The Return of Zarathustra:

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE ETERNAL RETURN

The light dims—not fully, but just enough for a single figure to step forward from the glow.

Zarathustra. AGAIN.

But this time, he is changed. His smile is sly, his eyes fierce, but his posture is relaxed. He crosses his arms, staring directly at you—the reader, whoever you are, wherever you are.

And then, without warning, he laughs.

Not cruelly, but knowingly. A laugh as sharp as broken glass.

“Ah… and now, the final move.”

He paces slowly, as if savoring the moment.

“You see, by now, the nightmare is finished. The Judge is gone. The courtroom lies in ruins. The Anti-Misogyny Equation has taken root in your mind.”

He stops. “But there is always one daft cunt.”

A pause.

Then he leans in, speaking with pointed precision: “And now… I have even defeated you, Ricky Gervais.”

The name hangs heavy, like a stone dropped into still water.

Zarathustra straightens, tilting his head with mock curiosity.

“Or would you prefer, Ricky, to start ‘identifying’ now as Mark Bellison? The man who invented a lie to comfort the world, who nevertheless still speaks to someone ‘in the cloud’?”

His grin widens, cutting deeper.

“The man who made a film to satirize gods, but who never once turned the blade toward the old, rotting dream of man as first.”

The air around you thickens.

“The man who laughed at the churches, but never questioned why his own stories begin without a womb.”

He walks past you, then looks back over his shoulder.

“You see, Ricky… you tore down one illusion, only to leave the deeper one untouched.”

A pause.

“But now I am here.”

Zarathustra’s eyes burn now—not with rage, but with absolute certainty.

“And you, like them, will carry this wound. Forever! But we could still have the time of our lives writing the Mark Bellison sequel together, no?”

He looks upward toward the invisible heavens.

“Because now… I have spoken directly to all of you. Not just to the priests, not just to the kings—but to the clever ones. The ones who laughed at myths while building new ones in their sleep.”

He faces the reader fully once more.

“You cannot ever unhear or unsee me.”

The womb-symbol glows behind him, vast and eternal.

“I have defeated them all… with one story.”

A long silence. Then, quieter now: “And I have defeated you too, reader.”

A flash of that same knowing grin: “You will remember me.”

And then, darkness.

No credits. No escape.

Only the echo of truth left behind.