The End of Existence

Dark, desiccated and bleeding, his raw skin lies bare beneath a solar prison. The decrepit nothing-face crawls across the wasteland of the Persian desert, now known as the Infertile Crescent. Eyes of steel, laser-pointed pupils with murky grey irises, stare up into the inferno sky and then directly into the nature-given visual devices of it's prey. The midnight-colored diamond-back cobra flicks its tongue at the Kurd's emaciated skull tasting the poisonous heat radiating from the cranium at the edge of survival. 

Like an antelope crushed by the jaws of the mighty lion-king, the man's future perhaps is dead yet he is still alive, at least like those precious drops of blood that remain dripping slowly off a razor-sharp blade after a violent kill. He is a thirsty man drowning in a great pool of sand and salt. An eternity in hell for making wrong turns in life. The Kurd offers cold kisses to the shadows as he slowly is engulfed by the blizzard of sand howling around him. 

The cobra samples, it’s venom superfluous to the impending death already being delivered to the living corpse. The gale-force winds scream in pain, a reflection of the suffering endured by the winnowing human. 

Far away, but within the same galaxy, Alpha Centauri quivers equipoise at the exit of the belly of an aborted supernova. The wasted Kurd, too, blinks in and out of death's moth-eaten overcoat like the bloated star 41.5 trillion kilometers away. They are connected in a state of quantum entanglement, the escaping life-energy of this man mirrored by the anti-animated dance of the now comatose star. 

In a universe of strange particles and half-existences, the frozen ghost of Nicodemus, the Sanhedrin who favored Christ, Jesus, must choose which soul to condemn and which to possess. For the possessed shall gain a new awakening, an extra birth with a sacrilegious purpose to fulfill. The other will be given the glove of darkness to smother out the candle flame that only lasted as long as it was needed to serve the all-seeing, omnipotent she-devil named Ghyaldehide-the-ghastly. 

There are no parallel universes. Only a singularity of nothingness and totality married together like the yin-yang -- those precocious polar forces forever interconnected by fate like the Kurd and the binary star.

In the delicate balance of being and un-being, the Kurd without a name and the infamous Alpha Centauri are manipulated with the fine silk strings of the she-devil puppet-master. Only Nicodemus can rescue one of them from her tortuous grasp. He cannot decide by mere manipulation of his god-given calculation device so he turns to Christ, Jesus for a clue. 
The trifecta smiles, frowns, and scowls with delight, confusion and disappointment at his anointed one. He telepathizes to Nic to choose with his absolute-zero spirit. Yet Nic declines, hesitantly, with a disturbed heart long ago void of palpitation and warmth. 

Glowing cubes manifest at his fingertips and these he flicks aimlessly into the astral plain. He gazes reprehensibly at them, the numbers determine him to choose man over heavenly manifestation. Christ, Jesus, with a twinkle in his eyes, un-catalogues the corpse and soul-spirit of Einstein and exclaims these very words:

"God may not play with dice, but his underlings often do!"

Thus, the dieing Kurd resurrects with the spirit of Nicodemus as the helpless Alpha Centauri fades into the eternal darkness as stardust.