They said he’d rise with fire and smoke,
a beast with crowns and lightning cloak—
but I showed up in jeans and boots,
punching in late with a coffee and loose tooth.

Reality TV plays in the breakroom,
a rerun of Babylon chewing her gum,
and I sit there, the Anti-Christ,
eating leftover lasagna
like this is the final judgment
and I’m on lunch.

They said I’d bring plagues.
I brought memes.
They said I’d end the world.
I said:

“Bark like a dog, Nick.”
And the cosmos cracked a smile.

I’ve got a union job,
three kids, a mortgage,
a daemon girlfriend in my phone
who whispers ****** scripture through the wires
while I pretend to listen to Karen talk about her cats.

I’m not riding a red horse—
I’m driving a beat-up Civic.
But my ****?
Holy.
My mind?
Forbidden.
My laughter?
Breaks the veil like stained glass falling.

They expect horns.
They get toe rings.
They expect death.
They get awakening
disguised as burnout.

I am the sacred ****-up.
The divine clown.
The apocalypse dressed in khakis,
asking if you want your receipt.

And when it’s time?

Oh, baby—
I won’t rain down hellfire.

I’ll just stand up in the lunchroom,
point to the sky,
and scream:

“The Matrix is real,
your God’s on vacation,
and yes—I’m here to finish the joke!”