The God Of Violence

My consciousness reignited inside a prison cell.

 I think I’d only been dormant a short time.

 I was initially quiet figuring out my surroundings. That took moments.

I had evaluated the human being in the cell with me. I smelled all I needed to know about the man. I decided to engage him more for the company than anything else.  He had a agreeable healthy aroma. He was strong for a regular human being. While I could sense the fear and discord amongst the other prisoners, he seemed to be at peace.

 “Hey cellmate.” I said.

The new vocal cords were as musical as they were strong.

Not a fan of confinement I let him know: “I'm starting to slide into depression. It's time to go. You can come. Or I can kill you.”

His English was accented and broken.

He responded. “Bredren, I no fear you or dying. If I thought that you could Hescape I and I with you all de way. This prison is not easy to leave you no can Hescape!”

He had no clue what he was dealing with.

I could feel my true body attempting to fuse with the new spinal cord.

The inherent strength in the shell is extraordinary.  As powerful as my first. Damn I liked that body. I reassure the man in the cell with me.

 “No I can. I can escape. Want to hear a story? Have a seat. Get prepared. While you do that.  I'll tell you. I'm a little bored. Plus we have a little while before its time to go. Are you listening? My name is... Mahes.”  I kept a running commentary with him. I knew that otherwise the sight of me moving super-fast and the deaths might cause him pause.

I remember telling him that my consciousness was older than he could fathom.

At that time I had been on this planet for 589 years. That's when I first met Robert Browne of Jamaica. He got dressed and laced his boots tightly. He was ready to go. I could tell from the scent of his body and the tempo of his heart beat that he didn’t truly believe. Yet. He wanted to. Wanted to be free of the cage we were in. I told him. “I'm going to be moving faster than you can see. Staying here is tantamount to death. I'll talk and move. Ready?”

Maybe, my brain stem fusion wasn’t complete because I was still a little fuzzy as I prepped to get out of the appalling box. “Robert Browne of Jamaica.” I said.  He looked at me, truly looked for the first time.

“Call I Ras.” He interjects.  

“Okay Ras, I'm going to take this door off the hinges. We'll go left at the morgue. If you follow close I won't have to kill as often.”

I stretch the body. I’d only been in this sack of meat, for a short time then, I was adjusting.

I was glad to have an audience. I caught diarrhea of the mouth.  In motion. The door was off and had been transmuted into a long mace. I like the old school weapons.

“Ras I was a slave once.” My story just molded as I listened to the change of the shifts beginning.  Becoming one with a new form is like buying a new pair of jeans or shoes. You have to get a fill for it. I prattled on about the form I had when I was briefly a slave. “I liked that body too. Strong tall.”

Can’t recall at this point why I didn’t mind altering myself in front of Ras.

As I did he pointed out to me that my tentacle was showing. I’m still in the same body now as I was then.   Ras is a very smart guy. Always has been. He didn’t overreact.

He started by asking me insightful questions.

So star, hif you can be hanyone you want to be why choose to be black Brethen? Wouldn’t it be easier to be a white man? Or a white woman if you can pull it off?”

“Okay fair question. I like being black. Yes, I could be whatever I want. I have been. I’ve been a female. I have been every ethnic group. On this plant there is only one race.” I recall looking at him as if I dared him to disagree.  “I like being the underdog.”

I had only had to dispatch with eight of the prison staff by that point.  The alarm hadn’t been sounded but the guards that we stumbled upon all were willing to die to keep other human beings inside of a cage. I was shielding Ras by then. I had begun to enjoy his company.

We turned a corner two CO’s walk right into us. I move quicker than thought. “Watch out!” I told my new friend but of course he couldn’t move fast enough. “Sorry bout the brains in your hair.”  That pair dispatched I continued talking to Ras.

“I started out black. Well not exactly. I started in a canister when my ship crashed.” More CO’s attempt to stop us.

 "Get down!"

The man was moving faster already.

“Bredren how did you just rip them six people apart like dat? Rasclot!”

“What? First, I told you I'm not entirely human.  Secondly it was only four. The ripped up pieces make it look like more.”

I rained down death and destruction as I rambled on to my newfound companion.

Told him all my particulars about how my ship crashed in Egypt.

The 6 bodies I’ve had since. I like what I like. When something works for me I stick with it.  Rasta Rob had doubted me somewhat. So that when we burst out into the fenceless land around the prison, I let him know.

“See sunshine. We're free. I told you. You don't have to stick with me Ras. I'm the sure bet though. Going somewhere else would be like throwing away blackjack.”

I knew that he no longer doubted me.

I can transmute some matter, but I have to have the raw materials so I decided to steal a car. “Wait here. I said. “I'll get us a ride.”

Rob looked at me seriously. “Its 1968. Folk don’t respect black people bruda. It will make it easier if you try a white body.”

I don’t know why I still was talking at that point. All of the killing was done and I had no further obligation.

I wasn’t angry. Just insistent.

“Nope. I like this body.”

I whispered as we looked for a mode of Transportation.

“Oh and I like this car. Get in.” It was a then four year old car. A 1964 Mustang convertible.

I drove and I told the Jamaican my story.  “Egypt was awesome. It was great. I was thought a God. A minor God but a God none the less. I didn't encourage them. I didn't discourage them. Don't judge me.”

It was difficult to hide what I am for long in those days.  Its obvious I'm not human. I move much faster.

I listened as much as I spoke and when Rasta told me that his family had a huge ganja farm in Jamaica? I felt like, Why not? I hadn't been there since I helped drive the colonizers away.

Rasta told me that the majority of Marijuana in his country came from him. Since he was a big cheese in Jamaica I said, let’s go.

 Money? Nah. I had none. I couldn’t buy tickets but I could make the car fly.

Tell me a flying Mustang isn't the sexiest thing ever.

 “You know what Ras I like you.”  I told him as the black convertible zipped through the skies. I posed a question that might have been premature, had Rasta been anyone else.  “How'd you like to basically live forever? Not Voodoo. Science. Technology. Like the car.”

Without any fear of him reacting to me any different than he had been, I clued the man who would become my biggest ally into everything.

 “I'm from another world Ras. I'm part of a race that hinge on anger. It’s the catalyst that allows me to do things that you and other human beings view as incredible. Like the prison break. To me that was nothing. 48 people. Anything under 30 and I feel sorry for them.”

 The information I shared with him and that you are reading was valuable. I've been the subject of tons of redacted government memos.

 Never in what the locals called Yard. I think it’s because of the fact that the people are accustomed to magic there. What I can do seems like magic. To those who assume that I’m just a man.  I sat the Mustang down in an overgrown field there. The property belonged to Rasta Rob’s family. We were welcomed with open arms. The servants eyed me warily.  My extremely fast movement cluing them that all was not as it appeared.  Rob walked into the main house bidding me to remain where I was and returned with some vegetation rolled into a large leaf. He lit it up. Inhaled deeply and uttered one of his native curses.

His nutmeg brown hand extended it my way.  “What is this Ras?”

I asked the question despite the smell letting me know that it was a mild natural depressant.  Rob’s jovial nature must have already infected me by that point because I feigned ignorance just to keep the banter up.

“You say it will slow me down? Make me able to pass for human? Really? Guess next you're going to tell me I should have my hair like yours like spaghetti?”

Even having seen me massacre the guards at the prison, Ras challenged me about insulting his sacred hairstyle.  Sacred? It looked to me like a bunch of unruly slugs made from hair.

I took the spliff as he passed it. The smell wasn’t telling enough. The first lungful let me know that it would definitely slow me down. I continued to emulate Rob’s easy going nature. “Whoa that might work.”

Those events were 86 years ago.

After I broke Rasta Rob out of prison.

 I moved to a small eyot. Avoided trouble as long as possible.

I can't believe how naïve Rob and I both were back then.

We spent so much time together, that I stopped telling him my story. Than once I made a superficial incision and placed the same Nanites in his blood that dominate mine, he knew my story.

 Knew me as though we were of the same blood. I guess because we are. I still use the cannabis. It does slow down my reaction times just like Ras promised.

I've since learned to choreograph my movements, to seem even more human. I blend seamlessly now. Of course a being that has lived in the outer reaches of space can't be happy on a tiny island. We moved.

I needed much more space and a means of controlling my natural overwhelming Anger.

I'm an anger elemental. The angrier I become, the stronger.

I'm already like 5 times as strong as even the fit human being, but when I'm angry I'm like a hurricane of vengeance.

Ras's herbal treatment has kept me calm for years. But all good things end. After the prison break and self-imposed exile I had an epiphany.

I realize I never needed to hide. I made this body, my favorite thus far, immortal. Even were someone able to destroy it completely I'd live on and transfer my persona.

 I like this body though.  

I had 25 years of only using my gift of violence in practice. Years where I ventured off the island at my leisure. Turned nothing into a massive fortune, traveled loved earth women. Even took one in and gave here my gift.  I must have let myself get soft.

 I should have been able to smell the tranquilizer.

 Should have heard and evaded the dart long before it reached me. Suddenly I'm weak as a child I feel the world begin to spin. My slug like inner being goes out first. I felt naked and alone. I hadn’t been alone with just the human thoughts for even a second until that moment.

Oh when I awaken there will be hell.

 I wake in a cell. Mouth tastes of death & feces. I'm Angry I waste no time wrangling with myself. I only have to wait & the opportunity to escape will present itself. Then I'm going to tear these bastards’ spines out. They'll regret trifling with me. Government. Can tell by the smells and the efficiency. A government abduction. Means I'm going to have to do a heck of a lot more killing. At least if it were some random fool I could wipe out their organization quickly. Government groups normally take longer.

Rats in the Flood

 I had wound up in New York just in time for the biggest insurgence of work in ages. The Hurricane Sandy restoration/clean-up was in full swing.

The disaster while devastating and heartbreaking, also created a boon. There was work to be had for people who wanted it.

I had a ton of adventures with the cleaning crews. From gang fights amongst the workers to shoot outs in government housing. One particular story however sticks out far and above the rest.

It was early in the restoration effort.

Our crew, whom I had taken the liberty of nicknaming individually, were still eager. The $30 per hour tax free they were being paid was motivating the workers to wade into the brackish water and snatch things from the precipice of certain doom. 

The restoration effort of course began in the most affluent of areas, before cascading down to the underprivileged. Our first neighborhood, was obviously affluent and the hazmat suited workers were making quick work of the flooded areas.

As workers are wont to do we teased each other and made light of the tragedy around us. For entertainment purposes we started paying heed to the items leaving the basements of the houses.

One house in particular while visually unremarkable will always stand out to me. It resonates because of the oddity of the items in the basement.

The traffic signs was the first thing that seemed odd.

Then the cots. Not one or two for out of town guests. No the pile grew on the sidewalk waiting for the front end loader to place in dumpsters lining both sides of the once idealist subdivision.

20 or 30 cots were pulled from this basement. My suspicion grew with each one.
Then came the toys.
Dolls. By the hundreds. Hulu hoops, skates, skate boards, action figures, yo-yo’s, lunch boxes.
All of these items gave me pause. The hazmat suited crew were too immersed in the $30 dollars an hour to give the oddities a second glance.

Then came the restraints and the most money hungry and distracted members of the team were forced to take note. Handcuffs. Zip ties. And the worst, shackles!

I had already removed myself from even the yard of the offending house, my excuse? I had to monitor all of the squads. The facts? I KNEW that house had been the site of some heinous crimes and I didn’t want my DNA anywhere near the scene.

When the corps had collected no less than 50 restraints and the trunks started coming out the crew chief approached me softly.

I had been expecting his question for at least an hour and a half. “Cheese, what the fuck? Do you think I need to call somebody?”

He was a fucking moron. Why are you asking me stupid shit? Are you waiting to find a body in one of those trunks?

I gave him the same look I give my son when he asks me on trash day if he should take the can to the end of the street. A look that wordlessly conveys my shock that this guy was smart enough to remember to breath.

I pay one of the temp agency workers, who are only receiving $10 hourly to accidently drop one of the trunks.

Yep. Weapons. Obscure weapons like a cross bow, shuriken and a really pretty .357. 

Finally these New Yorkers who according to popular wisdom should be much more intelligent than me realize that a crime has likely been committed. Suffolk and Nassau county Police cars finally arrive on scene and the evidence began being collected.

Sometimes rats wash out in the flood.