The aftermath was easy. For me there was no blood, no guts, no cleanup. I merely escorted them to the place they had longed for, the world they had envisioned but yet remained unseen by them. I gave them the utopias they were incapable of achieving within their waking lives.
The Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was perhaps my easiest case. Similar to Abraham and John Fitzgerald, he knew beforehand he was to die, having taken on such a gargantuan and dangerous task. Indeed, when I took John Fitzgerald from the convertible car in Dallas Texas, Martin realized his fate already. He immediately said to his wife Coretta: “This is what is going to happen to me also. I keep telling you, this is a sick society.”
Martin was right on both counts. The society was sick. My duty was inevitable.
Humankind amazed me. They had such an immense capacity for love. Their enormous striving and goals were honorable, but perplexing. The altruistic visions of many were squashed by the hatred and destruction of a few. Love and fear battled fiercely, and at that time fear won. Evil forces conspired against Martin.
He was a man of peace, one who studied the works of Mahatma Gandhi, one who determined that real change could only come about in the human world through peaceful protest and non violence. Martin was, of course, unarmed when he happened to walk out on his balcony of the Lorraine Motel on that evening of April 4th, 1968.
I arrived long before it happened, my own consciousness informing me of what was to occur.
I watched in silence as Martin breathed in the hot Tennessee air. The evil ones had already gathered around him, their slimy presence palpable to me though invisible to the human eye. Their odor was putrid and their deadly intentions sent a shiver down my spine.
“Why did you not intervene, Azrael?” you may ask me. “Why did you not save him, block the shot, do what was well within your power to do?” This is a question I have encountered many a time. But intervention was not my duty. Aftermath was my duty.
I still remember how the gunshot blasted through the pink Memphis sky, just as the gold sun set upon its horizon. I heard that shot loudly, and I shuddered, for even angels have ears. We too know terror. There was the seeping of blood as the bullet bolted through Martin’s cheek and I hastened to take him from the pain of his physical body. The ambulance arrived, rushing him to Saint Joseph’s Hospital where doctors would pronounce him dead within the hour.
Later the people were brought to their knees in grief. There would be protests and rioting, Martin’s death inciting the very violence he so abhorred. Yet humankind felt justified within this violence, for what more could they do?
The world of 1968 America was not ready of the likes of Dr. Martin Luther King. And so I took him from it.
Most would lay the blame upon a man named James Earl Ray. James Earl would be given a prison sentence of 90 years. But he was not the real shooter. Many knew this. Coretta knew it, wise woman. She is with Martin now, so in case you’re wondering, you can set your mind at ease. Justice is as justice does, though the laws of humankind are often corrupt. Nonetheless, all righting of wrongs is achieved on the karmic wheel. It matters not who pulls a trigger. The shot that struck Martin was delivered by not one, but a vast array of organizations.
The humans are peculiar creatures. Whenever one of them seeks truth, it is a government which ITSELF claims to be truthful that engineers their demise. So it was with Abraham, with John Fitzgerald and his brother Robert. So it was with the one called ‘X’, so it was with the one called Lennon, and so it was with Martin.
In America they kill their best.
The plot to kill Martin was deep and intricate, spreading its grimy tentacles across countries and governments. It involved CIA operatives, FBI leaders, Illumanati and Mafiosa, those so steeped in corruption that their lives were nothing more than power and greed. These are the Reptilians, the dark forces that dwell among you. They are known by many names. Beware them, for their mission is as old as earth itself. In as much as an angel can hate, I have hated them, for they have brought grief upon many a soul.
I cradled Martin gently in the soft April night. He was unused to his body of spirit, although his faith was deep. He was not even surprised to see me. I can still picture his smile, dazzling but expectant, the exquisite light in his eyes. He had always known me.
“Where will you take me, Angel?” he asked.
“To the Promised Land, of course,” I answered. “After all Martin, you had a Dream.”
He still watches you from dimensions exponential. He sees his vision achieved in a world much alien to planet earth. He still hopes that one day this piece of heaven will be brought to his America, that people will measure one another not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character
Humankind, I am told, have a long way to go.
“Free at last, they took your life, they could not take your pride.”