On Friday, Jesus held a meal with his disciples.
He knew it would be his Last Supper, for he knew the path ahead of him.
On Friday, his blood was spilled.
He was beaten, whipped and nailed to a tree.
On Friday, the lamb was slaughtered.
Willingly.
And it was sin that placed him there.
As Jesus endured the sin of others that led to his crucifixion, so too must the sin of the Slaughterhouse be exposed.
He was betrayed, placed before those that hunted him down.
Men like Sigil and Viper Roberts, they are sinners of the same betrayal. They wear the blood of many on their hands, so their blood will be spilled in slaughter.
He was whipped, beaten by those that hated him.
SeeSaw and Impaler are born of the same cloth. I bear the marks and scars of their hatred. SeeSaw’s hatred is the very same today as that who held the whip that fateful Friday.
His fate was sealed with the signing of Pilate’s pen, that sent him to the cross.
Deathnote and Chronoa seek the same power with the signing of their own pen, sealing the fate of others with their own agenda.
He was mocked, stripped naked and laughed at by those who sought to benefit from his demise.
Sinful masses like the Rainbow Party, Jet Set Radio and Bad Mother Fuckers seek nothing more than the same chaos. They make a mockery of the path Vayikra prepare for those that seek the truth.
The masses shunned him, they called for his slaughter on that fateful Friday.
And it was all part of his greater plan.
To be the lamb that survived the slaughter.
When people think of the crucifixion of Christ, they focus on the Friday. They think of the horrors endured on that cross. The masses that called for his blood. They miss the entire point. For after the Friday, comes the Sunday.
And on Sunday, he cheated death.
He rose.
He ascended.
I walk in the path of light, for I have seen the truth.
The lamb must endure the slaughter in order for the miracle of Sunday to happen.
At Pandemonium, I walk willingly into slaughter.
A hostile environment where the only thing that is sure is that blood will be spilled.
I walk into a Slaughterhouse where those that still hunt me have their chance.
Those whose eyes cannot see Vayikra’s mission, the path I lay before us.
At Panedmonium, I will carry my own cross to Golgotha and await the slaughter that will surely follow.
My blood of the covenant, poured out for you. My body, broken for you.
But I am not a lamb like the rest.
I am a weapon.
A blade unsheathed.
I have endured my share of Fridays, where the sin of the Slaughterhouse is upon my shoulders.
Blood will be spilt, but it will not be mine.
It’s time to pay back the sin that nailed Jesus to the cross in the first place.
Sunday is coming.
My ascension.
Sunday, bloody Sunday.