Eliot Strange and the Prince of the People

Prologue

Author's Note: Have you ever wondered how someone becomes truly evil? Is it nature or nurture?

This is an excerpt from a biography on General Kerry One Nation written long after the story is over.

Chapter 12, Birth of a Monster - November 8, 1978  (excerpt from - The Rise of One Nation)

K.C. Affleck, a self-proclaimed bum-alcoholic, turned the corner to the alley where he planned on spending the night. He shivered and staggered as much from inebriation as from short bursts of wind that were reported on the Channel 8 News earlier in the day to be as high as thirty miles an hour. The wind blew him around the corner and would have blown him down, except just as quickly as K.C. tipped left, a gust from the right, righted him. He was like that toy his son got one birthday - a Weeble. He wobbled, but he didn't fall down. Well, at least not yet.

It was a funny sight, if anyone had been watching. There was no one but him in the alley, but K.C. laughed anyway. He still had his sense of humor. It was about all he had left.

"Damn miracle you ain't laying flat on your face, K.C.," he said to himself and then laughed a belly rolling laugh. Just like Santa. That's what the kids used to call him, before, when he was a Santa every Christmas. He did love those kids. He missed them. Kids don't judge. They love you no matter what, especially if you look like Santa.

He staggered down the alley, smiling to himself. K.C. was still jolly and nothing would change him - not even this run of bad luck. He was going to turn it all around tomorrow and change his downhill spiral that hit rock bottom two days ago in his own estimation. Nowhere but up from here, he speculated. That's what K.C. had told his best friend, the new bartender at his favorite pub around the corner. He would give up the drink, go to a meeting, go back to the VA and ask for help, one more time. That is what he said on repeat until he ran out of money and his new best friend showed him the door.

But first, he had to get some sleep. K.C. was pushed from behind by the wind which was at his back now. He stopped when he got to his spot.

K.C. spied his spot earlier that day on his first run through the alley on the way to the bar. It was a perfect spot so he laid his claim by dropping his duffel and sleeping bag right next to the dumpster. A good choice for sure since the dumpster would block the draft. When he marked his spot, he wasn't worried his belongings would be stolen because their smell rivaled the nearby dumpster.

Ahh, home sweet home, K.C. thought as he he reached down to pick up the sleeping bag. Something inside stirred as if coming awake.

Not again.

"Damn rats, this is my home sweet home. Go find your own spot."

K.C. raised his foot to stomp what was moving when he saw a small hand emerge from the bag. The hand raised in the air like its owner had a question for the teacher. K.C. slowly lowered his raised foot so as not to lose his already compromised balance. He bent over with much effort. His back had not been the same since the accident. K.C. pulled back the bag. There was a small boy inside dressed only in a pair of Superman Underoos. K.C.'s mind raced. Even in his drunken state, he knew something was wrong, very wrong.

It was the coldest day of the year and there was a nearly naked boy in his sleeping spot. K.C. thought about running away, but he didn't care how it looked. He wasn't no damn child molester. He had to help this poor child. Poor, lost, probably abused and run-away-from-home boy. God had sent him this angel, and it was a sign that God would help him too. He bent over to speak to the boy and to offer his assistance.

K. C. inched closer to the angel and noticed that he had something in his left hand. The last thing K.C. saw, before he was beaten to what the detective later called "overkill", was a flash of silver. K.C. recognized it for what is was - an aluminum bat.

I'm late for the game, thought K.C after the first hit. After two other hits that dropped him to his knees, his jaw was broken and his teeth were cutting his tongue, but K.C. had something to say before it was too late. Something very important.

"I call 2nd base," said K.C.

It began with a beating. Blows on blows that became a blur when boredom became fury.

You did this to me. You made me.

The boy is scared that someone will see him. He does not like this feeling. He does not know if he will be able to finish. This is hard, harder than people know. Bad guys make it look easy in the movies that Grandpa let him watch. There is no part that is easy, killing someone is hard work.

At first the bum was confused, but now it is like he is awake, awake and watching. The man is not fighting back anymore, just watching. Is he judging me? The boy kicks the man in the face again. The boy promises himself that he will get better at hurting someone. It just takes practice. Got to take out the trash before we make a new world - that is what Grandpa says.

The beating ends in blood and vomit, but the boy is lucky. His mother will not be angry at the mess this time. He was almost naked when this began, and it does not matter that he still managed to get covered in blood. He took precautions and bought a towel and his oldest clothes. The towel he discards with the Louisville Slugger in the dumpster before he leaves. He sneaks back home. He does not like the sneaking. One day he prophesizes, he will walk down the street and show everyone what he has done, and they will thank him.

The boy feels nothing the next day, no remorse or regret. Only the hate. The hate for the old drunken piece of shit.

You did this to me. Your kind. You made me.

The next day at breakfast the boy with the bat glances at the paper his father is reading. The headline reads "Homeless Man Beaten". The subheading said a boy was seen leaving the alley. After it caught attention with that headline, the article went on to explain that the homeless man was legally drunk twice over. In other words, "possibly beaten by a boy" was utter nonsense, old fool probably just fell down. The homeless man suffered a head injury that left him in a coma, not much else to the story. No one cares.

"Can I get you some more juice, my darling?" asks his mother.

"Yes," says his father. "Give him more juice, and more milk. My boy is going to grow up to be big and strong. He is getting my muscles already." He pats his son on the head and ruffles his hair.

My parents are nice, thinks the boy. They are good parents. They make sure I am taken care of because I deserve it. I deserve the best because I am worthy. My parents are worthy. My people are worthy. We deserve to inherit the earth and we will, just like Oompa says. Oompa picks up the paper, reads the headline, winks his approval at the boy.

Nature or nurture? This question will be debated for years. Is there a reason the boy is the way he is? Maybe, he just is.

 Monsters are made, they say, just like peacekeepers, but this is not always so. Sometimes monsters are gently molded and affirmed. Sometimes monsters are born, and that is enough.

The boy was born to peace loving hippies who marched on Washington, lived Woodstock, and protested war - all in the name of love. He was a late-in-life baby and thought of as a miracle. He was christened in the name of love and hope that our country would one day live in peace and harmony.

This was not to be.

Kerry One Nation, named in the hopes he would one day save our great country, instead ended it. He ended the United States of America.

The prince from England was not yet born when a young boy in America began a reign of terror that grew and grew in power and fanatical followers until it seemed as if we never stood a chance.

If not for the prince, all would be lost.