The Terror

On the wall there hung a man. What was left of a man. His arms were almost encased in the wall itself, his head hung down onto his chest, eyes, if they could still see, watching the filth run about the floor just below his dangling legs. He wasn’t always like this…

He had been the most feared agent of destruction in years. His stories were that of legends. But now he hung, like a prize or a picture, museum-like in the hall. Forgotten. Nothing came down here except for the rats and bugs that crawled over him, probing his skin and making nests in his ragged cloths. They were his only company and, occasionally, his meals.

People used to pass by him, read the now illegible sign next to him. “Here is The Terror.” It read “Captured after a month long chase with Order. Not even the best can hide forever. Order Prevails.”

Everyone used to murmur or belt out “Order Prevails,” as they read this. On the sign were his many accomplishments, reading like a history book, if they ever bother teaching history to the young.