#17 Johnny: Chasing Down the Bloodline
In a world veiled by shadows, where the World Chancellor’s darkness threatened to engulf all hope, there existed a hidden lineage—the 144,000 pure-bloodline Jews scattered throughout the nations.
Johnny, The Day After, is a flash fiction short story series. Join Johnny in his degenerate journey into the mystic world of the new global Chancellor. Experience his loneliness, pain, sorrow, and rebellion and now victory as he serves the World Chancellor as the False Prophet.
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144,000 PURE BLOODLINE JEWS
In a world veiled by shadows, where the World Chancellor’s darkness threatened to engulf all hope, there existed a hidden lineage—the 144,000 pure-bloodline Jews scattered throughout the nations. These were not ordinary descendants; their veins coursed with ancient secrets whispered by Hebrew prophets and etched into their souls a message to seek out the true Messiah.
The authentic Jews heard the cry of the two final prophets the Hebrew God sent to unite the 144,000 Jews, 12,000 from each of the 12 Tribes. Their shout of the Shohfahr was heard in every nation. As Johnny and Apollyon watched the morning news, they heard the piercing sounds of the Shohfahr, sending chills up their spines and instigating an immediate rage.
Johnny finally accepted that the Antichrist was Apollyon, a malevolent force that rose to power. His dominion spread like wildfire, consuming nations and extinguishing the faith of all religions outside of his own. His eyes glowed with malice, and his iron-clad rule stifled freedom. The faithful trembled, their impotent prayers echoing through desolate streets.
But within the heart of this despair, the final Jewish remnant stirred. They were the keepers of forgotten scrolls, bearers of celestial symbols. Their blood sang hymns of deliverance, and their footsteps traced a path toward the final opportunity for salvation.
Elijah, the wise elder, led them. His eyes held memories of burning bushes and parted seas. His memories of Moses’s ingaff tapped the ground, and springs of hope gushed forth. “We are the chosen,” he declared to the remnant. “Our purpose exceeds flesh and bone. We carry the covenant—the promise of redemption.” Elijah’s voice was heard in every nation.
And so, the remnant began to flee their countries on a journey to their homeland. Their sandals kissed rocky soil as they crossed barren lands. The Antichrist’s hounds pursued, sniffing for the scent of Divinity. But the remnant moved like shadows, their faith cloaking them from prying eyes.
Elijah and Enoch, the ordained prophets, wore a silver amulet—the Star of David. It pulsed with Holy energy, shielding them from the Antichrist’s gaze. Both whispered prophecies to the wind, which carried their words to distant ears. “Fear not,” they said. “The heavens conspire in our favor.”
As they journeyed, they encountered trials. Rivers turned to blood, and locusts swarmed. Yet, the remnant pressed on, their hearts aflame with purpose. They sang psalms under moonlit skies, their voices inspiring one another with hope.
On the lonely patches of their journey, they would hear the voice of their Hebrew King, the promised Messiah. His words painted a new Jerusalem—a city of crystal spires and eternal light. “We are the living parables,” He proclaimed. “Our footsteps echo across epochs. The Antichrist’s reign is but a footnote in eternity.”
The Antichrist’s forces closed in. His iron chariots thundered, and Johnny, his false prophet, preached obedience. But the remnant clung to their heritage—the bloodline that flowed from Abraham’s covenant. They wore it like armor, unyielding against despair.
At the edge of Israel's border, they faced their greatest trial. The Antichrist’s army bore down upon them, weapons gleaming. But Elijah, the warrior, raised his arms. The ground trembled in a grand earthquake, splitting wide, creating a schism between the enemy and the remnant. Freedom cried out. The remnant freely walked to Jerusalem, hearts ablaze.
And so, they crossed into the dawn of their homeland. The Antichrist’s rage echoed behind them, but they carried the eternal fire—their bloodline aflame with purpose. They became whispers in the wind, legends etched into the fabric of existence.
The 144,000 pure-bloodline Jews—the remnant—were not merely fleeing; they were ON their final mission to seal the final covenant of their God. Their exodus was not from bondage to freedom but from mortality to eternity. And as they vanished beyond the horizon, their legacy whispered: “We are the remnant that defies the powers of darkness.”
Not being able to pass over the schism, Apollyon and Johnny boarded their helicopter and returned to headquarters. While on their return flight, Lucifaria spoke.
LUCIFARIA: Both of you are failures! Your efforts are like spitting into the wind. Listen carefully; I command you to offer the Jews to rebuild their third Temple. Before beginning this project, offer them a peace deal. Then, Apollyon, I command you to sit in the Holy of Holies as the world's ruler. Johnny, as Apollyon’s prophet, you will demand everyone on the earth to worship Apollyon. Mark each with my numeric code. Any who refuse it, kill them. Do I make myself clear?
While Apollyon and Johnny agreed to their master's commands, they were perplexed in the logic of their master’s plan. They remained silent.
Upon their return in the twilight of their existence, where realms intersect and darkness tends to fray, Apollyon stood at the crossroads. His eyes, twin orbs of obsidian, mirrored the abyss itself. Lucifaria, the fallen light-bearer, emerged from the shadows again, his presence both seductive and chilling.
“Apollyon,” Lucifaria whispered, his voice a serpent’s hiss. “Why are you resisting me? We will force the Jews to bend to our will. The Jews’ Second Temple lies in ruins, a fractured echo of ancient glory. Rebuild it, and you shall forge a new covenant—a mockery of their Divinity.”
Apollyon, clad in midnight armor, thoughtfully considered the proposition. His veins pulsed with defiance, yet curiosity gnawed at his core. “Why?” he asked, tracing sigils in the air. “Why this temple? Why now?”
Lucifaria’s eyes flared like burning embers. “Because,” he said, “the temple is more than stone and mortar. It is memory crystallized—a vessel for faith, longing, and fractured Jewish dreams. Its stones remember Solomon’s wisdom, Nebuchadnezzar’s wrath, and Roman fire. Rebuild it, and you rewrite history. Rebuild it, and they will worship you. Do it now!”
Apollyon immediately summoned his builders, architects, and planners. His team revealed animations and historic pictures of the Jews destroyed Temple. Apollyon surveyed the desolation—the toppled columns, the shattered altar. “And what shall I gain?” he mused. “Power? Dominion?”
Lucifaria circled him, a wraith in crimson bloody robes. “Not dominion,” he whispered, “but dominion over dominion. The temple shall be your paradox—a beacon of defiance against their divine order. The faithful will flock, their prayers like moth-winged offerings. You shall wield their devotion as a blade to sustain my dominance.”
“But,” the Apollyon hesitated, “what about the Hebrew prophecy? The temple heralds of their savior’s redemption, messianic hope.”
Lucifaria’s laughter echoed through the void. “Prophecy,” he scoffed, “is a graven image stirred by blind minds? Tear it apart. The temple’s stones shall be your runes—each etching a defiance, each arches a rebellion. While the 144,000 pure bloodlines will defy you, the mixed-blood Jews who remain faithful will chant your name, unknowing. Their fervor shall fuel your ascent.”
Apollyon clenched his fists. “And the Jews?” he asked. “Shall they dance to our tune?”
Lucifaria’s eyes flared brighter. “The Jews,” he murmured, “are the eternal fulcrum—the hinge upon which my destiny pivots. Rebuild their temple, and you will bind their souls to our purpose. They shall be your unwitting architects, their hands shaping the apocalypse I shall bring down upon them.”
Apollyon, walking nervously about his office, stepped toward Lucifaria. “And the Hebrew God?” he whispered. “Will He not come against our plans?”
Lucifaria leaned close, breath fetid with forbidden knowledge. “God,” he said, “is a fading echo. His gaze wavers, distracted by distant believers who no longer believe. The only way to destroy their God is to destroy His people. Rebuild the temple, and He shall blink—just once. In that moment, you shall be both architect and destroyer.”
Suddenly, Johnny burst into the room with a large stone on a cart – declaring, “Master, this is the cornerstone of the Jew's Second Temple.”
Lucifaria gleams with self-glory. “Well played, Johnny. The time has arrived, Apollyon, for you to become a builder.” And so, Apollyon raised his hands, placed them upon the stone, and blessed it in the name of Lucifaria—a fragment of memory, a shard of defiance. Lucifaria’s laughter swirled around him while disappearing into darkness - the Jew’s Third Temple is soon rising—a twisted spire against the Hebrew’s God and claim to the earth’s canvas.
Apollyon, Johnny, and their architects gathered, unaware that their manipulative plans were about to be fronted by the authentic God of the universe and beyond. The Antichrist, Apollyon, whispered to the stone. “This,” he vowed, “is not redemption. It is a rebellion against the God of the Hebrew people. While we failed at the Tower of Babel, this will be our master’s greatest feat.”
And the Third Temple began its ascent—a monument to shadows, a covenant with chaos.
Coming up next: THE PEACE DEAL WITH ISRAEL