My name's Raliegh Epps, and I watched as the trumpets were blown.
The real hero of the Manson Family murders was a guy named Al Springer, a member of the Straight Satans motorcycle club. He answered the questions that finally led the LAPD to Spahn Ranch, the home of Manson and his girls. On one occasion Manson offered him all the underage girls he could want, a new motorcycle and a seat at his table after the coming race war; a chance to be the devil's right hand.
Time reset to this point after I watched Manson take over the world. The utter perversity of Manson, the devil-made-flesh, trying to tempt a Satan, and the biker rallying his morals and refusing, that sent out some sort of cosmic ripple. It spread out from California, grabbing hold of something small inside the hearts of good men, gaining momentum with each soul touched.
And for a moment, I got to watch him play, Jimi Hendrix, a legend in his own time. Time stood still for just a moment as he struck a chord in the middle of All Along the Watchtower, the tune nobody remembers Bob Dylan writing, because Hendrix took the song and gave it power. When I saw him, for the breath that paused for me like a photo, I saw him as beautiful, dressed in psychedelic hippie colors, mouth open mid-syllable, and the expression on his face one of utter, beatific care, eyebrows creased and head dipping forward.
I watched as the ripple touched him and, for just a moment, he glowed, the bright light fading with the guitar chord. He looked up, purpose radiating from his eyes. I remember him bending toward the mic and speaking. "There's some shit going down," he said, he voice bouncing off the walls of whatever venue he was playing. The room fell instantly silent. "We gotta put and end to it. I don't know what it is, but it isn't good, and I think it's my job to put it back in its place."
I worried for a moment his words wouldn't have any effect; after all, as speeches go, it wasn't much. But then the crowd screamed. Fists flew into the air in some sort of unplanned, perfectly coordinated, salute. Hendrix descended from the stage like a god from Mount Olympus. The crowd, a numberless throng, parted perfectly down the middle.
Hendrix passed them, one hand on his guitar, now riding down on his hip. As he passed, each fan took a knee. I still get goosebumps.
The next part of the vision jumps back to the California desert, like someone bumped the record player. I see the war again, but this time something different. This time the Mansonites are riding back to LA and an army of people, black, white and in-between are marching out of the cities.
I see Henrix, Fender Strat at his side like Excalibur, flanked by members of the Black Panthers. The scene cute between the two, miles and miles apart, like a showdown scene in a bad Western. Somewhere in the middle, Barstow maybe, the two armies meet and clash. I see Black Panthers fighting Bikers, elite troops, trained in the art of brawling- deadly if informal. I see Manson's Lilim rush Hendrix, Buck knives dripping with blood.
I see them.
Hendrix sees them.
I sweat.
He stays cool.
I want to do something, want to reach out with my incorporeal hands and cast the demons away from him, humanity's new savior. They close within inches and think he's going to play the martyr again, for the second time. No crucifixion this time, no rising in three days. I despair.
Then he makes a move. The Fender Stratocaster whips into playing position and his hands flick across the strings, fingers dancing like fairies. I see the sound as colored waves of light issuing forth, strong and clear and perfect, from an unplugged electric guitar. As the sound/light touches their skin, the Lilims' flesh is flayed apart.
Hendrix turns, playing something unexpected, something slow: The Wind Cries Mary. As his holy chords ring out his troops are emboldened. As they music washes over them, flagging warriors are born anew. The battle turns from a bleak stalemate to a route; a scouring of things unclean.
Later, the bloodshed done, the Enemy tries to slink back to his hole in the desert, to seek comfort in The Inferno. "Stop," a voice commands, more tender than seems possible. And he stops. "Face me." And he turns.
Hendrix hoists his guitar, grabbing it at the neck and thrusting it forward, body pointing toward the ground. He adopts the posture of every vampire hunter presenting his holy symbol, every rocker showing his finger to the man, every schoolyard kid who's finally had enough of the bully; the stance of conviction, of good fighting evil, of white over red.
And Manson blew apart. It wasn't gory or gruesome. It was as if he had been made of blocks or milk jugs and someone just won the Kewpie doll. Just...Boom.
And that was it. Humanity was saved.
We drank wine and sang. We rebuilt the world. And His was the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
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