Tokyo Zero: Chapter 18b : Anime of the Death Cult
No one is sure where the master was born (close up of a baby, wrapped tightly in swaddling clothes surrounding by a pulsating halo of yellow light) nor exactly when. All that is known is that he was born in the middle of this century to prepare us for the next.
(Large headed children pound down a cobbled street waving sticks and crying out like seagulls. Backing them up is a cute round-faced youngster pulling himself along at great speed on a pair of crutches. His tiny feet drag along the dusty path.) “Hey… hey gang… wait for me.” Life was hard for the compassionate young man, who began to feel himself being left behind by the childish gang whose company he was forced to keep. Yet at the same time he began to feel that maybe he was the one leaving them behind. (Fade to a rapid sequence of zoom outs taking us far above the city of Osaka/ The Island of Japan/ Asia / Our terrestrial sphere/ Solar System / Galaxy/ to a mote of light in the young master’s enraptured gaze.)
(A storm rages; snow is driven horizontally past the camera. A small figure can barely be made out in the distance. It is the Master, now showing the first signs of what will someday become his trademark beard. Eyes closed against the wind, his crutches half buried in the shifting surface, we hear him mumble…) “Great Lord Buddha… guide me through your test. I have the strength, but you must give me the wisdom.”
A vision of revolving spheres of light and a great booming voice says “Welcome to Shambala.” The silhouetted figure of The Master appears from a great white light nimbus: slowly a magical, extremely glimmering city made of birdlike and spherical structures can be seen. The master walks forward and finely penciled angels begin to float down around him “I am ready for your test!” he shouts enthusiastically. “You have already passed the test” is the reply from a thousand melodious voices.
A rugged looking Master sits on the prow of a fishing boat heading through a storm into Tokyo harbor. Around him, sailors are being blown around like feathers, but he is unmoved. “Don’t think about the wind,” he softly says. “You can be sure it is not thinking about you.” The master closes his eyes and then the winds soften.
The master is riding a white horse through the forest. The master comes over the hill, rainbows streaming from him and with his hands in the air: we cannot see his face… at this moment he has no face. The master is in a tent, laughing with both children and adults, playfully hefting a luger. A man with a turban leaves a small-jeweled casket at the feet of the master. The master executes a kung fu move on a burly young man, throwing him to the floor with just one finger. The master is in meditation: cut to the eyes of the amazed crowd as they slowly, slowly rise.
The master is outside his newly built temple; the people of Shibuya look on in awe. “Ignore the outside of my temple,” he says to the masses “or you will never see the inside.” The door to the temple opens. People rush to see inside as it closes behind him. They swear they saw the edge of a luminous galaxy like a carpet at his feet.
A village of happy people with contraptions on their heads.
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