I kickstarted your heart, Benz.
Pushed your fetal blood in the right direction,
connected your neurons.
The foam in your infant lungs,
I turned that into oxygen.
When your mom was downing Jack Daniels and then driving you to the park, I placed my hands over hers on the steering wheel.
When your dad came home, and they started screaming at each other,
I helped you pretend you were a cold-blooded fish at the bottom of the ocean, far away and safe.
At last count, one plane crash,
two collapsed elevators,
a massacre at the hands of a right-wing fanatic with an Uzi,
and 663 seperate sexual assults never happened because of me.
Now for the bad news.
I don't expect you to understand the political ins and outs of what's going on.
But you have eyes.
You ask me questions about the famines,
the same questions I've been asking myself for a hundred years.
The universe is... sick, Benz.
The constellations are wasting away, the nauseous stars are full of blisters and sores, and the infected earth is running a tempature.
Everywhere, the world's mind is filled with amnesia, and boredom, and paranoia.
Neurotic, the whole thing.
Because God is old, and dying, and this wasn't built to last.
Some all powerful being built a sand castle next to the ocean of extinction and populated it full of people who wuld pay the price at rising tide.
He's taking us all with Him.
If I don't do something soon, it will be too late,
I can't stop this with my own little hands, my own prayers anymore.
So I called a meeting.
I urged the Heavenly Hierarchies, the cherubium and seraphium and powers and principalities,
to vote to end the universal ruin by overthrowing our senile God.
Listen close, Benz.
Angels are going to kill the King of Heaven and restore the vitality of the universe with His blood.
But to lead them, I have to leave you.