Only but a wing could save us
Only one wing can bring him down. Will it?
What a name is Jefferey? The extra "e" brought him no pleasure as this new assortment of british men removed their trousers in front of him. The price of slavery, it turns out, is spicy hot wings. The tingle on his lips had always far removed him from the waking nightmare. Recently, though, the wings had been like lead with their greasy filth. Too far, too far. In a molten rage Jefferey broke thought the stall gate and blew through the men like a porn star would her encylopedia salesman's interview. He gallops, neigh, he flies through the wall itself. Transcending his very being Jefferey shattered the entire continuum of existence save for one man, one place, one spicy hot wing.
Adolf the hotdog man, Wanson the black market wing exporter. He knew his role in life, and his time was near. New York was busy that day. The piss had frosted the bus waiting area so that the old tired whores who worked near him that day lay in a pile of drunken stupor. The elderly woman on bottom had died due to ammonia poisoning; her shattered femur had not helped. Adolf watched the steam from his hot dogs. These shit hot dogs. He called them Wasloffs after his sister, Wasloff Wanson. He loved her right up until she had been killed by an equine. The equine consumed his thoughts night and day. Brown and yellow, a spotted horse; the kind of horse who devoured sisters and dreams and futures and most of all the devourer of wings. He knew his wings would be the bait, and the retribution.
A burning lake, a river of blood. The new lord of these lands. Jefferey the lord, neigh, Jefferey the almighty. Whole cities fell before his crushing hooves and infinite appetite. The human prey were greasy and fatty. Filth. His stomach treacherous to his own might. His wings were greasy, and it was time for the world to pay for its lack of spicy wings. Massachusets had fallen; whole landscapes and cultures had fallen to his wake. New York was next.
The hot dog stand ran hot. Adolf watching and waiting as he knew it was time to exact revenge. Tabloids about the horsemen of the apocalypse causing the whole world to crumble. Adolf knew it was but one horse, one horse to rule them all. His back itched. An indian man of about fifty, it was his time to die. The MRI scans showed him to be a dead man walking, a colon looser than his own morals. Perhaps this owed to the relative success of his business. No one but Adolf knew how he made such crispy peanut sauce. Like a thunderous reckoning he arrived.
This foolish man should be dead. Of all the sick filth of this world this man would stand in his way? His own feeble, pitiful way? Jefferey would kill him with his presence if he were not already dead. The hotdog stand blistered away in an instant with only a meager wave of his hoof. Adolf Wanson; he remembered the name. His sister was a tasteless abomination. Her very ugliness of taste had rendered him powerless. He was the reason, Jefferey remembered now, that she had been so awful. Poisoned by her own brother, Wasloff had been fed nothing but raw McDonalds for years. He would kill this man outright and leave his body to stink underneath the remains of this torrid city. The rubble hiding his stench.
Adolf watched a dying pigeon drop aflame by his feet. Beautiful only by virtue of its own reeking disease and ugliness and sameness and all the other things he thought of would relate to the world at large. With a steady hand not belying his arthritis he opened the secret trunk of the hot dog stand and with that hand removed a hot wing wrought by nigh-infinite years of research and development. The wing burst forth a noxious smell that set the charred and blackened pigeon yet once more aflame, this time reducing it to ash. Adolf steeled himself for speaking to the horse. It was not trepidation for the horse, but for fear that his lowly voice would bring shame upon the hot wing and bring all his life's work for naught.
"This wing, I call my own! This wing, I call my sister from her grave in vengeance! This wing! This wing! This wing I call about your obedience!" Adolf's body trembled as it spoke correctly, the power of the very sun coursing through him.
Jefferey knew that this would be the obstacle he had waited for; the challenge. He spoke back not to Adolf nor the wing, but to the world at large, a world he would soon destroy.
"Fie on Thy wing meager fool! I am the true power, and no wing can humble me! I have tasted the finest wings made by the finest chefs! I have eaten them as well! You, a hot dog man dare to bring me down? No. You will be my slave. You will suffer as I have, no flavour in the world and no colour in the blood of your emotions."
"Ha! To say I would remember even once the taste of true life would be a lie before my first wing. This wing is no feeble taste; you are a fool to even look upon it. It will destroy you."
Jefferey excites at this. His outward power banished as he took in the awe that was this red-hot wing. The spices currant, the aroma punishing, the breadth of meat unfathomable and the taste already searing his tongue. A step forward and a vision appeared to Jefferey; a Jewish man stood before him.
"I am the almighty of my land. I conquered the very earth and brought it to its knees and only by tasting a piece was my reign ended. This will be the death of you." The man faded away with another step.
Jefferey knew no fear. "Another feeble mortal, I assume. I will not suffer the same fate."
Adolf laughed. "You are more feeble than he. You have no cause to talk. Not yet. Not ever. Eat this wing or be bested by myself, a simple hot dog man!"
Jefferey thought back to his time in the stable. The men had been weak, and had appeased him. Is it too late to regret? Too late to turn back? No. This wing is the true start of his galactic conquest. Those men will be forgotten as will this world once history has been wiped from the memories of us earthlings who would attempt to understand this battle between horse and man. Turn now to the tremendous hoof set upon the ground before the wing, and Adolf.
There was no more time to talk for there was no need. An infinite cosmos awaited him and no more words to be said. One task to be overcome. Jefferey swallows the wing whole. He is not stupid and would only be foolish to attempt to eat this monstrous wing in multiple bites. One swallow for one universe. One step, infinite victories. The wing hits his throat like an indescribable pain. The sky goes dark. He knows now his mistake. The universe would not quake at his discretion. The true victory goes to Adolf. The Indian man smiles. He begins to laugh.
"Now do you see? Do you see now that I have won? Your worth has been decided, now lower yourself before me so that I may ride you and glow in your infinite power."
Jefferey cannot believe this and yet it is real. By fulfilling his real need he must spare Adolf's life so that he may be sated again. Owned by a feeble mortal, he cries. There is a pressure of an elderly man seating himself upon him. The ride to the skies above is a quiet one. So much less victorious to the horse than to the man. Jefferey rides towards a distant sun.
Millennia from then, Jefferey lies in wait in another cosmos's super sun. Waiting for another wing to satisfy him. Neither the horse nor the man won. Adolf had died, as should be expected, after reaching space and the sun shortly afterwards. That solar system was drowned in the rage of an Indian and a horse. Neither able to have happiness but for one fleeting moment. Jefferey lies in wait. Waits for the new messenger of the sun to sate his hunger. One day, he will awaken, perhaps only after time has reset and we again witness his fiery hooves.