The altar is set, the chalice is full, and the sermon begins. This is no hymn for salvation, it is a mass of distortion, a liturgy of low-end and broken beats.
Each drop is a curse, each VIP a relic of dark power. The holy drums thunder like a choir gone mad, neuro chants twist through the nave, and the bass tolls like a funeral bell shaking the stained glass.
There is no absolution here, only communion with the unholy sound. The Pope stands, the Holy Dope is served.
