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Bowie Knife

December 20, 2018

Jansen absent-mindedly dragged the clip point of his large knife across the floorboards, tracing swirling lines and small, complicated symbols into the gnarled wood.

‘It whispers to men, you see,’ he said to the priest. ‘Gives them little glimpses, little insights that folks might misunderstand and so most of what they believe is ass-backwards, but there’s usually a little kernel of truth like shit in sweetcorn. The Morning Star, Nibiru, Heroclobus… all ideas grown from the planet’s whispering. And then your Joseph Smith starts talkin’ about Kolob.  We can’t have that. I’ve heard the music, father. The flutes that keep it asleep. And I’ve seen visions of the horror that would follow it’s waking.  We can’t have men getting even close to the truth in case it starts to take notice.’

The Priest did not respond. He simply stared at Jansen with glassy, dead eyes. Jansen wiped the blood from his blade it returned it to the sheath on his hip.

‘Nothing personal, father,’ he said as he strolled out of the temple.

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