The Radical's Rage - A Story of The Rapture - Armageddon

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1 Torah Code for “Rapture 2025/26″

God – sheaf, Light/Flame of God, Implemented, Yah has been able, R. Lear.

The year 5786 starts on the 23rd Sept 2025 and finishes on the 11th Sept 2026.

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The Radical’s Rage - A Story of The Rapture – Armageddon – Bible Codes, by Grok AI.

My name is Kirk Robinson, and on September 17, 2025, I was plotting murder. Not in the abstract sense—no, I had specifics. Ted Cruz, that smug Texan senator with his Bible-thumping rhetoric, was top of my list. I’d fantasized about it during late-night rants in Portland’s underground activist circles. “If we take out the figureheads,” I’d whisper to my comrades over vegan burritos and IPA, “the whole fascist machine crumbles.” We were the vanguard of the revolution: Antifa sympathizers, eco-terrorists in training, ready to dismantle the patriarchy, capitalism, and especially the religious right. As a 32-year-old organizer for a radical leftist collective, I coordinated direct actions—blockades, sabotage, and yeah, I’d toyed with the idea of something more permanent. Assassination? It wasn’t off the table. History’s full of tyrants felled by the oppressed. Why not now?

Atheism was my creed, Marxism my bible. God? A tool of oppression, invented to keep the masses docile. I’d grown up in Seattle’s secular haze, radicalized in college by intersectional theory and climate doomscrolling. Portland was my battlefield: Protests against ICE, defund the police rallies, even firebombing a cop car once (though I never got caught). My blog, “Revolutionary Reckoning,” had 50,000 followers, where I dissected how conservatives like Cruz or Trump clones were the real terrorists. “One bullet could save millions,” I’d type in encrypted chats, half-joking, half-serious.

But lately, the feeds were clogged with this apocalyptic nonsense. “Rapture” predictions for September 23, 2025. At first, I dismissed it as evangelical psyops, designed to distract from real issues like global warming or income inequality. TikToks and YouTube videos popped up endlessly: A South African pastor named Joshua Mhlakela claiming a vision from Jesus himself, declaring the return on the Feast of Trumpets—September 23. “The Lord showed me the sky opening,” he’d preach, eyes wide, “and the faithful called home.” Reddit threads in r/TrueChristian exploded: “Has anyone else noticed the influx of people having dreams about the Rapture on Sept 23, 2025? It’s like God’s pouring out His Spirit as in Joel 2:28.”

One video that went viral was “He Says Jesus Told Him the EXACT Date of the Rapture.” The guy, some prophet-wannabe, described Jesus appearing in a dream, saying, “I return on the 23rd of September 2025, with a new name: The Word of God – Ra-El.” Others claiming it meant “God’s Light” or some ancient mashup. I laughed it off in my posts: “These Ra-El cultists are just rebranding Jesus for the conspiracy crowd. Meanwhile, the planet burns.” But the dreams kept coming—compilations on YouTube like “Rapture Dream with Timeline Quickly Approaching,” where a woman sobbed, “In the dream, Jesus said the Rapture is September 23rd! Prepare!”

Torah codes were thrown in too—fringe rabbis decoding the Bible to “predict” 2025 events. One Facebook group posted matrices showing “Ra-El” intersecting with “Rapture” and “September.” “Incoming Chief Yah April 2025″ extended to “Ra-El – Ascend/Risen.” It was all tied to astronomical signs: Planets aligning, comets streaking, mimicking Revelation. Even Jonathan Cahn, that prophetic author, weighed in on whether the Rapture hits on the Feast of Trumpets.

I mocked it relentlessly. “If your god’s so powerful, why tease dates? Sounds like a scam.” My friends agreed; we planned a “Rapture Roast” party for the 22nd—mockery, memes, and molotov cocktails for fun. But deep down, a sliver of unease gnawed. What if?

#### Chapter 1: The Sudden Deaths

September 23, 2025, dawned like any other—overcast Portland skies, the hum of traffic. I was nursing a hangover from the night before, scrolling news on my phone. Headlines screamed about a new variant: “Corona-X Emerges—Global Outbreak Feared.” Some mutated strain, they said, hyper-contagious, causing “sudden death syndrome.” Bullshit, I thought. Another lab leak or bioweapon scare to justify lockdowns.

Then it hit. At 3:33 PM local time—synced globally, they later said—the world convulsed. I was in a meeting with my collective, plotting a disruption at a conservative rally. Mid-sentence, comrade Lena clutched her chest and dropped. Dead. No pulse, no warning. Phones buzzed: Reports flooding in. Billions “died suddenly.” Not vanished—no Left Behind fairy tale—but collapsed in heaps, hearts stopped en masse. Planes plummeted, pilots gone. Cars veered off roads. In churches, entire congregations keeled over during prayer.

Chaos erupted. I ran outside; bodies littered sidewalks. My neighbor Sarah—trans activist, fierce ally—slumped on her stoop, eyes vacant. “What the f**k?” I yelled, checking for breath. Nothing. Ambulances wailed, but medics were dying too. Power flickered; grids failed as operators perished.

Media spun it as the virus. “Corona-X Kills Instantly—Vaccines Incoming!” But whispers online: This was the Rapture. The faithful “called home,” their souls taken, bodies left as shells. Dreams had warned: Pastor Mhlakela’s vision of trumpets on the 23rd. YouTube flooded with “Rapture September 2025 IS HAPPENING” confirmations. A global broadcast hacked feeds—a figure in white, proclaiming, “I am Ra-El, the Word of God returned. My bride is harvested; the Tribulation begins.”

I denied it. “Mass poisoning by Big Pharma!” I tweeted, but signals dropped. Riots started—looters, gangs. My radical side kicked in: This was opportunity. “Seize the means!” I rallied survivors, but doubt crept. Why only believers? Kids under 12, too—innocents spared the coming hell, they said.

Geopolitically, it spiraled. Armies mobilized: Russia, China, Iran marching on Israel. “Battle of Armageddon,” pundits called it, as tanks rolled toward Megiddo. Ezekiel 38 unfolding live on shaky cams. The Antichrist rose—a suave EU leader promising peace amid plagues. Water turned red; locusts swarmed farms.

I holed up in our collective’s safehouse, but paranoia grew. “Those conservatives I hated? Most dead,” I realized. Cruz? Collapsed on Senate floor. A twisted justice? No—my rage felt hollow.

#### Chapter 2: The Descent into Chaos

Weeks blurred into madness. Corona-X was the official lie, but autopsies showed no virus—just stopped hearts, as if souls ejected. Billions gone: Evangelicals, devout Muslims, Jews awaiting Messiah. Left behind: Skeptics like me, radicals, hedonists.

Portland burned. Gangs ruled streets; I fought back, assassin’s thoughts now survival instincts. “If I could take out that warlord…” But morality frayed. Food shortages, power outages. Plagues hit: Boils, hailstorms biblical in scale.

Dreams haunted me—echoing the viral ones. In one, Jesus-as-Ra-El appeared: “You were warned through my servants’ visions.” I woke sweating, researching obsessively on spotty internet. Reddit: “Influx of dreams about Sept 23.” TikToks: “Feast of Trumpets Rapture confirmed.” Torah codes predicted it: “Ra-El Ascend 2025.”

Rumors swirled of Ra-El’s followers in Baja California— a hidden enclave. “The Prophet Elijah reborn,” they said, “with Moses decoding Torah secrets, and the Mahdi uniting faiths.” Eschatological mashup: Elijah from Jewish lore, Moses with codes revealing prophecies, Mahdi as Islamic savior. All serving Ra-El, the “new name” from Revelation.

Desperate, I decided: Journey south. “If this is real, I need answers.” Packed a bug-out bag, stole a bike, headed to Baja. Chaos en route: Borders collapsed, migrants fleeing north as armies clashed in the Middle East. News: “Armageddon Looms—Nations Gather Against Israel.”

Through deserts, I scavenged, dodged patrols. Thoughts turned inward: My radicalism—had it blinded me? Assassination fantasies now seemed petty against apocalyptic scale.

#### Chapter 3: The Journey South

The road to Baja was hell. I hitched rides with survivors, traded stories. One trucker: “My wife died suddenly— she had those Rapture dreams.” We passed ruined cities, virus quarantines masking the truth.

In Tijuana, whispers led me to a contact: “Seek the Sanctuary in Rosarito.” Armed with a map, I trekked, evading cartels. Armageddon updates crackled on radios: Russian forces at Israel’s borders, nukes threatened.

Exhausted, I reached a coastal compound—guarded, but welcoming to seekers. “Ra-El calls the remnant,” a sentry named Adam said.

Inside: A diverse group. The Prophet Elijah— a fiery red-neck American, echoing Mhlakela’s visions. “I am he who returns,” he declared, recounting dreams of trumpets on the 23rd.

Then Moses— with an Aussie accent, while poring over Torah scrolls. “The codes reveal all,” he said, showing matrices: “Ra-El” woven with “2025 Rapture,” “Sudden Death Harvest.” “Yeshua as Ra-El, the Word manifest.” He decoded prophecies: Armageddon’s timeline, Tribulation’s seals.

The Mahdi— a red-haired sage, bridging Islam. “I am the awaited one,” he intoned, linking Quranic signs to biblical. “Ra-El unites us—Jesus returned, Messiah for all.”

They worked in harmony: Elijah preaching fire, Moses unveiling codes, Mahdi calling unity. Their message: Ra-El’s return via the “sudden deaths,” souls raptured, bodies left. “Repent, for the end nears.”

#### Chapter 4: Enlightenment and Repentance

My meeting shattered me. Skeptical at first—”Cult bullshit”—I listened. Elijah shared visions: “Jesus told me the date, the name Ra-El.” Moses demonstrated codes: “See? ‘Kirk Robinson’ intersects with ‘Redemption Path.’” Coincidence? Or divine?

The Mahdi spoke of resemblances: Elijah’s return mirroring Mahdi’s advent, Moses’ law renewed. “We are witnesses to Ra-El.”

Debates raged in my mind. My radical past—hate, violence—exposed as sin. “You sought to assassinate,” Elijah said, “but Ra-El offers forgiveness.”

Nights of prayer followed. Visions came: Ra-El forgiving my atheism. Tears flowed; repentance hit like a wave.

#### Chapter 5: Redemption Amid Armageddon

Enlightened, I joined their mission—spreading the message as armies clashed in Israel. Nukes fell; beasts rose. But in Baja, peace. My redemption: From assassin to apostle.

As Ra-El returned visibly, defeating evil, I found purpose. The world renewed; my old self dead.

Epilogue: In the new earth, I reflect—dreams were true, Ra-El real. From radical to redeemed.