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.