the elemental creatures, they huant the night, full moon over the astronomical significance of a cyclic parabola, some read tea leaves others planets, some see a future past others see past the future. 
i see the soft apocalypse, curtains reveal the wizard a wreck of a shambolic human pulling strings and opening doors, zaya-bong i believe. he smokes roll up cigarettes with mexican tobacco and has skin withered and ancient like some old used map. he has teeth like a graveyard and eyes that left the living a long time ago.
zaya-bong talks to some creatures, insects and catfish of man, he's not speaking in tongues for glossolalia was glossed over for symbolic hand gestures, the kind you find in old grimories and enochian literature, not quite an exact science for it means nothing, all show and posturing, an unkind glamour. the beasts don't care, they have a list of demands, a black  heartlessness, a stupidity that borders brainwashing zombie intelligence and the last one demands a moral weakness o' great wizard, give it to me now.
zaya- bong coughs, he turns to his assistant, 'give the people what they want.'
some exchanges are made, the representatives of man snatch the gifts in their greedy hungry paws, stuffing them inside their persons absorbing the energy like vacuous pumps, not even examining them once and in all likely hood mistakes have been made.
the wizard don't care, he's left already for his weekly blood transfusions and medical exams. the assistant has already left the building in a stretch limo. 
as for the three, why they are already returning to their peoples bearing the wrong gifts of unnecessary ruin and calamity.