The First Organized Crime Syndicate: Lucifer's Mafia and the Cosmic Turf War
- dkclements
- Dec 14
- 12 min read
“Now people have taken jewels and precious stones and cut a very thin slice for microscopic purposes. They shone cross-polarized light through them. What happens to these precious stones in pure light? The technical term, to give you a bit of science for a moment, is anisotropic jewels and isotropic jewels,” remarked David Pawson, a Bible teacher.
He continued, “Some jewels in pure light, whatever that color is to begin with, they may be red, blue, or green, turn into all the colors of the rainbow and have the most fantastic patterns. Other precious stones (isotropic) in pure light lose all their color… they just go black and look like a lump of coal dust.”
“Diamonds in pure light are nothing. Now here's the fascinating thing. The 12 precious stones that God uses to build the New Jerusalem are all anisotropic. In pure light they are all far more beautiful, and God doesn't touch the diamonds or the rubies.”
I BURNED THE MIDNIGHT OIL with new friends in Franklin, Tennessee. They were ministers of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We exchanged stories. I shared about my experiences in the political trenches, fighting the invisible wars—the rigged elections that stole voices, the government rot that spread like gangrene, the Covid deceptions that chained the world in fear. They revealed a spiritual mirror to that world from their work in exorcisms, deliverance, praying for (and receiving) spiritual gifts. I noticed an overlap. A meeting in the middle. Over the past 5 years, I have spoken less like a professor and more like preacher. And they spoke with a dawning realization that politics is the arena where spiritual warfare is most needed, most contested, most consequential. All else is child’s play.
Nation state power plays. Power people kill for. Seduction. Blackmail. Faustian bargains at every turn. The human soul up for grabs.
You see Satan is not omnipotent, ever-present, or all powerful. While his efficiency to steal, kill, and destroy has been calibrated for eons, he does not have time to persecute believers doing trivial things. He focuses on Presidents, Kings, and Reformers. No wasted time for the nominal Christian with a leash tied to hell.
I had stood against the suits and the shadows, the ones pulling strings from high places. Trump stood like Cyrus, the outsider king raised to smash the gates, expose the fraud, let the truth flood in like daylight on a 2020 heist gone wrong. But victories like that need a King Darius to follow, the consolidator, the one who locks down the territory, builds the walls that last. Trump still has vipers in his circle, a mix of demons whispering poison and intercessors praying fire.
We need more godly muscle, the kind that crushes the WEF, the occult overlords of the New World Order, the anti-God machines in the halls of power. Tear them out root and branch, make way for the government that rests on His shoulders, the one with no end to its peace.
To know why that day is coming sure as the sunrise, you have to go back to the original betrayal, back when the Morning Star still walked the high ground.
Ezekiel 28 pulls the curtain.
He was there in Eden, the garden of God, perfect in beauty, the anointed cherub who covered the throne itself. Every precious stone was his covering (sardius, topaz, diamond, beryl, onyx, jasper, sapphire, emerald, carbuncle, gold). The workmanship of his settings and sockets was in him from the day he was created, flawless cut, flashing fire in every direction. He stood at the heart of God’s perfect system, the living diamond of glory where the four creatures roared holy and the twenty-four elders bowed in rhythm. He watched it work. He saw how every stone caught the uncreated light of the Throne and threw it back brighter, anisotropic, alive, magnifying the Lamb before the Lamb was ever slain. He saw perfection and it wasn’t enough.
Because he loved himself more than the Light.
He said, “I will ascend. I will be like the Most High.”
One look in the mirror and the cherub turned counterfeit godfather. The first organized crime syndicate was born.
And that’s the topic for today.
The First Organized Crime Syndicate: Lucifer's Mafia and the Cosmic Turf War
The stones that once adorned him became his brand, the white solitaire diamond his signature piece, the isotropic heart of the new outfit. That stone could look brilliant in scattered, dirty light (this world’s light), but it could not magnify the true glory. It only took, never gave back. Self-love carved into crystal. David Pawson explains, “No diamonds, no rubies, no garnets, they're isotropic. Who knew this 2,000 years ago? No scientists knew it. Nobody knew it. John the Apostle writing the down the book of Revelation as the Lord dictated it to him, he didn't know it. Nobody knew except one person in the entire universe… and that was God himself.”
If I had to summarize what I just heard, it’s this.
Diamonds look like gods in the devil’s disco.
In the light of the Lamb they’re just expensive coal.
Back to our crime story.
The mob hit came. Lucifer wanted the top spot. He gathered his crew—a third of the angels, the “made” men of the celestial mob—and they plotted the takeover. "I will ascend," he said, Isaiah recording the words like a wiretap. The first syndicate sought to defy the Boss of all bosses. They moved on the throne, but the war was short and brutal. Michael and his loyalists crushed them, Revelation spelling it out: the dragon and his angels hurled down, no place left for them in Heaven. Cast to the second heaven, that murky layer between God's realm and earth, where the air crackles with schemes.
From there, it became a giant turf war, spanning ages. The fallen set up their counterfeit council, a twisted mirror of the divine one. Principalities and powers, thrones and dominions, Ephesians naming them like a lineup. The stones he once wore as honor he now peddled as power. The solitaire became the covenant ring of every false bride, every freemason lodge, every bloodline, every don who wanted to play God. That is why, when John got the tour of the city that needs no sun, the diamond is gone.
Not merely absent, erased.
Revelation 21 lists the twelve foundations, jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, carnelian, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth, amethyst. Twelve stones, every last one anisotropic. When the uncreated light of the Lamb floods them, they do not go black. They ignite. Rainbows, fire, patterns no earthly cutter could dream. They take the glory and hurl it back brighter.
In that same pure light they turn to coal dust, color bled out, isotropic frauds that can only shine by stealing scattered rays. They were the morning star’s old uniform, the bling of the rebel cherub. When the true Light walks in, those stones cannot bear His presence. They die. So, He leaves them outside the gates with their former owner.
But before divine justice comes, we have to re-examine how the angelic mob took power on Earth. Adam and Eve made a deal with the devil.
Their treason gave the Fallen legal claims to rule the nations.
Listen close, because the outfit I’m talking about wrote the book every mob on earth still copies—the one that started before the world had streets. The following may be conjecture informed by earnest prayers to the Holy Spirit. It’s certainly not gospel. It’s not biblical canon. I’m not inerrant. I’m striving to reveal something that stirs a memory from the time you watched The Godfather, Goodfellas, or some other movie. Here’s my best shot.
At the top sits the Don. Not a don, the Don. They called him the Morning Star once. Wore every stone you ever wanted, diamond right in the center. Makes every final call. No appeal. He’s called Satan now.
Directly under him, the Underboss. One guy only. Runs the whole show if the Don ever gets locked up or goes quiet. Name’s Asmodeus, or some other underboss jockeying for the spot as there is no honor among thieves. Old-school, vicious, hates marriage, hates life, hates anything that breathes happy. When the Don’s out of sight, Asmodeus keeps the crews in line and the blood flowing.
Then you got the Consigliere. Stands outside the chain on purpose, so he can whisper in the Don’s ear without getting his own hands dirty. Ice-cold strategist, lawyer to the damned. You’ve heard him called Mephistopheles. Offers deals, writes contracts in blood, always looks like he’s doing you a favor while he’s picking your bones clean.
Below them, the Capos. The heavy hitters. Belial runs lies and lawlessness, Mammon shakes down the greedy, Beelzebub lords the flies and rot, Leviathan twists the seas and minds—a dozen more, each with his territory, his racket. Nations, cities, bloodlines, whole empires. They kick up the take, keep the streets hot, make sure the fear and the green keep rolling uphill.
The muscle? That’s the Riders. Four horses, each a different color, straight out of the apocalypse ledger. Conquest on the white, bow drawn, crowning the puppets. War on the red, sword swinging, setting brother against brother. Famine on the black, scales tipping, starving the weak. Death on the pale, leading Hades and the grave like backup shooters. These are the hitmen, the ones who ride out when the Capos give the nod. No mercy, no take-backs. They carve the chaos, leave the bodies, and the Don collects the souls.
Under the Riders, the Soldiers. Made men. Lesser demons, fully initiated, sworn in fire instead of blood. You don’t touch one without the Don’s say-so or every crew in the circuit comes for your head (unless Christ the King gives you the assignment to go to war. We’ll discuss this in a minute).
At the bottom, the Associates. Not “made” men, never will be, but they do ninety percent of the work. Human beings mostly, some carrying Nephilim blood from way back, some just useful idiots. Presidents, bankers, popes, generals, celebrities, traffickers, tech lords. Any ethnicity, any flag. They drive the cars, move the product, launder the cash, pass the laws, start the wars. They think they’re players. They’re just delivery boys who don’t know the package is rigged to blow up in their hands.
Whole thing’s shaped like a diamond, double pyramid locked at the base. Top half in the second heaven, bottom half down here. Same structure the Mafia copied, the lodges copied, intelligence agencies copied. Because the first Family showed them how to keep power forever.
Only one problem for them now.
The real Boss rose from the dead, took the keys back, and He’s coming to collect.
The structure dug in deep. Nimrod ran the first earthly outfit in Babel, his tower a stab at the heavens, sealed with the star—the eight-pointed Star of Babylon, Ishtar's mark, the queen of heaven Jeremiah railed against. You see it everywhere. The eight-pointed Star of Babylon, ancient emblem of Ishtar's cosmic dominion, gleams in modern sheriff's badges across the U.S., evoking unyielding authority from Babylonian roots. It crowns Mitsubishi's logo, three diamonds fusing into its points to whisper of universal balance and corporate conquest. Starbucks' siren swims encircled by its rays, blending Babylonian goddess vibes with daily caffeine rituals. If you partake, pray off the demon and give thanks to God for the coffee bean.
The structure spread like a virus. Egyptian pharaohs played god-kings, their pyramids echoing the shape. Greek mysteries, Roman cults, all hierarchies with initiates climbing degrees, blood oaths binding more “made” men. Knights Templar hoarded loot during the Crusades, alchemists twisted the knowledge. Royals locked it in bloodlines, claiming divine right but serving the Nephilim whisper, Genesis 6's fallen sons mixing with daughters of men.
By the time Sicily birthed the Mafia, it was old hat. Pyramidal, insulated, just like the feudal barons before them, private armies collecting protection. The 'Ndrangheta made it blood-tight, kin only, harder to crack, with more revenue generated than McDonalds and Coca Cola combined. Yakuza with their oyabun-kobun bonds, fail and lose a finger. Triads with dragon heads— all counterfeits of the angelic fall, the same diamond grid directing the flow.
Politicians? They are the pseudo-capos of the modern era. Think Nancy Pelosi, Mitch McConnell, Dan Crenshaw. Presenting themselves as servants of the law, but more blood was on their hands than any black-ledger mob family. They think themselves bosses but are openly mocked by their demon handlers, who see the sand in their hourglasses quickly running out. Freemasons in the lodges, climbing to the 33rd, their squares and compasses hiding the star. They wore the solitaires, white diamonds on fingers, the stone of the morning star. As above, so below, the hermetic lie.
We were losing the turf war, outgunned and blind. The counterfeit council held the high ground, princes like the one over Persia delaying prayers, Daniel fasting through the blockade. Asmodeus the demon stone cutter and Ephippas the demon stone mover—venerated by freemasons—set cornerstones of rebellion at lodges and government buildings throughout the world. Human associates and their families, scrambling to keep their grip.
Then the Resurrection hit like a thunderclap. Christ, the true Boss, rose from the dead, Colossians declaring He disarmed the powers, paraded them in triumph. The cross was the ultimate sting, paying the debt, reclaiming the authority Adam lost. All power in heaven and earth—His. The counterfeit lost their legal turf, turned to squatters, ruling only by bluff and deception. Satan, the god of this age, 2 Corinthians called him, but only because we let him.
But we slumbered. Forgot our authority, the keys to bind and loose, Matthew handing them over. In Jesus' name, we could command. The blood in my veins churns after a long stakeout on behalf of my King. A hope and joy I wanted to share with you. It’s this.
What if I were to tell you that a group of intercessors has prayed for our nation for 9 years?
Every day, every hour, every minute. That they are praying even now, as you listen to my words.
What if I told you those intercessors have traveled as the King’s divine process servers to every corner of the globe? They stood at the cornerstones of the Great Pyramid and the Grand Lodge in London to restrain the spirit of freemasonry. "Restrained and evicted," the decree read, voices rising like a jury's verdict, annulling every blood oath, every square and compass that had chained the UK and the world to the counterfeit council. No more lodges whispering deals in the dark; the King of Glory was welcomed back, marriage vows renewed, the land declared holy ground.
They entered the Forbidden City in China to tell the dragon, “Be gone!”—to evicting Mammon outside Lucis Trust in the heart of the New York Stock Exchange, binding his greedy claws from the world's financial veins. They confronted Molech at every single state capitol, warring for the lives of the preborn. They rebuked Baal in Jerusalem while the Iron Dome intercepted rocket fire aimed for holy sites. That I have been able to partake in their ministry has been a great honor.
The dates and locations visited by these nameless Royal Intercessors are etched in my mind now, each one wielding a massive hammer blow in the cosmic courtroom. The Bride of Christ has discovered the Don's final organizational chart, updated for the endgame, every capo and rider pinned like butterflies under glass. Gone are timidity and fear. Instead, they blow the shofar and announce, “Make way for the King!”
His process servers are still on the move—ordinary sons and daughters, steel in their spines, assignments clutched like warrants from the Throne. They weren't vigilantes, no—just deputies on assignment, carrying a holy seal forged in the fire of the Lamb's blood. Authority wasn't begged; it was bestowed, Luke 10:19 handing us the boots to tread on serpents. Sons and daughters, raised up from the dust, waiting in the shadows for the marching orders that came like thunder: "Restrain the ancient thugs, evict the squatters, raise godly vice-regents in their stead." Men and women of iron faith stepping into the vacancies—vice-regents not for show, but to serve the King, channeling His rule into the streets, the capitals, the air itself. Watch for the new crop of leaders running for Governor in Colorado and Tennessee. These men have received orders from the King.
The climax hit like a raid at dawn, papers served across the globe, the Hydra's heads severed one after another, no regeneration this time. The diamond grid cracked, the solitaire at its heart blackening under the advancing light. The Don's empire folded, his counterfeit council scattered like rats in a floodlight. And in the cleared turf, vice-regents rose—humble, holy, hands steady on the plow, eyes on the horizon where the King Himself rode in. With Him, The Ekklesia, the called-out ones, they were the enforcers now, seated above the principalities, Ephesians seating us with Him.
Asmodeus is scared now, his territory shrinking. The ancient fallen scramble, their diamond grids cracking under the prayers. We the People, awakening, displacing the Freemasons, the demons, the occult veils. Trump's Cyrus broke the seals, but Darius must rise—the solidifier, purging the mix around him, the demons fleeing before the intercessors' fire. After that, leaders that will usher in a new wave of mercy, kindness, and reverence toward God Almighty. A time marked by the orphan and widow being protected, the housing of the homeless, the feeding of the hungry.
But for now, we must crush the WEF, shatter the NWO, dismantle the anti-God empires. Make way for His government, Isaiah's promise: on His shoulders, increasing without end.
The diamond's gone in the new city, Revelation omitting it deliberate—no anisotropic counterfeit, no channel for false light. Jasper, sapphire, the foundations pure, the Lamb and His Light magnified.
The midnight oil has burned through. My Tennessee friends turned in for bed. I laid awake for hours pondering this puzzle, before I put pen to paper. In fact, I missed last week’s self-imposed deadline because I couldn’t see the problem clear enough. So, I waited.
What do you think? Was the wait worth it?
David K. Clements is a seasoned attorney, former law professor, filmmaker and dedicated advocate for election integrity and constitutional rights. If you think he's on to something, consider being a monthly sponsor of his independent journalism at:
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