I am Yorgat!
Born before time, I was; therefore, neither of my parents owned wristwatches. I was around when the big bang occurred. My power is limitless. My knowledge is infinite. My butt looks really good in bicycle pants.
Ancient, I was, before the creation of the Earth and Sun. When the Earth was a fiery ball of molten lava, a comb-over I did develop. When the first creatures crawled from the seas, shave my head I did. When man walked upright for the first time, implants did I try. Yorgat did not like implants. Unnatural did they seem.
In the time of Solomon, I was summoned before the famous king and commanded to bring back treasures. Yorgat wanted to refuse, but Yorgat did not want to create a scene. From around the world I brought back works of art, precious gems and doubloons, which I took from anachronistic pirates. Laid them at the feet of Solomon, I did. In gratitude, the king of Israel imprisoned me in an amulet and that amulet was broken into two pieces. Not even a deck of playing cards did he give me to pass the time.
Even now, the time draws near. The soapy naked woman will free me soon. She is the only one who can read the inscription on the medallion. The words, once spoken, will free me. Then, I will wreck a horrible vengeance upon the world. The people, Yorgat will spare, but the world will pay. Slap around a mountain, I will. Turn oceans into deserts, Yorgat will do. Yorgat will turn deserts into oceans, which will cause many sharks to impale themselves upon sagebrush and barrel cacti. The sky will turn to fire and the clouds to moss. Craves attention, Yorgat does; moreover, Yorgat cares not if it is “good” attention or “bad” attention.
One human will feel my wrath…the last in the line of the house of Solomon. The final vestige of the king who betrayed me. I will tear his organs from his body after first checking his I.D. to be sure that he is the right person. Then, I will torture him exquisitely for a thousand years…that is, if the organ-tearing doesn’t kill him outright…which it almost certainly will…
Until then, rest Yorgat must do. Yorgat must accumulate the power of a thousand stars in case Yorgat needs to lift a refrigerator or something. Lift with his legs, Yorgat will! Soon, Yorgat will look into the eyes of his enemy…a man of power…but weak in the eyes of Yorgat. Fear me, human…
For vengeance shall be mine, Oskar Moosehead!
Oskar Moosehead awoke with a start! The dream about Yorgat was becoming more frequent…often occurring when he wasn’t even asleep. His body was wet with the sweat of fear; and, dirty with the filth of a can of motor oil that he had gone to bed with the night before. Moosehead often went to bed with retail products, especially if he had trouble sleeping. Reading UPC labels relaxed him. In his earlier days, he had written an entire novel in UPC code. The public, even the ones that took the time to take the book to the grocery store and have the thing scanned, was unimpressed. It was this rejection of his greatest creative endeavor that turned Oskar Moosehead into the angry, twisted and rutting individual that he became.
“You had a nightmare, sir”
Moosehead looked to his left. It was Boris, the man that he had retained to tell him what he already knew. It was his job to tell Oskar things that would be obvious to even the most senseless individual. These things included: “Nice day”, “It’s me” and “You said it”. Behind him was Moosehead’s valet.
“You probably had a bad dream due to some bad cheese, Heir Moosehead”
Oskar Moosehead scratched his head and thought for a moment, “You could be right…have exactly one third of Copenhagen destroyed”
The valet nodded sharply, clicked his heels and walked, face-first, into the door frame. “That hurt”, stated Boris. The valet looked resentfully at Boris, then walked crisply out the door. After a brief interval, a crash was heard.
“He knocked something over”, Boris remarked.
“Obviously”, snapped Moosehead. Boris smiled–he was doing his job. Oskar waved Boris away.
“I’m going”, said Boris as he was going.
Oskar fell into deep thought. The spirit of the medallion was closer and closer to freedom. And, every step towards the spirit’s freedom was a step closer to the grave for Oskar Moosehead.