Up The Antichrist was exorcised into being. Born of fracture and desecration, it rose like scripture torn from a burning altar. The first jacket, The Vindicator, emerged as invocation made flesh — leather and steel transfigured, a relic awakened in the violence of its own creation. From that spark the contagion spread, fomenting into new forms like a plague: paint bled into wounds, studs wrought into martyr’s thorns, words twisted into murmurs that echoed through the void. Voice, image, armor — each another tongue bound in a heretical prayer.

Every jacket stands alone, not as fashion but as effigy of the fallen: artifact, weapon, confession. A dark testament borne on the back of whoever dares to bear its weight. Up The Antichrist moves as myth made flesh — a prophecy still unfolding, its pulse carried by those who create, destroy, and rise again beneath its shadow.

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He went to school with one shoe on the other day. All he wanted to do was play. Hopscotch, Red Rover, ashes ashes we all fall down, that kinda thing but they made him do his school work instead. Not that things would have gone well for him anyway, see, he was shy and kept to himself a lot and was not often included in group activities and it further quashed his chance at popularity very much that he told other kids they were going to hell for playing with G.I. Joes and Cabbage Patch dolls. Mikey Doodle Dandy, sweet as sugar candy.

His Daddy said he had an unresolved Oedipus complex, a term of endearment for his son. Well, Daddy hung out in malls in a polka-dotted suit and rainbow wig and passed out pamphlets that prophesied the coming of Christ and from a crudely painted cardboard box performed puppet shows prognosticating punishment in purgatory for progeny who didn't pray. "Do you wear the mark of The Beast?"

His mother taught him a version of the birds and the bees that violated nature, a twisted, rotten mockery. And with a prayer in his heart he turned to Lucifer for aid. "Yea though I walk in the shadow of the clown, I pledge fealty to the lurker within for thou art Lord"

Forged in fallopian fetor, the blade of the malbegotten, unsheathed, penetrates the membrane between hells and striking back at god, in whose name the child was downtrodden and shamed, the newfangled terror rips open portals unleashing alien atrocities onto a slumbering world. Transmuting his inner demons into dancing marionettes, the Benighted Reprobate claims his mantle. "Welcome to my necrosphere."