Mad :: May 23, 04:38 PM

In most cases it is called dedication. In it’s more extreme forms, it is sometimes called madness.

“Zeke the mad”, they called him. “Almost starved to death once, working his butt off in that little lab of his. Crazy bastard,” said the people who did not understand. Truth be told, he did work every waking moment—and then some—but he was far from mad. Everything was carefully calculated, carefully planned. He had no choice but to work that fast, that madly; else he wouldn’t finish it in time.

Fools, fools all of them! Couldn’t they see what he was doing? Couldn’t they see the greatness of it all? If he were done and through, they would praise him for what he had done. They would write his name in all the history books, and build statues in his honor, and dedicate buildings in his name. Zeke—not Zeke the mad, but Zeke the great—would become just as well known as Einstein, or Lincoln, or Hitler. He would be more than that, even, because Zeke would be known all over the world, to every soul. Every time someone slept, they would dream Zeke . Every time someone woke, they would praise Zeke. Every time someone drew breath and ate and lived, they would think Zeke, Zeke, Zeke ; thank you Zeke.

Until one day, when his name and deed would fade into legend, then myth, then obscurity. For who believes in the heroes of ages past? Did Hercules ever live? Did Beowulf slay the dragon? Did Jesus rise from the dead?

But what might have happened is irrelevant, because of what did happen. What might have happened is what the bank didn’t realize when they foreclosed on Zeke’s laboratory, what the police didn’t realize when they threw Zeke in jail, and what everyone else didn’t realize when they wrote him off as crazy.

It was they—the ignorant, hypocritical, common people—who sealed their own fate.

Section: Fiction | Category:

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