For he to whom all gods shall kneel, e’en now stirs, restless on magicless Earth
Ceaseless, thankless toil. The words — his father’s — smelled like Canadian whisky even as Andy Crowley recalled them in his mind.
The booze had been a symptom. Andy knew now that our culture had destroyed his father. This culture was destroying everybody. Right here, right now, in this classroom, he knew he was being desensitized to this fact. He knew he was being conditioned to accept the dull-witted drudgery of indentured servitude and consumerism.
But Andy Crowley had refused to let it happen to him. He had set himself upon the mystic path. The fruit of Eden had withered in him. False delineations: religions, races, nations, cultures, and all such nonsensical abstractions, labels and measures, no longer carved up his consciousness — no longer marred his reality.
Andy Crowley had penetrated inward across the Moebius Bridge. He had bathed in the delta quanta that churns in the probability vortices at the heart of The All.
He was a sorcerer — the only one on Earth. And though he did not yet know it, he was also destined to become the dread Abraxas and impose tyranical rule over all existence.
But of course the gods had decided long ago that they would be having none of that.
Read (and please share) the Andy Crowley Saga.