Towns cheer and citizens march with lilted and joyful hearts at the sight of the funeral equipment convoying through their streets. Matériel strains massive tractors that fill both lanes and require entire power grids to be dismantled. The shadows cast on bay windows and the high frequency screams of the pavement under their tires and treads give away their presence, even at night with the lights off and shutters locked. Rand Paul is sometimes seen riding a load, his cowboy hat making bone cracking and tree felling sounds that somehow fill closed spaces and continue after he disappears over the horizon. Ron Paul Funeral City, 350,000,000 dead
Overnight, the bedside water-tumblers of Rand Paul’s network of friends spontaneously generate singular flawless calves’ eyes. The eyes, representing the clarity and purity, of both vision and thought required to imagine the new world of just actions. Just actions that the resurrection will force about for the fortunate and faithful. These eyes are immediately consumed by the blessed followers, who have spent the past twenty-four months calming filling all bodies of government and business and laying the groundwork for the deft bit of financial action which will direct all remaining fluid currency in the world towards the formulation of a specially impervious metal alloy and the casting of that alloy into the many ritual knives, each one to be placed at the head of each of a reinforced concrete funerary trough. Twenty-four months ago Rand Paul, who was given a message by and through the immaterial realm, large carp swam into his bedroom, gazed at him, and spoke to him. Rand recognized this male fish as a sacred missive and slit him open. The guts heaped upon the heated wooden panel floor and formed a sign – the split staff of wheat. He knew to choose thousands of his male followers to become the new semi solid mass who would forge the ritual knives, and precede the renewal of many edifices.
With each man accepting this, being tainted by politics and central government administration along with its regulation of commerce, he would become, like his knives, sacred. He would not be killed or sacrificed, and so never resurrected. One by one, each man accepted his fate, then, consuming his eye, he recites the threnody as one of 200,000 beautiful, pounding of a joyous tenor, bass, and alto voices:
We will be lone
We will be chemical
We will be the beds of flower beds
Upon which the resurrected may make love
350,000,000 dead will come awake in paradise
We 200,000 dead will remain sacred and silent beneath their feet
This is enough
This is enough
Ron Paul Funeral City 350,000,000 dead
Ron Paul Funeral City media representative note: this post was written by Dylan Ingraham, edited by a rpfc media representative, and submerged in a well for 3 days, on the 4th day it returned to dry land without any mortal intervention.
The constellation Sachi-fouix 2 is now underneath the Armenian rifleman’s star, which shines through small hollows in the grating covering the canopies of the largest grave machines.
And there is the highest star, which is called by Rand Paul, Sumsoun. Rand takes out an album, with Samo Mun written on its cover, and struggles to speak about it. He states the he likes that in life, it shone. He addresses thank yous to this star. It is set to die on the day of the completion of his father’s funeral city.
Rand locks his oil rigging gloves with a twist in the palm, and fits his hand around my wrist. “Your wrist is a field. My soldiers are garden genius. They play outdoor games.”–He points to 10 figures in the distance, smashing shovels and picks against a palm tree. “We learned it on the Congolaisse border when we searched for growing caverns."
His voice fails as a convoy of trucks smashes through the bush, meters from where we stand. Their beds are filled to pyramid points with shining wet stones. The drivers’ faces are impossible to make out through the ash on their windows.
Rand unfolds a survival rifle from his pack, it’s covered in yellow twisted bits of bark. His bloused boots shake out luminous black mineral shards as he moves. He aims it at me and says:
"Avoid the world’s plats, history and reflection are unavailable, my father’s teeth are the unbelievable beak . His bones grow now, and the light of the stars fills him. The Funeral City can build itself. We are only here to protect our constituents.” He glares at me through a veil and sunglasses.
And as the rocks under our feet began to sing in short bursts, naming stars now visible in the sky, I feel 15 blows. Blood calmly seeps into my eyes, and I scramble for a deeper part of the forest plateau. I hear Rand’s machine fire up and thunder away. Was there a new messenger? The rocks sang “Ron Paul Funeral City, 350000000 dead.”
Sintering machines line the causeway stretching from the outskirts of the city to an accessory marble complex. They buzz, day and night, fabricating angels’ wings to be bolted onto some of the beloved that may soon stand along this path. independent citizens, freethinkers all, may grasp bugles, hewn from the texas longhorn, waiting to trumpet the arrival of the pre relics to their final allocations. The future may end , all may stand on the edge of time. 350,000,000 dead.
Guest post by Félix Labillois, edited by Ron Paul Funeral City media representative