Two figures stood atop a skyscraper in Wilmington, Delaware. One man saw action as a reconnaissance (RECON) Marine and had been retired for fifteen years. The other figure, Mohammad, stood covered in chains. Lowe Banderfield, the retired staff sergeant vaped on an e-cigarette. He looked at Mohammad’s face. Gnarled and sneering his eyes looked like scorpions and his mouth a camel spider. His nose appeared as a bumpy road protruding from his face. His beard appeared as a pit of vipers.
“You know that you’ve been a scourge for centuries, now?”
Mohammad stood like a wilted leaf.
“You’re so infamous for not allowing your mug to be captured in drawings, paintings, and films. I can see why an artist wouldn’t draw you, you’re ugly as hell. But that’s besides the point. You’ve prevented people from pursuing your image because of idolatry issues. Let me to tell you something...you’re no idol. You’re nothing to be worshipped.”
“I don’t want to die!” Mohammad shrieked.
“It’s a little too late for appeals. Your immorality, your evil far outweighs any and all requests to spare your life.”
“But... I’m the prophet.”
“Yes, you are and your reign of terror comes to an end in just a few seconds.”
“No, no, no. I protest. I am the prophet Mohammad and I demand that you loosen the chains from around me.”
“It’s not going to happen." This skyscraper reached to the sky in all of its 1,500 feet.
“You will strike the ground and that will be the end of you. No more martyrdom no carrying out the worst actions in the name of something that is afraid to be portrayed. You have lost all ties to the world of the living. Because your ideology is about death and destruction of men, women, and children the world over for all of these years... you are due to meet Death.”
Banderfield then slipped on a black body bag over the prophet with a plastic screen to show his face. He moved methodically and with a precision that spoke of his days in the Corps. Mohammad began to sob.
“No sense in crying there Mo. You’ve had decades to do that. Instead, you inspired some of the most heinous crimes against rational, life-loving individuals the world over. You’re worst than words can convey. For being the terror that has plagued the earth for this long, you deserve nothing but a death like this. So many people have seen this death because they allegedly besmirched your name by drawing a picture of you.”
Muffled, Mohammad said, “But I’m sorry.”
“That’s insufficient, Mo. All the people that died in your name never got the chance to say their case against you. Some may have never heard of your name but the people who committed those atrocities knew your name but not your likeness.”
“There must be something that I can do. I’ll do anything. You name it. I can become a philanthropist or start up my own non-profit organization. I’ll do anything.”
“I expected you to have some shred of dignity about yourself but your groveling has lead me to believe that you’re less than nothing in life and you’re going to a nonexistence for your many too many crimes perpetrated against good people. Your whole entire being exudes viciousness and awfulness. Your estimation of women, gays, and children is legendary in the negative sense. Those ‘inspired’ by your words and mutilated and murdered those folks all should see this death that you’re about to meet.”
Banderfield positioned Mohammad at the ledge of the building. He squared up with the prophet and delivered a swift left leg to Mohammad. He fell with the body bag zipped around him still despite the height. Mohammad’s descent seemed to look like a piece of a monolith breaking off from some ancient structure. The entire street had been closed off for the event.
Once Mohammad struck the ground, the people surrounding the dead prophet rejoiced.
![Cartoon Occult Martial Arts by [Rob, S, Raines, Mark]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51m5bRpnrqL.jpg)
