In the depths of the jungle where the banyan trees grow and the birds are not afraid, lies a great beast.

Or so they say.

But he who they speak of with such fear and panic, is only as such because they do not understand his true motives.

The beast prowls the night and roars at the stars and the sky, begging to be heard by someone. Anyone.

His cries were left unanswered, his pain left unheard.

So one night, when making his way through the thick, lush, undergrowth, he made a choice.

And his choice saved the forest, but killed his spirit.

For the mad-men came, and chopped, and cut, and felled. They shouted and screamed and burnt and destroyed. While the forest wept and cried. Silently, unheard, forgotten.

All except for the great beast. For he had chosen to rise against the mad-men, roaring and snapping and snarling at them and their terrible machines of destruction.

Some of the mad-men screamed in terror, some of them stood stock still, unable to move out of their trance, some of them fled – anger and dread in their voices as they ran.

But one man, one man, sitting in his machine, a look of pure hatred on his face, reached out his open window, holding in his hand the black stick of death.

And just like that, with a bang and a spark of fire from the stick, with one final roar filled with pain and anguish and hurt, the beast who dared speak his words loud enough to be heard, fell to the ground.

Or so they say.

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