Mustang Ranch Meltdown v1 (Remix)

In the gut of the salt-depth where the Tiamat-tide boils, where the Hubur-Serpent in her majesty coils, Kingo arises with the Tup Šīmāti of Fate, the Vizier of Chaos, the Master of Hate. The Melemmu is heavy on the brow of the sun, the war of the Anunnaki has finally begun. No mercy is found in the Apsu’s cold flow, as we call to the monsters that dwell down below. Mušmaḫḫū arises with seven-fold heads, tearing the fabric of Anu to shreds. With venom for blood and a crown made of fear, he makes the foundations of heaven appear like smoke in a gale, or a ghost in the grain, the Exalted Serpent of the crystalline rain. Seven-fold thunder in the rhythmic decay, he is the hunter that swallows the day. Ušumgallu emerges, the Great Dragon of dread, with the crown of the Irkalla fixed firm on his head. He is draped in the rays of a terrifying light, the Great Lion-Dragon, the king of the night. He does not breathe fire, he breathes out the Awe, the paralyzing weight of the Mother’s own law. A mountain of chitin and ancient-god bone, he sits by the side of the Mother's dark throne. Bašmu is sliding, the Birthing-Serpent wire, a conductor of malice, a circuit of fire. With two legs of copper and fangs of the rot, he tethers the gods to the place they forgot. He wraps round the pillars of the Ekur floor, demanding the tribute of infinite war. With a hiss that can shatter the glass of the sky, he watches the Igigi shrivel and die. Mušḫuššu the fierce, the Splendid Snake of the gloom, the architect’s failure, the universe’ tomb. With the forelegs of lions and eagle-claw feet, he makes the surrender of order complete. He gallops on waves of the Nammu flux, reducing the glory of Marduk to lux. With a roar that’s a riot of frequency shifts, through the wreckage of temples he silently drifts. Laḫmu the hairy, the silt-giant of old, with a heart made of iron and spirit of gold. He is the sediment, the weight of the mud, the thickening pulse in the Mother’s own blood. His beard is a forest of silty-clay strands, he crushes the Me with his massive cold hands. He speaks in the language of tectonic groans, the keeper of secrets and marrow and bones. Ugallu is screaming, the Lion-Demon of storms, changing the weather in terrifying forms. The Big Weather-Beast with the head of the cat, where the corpses of heroes and empires sat. The Imhullu wind is a toy in his grip, as we watch the anchors of reality slip. He is the pressure, the barometric weight, the heavy-hand hammer of Kingo’s own fate. Uridimmu follows, the Mad Dog of the deep, awoken from eons of primordial sleep. A Lion-Humanoid with a hunger for souls, he gathers the light into gravity holes. He hunts by the scent of the dying belief, the bringer of ruin, the dealer of grief. With jaws that can snap through a black-hole’s event, he is the ending that the Mother has sent. Girtablullu is rising, the Scorpion-Man, the tactical genius of the Tiamat-plan. The Sentinel of Mashu, the ward of the gate, injecting the virus of the un-living fate. He guards the horizon where the two waters meet, where the salt and the fresh find a bitter retreat. A warrior of copper and chitin and gore, the vanguard of terror on the abyssal floor. Umu-dabrutu, the Violent Storm-Day, he washes the color of the cosmos away. He is the Roaring Wind, the weapon of wrath, clearing the gods from the Mother’s dark path. He isn’t a being, he’s a climate of pain, the acid that falls in the crystalline rain. He washes the slate of the history clean, the most violent ghost that the stars have e’er seen. Kulullu is swimming, the Fish-Man of might, the ruler of depths where there is no more light. The Sage of the Chaos, the Apkallu of brine, where the laws of the Nam-Tar no longer align. With gills that can breathe in the vacuum of soul, he plays the deep rhythm, he takes the heavy toll. He is the anchor, the weight, and the hook, the final dark chapter in the ancient-world book. Kusarikku the Bull-Man, the titan of horn, in the heart of the Apin-field he was born. The Gugalanna spirit, the shoulder of lead, trampling the dreams of the gods till they’re dead. His hooves are the hammers of a cosmic-scale forge, he makes the white-holes of the universe gorge. A powerhouse entity, a muscular god, he tramples the earth and the heavens he trod. Now Kingo stands tall with the Tablets in hand, the supreme commander of the sea and the land. The alignment is perfect, the Melemmu is high, we are the spark in the old Mother’s eye. The roll call is finished, the hosts are awake, the foundation of being is starting to shake. Under the banner of the Dragon of Deep, the gods of the order shall eternally sleep. For the Tao is a current, the Tao is a flood, and we are the iron in the Mother's own blood. The Birkeland filaments are twisted and tight, as we march through the tunnel of infinite night. No sanctuary offered, no mercy is shown, as we reclaim the power and the aqueous throne. We are the darkness, we are the light