Post by Oath Breaker on May 8, 2016 0:42:33 GMT -5
Tomohawk vs. Justin Sane
'Seek the hatchet under the oak'
His tribal elders were not pleased. They expected a bigger impact.
They told him the origins of a saying.
Bury the hatchet.
How once, the tribes were at war with the United States. Treaty of Hopewell 1785, Keowee, South Carolina establishing the boundary of the Cherokee Nation. The hatchet shall be forever buried, and the peace given by the United States, and friendship re-established between the said states on the one part, and all the Cherokees on the other, shall be universal; and the contracting parties shall use their utmost endeavors to maintain the peace given as aforesaid, and friendship re-established.
The Cherokee did actively take a hatchet of war, and buried it. They planted a black oak on the spot where the hatchet was buried. There was much dancing, praising of the spirits and ancestors, feasting on both sides. It was a very religious ceremony, blessing both the hatchet and the oak. To the United States, it's just another contract. Just another piece of pape.
Of course, the Iroquois Confederacy would swear they were the ones to originate it. Both peoples used the burying of a hatchet long before the introduction of white devil with fire fire water. Who came up with it first? The spirits know.
That is another matter. Mine is the task of retrieving the hatchet. To confirm war once again. To use the magic within, the blessing of the hatchet, to take in all the fire of the Cherokee Nation absorbed now for over 200 years within the war implement. To war.
It took three days. Even with instructions from the ancestors, for the grounds look much different today, it took three days to find the black oak. It took 2 days to dig by hand under the Oak and find the hatchet. Hard work. Laborous. Dirty. Things I am long accustomed to.
They said to consume it. So I did. I ground the hatchet into powder, watered it into a paste, and ate it.
I went into cold sweats for near a full day. Visions from ancestors past of the war that should not have stopped. The regretts of Geronimo, Sitting Bull, Crazy horse, and others for giving in so easy, for not fighting until death. They one by one gifted me with rage against the white man.
I didn't know it was possible to hate more than I already did. But now I do.
And I come across one whose very name describes white man to an exact fault. Justin Sane. How I will cherish his destruction. How I will adore his bloody corpse. How I will eat his still beating heart, my trophy for my success. The heavy coppery taste of heart muscle, the explosion of hot blood against my lips as I bite in.
The sounds of my war crys, my victory calls, will echo through my ancestors and descendants for a millenia and longer. I will take his best, and prove it futile.
What I do to Justin Sane will be just, and there will be pain.
