In a universe far far outside of the spectrum of the current dominant populace, one man lay necrotic and in sections in a mausoleum built for heroes and heroes alone.
Bishop Jones' muscles are so deteriorated his limbs no longer connected at the joints, blood was some form of coagulated dust, and his face was a skeleton clinging to what little skin still remained. The lid to his stone and steel coffin so tight not even maggots could get the satisfaction of his flesh.
This was the last resting place of arguably, one of the greatest heroes of that universe; and undeniably one of it's greatest villains. This was the man some called boss, others called Leader. Some called enemy, others called friend. This was the man with two identities.
Flucks. Surkit.
Both and neither.
Whole but divided.
His story began on the streets of a city made of such things, duality, mixture and concoctions of volatile components that lead to a greater, or worse, whole. Where music melded to become something new, pungency married sweet aroma, shadows clashed with light. The populous of the metropolis were all acrobats in their own right; Balancing on the high wire of everyday life so thinly with nothingness, death, failure, retreat, or progression their only options. That's life in Grimm City.
The eulogy at his funeral was something to hear, everyone stood and said something with respect and admiration. They all spoke of how he was in a better place now, how he was living the life on a cloud somewhere, unburdened by his mental issues, the constant struggles. But like almost everything in life, the dream is always sweeter than the reality.
Surkit did a lot of good in his short life. But he also did a multitude of unspeakable things under the name of his alternate persona, Flucks.
Thousands, possibly millions died either by his hand or the extension of that grasp. He destroyed villages in Europe,Carved his name into a babies chest, even went as far as to pull the lungs out of the Bruce Willis of his home universe, and fold them backwards like angel wings as the man suffocated. One sad fact is made obvious by these iredeemable atrocities.
Surkit went to hell, and Flucks rode shotgun with his feet on the dash
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