“The only sentiment that divinity can inspire in feeble mortals is terror: and Michelangelo seems born on purpose to stamp this fear in the soul..” Stendhal



“In everyone of us, a demon lies hidden.” Dostoyevsky



“Could it be that wisdom appears on earth as a raven, inspired by a little whiff of carrion?” Nietzsche



“Don’t eat your heart.” Pythagoras, 582-500 BC



“To abstain that we may enjoy is the epicurianism of reason.” Jean Jacques Rousseau



“Stolen waters are sweet and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” Proverbs 9:17, 350 BC



“There is death in the pot.” II Kings 4:40



“Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die.” I Corinthians 15:32





THE LAST JUDGMENT

In the beginning, Satan hired a Chef, uncertain how things start. He didn’t understand beginnings since he couldn’t remember ever having one. He didn’t have a definitive hold on time, a sense of why it was so calculated and valued, or why it ran the outside world—except, of course, through hearsay. S passionately wanted to understand.

S understood the love of pleasure in excess. Pleasure was good--new pleasure, not experienced before, in particular. S loved food, for example, and s/he loved gazing at the Sistine chapel, and s/he’d never tired of either, so s/he thought, what if s/he combined the two? That would be a new pleasure, even a pleasure in excess. S loved to indulge freely.

S knew that his failure with time was an inbred eccentricity, that s/he could adopt the formulae of the herd, do as everybody did, and fit in by worrying about time at least in pretense. Despite her inconsistent efforts to view time as an enemy, in practice it left S indifferent. Some saw time as a killer, some as a healer, depending on the time. But S did not believe in change. S didn’t believe in much beyond the experience of the moment, and within the confines and infinite of the moment S understood time perfectly and enjoyed it too. At best, s/he believed in seasons. The creation. The drought. The flood. The flow. The ebb. Panta Rein. No matter. Nothing is real. In the grand pictorial, nothing ever changed. Only each moment changed. So S lived for the moment and for the fun of changing the moment to her delight. Affecting the outcome of time was her hobby, for s/he lacked a true purpose. Enjoying oneself could not be construed as true purpose, not in biblical terms, which were S’s genetic terms of contract. Time became a problem only when s/he got a greater yearning for the world and wanted to open his doors to it for his corporeal stimulation and enhancement. Having no concept of time and its limitations, S had no reason for moderation or self-restraint, which the herded use to prolong their short lives and improve their biological constitutions. S found it pointless to engage in a contest against time, since time did not exist, but no language was adequate to explain to his guests that time did not contain him, and s/he disliked the help of fables and metaphors. So S lied to the world, which meant s/he lied whenever s/he spoke, which was the true nature of all language and communication, approximating definitions that satisfied his interlocutors and excused his famous tardiness, chaotic nature, and dyschronia. S felt misunderstood but understood that everyone else was too. Everyone else was drifting, bobbing and weaving, drowning in time. Cattle floating. Logs swirling fast. Fish traveling in bursts. Ascending, descending, freewheeling, free roaming. Time was a rushing flood. Time was fluid and rough, and pulled everyone who believed in it down, like anchor, like stone, like bait. Time pulled those caught in its invisible nets down a spiraling void and into a vast roving blue eye that was, in a sense, or in essence, God. God was abstract as time. S liked God not as another would like dawns and sunsets but as a final challenge.

Her favorite story was that of Kronos, which s/he spelled Chronos, the tale of God eating his children. It warmly reminded S of his own parents. Unlike time, God was a problem Satan could take on, partly because it remained incalculable and nameless. God couldn’t be measured in equal predictable units, or used as a measuring rod for oneself. God was so abstract that he or she (most probably it) didn’t even eat. But the taste for and of one’s own children, the superhero’s superhuman hunger portrayed in the old tales, the demiurgic fondness for control and satiety, the double-edged love of family corresponded to passions Satan understood and seasonally shared. Personally, s/he saw a monumental and overlooked difference, or rather an opposition, if any two things could be said to be opposite, between God and time. Most people, as the all-consuming God’s avengers, mistook the original terms, Kronos for Chronos, and instead of killing God, they’d been killing time. Satan couldn’t kill anything s/he didn’t understand, such as time, which was why s/he abstained from senseless killing, but s/he hoped to understand God eventually well enough to kill it. Her. Him. Maybe eat it. S also liked the tale of Prometheus.

Prometheus was the hero thief who robbed God and gave man the precious fire God had kept to itself. Fire led to cooking and the rest is culinary history, one of S’s favorite topics. S had been born six-fingered and six toed, so s/he would have made a great thief and escape artist, but the extra two pinkies were chopped off at birth by doctors at the mercy hospital his parents had found refuge at. Her six toes were still intact, and were thought to give her extra sense of balance. Myths told of many angels and avengers, like Constantine the Liberator of Constantinople, who would be reborn six-fingered and, at one point or another, S had been mistaken for them all. His neat symmetrical exquisite toes and size 10 feet looked amazingly correct and beautiful, making those who saw them feel deprived and malformed. S was often uncomfortable in his skin, fidgety, nervous, itchy, her toes & fingers tensed as if she could hear scratching styrofoam inside her skull. But no one noticed. S ‘passed’. In the beginning there was the word & the word was misunderstood—and mistranslated, misattributed, mistraded for a brand new set of steak knives. But what is fun but what is taboo? S didn’t ‘believe’ in genders; s/he couldn’t conceive of the ‘difference’. S was gender blind, as well as time blind. S was a handicapped citizen of the world. Like Prometheus, S was muscular, impulsive, engrossing, and, in his manner, all-encompassing. S was a graceful and generous host. Her favorite gesture was the raising of her arms like wings—like a heavenly manic conductor—just before the imparting of gifts. S claimed the gesture recharged the nervous system and when the nervous system was balanced her life was balanced, so s/he repeated the gesture for stretches of time. S believed in a healthy flexible spine for a healthy flexible mind. When her mood turned jolly, her desires came to pass. Another might have looked ridiculous, as if obsessively protecting his eyes from bright light or constantly practicing a postmodern balletic reproduction of the ancient adorant’s pose, but her gestures conveyed authority. S looked about to soar through the sky, float out into the ether, cross the firmament. That’s how Prometheus must have felt right before he made the decision to rebel against Zeus. Prometheus means Forethought. He tried to trick Zeus, who knows all and sees all, with a false sacrifice. Then Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to the primitive mortals on the earth. Zeus did not punish Prometheus alone. Zeus punished the whole world for the effrontery of the one rebel.

Prometheus was a god long before Zeus took the eternal throne. He was no fool. He fought against Zeus’s crazy father Kronos (which should be spelled Chronos), but he saw that Zeus and his new Olympians had no more compassion for the mortals toiling on mother earth. Zeus planned to reform all creation. After he cut off his father’s testicles and confined him forever in black Tartaros, Zeus took no interest in the mortal race, except to declare that knowledge would only bring them misery. Despite Zeus’ warning, Prometheus took pity on them and gave them all sorts of gifts: brickwork, woodworking, telling the seasons by the stars, numbers, the alphabet (for remembering things), yoked oxen, carriages, saddles, ships and sails, healing herbs, seercraft, the mining of precious metals, animal sacrifice and all art. To compound his crime, Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to people in their dark caves. The gift of divine fire unleashed a flood of inventiveness, productivity and, ironically, respect for the immortal gods. Culture, art, and literacy flourished. When Zeus realized the deception, he had Hephaestus shackle Prometheus to the side of a crag high in the Caucasus. So Prometheus hang, tormented by Zeus’s eagle who tore at his immortal flesh and devoured his liver. Every night, as the frost bit its way into his sleep, the torn flesh would mend so the eagle could begin anew at the first touch of Eos (Dawn). Gods punished gods for being godly. So the gods lost their right to rule because they lost their hearts. Zeus’s anger flared on. So he gave humanity one final gift to undo Prometheus’s gifts. It was a curse in the shape of a pretty young girl. He called her Pandora (it means ‘with every gift’, ‘all endowed’). Her body was made by Hephaistos who gave her fluidity and voice. Athena gave her dexterity and inventiveness. Aphrodite added a spell of enchantment around her and Hermes put pettiness in her brain. Zeus gave Pandora to Ephemetheus, Prometheus’s brother. He knew never to accept gifts from the Olympians, but one look at Pandora and Ephemetheus was helpless. He could not resist her. He accepted her willingly. When the gift was ‘opened’, evil and despair entered into the world. Mistrust, misery and disease spread over the bountiful earth. After Pandora was emptied of her curse, only Hope was left inside. Unreasonable, groundless Hope that makes the curse of life into a blessing. Hope was S’s unspeakable mistress.
One day as Prometheus was hanging, shackled to the rockface, he saw Io, who was also being punished by Zeus. She had been transformed into a black and white heifer and was cursed to wander, prodded by a menacing gadfly. Her future was slightly better than his because she was mortal and would die and be rid of her earthly torment. He was immortal. His torment would last forever. Io greeted him and moved on. Her journey was crucial to Prometheus’s release from his bondage. After wandering to Egypt, Io was returned to her human form and had a son named Epaphos. Thirteen generations later, his descendant, Heracles, Zeus’s bastard, climbed the mountain, killed the eagle and freed Prometheus from his shackles.
S liked to pass judgment, to the elect and the plebeians, and dispense blind fortune. If s/he were the doorman at a popular private club, lifting the velvet rope to let in the chosen ones, s/he would have been easier to explain. People tried to suck up to him, impress her, dress the part, guess his likes and weaknesses. His impromptu private parties were legendary and those invited were sworn to secrecy and if suspected blindfolded and relocated. In time, her inconspicuous downtown residence assumed a mystical aura. People sensed s/he lived at an epic scale, in a state of grandeur and grace far above the norm. It showed in his heavy-lidded burdened eyes, downcast with determination and mild wrath, in the ironic smirk of her pouty mouth, in the raising of his right arm as if to strike or silence the word. When s/he was in public, s/he seemed to occupy center stage or field, as God’s sublime bouncer. Her hair was wild and unkempt, his lips unnaturally red, her eyes burning coals, her nipples erect and visible, his body naked but for some piece of exotic clothing that almost accidentally hid his genitals. What those genitals were could be anybody’s guess. Because of his size and majesty, s/he was usually assumed to be a man. But whether s/he was a he, or a she, s/he wouldn’t answer. S/he had equal desire for every gender of every species, if that could have been any indication, and in this s/he’d never wavered. S was not clear of others’ genders either, though s/he preferred them nude and did his best to undress them with her eyes or stories or beverages or the Olympic size hot tub in his den which s/he never used alone as s/he personally disdained being submerged in heated churning liquids--a condition that seemed to him better suited for edibles of which s/he hoped never to be one, though in his most daring fantasies s/he saw herself at the center of a great unending table, covering the length of the earth, his meat abundant enough to feed the entire planet’s population, with a gigantic apple in her fleshy mouth and a colossal carrot in his bum and her bedroom eyes wide open and his seat of pleasure taut and erect and pointing toward the heavens and her pleasure box open and soaking ready. When not alone, s/he was surrounded by dozens of lovable flaccid penises vulnerably drooping at rest and dozens of glistening labia opening and closing soundlessly in response, budding assholes and hardening clitorises and gonads of all varieties and gravities. S felt at home in their midst, as if this were his cherished garden. S liked the energy of crowding genitals. S demanded nudity, swapping of partners, orgies, and the attendant morality. S was not equipped for monogamy. Yet while constantly facing the genitals of guests, employees and so on, s/he never noticed or understood the difference, never felt more or less drawn to one type or another and, having seen numerous, s/he failed to penetrate the going notion that the body was a dualistic polarized set of dichotomies. But s/he’d rather enjoy her pleasures than emigrate to the Himalayas where s/he could live by a frozen pool as a hermit fed on his odd ideas; so s/he went along with the majority assumptions and lied her way into intimacy, for the sake of her goal: the pleasure of being surprised by human flesh and its uncharted potential. S liked feasting, arguing, and orchestrating, but liked being surprised most of all.
Her indulgences required a common unrefined language free of exactitude. S/he spoke and exaggerated and elaborated for relaxation. S/he took up needlepoint copying some modern black men he’d met in areas of public transportation. S/he knew symposia were a passé, futile pastime, even more useless than the shakily knit colorful caps s/he’d watched those men quietly make. What had struck him about their commitment was their humility and bodily ease, weaving as if they had all the time in the world, as if knitting could render them immortal. That s/he identified with. S/He could be making hundreds of worthless tiny boats out of aluminum foil, stopping for a quick bite and a nap, every day and all day to the end of her days, if such a thing as an ending were conceivable for her, and s/he would have happily done just that, if s/he had not been marked with a greed--some might call it appreciation--for sensual delights. In short, s/he had to touch any- and everything. Not just once, but every time s/he noticed it. Perfected sensuality involved sharing, and that’s where sharing food and wordplay became his necessary past time, a way to while away his time while s/he was entertaining others, which in turn freed and forced them to entertain him. In that context, beginning was part of the (fun of the) Party.

S loved entertaining. If s/he could be said to have a career, it would be hosting.

The city authorities had generously rewarded him with a lifelong income, salary and full benefits, to atone for having robbed him of a childhood and having kept him in a glass bauble for a dozen some years while the “trial of the century” raged on from court to higher court to Supreme Court. In all those years, s/he had not been sent to halfway houses or foster homes, in case it might mar his solemn disposition, that very character (one might more correctly call it soul, though the city did not in the legal papers) that the city had spent millions of tax dollars to protect from his parents’ damaging irresponsibility, that character which his parents had sacrificed their properties and lives to reclaim the right of shaping as they saw fit. By the time it was all over, it was too late for either side to educate him, and that was probably the single factor that brought all the vicious legal battles to a compromised end. The case closed--but was not solved--when the Justices decreed that he was mature enough to choose his own name. The public overwhelmingly agreed with that decision; people were so tired and disillusioned by the rollercoaster of injustice and the daily television coverage, year in, year out, that all the city’s fears that the lack of a legal commitment would lead to more similar cases, proved unfounded. In a sense, the city had won: it would take a long time for a couple to baptize their child Satan again, even if it was not illegal. The generations who had lived with his plight, the generation of his parents and that of his own, had been burned out and taught assimilation by the media barrage that assaulted his life. They’d rather name their son Mary than Satan (not that s/he ever thought of herself as a son), they’d rather go to the city register and pick out a name already used, tried and true, than register a name that could cost them their home, their jobs, their good name and credit and their son, and put them under the brutal scrutiny of reality TV, all for the sake of individualism and pride.

It saddened her that his parents worked day and night to pay famous lawyers and lobby his cause and as a result they owned nothing and had no financial security and had forgotten the joys of indolence and self-abandon and had spent their adult lives feeling unjustly singled out, persecuted, paranoid, and terribly anxious. Since minor civil suits were still going on in his name, s/he was forbidden to live with his parents who now needed him to comfort their prematurely old age. S/e was not free to give them money, which s/he’d like to, because it was city money and his parents were legally the city’s adversaries. S/he gave them lavish gifts, what s/he could without being accountable, like jewelry and china, and only stopped short of a house or car, although in recent months s/he had developed an elaborate scheme to take money out of the country and bring it back in under a friend’s name and buy them a house and a cemetery plot. S/he didn’t like being with them because the years in courtrooms had made them into tedious fanatics, bitter, enraged, maligned, predictable, too polemical. They talked of one subject only and because of the nature of that subject they continued to see him as their newborn baby whom they had the right to name as they wished. And they defiantly called her Satan.

No one else did. No one dared. A few rebels would have liked to but worried about bringing her bad luck or evoking something unknown and uncontrollable.

What is in a name? S was name-blind. How was his name worse than kids s/he met at school named Brecht and Dick, Dakota and Troy? Throughout her interminable early years, when his inborn indolence had not adequately blossomed, s/he used to stamp his foot and think: If life could just get started! S/he’d bite his fists then, or hit them against the wall or kick at inanimate objects until the physical pain temporarily subdued his monumental impatience and dissatisfaction. S/he cut words of protest and poems of personal emancipation into his upper thighs and growing forearms and bid ‘his’ time.

Her education had been thorough but never informal; s/he’d gone to school every day of his youth, even on court days, and had been a star pupil, a pride to the city that mothered him. S/he lived under the distant supervision of busy judges, court-appointed guardians and superintendents, and at election times he lived in the households of mayors or governors or their opponents, and in between he lived at his regent’s or principal’s house. All his hosts had been shy and impersonal, lacking in confidence and devotion, self-conscious about dispensing intimacy or affection to someone so protected from it. To begin with, no one knew what to call her, which made familiarity a taxing, troublesome task. No one claimed him as their own or offered to adopt him, because his parents had never been judged unfit to raise her, and the metaphoric instant they would merely agree to change his name in the city register, the city would only be happy to return her to their care. It was widely accepted that his parents were smart ideologues, too smart for anyone’s good, talented educators (both were tenured professors of theology when S was born) and for a long time people expected that they’d soon see the Light (Majority Rules). But ideology, the first Amendment, separation of State and Church, parental prerogative, children’s rights, the parameters of social abuse and other bigger-than-life issues kept them inflamed, and his little life got lost in the big picture. When the presiding Justice had asked him into his thickly carpeted office inside the Supreme Court to choose a name for himself at last—s/he must have just turned 18—s/he was flabbergasted. It was the most extraordinary thing s/he’d ever heard. S/he’d never chosen anything before.

For a kid who grew up in the nameless system, that graying judge was a liberator like Lincoln or Brown must have been for Southern slaves at the brink of America’s civil war. He had flaky hair, dry skin, a hook nose, a drooping flag standing behind him, and a dignified or portentous air. At first S said, without hope, s/he’d rather stay as s/he was, nameless. After a severe head shake, the judge prodded her on, and s/he loved him to bits for it. He was the first person s/he ever loved and lusted for. S had felt her body tingle, tremble, and open up. S/he asked if s/he’d lose her benefits if s/he chose the original name that the city had fought to protect her from. The city’s lawyers had long argued that if the baby had been mature enough, s/he would have protested his satanic fate himself, and the city did so in his staid while s/he couldn’t safeguard his own interests, because his selfish parents treated the child’s name as an opportunity for civil libertarianism or worse for social unrest. It had been the only name s/he’d ever been associated with, the name s/he was called by in the news and the tabloids (“Satan Boy Still Homeless,” the gaudy headings invariably accompanied by a caricature of him, seven-years-old with pointed ears and horns), and s/he didn’t feel comfortable choosing any meaningless ad hoc new name, like Bob or Horatio, and with it a new identity in whose guise s/he could disappear within the herd. The Justice looked miserable by then. He told S her settlement was irrelevant to her name, which as an adult s/he was free to select. S asked to remain in the archives as she’d been registered from the beginning, a beginning s/he didn’t remember, and this was her way to repay his parents for the expense and heartache and nervous disorders they’d amassed, and also to retain a sense of fortitude and hopefully self. To his surprise, the press had hushed it up. But even people in his closest acquaintance couldn’t bring themselves to call him by his given (Christian?) name. It didn’t lend itself to a nickname, as his parents must have foreseen. At his bank or neighborhood restaurant, at the mall and the airport, when he signed Satan in ink in his floral handwriting, tellers and waiters momentarily shivered and stared with a lost expression. The exposure of the trial had failed to get people familiarized with his name. The taboo lurked on. The name gave rise to an oppressive terror more powerful than anything evoked by Jesus or Mohammed or Krishna. So S called herself S to avoid scandalizing her surroundings. S became S so as not to lose guests and generate a shortage of companions. But S was no abbreviation.

So S had a problem with beginnings, but his blood never failed him: it worked as a compass, a fine instrument, bubbling up in an unmistakable way when it was his turn to speak up his truth or to consume. S could be sitting in front of his fireplace, watching the flames play eternal, lost in their colorful freedom, wordlessly imagining a life free of beginnings, and thus immortal, when his blood would act up, his heart would race under the pressure, and he’d jump up and cry out: I’m lonely! I’m famished! I’ll have a party!

At such a time, a Chef was a start, a simple start S could control--especially an inspired and impassioned chef who pulsated with the ambition to experiment and start his own school of food. S didn’t like beginning a feast with emaciated chefs, the type who have transparent skin under which s/he could trace the throbbing veins, who barely tasted the victuals and turned over 10% of his payment to a spiritual guru. And S didn’t like the showy stand-up-comedian type who cooked with theatrical flair and talked nonstop to an unseen record-keeper. S also disliked the bloated potbellied chef who’d tasted everything under the sun and seemed ready to burst and gave the impression that moderation was not to be mocked. S/he liked to mock moderation, liked to eat to the point of bloating, and simply didn’t like disharmony. Harmony was what kept him, in a private manner, sane. Disharmony pu(t)rified her. And it annoyed her. So S avoided the disproportionate midriffs. But, since that was the personality of chef s/he wanted, s/he made sure to get them young, at the start of their careers, fresh and impressionable like all the produce in her house, crisp, meaty, not yet safe and wise in their accumulated appendages of fat.

His own appendages grew and shrank like, s/he thought, the marvelous folds of a six-foot vagina. When s/he became excited, and the timing seemed to be affected by lunar cycles as much as any other cycle, his flesh expanded, and it became impossible--not that s/he remotely wished to--to control its progress. When this mysterious desire to throw a Party enveloped him, s/he bloated methodically, at first becomingly and later grotesquely, until the mysteries of human limitation, of chance and destiny, his knowledge of the co-eternal and the cosmos ceased to interest him half as much as the frequency of his preposterous life-threatening bowel movements, and his own body gave him more dread and shuddering than the invisible world through which he invited his guests to help him adventure. S persisted with his hosting duties, however, until the moment when s/he felt s/he had reached satiety. No matter what disturbing riddles eluding exact demonstration were challenging his faculties and the minds of his guests and interlocutors at that instant, as soon as he felt anchored by the enormous weight of change in his flesh, S preemptively kicked all the revelers out. His satiety and well-being lasted for quite a long time as he thinned down and detoxified and shed what felt like all the guilt of the world. Once s/he returned to a position of rest, his body withdrew, his skin grew taut and strong, his teeth were set shut, and his flesh became his armature. This happened once every season, four times a year, which meant four parties a year, usually on the equinox.

Every beginning implied an apocalypse--same as an end. The fact that there is a word that means ‘start’ means nothing about getting started. Starting is the greatest mystery. Some said it was the flood; others thought it was the creation of the planets, or the separation of light and darkness or the Big Bang; a few argued for the creation of Adam, or even Eve (proving his sense that life always began in the middle--in the middle of itself or of itself under another name). Most people mistook any genesis for a clean beginning and sought respite in breaking and entrying and being initiated; baptized. The faithful viewed baptism as a beginning, before which existed nothing but eternal damnation. Satan had no idea what one meant by eternal or damnation (although s/he was seduced by words that lacked tangible referents and signified a carte blanche for the speaker’s and audience’s imaginations.) In his non-professional view, eternity excluded any beginning. Any beginning was embarrassing to the beginner by its nature of being subjective--a presumption, a matter of speech. But for the sake of his guests, to reassure them of the presence of (law and) order, s/he would go through the motions of beginning, and s/he always ‘began’ with the Chef. With the Party “begun,” s/he could improvise, humor his innate tendency to enlarge life toward harmony. At the core of her preparations was her gift of transmission (translation, passage, communion), of touching; what in more naive ages they called wisdom. S treasured fingers as much as faces and genitals, as his areas of human study. S/he touched them without judging them, not knowing how to judge; despite having stood mutely before interminable judges, s/he had learned no criteria. As far as S was concerned, his had been the Last Judgment on earth.

It might have been this prevailing air of lawlessness and inclusiveness that brought people to his parties. They accepted his invitation out of the irrepressible human inclination to travel into the unknown. They looked to him for guidance, even though s/he let them dive headfirst into their private hells. S found inebriation in numbers.

And S found his next Chef in prison, and his name was Jonah.



JONAH

Jonah was a seafood chef. He was easily tempted, which justified his current stint in a Southwestern jail. He was an outspoken buffoonish cook, but a firm believer in the possibility of sensual fulfillment. He believed in the inviolate sanctity of all beings that he served. He loved flesh well tended. He specialized in big fish. And Satan loved to catch and show off the biggest fish. So S’s unbeatable legal team opened up the gates of prison and Jonah walked out into the late March sunshine a freed and deeply obligated man.

To be continued in the order that follows…



The Diagram of Satan’s Feast, in Part:



THE HANGING OF HAMAH SERPENT OF BRONZE



AMINADAB JACOB-JUDAH-ABRAHAM-ISAAC PHARES-ESRON-ARAM NAASON



SEPARATION OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS



LIBYCA JEREMIAH



CREATION OF THE PLANETS AND STARS



JESSE SALMON



DAVID SOLOMON OBED BOAZ



SEPARATION OF SKY AND WATER



DANIEL PERSICA



CREATION OF ADAM



ASA ROBOAM



JOSAPHAT JORAM ABIAH



CREATION OF EVE



CUMAEAN SIBYL EZECHIEL



FALL AND EXPULSION



EZEKIAS OZIAS



MANASSES AMON ACHAZ JOATHAM



SACRIFICE OF NOAH



ISAIAH ERYTHREA



THE FLOOD



JOSIAH ZOROBABEL



JECHONIAS SALATHIEL ELIAKIM ABIUD



DRUNKENNESS OF NOAH The Chef



DELPHICA JOEL



JUDITH AND HER MAID DAVID AND GOLIATH



SADOC - AZOR - ELEAZAR - MATTHAN JOSEPH - JACOB - ELIUD - ACHIM



ZECHARIAH The Sous Chef