Quackery
Fiction

The Master

“I will stop them.”

“All by yourself?? You’re just a boy, and there are many!”

“When will you learn not to believe with your eyes??” The Master stared through the darkness, eyes narrowed and severe. They knew his power, witnessed feats they failed to explain. But this seemed different.

“I am not a boy. You know what I am.”

The group exchanged glances among themselves. Over two dozen of them had followed the dark-skinned boy, who appeared no older than ten, for several days. He was dressed in white robes, a hood draped over his head. His eyes were lit with a divine passion. He spoke with resonance and force, and with wisdom at times beyond comprehension.

“Step aside.”

A path opened and he marched towards the evil mob of skinheads and murderers. Bloodied bodies, some barely breathing, littered the street. Blacks, Jews, Orientals. It had been a vicious hate-fueled assault.

The attackers laughed and jeered as the Master approached.

“Go home, boy! Go on! Get out before we rip you in two!”

The Master never wavered.

“It is you who better leave. The evil in your hearts will be removed. Surrender your hate, or I will rip it from you one after another.”

The killers mocked and chided the Master as he came within striking distance of their spiked chains.

“Last chance, BOY!!!”

The Master walked resolutely into the dark mob and grabbed one by the jacket and threw him across street like a stick. Another retaliated by striking the boy repeatedly with chains and fists. The Master never even moved, completely unaffected.

With lightning speed, The Master punched through the man’s chest and ripped out his beating heart.

“I warned you. Remove the evil from your hearts, or I will remove it for you!”

The warning went unheeded. They attacked him with fists and knives and chains to no avail. One by one they fell, their blackened hearts removed and tossed aside for the buzzards.

In the end, thirty-two corpses covered the pavement, remains adorned with swastikas and emblems of white power now picked apart by buzzards and rats.

The Master, his robes drenched in blood, stepped quietly through the streets and into the night; his followers watched in stunned silence, never moving.

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About Quackzalcoatl

Phoneticist, Palindrologist, and freelance Sharknadologist. Inventor. Ruler of 2-acre lakes and small streams.

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