Isaiah prophesied the coming of Christ to salvage mankind from sin.
When King Herod caught wind of this prophecy he sent three wise men in search of the king of the Jews so that he too could behold his wonder.
Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar followed the eastern star that holy night. Weary after countless miles of travel deep into the desert, they happened upon the manger of legend.
In defiance of Herod, the magi offered the newborn gold, frankincense, and Myrrh to signify their devotion to their new king.
When the three magi didn’t report back to Herod he became incensed, and obsessed over maintaining his power by killing countless newborns to prevent Isiah’s prophecy from manifesting.
The magi knew Herod cared only for power, not for them.
You three stooges certainly aren’t kings.
And you are not wise, unless you consider your wisecracks wisdom.
When Pyre didn’t do as Simon said, the Taskmaster brought you into OSW to seek and destroy OSW’s kings: the Bad Mother Fuckers.
And when Ether led the three of you down Simon’s Starburst trail towards the Slaughterhouse, you arrived with three gifts of your own.
You offered your skateboard, scooter, and boombox as a trust, protecting your new sugar daddy Simon.
But the three of you are too consumed by Wiz’s supply of the devil’s lettuce to realize your benefactor is on a power trip.
King Simon doesn’t care about you. All he wants is power, and you’ve followed his plan to the letter as a means for him to maintain his stranglehold on OSW.
Out of the shallows now, you’re in too deep in Simon’s chess game without life vests.
You three better trade in your skateboard, scooter, and rollerblades for some flippers and scuba gear, because you can only tread water for so long before fatigue sets in.
And if you think Simon will send you a life boat before he wins the OSW championship, you’re sorely mistaken.
You see, Jet Set Radio, whether you’ve trekked deep into the desert or are lost at sea the result is the same.
No shelter.
No sustenance.
No way to live.
And both locales lead to the same destination: desperation and starvation until you become that very sustenance for something higher up on the food chain.
Unfortunately for you, you’ll be finding yourselves in the warm, tropical waters of the Slaughterhouse at FTW.
We three sharks of Vayikra are hungry.
And we’re out for blood.
Like three great whites we will sniff you out and sink our teeth deep into you, pulling you under, deep into the dark, cold waters of the abyss which you tormented Pyre with.
Bringing you to a manger of our own.
And you three shall be our offering.
Three gifts of our own:
Tag.
Ether.
Wiz.
The three of you with nails as sharp as shark’s teeth through your wrists, fastened to the cross to atone for the sins of your Grandmaster.
My hooded brothers and I bowing, kneeling before you.
And Yahweh’s light shining down upon you as a sign of acceptance.
Your destiny to never return to Soda Pop Frequency.
Deus vult.