Chapter Four

Thor whisked Hisstory to her lair and skipped down the steps of the Museum into the twilight of craved seclusion. Sheathed in thoughts of his adventure, his customary awareness eluded him. He wasn't nervous that his path became deserted save himself, until five indistinct figures suddenly loomed ahead, veering toward him. His heart quickened. He glanced backward. Six muscular menaces followed, paced in their distance. Spooked by them, he swerved from his habitual route, skittering into an unfamiliar narrow alley boasting a brick wall that pronounced a dead end. From behind dark dumpsters, more marauders emerged. How swiftly the prowlers penned their panicked prey.

Pitted against forces of superior strength, Thor had no shield. As the gang of colossal brawn and sinew circled him, the snide leader pulled out an object from underneath his jacket, prompting the prowlers' replication in ominous clicks of reverberation. The light from a remote street lamp strayed on burnished metal. Thor distinguished the flaunted surplus of switchblades.

"We've snared you. You can't escape," the leader snarled.

"What do you want?" asked Thor evenly in placid projection. "I have no money."

The leader sneered, "We know you don't, orphan! We're having a fest, and you're the fun. We'll rough you up a little or a lot, depending on the fight you've got."

"What fun is there minus a contest? I'm no match against all of you," the stately boy said blasé.

The leader smirked, "Are you mocking us? You're no match against one of us. What a shame you don't have your pet to brandish. That armor might be a contest."

Thor lapsed into a rapid reverie, targeted on their fun to be. No mercy would be granted him; a thrill kill was about to begin. His body braced for the cruelty he faced. Shades of malice mauled his mind, sadists burning an insect to a crisp by harnessing the sun to weapon a magnifying glass, tearing apart the wings of a butterfly, destroying appendages of a defenseless grasshopper, or dousing a docile dog with lighter fluid to set it afire purely for kicks. Pursuing perverse pleasure to inflict profuse pain, he foresaw their grisly game, but their blood sport transformed when he grasped their name. To torture targets to the pinnacle of pain, the Calamity Cannibals lived up to their fame.

The split-second mental flash showed Thor he couldn't struggle. He saw the drama of his ritual death played out in his mind, should he resist the cannibals. He was not spared a single slice of his demonic murder, yet he harbored no hatred toward their ghoulish enterprise. They manifested a cultish insanity. He wondered where they'd lost their humanity, to sink to the depths of satanic depravity. No emotion to the piranhas did this youth of peace portray, though he felt the gruesome graphics in the flash upon his mind.

In the vision, Thor watched himself stripped and whipped while the tribe quipped. Because he fought, his flesh they sought, poking and prodding his parts that they prized. Once their fun was done, their vicious rite of feast was begun. He was highlighted on the decadent menu of their vile bloodthirsty venue. They commenced ceremonial feeding while he was still breathing. He was shocked that he lived, though his fertile flesh they were eating. He marveled that his heart kept beating. They were skilled; they knew what to do to keep him alive while they turned him to stew. His meat stayed warm as the hunters grew quirky, flaying his alabaster-toned skin or gnawing knees like jerky.

They ripped out the nails of his fingers and toes; he smelled their sautéed sauces until they sawed off his nose. To prolong his pain, they carved him in slivers; his body shook in spastic shivers. His tongue was torn, his ears were shorn, his eyes gouged out with a victorious shout. They sipped, stirred, slurped, and burped, nibbling tongue, ears, eyes, and nose as they worked. After his organs of sense were devoured, his featureless face was on tap to be plowed. They munched his mouth, crunched his cheeks, like carrion birds with broad-billed beaks. His succulent samples they patiently savored, ripened with spices they carefully flavored; from their grotesque course of dining, they never wavered. Digested as delicacies were tasty remains; imbibed to gain knowledge, revered were his brains. Atop them a rare, special sauce was plumbed before poured; it came from so far, they could hardly afford. They kept him conscious whilst seasoning and sharing, but he'd been expelled from the school of caring.

The predators paraded camaraderie to reinforce their debauchery. For the woes in their alter world gone cutthroat, Thor was the iconic vestal scapegoat. He symbolized a society of civility, the attributes of authority. When it came time for that sin to atone, he was so far gone he didn't make a moan. They considered him brave, a companion to smart; that's why the leader monitored his heart, singled out for an ancient art. Nefarious reasons safeguarded its beating; one happened to do with the leader's vast reading. An Aztec claim made such an impression; it grew into the leader's obsession. To cut out a heart while it pumped in his sight, he had mastered the skill of this vintage rite.

When Thor's suffering slipped down from the highest plateau, and his heartbeat they tracked started to slow, the gang looked to their leader to crown the show. The Aztec act was prompt and deft, breathtaking to behold. The tribe watched transfixed; it began to unfold. Into Thor's chest dove the sharp obsidian knife, adroitly dismantling the pumping heart effectively axing his life. The leader held it as a trophy high, salty blood teeming from his heinous hand; it pumped a potent signal confirming his preeminent command. Slit throat and decapitation rolled out in a dervish dance; Thor's organs were consumed in their devilish trance. They skewered his head to twirl in the breeze. Their satanic rite was riddled with morbid disease. To their dogs, his bones were tossed. None of his innards were left or lost.

The flash in Thor's mind ceased. He fully comprehended the beheading they intended, though he remained unoffended and calm. Beasts did not kill this way, but demons did. He coughed, his throat dry, his breath confronting the repulsive air of a character in crisis. Essential to their hideous rite was the quarry's resistance. He hadn't a clue what they would do if he didn't fight. Although he couldn't foresee that outcome, anything was better than his foretold agony. His green eyes glittered like an ocean of gold; for one so young, he spoke brash and bold.

"I know your fetish. I'm your feast and your fun, but I won't run nor will I fight."

The leader scowled, "Fight and you'll live. Don't and you're done." He scoffed to his gang, "Throw him a blade. Stop the poster boy charade."

The knife didn't clatter to the asphalt as expected. Thor caught it in a smooth, agile move, his knee-jerk action unintended. Would he wield their knife adverse to his will?

Stepping toward Thor, the leader snapped, "You and me, kid, a fair fight. Now you're armored. Show us your bite."

To take a life and defile his soul, Thor would not consider the contemptible notion. Self-defense he would not justify. The choice was his. He prepared to die, pumped with a premise pulsating through his head, a whim to be the final human upon which they fed. These pagan piranhas patrolled the streets to victimize raw meat to eat. He recognized if he got away, future prey would suffer the cannibal fate. Vibrant was his tie with every living being. Escape lost its meaning in that venerated context.

These satanic slayings, he mobilized to end. This demonic possession would rob him of his peace. Providence had let him see how his death was his decree. He chose to be killed for humanity. Was this a cleansing he harbored since birth? Could his drastic nerve achieve their defeat? Would demons disperse and flee from the earth?

To signify he wouldn't fight, Thor hurled the repugnant blade with blinding speed over their heads out of sight, never to be retrieved. His fearless endeavor may not have been sound, but at least he'd cast seeds of doubt their way. After him, there might not be more; hence, his crusade of sacrifice he braved. Far lethal than a switchblade were the glossed eyes of Thor ablaze in a sea of jade, in contrast to his sedate voice uttering unorthodox words clothed in humility.

"I invoke your demons. Eat my body, and you will see my carcass doesn't encompass me. Gobble me up. You think I'll cry? You think I'll die? I am more than flesh and blood. My brains will poison your devilry. My heart will ignite your compassion. Destiny determined this date. I grant you my life. Take it. Redeem yourself from a dire fate."

The leader glared, his followers stared at the genteel lad crowned with raven hair, whose fervor bestowed him bravura to dare, piercing their putrid atmosphere. His lack of care for his welfare did not disguise his dagger eyes. How could this spirited youth challenge them to forfeit his life? Thor's audacious move unnerved them. Whose will would prevail? They resumed their assault. The leader's agitated words were edged in cynicism. How could he get the nonconformist food to comply?

"You dare us eat you? Either you bluff or you're insane. No one wants to die. C'mon, kid, we'll give you a chance if you fight."

To their amazement, Thor knelt on the pavement, reciting lines packed with the terrifying timbre of a tiger. His brazen demeanor admonished. With his wily wits as a weapon, his words fired bullets from a cosmic gun.

"It's not a dare. I call you out for the cannibals you are, but refuse to play your despicable game. Your demons are cowards. I lay myself down, and they turn tame. With Thor as my name, I summon your demons; show me your bite, or have you fled since I won't fight? You're commanded to eat or condemned to flee. If you haven't the guts to feast upon me, I exorcise you. To rove this planet, you're no longer free. I summon my angels to banish all demons for eternity."

Thor's poignancy was not a bluff; he truly renounced his earthly stuff. Had they faced off with a fomenting lunatic, or a prodigal prince armed in eyes of absinthe? Defying their contamination, they branded this blasé brat an abomination. To sacrifice his life with no sign of strife, this culinary victim rocked with valiant words of weird. He projected a spiritual vista at the purgative pith all demons feared.

Shifting mass toward the titan teen sealed the former gaps. The bulky tribal ranks wedged round Thor without a spatial lapse. The demons decided not to run, but scheduled a banquet instead. The gang of bullies tried without leverage to goad him to fight, but ridicule was critical to their wretched ceremony. They searched to break his tensile strength, but prod as they may, they could not fray his unpolluted fortitude.

"Your angels can't banish our demons."

"Your conviction is childish."

"Your belief is delusional."

"Your faith is a blunder."

"Your morality is a mistake."

"Your sacrifice is in vain."

"You'll die for a superstition."

"No one will ask what happened."

"None will relay your story."

"No one will care if you disappear."

"You're naïve if you think we tease."

"Once we start, there's no reprieve."

"Demons do what demons please."

"Your life will end here and now."

"You'll become a statistic, nothing more."

Aware that the taunting would trigger their transform into a tribal trance, Thor remained rooted in his riveting stoic position. He bore no fright of their dervish dance, prepared for their prerequisite bout of infectious revelry. He reclined on his haunches for deliberate agony. Because he affronted them, he had no doubt they'd exacerbate his forewarned pain. Cemented tolerant and unaffected by acceptance of his killing, he refused to watch their ecstasy injected.

While the derision climbed exponentially meaner, Thor gazed past his sanguinary slayers to the luminous sky and shimmering stars. In communion, he choreographed a mental ballet of constellations. No longer intimidated by night, he reflected on the divine. The menace of dark lurked not in the empyrean, but hidden in the hearts of polluted men. Twinkling diamonds beckoned him. Embracing them, tranquility descended. There was more to this universe than he could fathom, the ethereal blueprint he tried to imagine. Though this grim path he had initiated, the fabric of his journey would not be upended. Maybe the greatest escapade lay ahead by design. His predisposed mind was steady and still. Filled with light on his road of right, he was resolved and ready.

Palms resting on his thighs, Thor closed his lake-strewn eyes to the beauteous bejeweled heavens. He cognized what his sacrifice meant. His head bowed penitent; his heart rhymed reverent. Resigned to live whilst upon him they dined, he posed content. To submit to their impending hell, Thor relegated his body to a vacant shell and retreated to the recesses of his mystical mind, a chamber of refuge they would never find. Not in their musty den did he pick to die, but in his beloved garden. They couldn't take that from him, though they'd try with emphatic torture. Embodied in his haven of harmony, he could easily forgo physicality. No need had he for form, when his spirit would run free. Imminent was the suffering Thor agreed to receive. Relinquishing the physical, all else became obscure. He bore no grudge toward the butchers. Their aggression was not for him to judge. His attitude did not budge.

Quiescence reigned within Thor, the current gibes grew faint as he envisioned his Elysium sacrosanct. From the fountain of paradise cascaded babbling water. In the distance, he could hear laughter amid the dining hall chatter. There had been a drought of late. He fantasized it to end, pretending rain to fall on his ethereal sanctuary. Lightning struck, the thunder loud; they rolled in quickly, accumulating thickly, cloud after billowing cloud. The heavens opened up and wept in synchrony with Thor's vision. Light glistened on the green foliage swept by the sprinkling rain.

Thor's hand prickled. Something alive was crawling across his palm, jarring his focus. What stimulant was the irritant? He squinted. Though night bedecked the sky, Thor recognized the pink spider that Dov had conserved trudging along his sensitive skin. He shut his eyes, baffled by the image. This mental mirage, kneeling by the spider's web spun on a bush in the garden, was clearly an aberration. Nevertheless, he relished his faculty to visualize the drizzling drops on the pastoral pink arachnid in his mind's eye.

Jeering amassed toward a manic peak. Demon eyes glinted in a lethal luster, their humanity dispelled. The leader signaled the attack to his squalid cannibals. Thor's consumption was at hand. Hearing footsteps on the ground impacted, Thor grimaced involuntarily, his heart skipping a beat at the forthcoming slaughter he'd incited. His breathing deepened to relax, his features composed in a granite mask. From the stench of death, he receded to his mystique of Eden in mental earnest. His knees pressed into the moist, yielding grass. Scented roses extinguished the stale alley stink. Hallowed rain that purified, Thor infused in the sacred shelter of his visionary mind.

The demons converged to claim their food and pounced on the impervious youth knelt at their feet, but a shot of nature fired to defeat them. A thunderbolt got there first, beating them to it, unleashing its worst.

* * *

"Hey, Thor. What are you doing here? I've been waiting for you."

A familiar, friendly voice flummoxed Thor's asylum with a massive incision. His eyes leapt open. Dov Pendergast's puzzled face was peering at him. What was he doing in the alley?

"Waiting? Why? What brought you here, Dov?"

Thor gave a furtive peek, then a double take. Where was the alley? Where were the cannibals? Why wasn't his head served on a plate? He gasped amidst the falling rain, registering his surroundings illuminated by the brightly-lit Institute. How did he get to the orphanage? Who had engineered this change of fate?

"I missed you at dinner, so I came to find you. You promised you'd help me tonight, remember?"

Thor and Dov were alone, except for the saturated spider, in his cherished garden. Angered he was to be alive, his will defied held him dazed; his death desire had been denied, deprived his chance to defeat the demons. He took offense that nothing seemed right. What had befallen him? The hunters would continue to kill at night. What unforeseen power had brought him here? Dov's stare stabilized Thor, forcing him flippant from his troublous haze. He shrugged his shoulders casually, exuding indifference in the midst of his confusion.

"I didn't forget. Unavoidable delay at the Museum."

Thor planted the spider on the hedge supporting its web. Attempting to decompress from a pernicious mess, he studied the clouds discharging rain, aware of the elixir of purity. Immersed in the scent of moral clarity, weighting him was profound gravity. The rain was a boon of nature's charity. The drought was lifted, the earth was gifted, but distraught he wondered to be alive, declined the choice he'd made to die. Who had bailed him without permission, his deadly mission undermined?

A sudden spear of lightning was supplanted by deafening thunder. A startled Thor saw in a vision the demons had been cast asunder. Downtrodden was their depravity. Satanic smoldering had fled. Though the details to Thor were a mystery, he inexplicably succeeded with his strategy to foil the cannibals.

Dov exclaimed, "Wow! I've never seen a thunderbolt so close! We should go inside before we get soaked."

"I'll see to it that you do well on that test tomorrow. We'll study the night if necessary, but rejoice with me that the drought has ceased. Let's get soaked in this reverend rain. I guarantee you won't be hit by lightning."

Dov sat on his knees next to Thor without question, "The weather's weird. Rain wasn't forecast, but it feels amazing."

The newfound friends knelt side by side, their drenched skin soft and supple. Their faces elevated to the blessed bounty of the sky, drinking the manna from heaven.

* * *

They had come to cut Thor down to size. Not only was he gone to their surprise; he was the germ of the demons' demise. Thor was pegged an omen, not a random chance. To the tribal trance he jammed the trigger, as though he held their gun in his hand. The unglued gang crumbled, once their wicked play had been fumbled by the dashing daredevil who was a barometer to exalt the truth that would endure. He offered them salvation; they grappled with temptation rife with rumination, haunted by their obscenity to murder this youth for his stand on humanity.

That night the demons lost their command. They stood in their malodorous den reeked with fear. In a parachute of lightning, the bellwether boy had vanished from their midst, throwing them a catalytic curve. His abrupt disappearance was an earthquake, not a jolt, evicting the demons in a grand slam revolt. The cramped corridor provided no clue to the enigma, but on the prowling predators Thor had placed a stigma to purge their iniquity. The cannibals transfigured their loathsome band in veneration to the boy who had slipped unarmed from their toxic territory. In the wake of Thor's raid, the predators became protectors, patrolling the streets in homage to his name.