Skinning Time!

In February, 2020, I received a series of impressions about people who are part of the Luciferian Brotherhood (Illuminati). We know that the vast majority of them would love to find a way out of that system, and we are here to support them with counsel and prayer. However, the vision described below is about a (fictional) person who is by far not ready to say goodbye to the perks and power that the System has given him…

Marion A.

SKINNING TIME is the second half of a bigger vision. Thus the wording of the first sentence that’s referring to the previous section of the story.

TRIGGER WARNING – Parts of this vision can be experienced as graphic and shocking.

The Lord said:

“…Who should be worried though, are those who think they are safe. The ones who drew back in their compounds, their makeshift fortresses on the high places and in the back country. They lie to themselves, they lie to science and they lie to Me by saying that they can live through the tribulation, that they can stay young forever by drinking the blood of the infants or by replacing their brain by machines. I am talking about the unrepentant among the elite. They think they can survive what is to come. They are dogs, eating dogs, they climb over piles of dead bodies to climb in hierarchy and they intend to exalt themselves, even to the point of beating Satan to the throne that belongs to Me. Don’t think that I don’t know their deepest, most secret thoughts. I am exposing them – there is nothing that survives My light, nothing stays hidden for My eye, for I am the One Who has created the eye. FOOLS, who won’t repent. Look at their impending doom, daughters, look at how their past catches up with them while they try to save their lives and future.”

Then the Lord points me to verses 9-14 of Habakkuk 2…

Habakkuk 2:9-14 New American Standard Bible (NASB)

⁹“Woe to him who gets evil gain for his house
To put his nest on high,
To be delivered from the hand of calamity!
¹⁰“You have devised a shameful thing for your house
By cutting off many peoples;
So you are sinning against yourself.
¹¹“Surely the stone will cry out from the wall,
And the rafter will answer it from the ^[^a^]framework.

¹²“Woe to him who builds a city with bloodshed
And founds a town with ^[^b^]violence!
¹³“Is it not indeed from the Lord of hosts
That peoples toil for fire,
And nations grow weary for nothing?
¹⁴“For the earth will be filled
With the knowledge of the glory of the Lord,
As the waters cover the sea.

Footnotes:

Habakkuk 2:11 Lit wood
Habakkuk 2:12 Or injustice

The vision now brings me to the residence of mister Skinner, an exorbitantly rich, middle-aged man.

He lives with his family on a heavily guarded compound in the Yorkshire Dales in the U.K.

I’m seeing him, sitting in his luxurious living room. Mr. Skinner is alone in the house, this morning. He’s sitting on the edge of a couch, with next to him his briefcase. His left foot is tapping the floor and while he’s nibbling the nail of his thumb, he stares through the window. Outside, on the terrace, his security guards are keeping watch, but he can hear the roar of the angry crowds at the gates of the premises… They are desperate for food and shelter.

The crackling of pieces of nail that are bitten off and the short puffs when the man spits them away is an almost unbearable sound in the otherwise silent room.

The butler comes in and asks: “Sir, shall I make you some breakfast after all?” The question is answered with a growl. The butler tries ones more. “You do need to keep up your strength, sir… it’s been five days already…” The man gets up with a jerk. He grabs his briefcase and with big steps he walks past the butler, out of the room, snapping, “Do I look like a hungry man to you??”

Mr. Skinner is about to step out of the front door, but then he stops. After a few moments of indecision his hand lets go of his briefcase. With a bang it falls on the black and white checkered floor, but the man doesn’t seem to care. He turns around and walks to the marble stairway…

In the cellar, he enters the home cinema. He locks the door and sits down on one of the front row recliners.

He grabs a remote control and starts surfing the channels of the television. He’s looking for some entertainment, but all he finds is news. Miserable news. And no matter what he tries, each channel is showing him nothing but images of famine, riots and war.

“Why does it always look like that cattle wants something from us?” mister Skinner thinks. He stares at the moving image of a young soldier with a machine gun, who’s running for his life, toward the camera. It is as if the man is looking him straight in the eyes, while he’s coming closer and closer – “That is one definite disadvantage of this blasting home cinema”, he thinks. “Why not bring in the extraterrestrial predators right away?” He shakes his head while he remembers how thrilled his teenage son and daughter were when they saw this room for the first time.

But soon mister Skinner is distracted from his daydream. The guy with the machinegun has stopped running. He now stretches out his hand, to him, with his eyes fixed on him in a hypnotic hyperfocus. Then, in one nightmarish moment, the soldier climbs out of the television screen, into the reality of the home cinema, and slowly lifts his machine gun. In the split second that the shot is fired at him, mister Skinner awakens with a shock.

He stands on his feet, startled. Then, with a sigh, he trudges to the pub in the room next to the cinema.

He switches on the lights, goes to the bar and pours himself a whiskey. He doesn’t get the chance to finish his drink, though. With a distinctive pop the light goes out. “Now what?” mister Skinner moans. He gets up from his bar stool and carefully makes his way through the dark to the light switch. Of course the magic doesn’t happen when he pushes it. And no matter how often he pushes and eventually even slams it, the light switch does not work. With his right hand he gropes, through pitch dark air, trying to find the door back to the cinema, but all he finds is stone. That is odd… he shuffles toward the place where the door should be, but he cannot find it. It’s almost as if the exit has moved more to the right, and slowly he continues to make his way along the wall, but even after what seems like a full minute, he has not found a way out of this pub, nor has he hit the wall that’s supposed to be at odds with this one.

The stone he’s touching feels damp and at places it’s even downright wet. “What in the bloody world…?” he thinks and then suddenly a dim light goes on, just enough for him to see that the pub that he was assuming to be still in is not the same anymore. The space has narrowed, while into the other direction it has expanded. And it is empty now, totally stripped of its furniture. Mister Skinner realizes that he, for some mysterious reason, has ended up in a long, dark corridor, and no matter which way he turns, he sees no way out… did he astro project here? But why then hasn’t he felt the vibration? Somebody must be playing a trick on him. He trips over an unevenness in the floor and falls. With his left hand, he scrapes the rough surface of the wall and in the process, a finger nail gets broken. He curses. His curse echoes back several times.

He acts as if he doesn’t hear and since he has already found out that going back means only to find a dead end, he presses forward, into the seemingly infinite corridor, until he finds a place where it branches. He chooses to turn right and continues to walk, slowly, carefully, hoping for a door, for any way of getting out of this God forsaken place. Then – a loud bang. When he turns to look, the corridor behind him has been replaced by a solid, forbidding wall. The way back is shut and this place… this place must be – “Where in the blinking world am I??” mister Skinner brings out, and promptly the ceiling over his head answers mockingly: “You’re FUCKED. Thát is where you are…” Mister Skinner mutters a curse and starts to run, or at least he tries to, but the reality of his situation is hitting him hard. He is in some kind of maze and the maze is not willing to work in his favor.

Each turn he takes seems to end up in more confusion and where once were openings and ways back, there now are dead ends, while right next to them new escape ways open up, only to lead him to yet more blind alleys. Ultimately he only sees stone… stone everywhere, and old, crumbling plaster that once must have been white but now has turned several hues darker. He trips over his own feet and falls, and when he struggles to get back up, he notices something dark on the wall in front of him. Water ingression? No, that’s not it. But what…? He rubs the sweat off his face and strains his eyes. Then he finally becomes aware of what he’s seeing. He gasps for air. These blots are handprints. The wall is covered with dark red and brown handprints!

He glances at the wall behind him and also there, where first was nothing, now handprints in all sorts and sizes are mysteriously appearing. In reaction to that, flashes with images begin to interfere with what he’s seeing in real life – images of another wall, brighter than this one but also with dark red and brown handprints. Only those handprints are positioned in pairs, in a much tidier manner…

The flashback has taken over now. It shows a handful of adults and some children. Mister Skinner recognizes himself in one of them and sees how he is forced to dip his toddler hands into a bucket of blood and then press them onto the wall… the wall in the secret area underneath that catholic church where he has spent so many hours in his early childhood. That wall is covered with hundreds, possibly thousands of handprints, just like his. They are all from the elite children and mister Skinner remembers how he promised Satan and himself, right there, to do everything to stay alive and never end up as a disposable or a defector. He would go to the greatest possible lengths to reach that top, the very top of the pyramid, so he would only need to destroy and never get destroyed.

It’s half a century later now and his zeal for power and money has brought him far. He owns half the City of London and most of the media companies in the country. He has the means to control the voices of many people. But, talking about voices… there’s something that has been reaching his ears for a while already, although he cannot distinguish where it’s coming from. It’s almost as if someone is moaning, and it has gradually become louder… yes, it definitely is a groaning voice and then, right next to mister Skinner, something stirs. He jumps aside and sees the very element from his daily nightmares that has never ceased to terrify him: the pliable wall… that horrific pliable wall, with its people stuck behind it! And there it is already, the first hand, pushing from the inside against the rubber-like material, and a second hand – or no – a clenched fist! And then the face comes, with its mouth, opening to either utter that icy scream or eat its way right through the rubber…

However, the figure in the wall does something unexpected. As if he can see mister Skinner, he tilts his face and directly addresses him, saying: “Why me? Why did you slaughter me?”

Mister Skinner recoils in horror, only to bump his head to an object of sorts. Next thing, his hair is groped and then that same something grabs him by the neck. The handprints! The handprints… they’ve come alive and they’re turning into real arms with hands. They’re breaking right through the surface of the wall to the left and the right of him and within seconds, they are literally everywhere.

And more voices are making themselves heard. They’re screaming, they’re growling, they’re crying and accusing, “Why haven’t you saved me?” and “You raped me, you filthy pig!” and “Give me back my limbs! What did you do with my limbs?” Among these voices there are even babies… screaming babies who condemn him for drinking their blood. And at times, when the flickering light gets turned on full blast for a few seconds, he sees them… all the people behind the voices. They’re all his victims, stuck in the no-mans-land he knowingly and willingly has sent them to.

Isolated from the others, there is this little girl. She’s standing, with her head bowed and her hands pressing the surface of the wall. There is something that draws mister Skinner to this girl, something that induces him to approach her, be it slowly and carefully… then he knows why: she is his daughter. Or better said, she was his daughter, because this is her image of at least ten years ago. But how in the world is it possible that she is here? Was this not the realm of the dead…?

The little girl begins to wail. “Daddy? Why did you take my baby, daddy?”

She lifts her head and looks her father straight in the eyes. “Why did you have to abort my child and suck its brain out?”

Mister Skinner is not one for regretting. He has had many years to practice moving aside nuisances, denying grief and playing down inconvenient problems. So why does this all of a sudden feel like a bomb, hitting the very core of his existence? He swallows, but the strange feeling in his throat won’t go away. He tries to laugh reality away, but all that comes out is a sob. He thinks, he tries to find an excuse… to no avail.

When he finally breaks down, he sinks to his knees and cries, as he has never cried before. “Baby, I am sorry… I’m so very sorry. Please believe me! Will you forgive me? Come on kiddo, you have to forgive me!”

“Daddy…?”

Mister Skinner looks up. The child that was stuck in the wall has retreated and he sees a figure approaching from down the corridor. He gets back on his feet as quickly as he can. This is his little girl, at her true age! That means that she has heard his plea… and behind her there is a light… a different kind of light, much more beautiful than he has been seeing in this hellhole… could this be the way out? Has she really come to rescue him?

“I’m here, baby! I’m coming to you, just wait there, okay?”

The girl has stopped walking. And while mister Skinner starts to make his way through the hedge of groping hands, she stands there, silently. But something is terribly wrong. The hands are more aggressive than ever. They’re doing everything to hold him back, grabbing and scratching him, punching him in the stomach, pulling him by the hair… And although he manages to make a little progress, the distance between him and his daughter is only growing.

From the walls, he hears his victims chanting and mocking, “You snoozed, you lose, you snoozed, you lose, you snoozed, you lose!” and, “It’s SKINNING TIME, mister Skinner!”

On the background, he hears the sarcastic laughter of somebody he wishes now he had never made a promise to…

The checkered floor in the foyer of mister Skinner’s house is cold and stone-hard. Through the windows on both sides of the front door, rays of the early morning sun are flowing in. The butler is looking at how one of them illuminates part of mister Skinner’s hair and face, while two paramedics are shocking his heart for the sixth time with a CPR device. The briefcase of the wealthy man lies next to him, open, and documents are spread out everywhere.

The Head of Security finishes a phone call and turns back to the butler, who is standing next to him, pale with shock. He mutters, “I don’t understand. He didn’t want breakfast, so I went straight back to the kitchen – I assumed that he had left for the office…” He sighs.

One of the paramedics looks at the monitor and says: “Asystole… he’s gone.”