Kwame locked the door to his office, and removed a small syringe of orange fluid from a locked desk drawer. He tightened a rubber cord around his left arm, tapping it until a vein bulged. He slid the needle inside, injecting himself with the serum that had become both life and death.
When Kwame and Doctor Okeke refined their formula, they used the most sophisticated technology available to them. But the laboratory in Bughanum was built prior to World War II, and their computers were so old, they still used punch cards. It was only after arriving in America and using modern equipment that Kwame realized how badly they had miscalculated the chemical formula, as well as the strength of the iridium isotope.
The implant had left him with a painful buzz that constantly reverberated through his skull. He hired a brain surgeon to remove the isotope, but went into cardiac arrest during surgery. The surgeon, unfamiliar with the purpose of the iridium, replaced the isotope and warned Kwame against ever removing it.
After Kwame recovered, the surgeon ordered an MRI and gave Kwame the bad news: he was dying. Though the doctor only gave him two to three years to live, Kwame’s body was strong enough to have survived for the past seven years. But as time passed, he could not ignore the ever-growing vibrations, which had spread from his head into his bones. Kwame spent time looking for a cure. Though he had refined the chemical concoction he would use on new subjects, the old formula had caused his body to begin to break down. But Kwame would not give up. He began every day, by promising himself that he would take at least one breath after Musobote’s death.
Removing the rubber cord, Kwame flexed his fist as the chemicals flowed through his system. His heart skipped one painful beat, then another. Kwame took a deep breath, and for a brief, shining moment, all was still. He slowly sipped the air into his lungs, afraid to move and end the moment of peace.
Then he felt the tremors in his back and the vibrations began again. He lowered his head in sadness, because he knew there was no longer any hope for recovery.
An hour later, he entered his classroom in Barklee’s famed Moses Hall, standing confidently in front of his eight students. His “Weak Power” class had begun with thirty-two students. Most were spoiled, rich, and weak, just as his Bughanum classmates had been. But, unlike Bughanum, Barklee was an environment where words were considered a dangerous form of assault, which made it easy for him to whittle down his class bit by bit. Now only the eight most devoted “Weak Power” students remained.
The eight were a microcosm of society: three females, five males, represented by five different ethnicities. People who walked by the classroom were often taken aback, as all eight students sported the same peculiar bright orange hair.
Each student had already been a radical progressive by the time they were juniors, but Kwame’s “Weak Power” course was the icing on their extremist cake. Through him, they learned The Truth ™: the black man was the only true human being, and the rightful ruler of the world.
In his lessons on “Weak Power” and The Truth ™, Kwame claimed that non-black people were the last gasp of the Neanderthal: a dying, vestigial species that belonged in the past. Though several of his students were not black themselves, Kwame allowed them to continue in his class — provided that they promised never to reproduce.
Mother Earth would no longer tolerate discrimination.
Everything had come together a year earlier. Kwame had finally perfected the chemical cocktail necessary to maximize the effects of the iridium in mice and, unknown to the college, prepared for human trials. For his guinea pig, Kwame chose Tammy Santeria, a shy black girl who had been raised on a Montana farm. She was overwhelmed by college life until she attended Kwame’s class. He became her mentor, and her friend. He helped her find a better apartment, and even paid some of her bills. After a few weeks, he spent most of his nights in her bed.
After she declared her love for him, he revealed his secret to her — the orange formula he injected daily, which made his body strong enough to handle the iridium implant in his brain. As he twisted the iron bar of her bedframe into knots, Kwame said that he was the only man of his kind, and from now on, she would be his Eve. So, when he asked her permission to inject her with his super-chemicals, she gladly said yes. But while Eve’s body had processed the formula properly, it had left her emotionally volatile. She had been quiet before, but was now prone to sudden, uncontrollable outbursts of giggling and laughter.
After waiting to ensure that the chemicals did not kill her, Kwame began administering the chemical to all his students, in order to prepare them for their iridium implants. The side effects were similar to the ones Eve experienced. Each student’s hair turned bright orange, and each became far more emotionally volatile.
Kwame explained that this was merely the first step in their evolution into a new species, Homo Magis — a species vastly superior to Homo sapiens. Their biological superiority allowed Homo Magis, and only Homo Magis, to judge mankind.
The second step in their evolution was intellectual. It began with the ‘Tenets of Ascension.’ Kwame developed the tenets as a way to explain the principles of Weak Power in eight easy steps. They were etched into a large wooden plaque and placed at the front of his classroom. Each of his students knew them by heart:
Weakness demands power
Power demands change
Change demands evolution
Evolution demands sacrifice
Sacrifice demands blood
Blood demands war
War demands revolution
Revolution demands me
“Obey the tenets,” Kwame said.
“Obey the tenets,” the class repeated, cheering until their faces were red. Eve sat at the front of the class. The professor gave her a wink before returning his attention to the other students.
“Today begins your final exam. Today, you will become the teachers,” Kwame said with a smile, looking into the eyes of each of his students. “Of all those who started in this class, only you, the most powerful, have remained. You have learned ‘The Truth,’ and today you are going to spread the word. It may seem trivial, but your sacred duty is to hand out these pamphlets I have made. Recruit new members into our tribe, and tell them of the glorious future that awaits them!”
The students, still cheering, walked to the table near the door and grabbed the pamphlets that declared the will of the new Master Race. The front of each pamphlet had a white circle on a black and red background. In the center was a single lightning bolt that looked like the letter ‘Z.’
These were the second batch of Kwame’s pamphlets to be publicly distributed. He had to change the original design, after a local Jewish group claimed that the first logo was too similar to some German movement from the last century. Luckily, one of Kwame’s students was majoring in graphic design, so he changed the ‘X’ to a ‘Z.’ While the campus Jewish community was still up in arms over the logo, which looked like a cross between the SS logo and a swastika, the design was unique enough to survive appeal.
Everyone headed toward the door, arms full of pamphlets, except for Eve. Kwame smiled and motioned for her to follow him. She giggled as she bounced his way, her long orange curls tapping her shoulders.
“Tell me about last night,” Kwame said.
“I was wearing your war paint, so no one would recognize me. Hopkins was where you said he would be. After I eliminated him, I checked his body. The only storage device he had was his phone,” Eve said, pulling the device from her pocket. Dried specks of blood covered the screen.
Kwame grabbed the device and crushed it in his hands until it was little more than dust.
“You should not have involved the police,” Kwame said. “The murder of a drunk would be secondary news, but the papers are concentrating on the murder of the policeman.”
“The policeman had arrested him before I could reach him. You said that he could not survive the day,” Eve said, her eyes welling with tears at the thought that she had disappointed Kwame. “I’m sorry, professor.”
Kwame’s phone began beeping. He glanced at the screen of his cell phone and froze.
“Eve, I need to attend to this message. Grab some pamphlets, and go save the souls of our lost brothers and sisters.”
Eve smiled and headed for the pamphlets.
“I won’t let you down, professor,” she said, bouncing out the door. “I will be the best Eve any race has ever had!”
As she left, Kwame looked at his phone to see if he had read it correctly. It was an email from someone who claimed to be Overlord Musobote. Kwame could hardly believe that Musobote knew how to turn a computer on, much less send an email, but when he read it, he knew it was real.
To Kwame Afolayan, citizen of the great nation of Bughanum:
Yes, address it to him that way. This is very important! You will write down every single word I say. That is an order! You will type the words exactly as I say them so the fool does not suspect what I am doing! Tell him that I am sending mercenaries, but don’t call them mercenaries. Call them “ambassadors.” Tell him that all is forgiven.
All is forgiven.
Tell him that I am coming to him with open arms, and will arrive soon at the college where he teaches. Tell him that if he returns home with me, he will not have to repay the money he stole. Of course he will pay for it with his life, but only when he has completed building my army. Then tell him that he will receive a hero’s welcome. Then say that I look forward to building our great army.
I look forward to building our great army.
Make sure that you use the word ‘our’ so he lets down his guard. Give him the time and place to meet with my mercenaries, but don’t forget to call them ambassadors. Tell him something to make him feel safe, then sign my name.
You are safe.
Sincerely,
Overlord Musobote
A calendar link attached to the email displayed a date and place to meet the Bughanum “ambassadors.”
Kwame looked at the rendezvous meeting spot with shock: it was his classroom in Moses Hall. Then Kwame smiled, remembering that he was no longer the naïve, crippled young man that Musobote had known. He was dying, but he was still a god.
I am your Death, Overlord and I am ready for you.