The Mortal Man
It was 2500 and the end of the world. There was one man left, he was mortal, yet one of Hannibal’s descendants. It was time to remember the way the world was. Jesus Amerika spent his life hiding and destitute. What was in his name, it was his past and future; if he had one. In just 500 years before the world was made of four religions. He was born an immortal, but knew his time was near. It was winding down. The genes that kept him young were diluted and the serum that ran through his veins was almost gone. The nervous system that made his ancestors bold was next to nothing when he was born. He had lived 500 years and that was enough. He looked tired and weak as he roamed through the desert. He sat down and his eyes blurred for his eternal sleep. He was searching for his old religion in the Egyptian desert. He understood why the children turned on the new religions. He wanted his place before Osiris. All the immortals lived by an eye for an eye. He wanted to be judged for what he did right against what he did wrong. He was born a Buddhist but what he did over 500 years would not let him go back to that life. He grabbed his turban, closed his robe, and rocked in the sand storm. There was no way out. "I paid my debts," he proclaimed. He wrestled back and forth with life that was when he saw them. He thought he was hallucinating. They would never let him go not while there was life on earth and one immortal left. Yet many more were needed.