Machete

["Storm"

"Cleanliness"

"Murder"

"Life"

"Celestial Bodies"

"Metaphor"

"AI"

"Hilt"

"Regular"

"Cardinal"

"Violence."

"Collar"

"Mirror"

"Shore"

"Politics"

"Shifting"

"Machete"]

In his readings, he had once heard politics compared to the motion of celestial bodies: There was a central anchor around which all others danced in ceaseless perfection. Machete could see the metaphor, that wasn’t hard, but he couldn’t agree with the underlying premise. The motions of the celestials were regular, agreeably so, never changing day in and day out; he had thought it more like a shore. Regular, but ever-shifting, every day just a bit different from the last. And, occasionally, a storm will surge over the land. The cardinal had recused himself for the day after the attempt on his life, after the first time he had extinguished the life of another. He had scrubbed himself clean, especially his face and fur, spent the hours delicately maintaining them, but the taste of iron lingered about him like a malignant cloud. Blood-soiled garments were replaced, yet still they were red. Machete lingered in front of a mirror, undecided if he was completely clean; every time he looked away, he felt an itch, a warmth across his face where the spatter had soaked into his fur. His fingers tensed as they curled around his collar, adjusting it, feeling the creases where he had felt the grooves of a hilt just hours before.

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