"You're all dead."

A beat of stunned silence. "Excuse me, Dr. Atlas?"

"I'm tired of going over this. Some are receptive, accepting the inevitable. Most are like you, arrogantly ignorant and, unfortunately, doomed. If you don't want to be saved, then so be it." Charles Atlas stood, his chair scraping back, and began removing the microphone from his lapel.

The host recovered, a practiced, condescending smile on his face. "Whatever do you mean, Dr. Atlas? The world needs to hear about this... cataclysm you're claiming."

Charles cut him off, voice low and sharp. "I'm not claiming a damn thing. But you're right. The world needs to hear this. Your insolent mockery dilutes the truth."

"And what truth is that, Dr. Atlas?"

He leaned into the microphone on the desk, his eyes locking with the host's, then scanning the unseen audience of millions.

"You spend your time criticizing everything I do. But if I'm right, all of you, and everyone you know, are dead. I truly don't want to be right. But I am. And it's going to be too late when you realize it.”

Still holding the mic, he brought it closer to his face and looked straight into the camera lens.

"18 months from now, the world will end.”

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