White Hunter Grey Heart

Lucas Scott Mark

Description

In the future
the only white privilege that exists
is the privilege to die.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 06 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669864042
• Langue: English

Extrait

White Hunter Grey Heart








Lucas Scott Mark



Copyright © 2023 by Lucas Scott Mark.
Library of Congress Control Number:
2023901346

ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-6406-6
Softcover
978-1-6698-6405-9
eBook
978-1-6698-6404-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.




Rev. date: 03/21/2023





Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
850586



I, Hammurabi, should rule over the black-headed people like Shamash, and enlighten the land, to further the well-being of mankind.
Code of Hammurabi, circa 1727-1680 B.C
And the one idea is, how we are going to exterminate white people because that in my estimation is the only conclusion I have come to. We have to exterminate white people off the face of the planet to solve this problem … The problem on the planet is white people.
Dr. Kamau Kambon, Howard University School of Law, 2005
Q: What kind of world do you want to leave to your children? A: A world in which there aren’t any white people…
Leonard Jeffries, chairman of the African-American Studies
Department of the City College of New York, 1995
White people are scared, because minorities are taking over. And they are absolutely right. When the shit turns around, we are going to treat you exactly like you’ve treated us: like shit.
Paul Mooney, Comedian, 1993
The white race is the cancer of human history.
Susan Sontag, white intellectual, 2005
After looking at all the evidence there is only one conclusion: white people are devils I believe that we must secure our freedom and independence from these devils by any means necessary, including violence … To protect ourselves we should bear arms immediately and form a militia … So black people, let us unite, organize and execute.
Chino Wilson, Penn State Editorial, 1992
What we need is the destruction of whiteness, which is the source of human misery in the world.
Rev. James Cone, 1999
Recently a shirt with the wording, “It is not illegal to be white...yet,” hit the online stores. This is a symbol of the unsaid cultural transformation the U.S. is going toward. A civilization where it is illegal to be white.
Frank Palmer, radio host, KARP, 2012



Contents
I The Hunt
II The Temple
III The Anointed
IV The Butterfly
V The Debate
VI The Truth
VII The Prophecy
VIII Te Cleansing



I
The Hunt



1
A sea of leafless gnarled black trees stretches out and grovels beneath an orange sky. Solitude rules in the darkened and stunted trees, no sign of life, man or animal. A once well traveled path, and even longer ago a concrete road, is now desolate. The summer wind keeping the dilapidated branches mobile is the only sound, until a body falls through brush and lands on the rocky ground.
It is a man. He is barely dressed, barbaric, with wild long gray hair, beard, and pale white skin. The man’s face is in agonizing distress as he quickly looks around. His eyes fall to examine his arm, caked with fresh blood. He hears something in the distance, jostles his painful and aged body to his feet, and descends a hill into the forest brush.
For a second all is still again, a small puddle of blood and some rustled forest greenery is the only evidence the man was there. But the same brush the man fell through shakes, and a giant silhouette of a man steps through. He spots the blood on the ground, his dark massive figure kneels for a moment to study it before rising and going on. White letters “T-E-E-C-H-E-R” gleam from the man’s back through the darkness as he stalks away.
It is Teecher’s purpose: To hunt. His life, his joy, his soul. For him, there is nothing greater than the thrill of the hunt, the pulsing blood and adrenaline through his body, utilizing the many deadly tools during the sacred duty, and taking the kill. Like Death himself, Teecher will tread on the carcass of history, controlling the events before him, planning destruction, and making sure the Hunt plays out just as he intends. And it is sacred duty to teach others to do the same.
Teecher’s huge muscles bulge as he speaks into his headset radio, “Pay attention Pupil 311, as this is your final lesson.”
Down the hill the barbaric-looking white man rests on a tree for a second and listens carefully. A red dot appears on his head. Although unaware a laser has found him, he begins running again.
The man reaches a clearing and realizes he is at the top of a steep hill. He looks back for only a second before going down. He steadies himself for a few feet, but his animal skin boot gets snagged on a branch in the hillside and he falls and rolls down the hill. The man manages to miss two huge boulders in the hillside as he tumbles down, but lands into another large rock at the bottom. He peers at his new wounds only for a second before rising and quickly hobbling away.
Teecher emanates from over the hill, the moon finally illuminating him. Compared to the man he is hunting, he is a giant. His Hunter’s uniform is pitch black. His military ranks and medals upon his chest shine under the moonlight, a projection of his numerous feats during many years of active duty. Teecher’s dread locks hang from underneath his black helmet, a shield covers his dark brown face.
Not far away, the barbarian hides in a small cavern in the mountain side. He holds his bleeding arm and waits, listening, and staying silent. His eyes widen as he hears a rustling sound above him. Suddenly, a mechanical crane-like hand plummets through the ceiling of the cavern, the metal fingers grab the man’s head and pull him up through the soil to above ground.
“You see the how the claw is versatile in its use?” Teecher asks into his headset as he raises the barbarian high above him.
His arm has metamorphosed into a gigantic robotic appendage. The metal phalanges dig into the man’s shoulders and neck. He dangles there, bleeding, trapped, and screaming in some unfamiliar tongue.
The orange sky seems to burn behind Teecher as he peers up at his prey. Surprisingly, he drops the barbarian down, letting him free. The barbarian can barely stand. He doesn’t run as if giving up. Blood gushes from where the robotic arm tore his flesh, every other inch of his pale body spews sweat. He is spent from both his wounds and his run under the scorching sun.
“Last exercise,” Teecher radios. Then he puts his hand out to the side with palm up to signal him to go, that he is free.
The barbarian is frozen, not understanding.
The Hunter motions again for him to go and this time he either understands or decides to make a go for it. He glances in both directions before darting downhill and descending further down the mountain side.
Teecher speaks into his radio again, “Now we will utilize the spear.”
Teecher casually strides to the hill’s crest and watches the man flee momentarily before revealing a silver baton.
“Remember,” he teaches, “It’s all in the wrist.” He whips the weapon toward the barbarian and a chained spear soars from the baton and spirals like a striking snake into the barbarians back with a piercing thud.
The man’s pale white body freezes like a caught fish.
Teecher violently pulls the chain toward him, causing the barbarian’s body to fly backward and land on the ground in front of his feet. Without hesitation the Hunter draws a sword from his back and chops the barbarian’s head off. Teecher turns away from his triumph, sheathes his sword, and activates his radio once again, “Now do you see my pupil what your training has readied you for?”
In the brush beyond the bloody scene the pupil appears, a very young man dressed similarly to Teecher, except chest and shoulders bare of any medals. He stands frozen, as if mesmerized by the barbarian’s body.
Teecher glares at the young man. “Speak up Pupil 311! Do you not see the power you now wield?”
The pupil seems confused at first. Finally, he speaks, “I understand what the powers can do.”
Teecher replaces his sword behind his back. “Very good,” his tone now calm. “You are at the end of your training. There is only the ceremonial Graduation at the Temple and then of course first blood to sanctify you. You are ready to begin your life as a White Hunter.”



2
“What is a White Hunter?” The ageless old Hunter called Lecturer asks a small class of young Pupils, his white beard and willowy long and unbraided hair sways back and forth as he speaks.
He eyes the Pupils one by one.
The unit of Pupils does not dare to speak up without knowing what their teacher wants to hear.
The old Lecturer doesn’t let up. “After your years of training, disparate they may be due to most of your age differences, each of you should have an answer.” He