Rant of the Purple Monster

“You see, it’s not that easy to convince a large collection of humans that their demise is going to benefit the rest of the world. Look at how successful the Russians were, look at how successful the Nazis were. No one will go willingly to their deaths, there will always be those who fight back, and they can stir up a pretty big furore. It’s really troublesome to go clean up the mess. I hate dealing with the public relations when it comes to that. Can you imagine, having to convince seven billion, yes BILLION people of the necessity of their deaths. Just try to do something even remotely unpopular for a start, maybe go campaign for universal healthcare or common sense gun laws or something, and see how quickly your mailbox fills up.

But it has to be done, either way, someone has to step up to do it. Someone with the drive, with the conviction, with the balls has to take charge, if not we’ll all die, forever. And that means nothing comes after us. And no one wants that. We all want children right? We all wish for progeny, to carry on our name and our likeness? It’s the same thing on a universal scale – the universe wants, no needs continuity. At least in my way the universe would have a second chance, an opportunity to grow again. Surely that is preferable to having existence cut short for the rest of eternity. You now see why this is inevitable, why I am inevitable? But it is not me that is inevitable, it is the event that we cannot run away from, for the initiator could have been anyone of us, he can appear anytime, anywhere, the only certainty we know is that he will appear sooner or later, so why not here and now?

You all do realise that you will not feel a thing at all, right? It will be over in a poof. There is no afterlife, not like what your bishops and your priests tell you. We are all just atoms – made out of finely ground stardust, and destined to return to that state eventually. You think there’s a soul, there’s an animus? Not really. Your consciousness just ceases to exist as your brain stops functioning. You won’t even feel it, it’ll be like falling asleep, heck, it’ll be like blinking, over in a flash. Life passes in a second, eternity in an hour. No rebirth, no Heaven nor Hell, just, nothingness. It is really quite alright and nothing to be scared about, you will not have the time to complain about the experience.

So, guys, be a good sport, and don’t make this harder than it already is. The greatest burdens lie with those charged with responsibilities. I take all the guilt and the sin for wiping out the entire universe. It is a burden only I will hold. In a sense that is good for you, for you all can die peacefully. Or would you rather be eliminated in pain? I guessed not; all that matters is going out with that clarity of purpose – that’s why you leave your grandparents neglected until their deathbed when you spout all that nonsense about how much you mean to them, right? So now too, we go out full well knowing our purpose: that even as we die now, today, some universe will live on tomorrow. And hopefully, just maybe, the echoes of our sacrifice, will carry on into eternity.”

“Ahem…” the emcee gave a nervous laugh “Alright, thank you, Mr. Thanos, for that enlightening speech. Our next speaker at this year’s World Economic Forum, founder of Ali Baba Group, Mr Jack Ma, will be on stage soon.”

New Year

At the bark of command from their officer, the four policemen sprang into action, dragging the vagrant to his feet and hurled him towards the sidewalk. “No blocking the roads, look at the crowds, man,” said the officer, gesturing at the ever increasing mass of bodies as they flowed into Times Square. The vagrant just stared at him, dazed and too drunk to respond. I dropped a ten dollar note into his pan and watched him clutch at it, peering at it with fascination, and perhaps, a tinge of suspicion, not knowing whence came this generosity. My friends stared at me, somewhat judgemental, but I ignored them, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Clint steered us round into the shelter of a small shopfront, it was less packed here, and the people were less rowdy too. All around us party-goers were engaged in conversation, or dancing, or drinking, or just peering around and taking in the sights – the sights of New Year’s Eve at Times Square. Right in front of us rose massive skyscrapers, adorned with dazzling, blinking lights, reaching out from the ground towards a starless sky. I heard the chant begin, starting out thin and incoherent, but quickly gaining strength. “Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven…” People were pointing towards the huge numbers plastered on buildings. “Six, Five, Four,” Even my friends, red-faced from the beer, were counting down excitedly at the top of their lungs.

I was struck by how joyous the mood was, as if everyone expected something wonderful, something magical to happen as the clock struck midnight, this arbitrary second which humanity had somehow collectively ascribed particular meaning to; totally illogical. Hands were waving in the air, bottles of champagne primed and ready to blow, lovers already tightly snuggled in each other’s embrace. I guess no one knew what was going to happen besides me.

“Three, Two” I lifted my head and looked past the blinding outline of the buildings. There, that dark patch in the sky, it would start there.

“One, Happy New Year” The first fireworks shot up into the sky. As if on cue, the rumbling started, and there the sky quickly brightened. In a thunderous flash that drowned out even the biggest fireworks, it appeared. That big, monolithic ship, shaped like a giant dagger, perfectly balanced, floated down from the heavens. A hush descended upon the crowd of onlookers. The ship got closer and there he was, stand in the center of the transport, the big purple man clad in that regal armor. He raised his left hand – it was clad in a fantastic golden glove embedded with gems of various colours, and though I was still thousands of meters away, I could almost hear what was going to happen next.

The man smiled. And pressing his thumb and index fingers together, he snapped.

The Invincible Man

The 2020 Olympics were the first one Kilsung ever attended, after all, he was only 16 years old. He was the most promising young athlete in the nation, and he was expected to win the gold medal easily at his pet event – taekwondo. It seemed to the country, to his coaches and all who had the good fortune to spectate his matches, that he possessed the rare talent of being able to knockout anyone on demand. It didn’t matter whether it was a roundhouse kick, or a finger jab; when Kilsung wanted his opponent down, there was nothing the opponent could do to stop him. “Blocking is just a formality for that monster,” his coach had once famously remarked.

Unsurprisingly, Kilsung entered the tournament a hot favourite to win, despite his relatively young age and lack of experience. Round after round, each country’s bests fell to youth. Some went down in a single blow, others managed to dodge around several punches but all were ultimately floored within a couple minutes. “Almost effortlessly,” announced the commentators, “Kilsung progresses to the finals to face Jeremy Flint of Western Samoa.”

Now that guy was an unknown as well. It was the first outing for him too, and in the pre-bout brief all Kilsung’s coach could say to his mentee was “watch out for this lad. He’s breezed through all the stages too.”

“I’ll sort him out, don’t wowwy,” came Kilsung’s reply as he stuffed the mouthguard in between his jaws. He did not really need that mouthguard, but he kept it on to prevent disqualification.

The two men faced each other on the met. “Chunbi” said the referee. Both sides bowed deeply, and then swiftly brought their fists up in a ready position, eyeing the opponent that stood before him. The bell rang out – the bout had begun. Red and Blue circled each other slowly on the mat like sharks, each one fully confident of himself, but hesitant to go closer.

Hesitant? Only for a brief moment for Kilsung, it seemed. He lunged forwards, throwing a front kick to Flint’s right hand side. Flint reacted quickly, blocking it with one hand. Too late, it was a fake. Kilsung’s other foot was already in midair, coming down in an arc aimed straight at his opponents head. But Flint’s head wasn’t there. It had moved, and almost as fast as Kilsung had struck, the return blow was coming from Flint.

In a split second Kilsung realised the danger he was in, and his hands moved to intercept the punch aimed at his chest. Their arms met in midair, and both parties were pulled into an interlocking embrace. Their foreheads almost touching, Flint suddenly broke into a knowing smile. Kilsung chuckled with recognition. “Never thought I’d meet someone with this ability too.” Said Kilsung under his breath. Flint said nothing, but continued smiling, while his arms sought to come to terms with the sensation of being blocked by something as strong as themselves for the first time in his life.

Both men moved together – one step forward, one step back – their arms still tightly grasped the other. Either one unable to break free. Suddenly, Kilsung’s leg shot out, a sly attempt at a leg hook that would ground Flint. But his opponent was prepared. There was a twist and a skip and a clap as their palms collided and then almost as suddenly, the two were apart again, facing each other with renewed vigor. Each had successfully pushed the other away. Each now eyed his opponent, spaced two meters apart from toe to toe.

There is an old Chinese proverb that goes “one mountain isn’t big enough for two tigers”. Maybe Flint was thinking about that when he lunged. Maybe that’s what went through Kilsung’s mind as he too charged forward with his fist. Maybe the proverb is true. Certainly there could only be one gold medalist in this sport, right?

Contact

“Oh Leomund!” cried Stibbons, “what a strange planet! They live on land instead of under the water! Is it not the domain of the devil, that which is parched and dry throughout?”

“Alas,” replied the older man, “there are somethings we are bound not to comprehend. Such is the nature of alien civilisations. Don’t hurt yourself over-thinking these things. Come, prepare for landing.” The ship descended over a collection of metal spires that reached up towards the heavens, like gigantic fingers stretching out from the ground, each one countless times bigger than the two men’s starship. The aliens were thoroughly alike our two characters in build and in feature. With the cloaking technology activated Leomund and Stibbons easily blended into the native population.

Around them, the aliens went about their daily business, some sitting, some standing still, but mostly walking, though to where and for what reason eluded the two pioneers. In front of them loomed a massive structure that bodies were emerging from. Inscribed above in deep set lines carved into the stone (or what seemed like stone from their perspective) were the symbols, written as they were copied by Stibbons: M U S E U M. Stibbons and Leomund looked at each other, and seemingly sensing the other’s intention, both men approached the ingress.

The external facade of the structure belied the sheer magnitude of space within. The walls shot up from the ground high up above both men’s heads. And along the walls hung giant portraits of individual aliens, bigger than life itself, stretching from the floor at one’s toes to the ceilings edge. It was breathtaking. And if the natives themselves were awestruck at this lavish design, the two visitors were much more deeply affected.

They looked around the entire place. The hall seemed to stretch on forever. But as they were walking, Leomund stiffened, for something had caught his attention. They had come abreast with a portrait of a man, long faced, and sharped chin. Whose nose curved downwards ever more slightly than normal, and whose eyebrows were furrowed in a pose of everlasting bewilderment. Could it be? Yes it was. A motionless replica of the one who was now staring agape at the painting – Leomund himself. A space explorer from a planet thousands of lightyears away, stepping foot on this new, untouched planet, only to find a close to perfect representation of his likeness. The two men stood marvelling at the detail, as if this civilisation had known Leomund somehow. Stibbons dutifully copied the symbols at the bottom of the painting. They were:F E Y N M A N , S C I E N T I S T , 1 9 4 1.

It didn’t take them much exploration to come across another portrait, this time of the likeness of the King of Berhenheim, also a one for one representation. He was labelled: P R E S I D E N T amongst other titles. Then there was the renown entertainer Maslov, who was also featured in a collection in the hall, and he was followed by Erva, and Ostidian, and many other prominent figures from home who, inexplicably, seemed to have doppelgangers on this planet. “I am utterly flabbergasted,” expressed an exasperated Leomund, finally. They had long given up recording the names of those on the walls, the sheer number was overwhelming.

“And what is this?” said Stibbons, for he had found and was standing in front of a portrait of himself. “Quite a charmer, ain’t I?” He said to Leomund as he came up from behind. “Certainly dashing,” came the reply, as both men mused at the artwork, deep in thought. “Though what the hell does this mean? They certainly aren’t my initials,” said Stibbons as he traced out the inscription at the bottom: H I T L E R.

[WP] All of the satellites fall out of orbit, deep space probes return to earth. Even the Voyagers return hours later.

To ordinary people on Earth it just seemed like a normal meteor shower, nothing different from the Persieds and such. But to the astronomers behind their giant telescopes and polished lenses, the objects were much more than mere meteors. They were, in fact, the countless flotsam that mankind had put out into atmosphere over the past seventy years – satellites, probes, you name it, from the size of a washing machine to that of a school bus, they came raining back down on their origin, as if drawn in by some mysterious force.

Gravity. It was the only explanation, and the scientists of the world were suddenly in a chaotic uproar. Everyone, from the learned professors to the ardently religious priests to the sly conmen, all at once offered their own take on the explanation. Heads of States rushed to meet their counterparts, discussing the implications of space travel and exploration. Around the world, people huddled in prayer, or looked with awe at the sky that was lit up with the streaks of re-entry, or stood blankly in front of the television, hoping that the next news flash could perhaps cast some light on the nature of this phenomenon.

But nowhere was the fallout felt more strongly than in NASA – humanity’s nerve center for all things space related. As crowds started gathering outside the NASA headquarters, the chief scientist and a collection of staff and researchers barricaded themselves deep within the complex as they discussed the possibility that hundreds of years of science – since Newton and the apple, no, perhaps even before Socrates and the Greeks – had been wrong. Twelve old men, seated round a large mahogany table, engaged in a low discussion on laws that they had once held as universal truths but were now shown to be defunct and inept.

Opinion was split. There were multiple camps. Some believed that the current theories were lacking certain items, others claimed that the entire foundation of modern science from relativity and calculus were wrong through and through. An aged scientist clutched at the remaining tufts of white hair on his head, buried his face in his arms and collapsed on the table sobbing, unable to come to terms with the fact that his entire life’s work had been proven utterly useless.

Theory built on theory, assumptions based on assumptions. The entirety of modern science – based on several fundamental laws of nature, created and elevated to that status by none other than men. Science is a process of trial and error, of hypothesis and verification, countless experiments can never prove it right, yet only one experiment is needed to prove it wrong. When the apple is thrown up for the 100th time and it doesn’t come back down, in the midst of all the chaos and disbelief, there is a sharpening of the scientific knowledge of the world, and science is improved. We scientists put our faith in science because it is a pursuit of progress. When contradictions arise, the community scrutinizes past assumptions, questions what was taken for granted, finds alternative explanations, and defends it through logic and reason. That is the beauty of the scientific method. Can the same be said for religion?

[WP] You have been granted the power to make any object you touch like new. You have become every archeologist’s worst nightmare.

It all started that day when Manny broke the vase at home. He had knocked it off the shelf accidentally. Grandmother started swearing the moment she heard it. The shards were all over the floor. It was Ming. I was peering over the remnants of the vase when I had the most inexplicable urge to touch them. I put my hands on the broken pieces, felt a surge of power and in a blinding flash the vase was there, reconstructed and brand new, with not even a crack on its surface.

My family, at first horrified at the unexplainable power I wielded, soon became used to it. I was the handyman of the family. Cars, air-conditioners, television sets, anything that broke down I could repair to a factory issue state in the blink of an eye. It did not take long for me to realise the vast money-making capabilities of this power. I started out selling my services to neighbours and friends, and through word of mouth recommendations and an aggressive marketing campaign, I found myself called in for ever more lucrative contracts – from building repair to reconstruction of age old artifacts.

Then one day, while on vacation in Naples, Italy, while trekking through the ruins of Pompeii I happened to lean against the wall of a destroyed building in a brief moment of exhaustion, and before I knew it, there was the familiar flash and a clap of thunder. As the my eyes adjusted from the shock , I realised with horror and fascination that the wall I was holding on to had been repaired to smooth marble, and all around me the buildings had risen again to their ancient glory. The tourists around me were delighted, and immediately started taking photos at the newly reconstructed Pompeii.

The consternation that greeted me when I returned to town was a different thing, though. My rebuilding of Pompeii had caused a furor in the archeological community. They were outraged that I had so blatantly and easily erased such a significant portion of Italy’s culture and history. In my defence I had no idea my power was going to activate back then. I was still struggling with the control of it. But the deed was done and suddenly several dozen professors who had depended on the ancient city for their lives’ work found themselves out of a job.

After the Pompeii incident, I visited several more historical sites – Machu Pichu, the Great Wall, the Acropolis. Each time there would be activists and lobbyists waiting for me. But they could not stop me. All I had to do was bend down and touch a small portion of the ruins and watch as the buildings rose up from the ashes. I guess I was offending some people who had relied on those ruins as part of their job, but in my view I was creating far more possibility by making those old places new again. At some point in time the remnants of history must make way for the progress of civilisation. The best thing was that my power was not confined to just ancient ruins – I even managed raised 70% of the Amazon back to its former lushness.

Yet after all this time, there has been a single thing I have dared not to do. It was the possibility of restoring dinosaurs to life. After all they are merely bones and fossils, much like the granite ruins of ancient cities. It has quietly crossed my mind countless times, but in each instance I quickly banish the thought. Once I must say I came quite close, though. As I was restoring the old city of Troy I came across the fossil of some long lost animal half buried in the dirt. It seemed like some sort of huge bird to me. I deliberated for pretty long, standing over the fossil, but in the end, somehow, I didn’t put my hand to it. I guess something in me told me that it wasn’t right. Not all histories are meant to be rebuilt. So I left it, half sticking out from under a new road, for the incoming residents of New Troy to find. At least the paleontologists will thank me for this.

[WP] While exploring an underwater cave, your light shines over a shiny object imbedded in a rock. Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s a sword. You pull the sword out and it emits a blinding light. When you can see again, you’re standing in front of the kingdom of Atlantis, as it’s king

Percy Jackson never really wanted to be here. He could not believe his god-awful luck. For nearly his entire teenage years, he had lived a fantastic life as the son of Poseidon, going on adventures and fighting monsters and saving the world. Now, just shy of his twenty-first birthday, he stood on the edge of an underwater city, sword in hand, and these half-man half-fish creatures were bowing to him. He really wanted to believe that it was not true. You see, once you spend too much time under the spotlight, you yearn to get away from all the attention. Diving had provided a getaway from such troubles of mind, and had he known that today’s dive would lead to this Percy would never have started.

But there it was. The sword glowed a brilliant turquoise in his hand, and he as he concentrated, he could perceive, ever so faintly, the movement of the currents in the ocean. “Alas, this was meant for you, sire! Finally, the King has returned!” An aged mer-man cried out as he emerged from the crowd. “All hail the king!” Echoed the prostrated subjects.

Percy hefted the sword in his hand. It was well balanced, and beautifully adorned. As he gripped it a loud wail echoed from the canyon behind him. A figure was approaching him. Clad in blowfish armor, a face filled with a full beard and braided hair, with an enormous golden trident in hand, the man walked menacingly towards him. “How dare you usurp my throne. Who are you to challenge my power?”

The crowd behind Percy let out a collective gasp. The people grovelled. Those who were already bowing bent lower still. Still confused, Percy, in a sudden bout of foolish bravery common to the young, bellowed in return, as hard as he could, “I am Percy Jackson, King of Atlantis. Bow to me, stranger, and no harm shall come to you.” He brandished the sword over his head and bathed the place in eerie green light.

The man was closer now, and in the light one could just make out a pair of fiery eyes under the heavy brow, and what at first seemed like mail, was actually a full set of body tattoos that stretched all the way from his fingernails to his bellybutton. “I am Arthur Curry, the true king of Atlantis. Have you forgotten?”

Percy was about to reply, when he stopped abruptly, for he realised that the stranger was speaking past him, and addressing the crowd behind.” The words of the stranger seemed to have a distinct effect on the crowd. They flinched collectively, and a murmuring dissonance spread amongst those gathered. The elder mer-man who had stepped out earlier turned as pale as a polished pearl. “Si…Sire…,” he stammered “We thought you were never going to return! We thought you were dead! We…we followed the inheritance protocol.”

Arthur had reached Percy by this time, and in one swift move snatched the sword out of his hand. Percy, still dumbfounded and pitifully confused, watched helplessly as Arthur stalked menacingly towards the elder. The mer-man cowered in front of the approaching King, his mind told him to run and hide, but fear rooted him to the soft ocean sand. Arthur stopped an arms length away from him. He thrust the sword in the air, as it glowed a brilliant blue. There was a flash of neon followed by a clap of thunder that drowned out the shriek of the mer-man as his insides were vaporized by the lightning. As the sound rumbled on into the distance all that was left of the old mer-man was a stream of bubbles.

At that Arthur seemed satisfied. His rage-filled eyes scanned the crowd. “This is what happens to infidels who discredit the words of the king. Let this serve as a warning.” Arthur turned back to Percy, “As for you, ignorance is forgivable at times, but for your transgressions you shall be exiled from this land forever. Now be gone.”

As he swam back Percy made a mental note never to dive in that same area again.

[WP] “alright, look. I will do what ever you want just DON’T DETONATE THE BOMBS!” “Alright. Go on a date with me”

Eustace stared at her from across the dining table. The candles flickered in the gentle breeze that wafted through the derelict house. The two of them were the only ones there. The rest of the troopers from his squad were elsewhere – either on sentry duty or taking the lull in the fighting to clean their weapons. It seemed fitting to their commander to reward Eustace with this time off – after all, if not for him, the bridge would have been destroyed and that would have dashed the plan.

Eunice stared back at him, a lock of golden hair covered part of her left eye. Both of them looked down at the spartan set up in front of them – a tattered table cloth, a clean plate, some spam and beans on it, and a candle holder with two lit candles placed in the center between them. Eustace smiled, “Some crazy shit eh, this war?”

“I thought I had gotten used to it,” came the reply “never thought I would live to see the day the Americans came fighting all the way through to our town.”

“Yeah, it’s all just Germans after Germans, I guess. I never saw much of this combined arms things myself. Up till now.”

“So…your objective is to hold the bridge?” she asked innocuously.

“Yep. Pretty much that. As well as the surrounding town. Then just sit tight and wait for Major Ben to link up with us by noon tomorrow. Can’t believe how close your band of thugs came to blowing it up.” Eustace was at ease with her. He could trust this girl.

Eunice smirked and looked away. “Good thing you spoke a whole sentence of English too. If you had just shouted ‘stop’ like those Germans do your whole platoon would have been dead.” She used her knife to prod at the spam.

“Funny eh? How we’re all supposed to be on the same side in this damn war, but it’s almost as if we’re all set to kill each other.”

“Sometimes it even seems like the Germans are helping us against the British.”

“I guess no one really knows what’s going on,” Eustace chuckled “We just fight whoever we are told. German, Italian, Hungrarian, Brit, French – it’s all the same people just wearing different clothes.”

At that Eunice chuckled too. “We aren’t very much different, you and I. I never liked fighting. I’ve never actually killed a German before.”

“Neither have I,” admitted Eustace.

‘Is this really all worth fighting for?”

“Definitely. But whether it’s worth dying for, that I’m not so sure,” said Eustace.

Both soldiers looked at each other. One clad in the paratrooper green of the United States Airborne, one in the dirt brown of a resistance fighter. Both were grimy and dirty and had splotches of dried blood here and there. There was a bloody gash in Eunice’s left arm where a piece of shrapnel had streaked by.

In the distance, the staccato fire of a machine gun started up. Men started shouting as they rushed to their positions.

Eustace took her hands in his. “Hey Eunice, let’s uh.. make a deal. Promise me, when all of this is over, you’ll go on a proper date with me? If we are still alive, that is.”

“You jolly well make sure you goddamn survive, then,” came the reply.

Without another word both reached for their weapons against the wall and rushed outside into the night. This operation Market Garden better be worth it.

Everyone doubted you when you didn’t invest in any defense points, and only in speed and magical power. However, after a few missions done without a scratch, people began to recognize you as the “Untouchable.”

The idea was simple: take a young boy who had just come of age and had plenty of points to spend. Convince him to improve solely his speed and magical abilities. Throw him into the trials to teach him danger and love and hardihood. Make him learn suffering and experience pain and understand the camaraderie that bonds warriors together on a mission. Create a specialist – a pure breed – that was capable of besting the best in field, at the expense of his other skills. No one had ever tried that before.

But no one had expected such an impressive score from the kid – multiple ‘A’ rank missions successfully completed with not a single injury. The program was yielding results beyond the developers’ wildest predictions. Its focus started shifting, and the dynamics of the relationship – of researcher to boy – began to change quickly, and both sides could perceive it.

It finally happened, that one day, they tried to inject him – the Untouchable – with some of that Mezza Drug – to capture some of that raw power he was exerting. But he resisted, or so the story goes, and with a surge of arcane energy, overloaded the systems in the lab and burst out from the roof, eloping into the darkness.

The official statement by the state was that a rogue soldier had escaped incarceration. Men who were involved in the subsequent hunt for the Untouchable reported seeing only a dark flash in front of their eyes before being knocked out by a plasma pulse. Batch lightning took out entire squads of special forces in an instant – leaving behind only ashes and shadows of former men. Woodcutters in the forested Ardennes region where he escaped claimed that he made a hideout in the woods, veiled by a heavy magical miasma.

Carpet bombing the area didn’t seem to work. Patrols came back at half strength, with survivors giving harrowed tales of men struck down like pins and blasted to smithereens. Civilians started to evacuate the region, afraid of getting caught in the conflict. Two nights ago Colonel Jensen’s tent was attacked, the lead researcher on the program beheaded.

Tomorrow, we advance into that said area. I’ve divided my men into three squads – two will close in from the Southeast and the West respectively while the last one provides covering fire from one bound back. I’m equipping my troops with self-activated suicide vests. Hopefully they’ll take that bastard with them if it’s the last thing they do. No one knows how many, or if any at all, of these forty men will come back by dusk. I find solace and hope in the glittering hosts of heaven, and whatever happens tomorrow, my thoughts are forever with you, love.

Write about a villian who isn’t all powerful but instead uses what moderate abilities they possess to consistently infuriate a mighty warrior into blindly destroying world after world.

When I first saw him I wasn’t very much convinced that I had just been introduced to a mighty warrior. It was my first time on Earth, after all. His stature was big – well padded – but not muscular, his fitness was not extraordinary, and his charm and looks too, were far from alluring. Yet in the squinty eyes set underneath those wispy eyebrows I saw a burning desire for power – like a smouldering pot waiting to boil over. All that was needed was the right push.

“Father” I cried as I stepped into his quarters one day, “Father, this is the chance of a lifetime. You cannot let this slip from your grasp.”

Slowly the intertial mass that I had called out too swiveled round in an armchair. He was smoking a cigar and on his lap i saw some half eaten – what do you call those? – french fries. “This is the perfect opportunity”, I dropped the words slowly and precisely “The world is ours for the taking.”

Very suspiciously those eyes peered at me as his brow caved into a frown. I unfurled the documents that I was holding, and spread them out upon the mahogany table, brushing aside the fries.

“Sanders has made the first move by taking positions here, here, and here.” I shifted several pieces on a map. “But this leads him straight into this weak point here, and his whole camp will have to take the position no matter what.” I was convinced that it was the time to strike, but my champion was staring at the table with a glazed look in his eyes.

I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. “The coloured ones of the South are advancing,” I whispered “Their spies increase in number in our land with each passing day.” That seemed to do the trick – proverbial push over the edge. Outraged, he stood up from the chair and roared “Never! We will take control first. This absolutely shall not happen.” My warrior can be quite prone to anger at times, over the years of grooming I developed an appreciation for his short fuse and temperament. It was his best asset and perhaps the only thing that could be used to control him. They say the smartest people are those who find the best people to do the work for them.

As we started the crusade I realised early on that the odds were against him, for he was was of terrible manners and decidedly bad tastes. One too many occasions his gruff, intolerable responses had offended far too many people. Unpopularity with the masses poses a huge disadvantage to any warrior. It impedes their growth and it strangles their confidence, like how a deadly vine winds itself slowly but surely around a tree, choking it to death overtime. But I had the slightest of notions that this would go well, and luck was an interesting luxury that I was familiar with.

Well today was the day that things finally would go as plan. All the pieces had been carefully placed, and the plan was about to be set in motion. I stepped out from behind the gold and red trimmed curtains and made my way up slowly to the rostrum. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I am Jared Kushner, and today, I am delighted to introduce to you, my father-in-law, Donald J. Trump, who will give his speech for the presidential nomination.”