In the elder days, when the moon did wax fat over the rolling hills of Lesser Bumbledorf, there abode a pastor of most singular nature. Whilst his brethren in the cloth did seek the Almighty in humble prayer and the turning of sacred parchment, this shepherd of souls did behold the face of Heaven in the crackle of powder and the thunderous roar of righteous detonation.

It came to pass, upon one fateful Sabbath morn, that the first Holy Hand Grenade was hurled into the baptistry. Whether this be the will of Providence or a most calamitous accident, none could say. Yet when the water did part with fire and steam, and the stained glass was kissed by tongues of holy flame, a great truth was revealed to the goats who stood unflinching in the pews. They did nod, slow and solemn, as if privy to the secret workings of God Himself.

Word of these sacred explosions spread across the realm like fire upon dry thatch. Pilgrims did journey from distant baronies and far kingdoms to behold the pastor’s divine kabooms. Coins clinked in alms-boxes, and many a humble sinner went home with their eyebrows somewhat lighter than before. The goats, once mere beasts of pasture, became disciples, learned in the arts of mischief and strangely adept at council. In time, the people whispered that it was the goats who steered the course of the pastor’s ministry, and that the shepherd had become but another sheep in their cunning flock.

Now hath the pastor abandoned the sleepy chapel of Lesser Bumbledorf for the clamorous streets of the Great City. Here the buildings rise like towers of Babel, the air rings with the cries of hawkers and sinners alike, and the goats tread with purpose most mysterious. The perils are greater, the souls more wayward, and the pyrotechnics… verily apocalyptic. With each blast, the heavens tremble and the streets echo with the cloven hooves of a holy host.

So gird thy loins and guard thy senses, O seeker of marvels. The Second Coming is nigh, and it approacheth not as a gentle whisper borne upon the dawn, but as a thundering hymn of fire and fury. Cloaked in goat’s wool and crowned with sparks, it cometh by the hand of Providence to shake the world from its slumber.