Chapter 1.2: Philosopher King

Aristocles was not a small man, with his broad shoulders and bushy beard.

His angular nose looked like it could cut through a steak, and he walked through the crowd of children, his eyes pulsing a strange blue. One could see his muscles ripple through his tan business suit as he strode across the playground, scanning the crowd for the intruder .

The playground was bustling with children from Kindergarten to High School, in the small private academy. They all wore the standard black shoes, blue pants or skirt, and white dress shirt, tucked in of course.

As Aristocles moved through the playground, past the blue monkey bars and the yellow slide shaped like a banana peel, all the children moved to the side, anticipating another expulsion . Someone was in trouble, and they didn't want to be next to him when the principal would teach him a lesson.

Aristocles was not a weak man, neither in spirit, mind, or body, and he made the perfect enforcer for the first circle of Hell.

Limbo.

On the blacktop and near the green swing set stood a man who should not be at the school premises. He was unkempt, with long curly black hair and cat-like, piercing eyes. His brown skin seemed to be covered in some thin black slime, as were his black pants, with splatters of blood.

The crazed intruder looked around sporadically and set his eyes upon Aristocles. He thought highly of himself, calling himself Santos Dominus, and he did not take Aristocles hulking body as a threat. He had died many times and came back.

Death was another detour in his life, and the road always led to Hell.

Santos looked at him, and screamed out,

"Are you here because of Greeks and you know, the gay stuff!?"

Aristocles was not amused.

Black fire sprouted out from his right hand and curled into a spiral of metal. A black discus was in his hand, almost the size of Aristocles's broad chest. Santos stopped joking around, and unfurled his large black wings, not wanting to lose when his journey had just begun.

He hoped that killing anyone here wasn't a final death, that maybe it would be a blessing instead of a curse. If it was a final death, there was no going back for him either.

With a running start, Aristocles ran towards him and swung the discus, and it sailed through the air, over the crowd of children, a steak of black and blue flames trailing after it, a shooting star of death and malice.

Santos easily dodged it and flew towards Principal Aristocles, but then fell down, and stuck his arms out, trying to stay up. The Discus of Death had come around, and sliced through his upper abdomen, missing what Aristocles was aiming for the entire time; his head.

Oooh, he's in trouble now, the children laughed.

Santos flopped around the ground, his wings flapping, trying to get back to his lower half before the black discus made its way back to him. He had time, as the discus sailed all the way back to Aristocles, and landed in the brown playground mulch.

It jutted out of the ground in an awkward angle, and Aristocles rushed over, trying to get it out. It was stuck in deep, his own strength now working against him.

Santos stopped flapping his large black wings because he was going in circles and dragged himself by his arms, his black, dead, nicotine-covered lungs scraping against the grass and asphalt. He was near the rest of his body, the only part with clothes.

His pants were black, but it was impossible to tell what the original color was, his lower half spurting out blood in waves. With one last push, Santos went for his lower half, but someone stopped him.

It was Dawn.

She sneered down at him, her brown hair up in a bun, and the lower half of her blue and white school uniform now covered in his blood, as his abdomen continued to spray over the ground and anyone reckless enough to get close.

"Don't worry, you can always get another dick," Dawn giggled.

"You fucking bitch," Santos rasped. "You definitely belong in here, unlike these kids."

"'Course I do, silly. I was sent to keep an eye on you, but you're too fucking stupid to notice. Did you think that dad wouldn't notice if you didn't come straight to him? He's angry, you know!"

Santos dragged himself closer to her, close enough that she would be in range, and opened his mouth.

She exploded, and Santos opened his mouth wider, letting her black blood inside his mouth. He needed food, and he wasn't going to be picky. Dawn's organs fell all over his body and he chewed, enjoying whatever he could get his hands on.

The awful taste was better than the tasteless food from the school cafeteria.

The children began to chant around him as he dragged himself closer to the lower half of his body, singing their own song of death. They held hands in a large circle, and spun around the playground, linking their arms together, creating a barricade so he couldn't escape.

He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake.

Aristocles pulled the discus out of the ground, and it burst into flames again. He grinned, knowing that no one would ever destroy his safe haven for all his young and eager pupils.

He knows if you've been bad or good!

Santos cried, and he held onto the lower part of his body, worried about how it would all sew itself back together, with everything spilling out. He knew he didn't need the organs, but the spine didn't seem like it would connect right.

So you better be good, for goodness' sake!

Santos cried harder as Aristocles approached him, and he begged for forgiveness for what he was about to do. He hoped that there was some kind of super-Hell that he could go to, but knew that it was ridiculous.

You better watch out, you better not cry!

Aristocles made the mistake of getting too close to Santos, and he opened his mouth. Pure joy washed over him as he heard the last sound he would ever hear, the most beautiful sound of all.

The voice of an angel.

He exploded.

The children stopped singing.

The smell of rotting eggs got stronger, the sky got darker, and somehow the sun seemed to shine even hotter. There was no school, no fun and safe place with Principle Aristocles gone.

Only a barren wasteland surrounded them, and the children had nowhere else to go. They unlinked their arms from each other, and they all glared at Santos, as his body stitched itself together.

Through red tears, he tried to stuff everything back in, but his hands were too wet. He gave up, telling himself that his liver and kidneys would probably regrow on their own, and held on to the lower half of his body by the sides of his pants.

He screamed, covered in black blood, and flapped his wet wings as hard as he could, as the children enclosed around him. Their skin was now raw and red, their eyes gaping sockets, the skin from their scalps torn off with the hair along with them.

Santos finally took off into the air, and the children followed in pursuit.

He had broken the illusion, and they could no longer have fun. Santos was sure he was doing the right thing by killing Aristocles, but he never considered that maybe, Aristocles wasn't trapping them in there for no reason.

Like animals, they chased after him from the ground, their eyeless sockets somehow still seeing, and followed him as he flew farther away, off into the desolate landscape. Where ears should be, instead were tiny slits, and their bodies grew and contorted the faster they ran.

With a shudder of relief, Santos felt everything click back into place, and he let go of his pants. The lower half of his body had sewn itself back together, and he flew faster, trying to get away, but was dragged back down again.

His large intestine never was pushed all the way back inside, and it poked out from a hole in his back. It trailed down below, and one of the hobgoblins jumped up, and grabbed it with its mouth, sinking its razors into his organ.

Santos let out a blood-curdling scream and was about to just rip it out, but he stopped. He let them have him, and the little red creature swung him around, tearing the lower half of his body back off, bits and pieces of him falling down to the ground.

Santos stuck out his arms, aimed his fall, and waited for them to come to him.

Instead of singing, he screamed.

He was too tired to sing.

He screamed, his voice tearing up the landscape, pushing out their bodies with force. This time they didn't explode, but large cuts hacked off their limbs, and they all scattered around, spinning into the wind, their black blood creating a painting all over the red desert.

Santos continued to scream, the shockwave of his voice pushing him back, and he turned his wings, using them like an oar, cutting up their bodies, swerving sporadically until he finally rolled over to his lower half.

The remaining goblins did not try to get close this time, as their lesson didn't need to be taught twice.

Santos cried no more, not feeling guilty because they weren't children anymore.

His eyes never left them as his body stitched itself back together, and their eye sockets never left his. The little goblins all twittered together, teeth chattering, communicating amongst one another.

Santos had no idea what they were saying. They were planning his demise, right in front of him, using morse code with their chattering teeth, to send messages. The goblins would wait for guidance and were told to leave him be.

Santos wasn't one to pass up an opportunity, and he ran, this time making sure all his stuffing was in the right place.