Day 21: It Turns Out It’s Man

Moz­ack knew he had a gift to share with the world. He just didn’t quite know how to do so. He’d been read­ing up about all sorts of ways he could util­ise his new found power, but whilst the books were per­fectly fine when dis­cuss­ing the­ory, they lacked a lot of relavent details when it came to the actual imple­ment­a­tion. The few brief extracts he’d found which did deal with poten­tial ways to help people were all vague and com­pletely unsuited to the mod­ern day. He was also scep­tical about whether a lot of them would be con­sidered “help­ing” given the advances in medi­cine which had taken place over the last two thou­sand years.

He star­ted com­ing up with his own ideas instead. They were doc­u­mented on sheets of paper that first began to gather on his desk and then cas­caded over his floor, got pinned to walls, even made there way onto the ceil­ing in a few places, though Moz­ack tried to avoid that where pos­sible as cran­ing his neck to see read them gave him an awful crick.

He star­ted read­ing around the sub­ject too, find­ing out any­thing that might be use­ful in related fields, but he didn’t have any suc­cess and gave up with this after a while, stick­ing to his own plans, draw­ings and the­or­ies more and more.

Every so often, he wondered if it was a good idea to bring other people in on what he inten­ded to do, but that plan was quickly dis­missed as he con­sidered hav­ing to explain the whole thing to them without a demon­stra­tion. What if they began ques­tion­ing it or sup­ply­ing ideas of their own? Moz­ack wasn’t sure he could take that, so he kept his secrets to him­self and waited for the day when he finally felt ready to unleash his gift upon the unsus­pect­ing world.

Months passed, and he finally decided it was time. He’d been through his doc­u­ment­a­tion again and again, believed everything was in order and found that he couldn’t take him­self any fur­ther without prac­tical exper­i­ence. Not that he thought he did need to make any adjust­ments. He’d even set up a few mod­els and, as far as he could see, the meth­od­o­logy was utterly sound. Still, it was always good to remem­ber that nobody was infal­lible. He could, con­ceiv­ably, have over­looked a small mis­take some­where and so he must keep his mind open to fur­ther devel­op­ments in his work. He sched­uled a day in a week’s time to be the first on which he would go out and show people what he was cap­able of. He’d use the time in between to make sure he had everything he needed, prac­tise and pre­pare him­self men­tally for the com­ing challenges.

It was Monday the 15th of August, and Moz­ack stepped out of his door to greet the sunny morn­ing. He walked down the path from his house and waved to his neigh­bour, who was cut­ting the grass. The neigh­bour didn’t wave back and just stared at him instead. Per­fectly under­stand­able, thought Moz­ack, the appar­atus isn’t the most attract­ive and it must look very odd to some­body unaware of what I am attempt­ing to accom­plish today.

On the bus in to the town centre, three young boys taunted Moz­ack and ridiculed his appear­ance. “Hey, freak,” one said, “what’s the stuff all over your face? Are you demen­ted or something?”

You look like you’ve got a vacuum cleaner wel­ded to your lips,” said another.

The third just laughed at the remarks of the other two, then star­ted nudging Moz­ack in the shoulder repeatedly.

Moz­ack ignored it. He knew what chil­dren could be like, and soon he would com­mand the respect of the world. Imbe­ciles like this would be in awe of his gift and he needn’t worry about being mocked on the bus any­more. In fact, he wouldn’t even have to take the bus.

He had chosen the town centre because of the large crowds you got there. He’d seen people get audi­ences before just by doing some­thing rel­at­ively mundane so, he reasoned, he should be able to draw the entirety of the plaza, maybe even bring people in from the sur­round­ing squares and avenues.

He walked up to a group of people that were stood around a busker. They had their backs to him, but the busker saw and raised an eye­brow at him. He didn’t stop play­ing though, and kept the atten­tion of most of his audi­ence. One man, how­ever, glanced over his shoulder, try­ing to see what the busker had been look­ing at. He saw Moz­ack and turned to face him. “You a per­former?” he asked.

With the appar­atus cov­er­ing his face, Moz­ack couldn’t reply. He wondered how he could let the man know what he was up to and decided that a prac­tical demon­stra­tion was in order. That would be the best way to make every­body under­stand any­way, and to gather a crowd.

He leapt for­wards and pushed the man to the ground. “What the fuck?!” the man yelled as Moz­ack fell on top of him. He turned his face to the side to keep it away from the sharpened steel tube pro­trud­ing from Mozack’s mouth, and Moz­ack saw his open­ing. He rammed his head down, crack­ing through the skull and press­ing the steel tube deep into the man’s head. He began whis­per­ing the words he had spe­cially prepared.

People around him screamed and ran, he could see another group sprint­ing towards him out the corner of his eye, but he just needed a little bit longer and they’d see what it was he’d accomplished.

The lit­any was fin­ished and Moz­ack pulled back. The man’s body stayed where it was, limp and dead. Blood poured out of the hole in his head.

Moz­ack didn’t know what could have gone wrong. He was sure everything had been done cor­rectly. Per­haps not though. He turned towards the group of police­man and got ready to pounce on the first one. It might just be a case of prac­tise, he thought.

Later that day, the team of invest­ig­at­ors found Mozack’s home full of notes, scrib­blings, mad ram­blings and a large lib­rary of books on trephining.

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