mist swirls around us now, we will bring the cure for covid back from the uncharted realms

riding zebras across the barren steppes, under a burning purple sky. our compass needles spin like so many dc talk cds. kyle james howard and carman have gone ahead, we follow their smoke signals inland, past the bones of the promise keepers who met their end in this cursed place

walking now, torches in hand. derelict baptist churches dot the landscape, like arkansas. we duck into one of them. faded jars of clay posters hang over dusty cassette racks. jackie hill perry guards the door with a crossbow. quiet, she says. the eyes of jan crouch are everywhere

onward into the uncharted realm; onward into the indian summer. beset from all sides by jan crouch's assassins. our numbers dwindle. shane claiborne left us in the night and took all of the capri suns. onward. the blood moon rises; john hagee sheds a single barbecue-scented tear

an abandoned christian coffeehouse. a parley with jan crouch. me and michael w smith walk in from the dust storm, peeling off our goggles and robes. crouch sits, guarded by the power team. i toss a stack of hobby lobby gift cards at her feet. give us the cure for covid, i whisper

jan crouch holds the gift cards between her garishly lacquered nails. she slides a burlap bag across the floor. "on top of the heritage usa water slide, there is a man. trade him this sbc rune for the cure."

michael w smith picks up the bag. we are not friends forever, he sneers

the days grow short. we wade across the cypress swamp, through curtains of spanish moss

what if we used the rune, whispers jonathan merritt. what if we used its power? no, jon-jon, says beth moore

michael tait leads us on, gently shooing away the cottonmouths in the dying light

the blizzard catches us in the mountains. we climb higher, into the cold, into the white

a hooded figure stands in the pass, flanked by ninjas. blocking our way

joel osteen pulls down his hood, his walnut hair stark against the driving snow. give me the rune, he says softly

jerry falwell jr unfurls his nunchucks, ready to fight. ready to die

jonathan merritt grabs the burlap bag from beth moore and drops it over the rock ledge. go get it, he tells osteen

osteen and his ninjas descend after the bag. we escape, rune hidden inside beth's Church Purse

into a valley, across serene fields of amber wheat. no wind here; no sound at all. raindrops hover in midair. streams lie still

my awana bodyguards take wives and raise families in the villages. days pass like moments. how long have we been here?

our memories fade in the valley

beth moore lies in a bed, worn and whitened. we gather close. we were never meant to tarry in the valley, she says as the rune glows in her hand

our white beards fall off our faces; the wives & children of the awanas turn to dust

and we are young, walking out of the amber wheat

through the valley, through the final test. the realm bends before us, drawing us to heritage usa. to our end

black smoke on the horizon. a dread rises within us

we crest the final hill to see osteen and his ninjas burning the park. we move to intercept them at the water slide

i knew you’d come, osteen shouts

that’s what she said, mutters michael w smith

osteen points to the top of the slide. a shadow moves on the precipice

HE doesn't deserve the rune, osteen screams

who? who is up there

jerry falwell steps forward, pale. my father is, he whispers