[1740] BlackRock Short Story

My critique: link

Please tell me

• If the old man is shallow or sufficiently developed
• If the tone is even throughout the story
• If the language is precise enough
• If you found the plot and language sufficiently entertaining

Once there was a man in a pleasant and modern suburban American town. Before his prominence as a teacher, he was obscure, but, as he briefly explained during his ministry to a close friend, he saw that his skin was wrinkling and that his hair was thinning and greying, so he changed.

He was a Jew and a Levite at that, so he took to thinking. He read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Camus, and the Gospels. He took after Jesus; he talked with the young men of the town—the demographic he considered the most lost and vulnerable. He denounced their atheism and positive nihilism, but he hated their cynicism the most. Cynicism, to him, destroyed the soul and made life one long sarcastic joke.

Unfortunately for him, his monopoly over the minds of his growing audience was challenged by the most cynical entity the universe could make: BlackRock.

One day, the man took his followers to a house for sale across from his home.

“BlackRock is an investment management company,” said the old man. “BlackRock will buy this house, just like it will with many other houses, and hold on to it to manipulate housing prices. Young men, do everything you can to keep your houses, and make sure they don’t fall into the hands of BlackRock, for an empty house without a family is a great and sorrowful sin.”

Amongst the young men, there was a parasite who listened and disappeared from the town afterward.

The man took tender care of a budding flower bed in his front yard. The morning after his BlackRock speech, the teacher was outside watering his bed. He was interrupted by a cordial salutation coming from behind him. He turned from his bed to face the sold house. He saw a parked Overhaul truck, and on the sidewalk in front of his house stood a man with a thick head of black, wavy hair, black eyes, and glowing, olive skin. He was holding hands with a fair woman of the same phenotype and betwixt the hips of the couple stood a lively and cute little tot.

“नमस्ते, how are you, new neighbor?” the newcomer said.

The old teacher just stared, and turned back to his plants.

The man’s young men formed a group and accosted the old man on his false prophecy. To them he lied about BlackRock being a real threat, and he was only fear mongering. The old orator’s ministry could have ended here, but he stood his ground and herded his students towards the windows of the newly bought house.

Prior to this spying, the man saw quite the peculiar sight. Near dusk, a caravan of about fifteen Indians arrived at the front door of the newly bought house. The handsome husband opened the door.

A voice from the caravan began, “Hello, sir, is this 304 Rutherford—”

“बेवकूफ़ो! मुझसे हिंदी में बात करो ताकि यहाँ के लोग हमारी बात न सुन सकें।” the husband interjected acrimoniously.

The men crowded through the door and disappeared into that mysterious house. The old man saw all of this and was very curious about those people.

The sage took his young men to the window, and to their surprise, they saw computer sets everywhere. From the living room to the kitchen to the bedrooms, Indian men wearing headsets sat calling Americans with tech issues.

The man turned to his subjects and reaffirmed his point. The men apologized for questioning him and his stance on BlackRock.

Upon hearing news of their facade being exposed, the strange beings of BlackRock withdrew their Indian division and employed different tactics.

Now, fentfiends and YNs littered the streets of the town. The man’s gardening, instead of being interrupted by meddling Indians, was now interrupted by Uzi fire and the violent, drug-fueled spasms of addicts. The old man was not buying it, though, not after the trick pulled by BlackRock just then.

The young men asked if they should sell their houses to avoid this onslaught of menaces but the old man responded by exposing BlackRock’s schemes yet again. A gang of YNs were standing in a parking lot, near a privacy fence. The congregation (who were in someone’s backyard) crouched on the other side of the fence and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“I only took this job to make a little money before completing my engineering PhD,” they heard one “YN” say.

“Same here,” another chimed in. “But I find it fun. It’s a change in scenery after med school classes.”

It was exactly as the old teacher suspected. These YNs were actually doctors and engineers paid by BlackRock to act like thugs and to intimidate the locals into selling their homes. His followers were dumbstruck.

He then ordered a rambunctious and fearsome varlet of his to take his shirt off and attack a fentfiend head on. The wild knave merrily obliged and stripped. He ran naked through the streets with pride and spotted an addict sitting on a curb like a hawk spotting a squirrel. The naked warrior tackled the poor actor and the actor surrendered immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, dude. Jeez,” the actor whimpered and waddled off, defeated.

The faithful army of young people swore loyalty never to abandon their town and their teacher.

A week later, the man stood on his lawn smelling the petrichor and admiring his healthy flower bed, with drops of rainwater reflecting the brightness of the moon. His bed was deep into the Earth and full of life, but then he heard a cry. He turned to the street to see an unsightly humanoid. It was eight feet tall, with saggy, pale white skin. It had no eyes, was emasculated, and its jaw hung to its collarbone, revealing gums full of razor-sharp teeth.

His young men were racing down the street screaming bloody murder. The thing got on all fours, and galloped to the crowd of fleeing young men. It tackled one, snapped his neck, cut off his head, and drank his blood as though it was drinking juice from a coconut.

It turned and ran back whence it came. The young men, curled up and quaking in the trees, bushes, and trash cans, watched in awe as the old man audaciously ran from his lawn and chased that thing with a vigor never seen in a man his age. Invigorated by his temerity, the young men jumped from their hiding spots and ran after the man. At this point they all knew what the old teacher thought: this was another BlackRock scheme.

The young men ran after the man who ran after the thing into the woods. With the help of the moonlight, the man and his army traversed the thick foliage and reached an RV. There they saw two men clad in black hover over the being. They were petting it, scratching its tummy and chin, and giving it treats.

“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you are!” the man cooed to his pet.

The teacher was furious and full of energy.

“BlackRock has no business in my town!” the orator exploded.

The humanoid was spooked and went wild. The men were also caught off guard, but lost control of their pet. The thing sprang up, slashed the jugular of one man, and ripped the intestines out of the other. The old sage and his congregation retreated in fear.

At this point, the man’s roots in the town and in the lives of his congregation were uncontroversial. Rumors spread to other towns that the old man could resurrect the dead and walk on water. Like Solomon, there was no answer, no prophecy that he could be wrong in.

A stadium-sized crowd of young men surrounded the man who was deliberating at an intersection with them. Just then—as all the men saw—a lifeless, mechanical bird landed on the old man’s shoulder.

In this bird played this audio recording: “Citizens, BlackRock has given you all plenty of opportunities to move! You in your hubris and cruelty impeded BlackRock’s plans for world domination. Now we deliver you this ultimatum: leave or die.”

Then the bird flew into the air and blended in with a swarm of living birds. The gathering was silent for a minute, then continued.

The town's sheriff, a short and chubby man, sat in his dark office with his feet lackadaisically on his desk. He showed a tired and congenial grin to his visitants. On the other side of the desk stood a dark trio, organized into a sinister triangle, whose features were obscured by the lack of light. The sheriff thought their request was ridiculous.

He talked to them in a refined, Southern twang. “There is no way a private entity could enforce their law through lethal means.”

The dark trio said nothing, but petrifyingly, from the darkness floated a duffel bag overflowing with hundred-dollar bills towards the sheriff like a ghost. It rested itself gently on his desk.

The sheriff gulped, put his feet down, and groped the beautiful mountain of money before him. He accepted their request immediately afterward.

One morning, before dawn, the famous philosopher was awakened in his home. There was frantic rapping at his door. He looked through the peephole to see who it was. It was a young man, presumably of his church.

“Hark, great pastor,” the young man cried, “we’re being persecuted. Persecuted, I tell you! Shadowy men with helmets, shields, and Kevlar vests have jumped through our walls and dropped from helicopters onto our roofs. Oh great sage, all of my friends have been wasted, and those monsters are hot on my tail. Please, let me kiss your wrist before I go so that I may feel at peace when I die.”

From the darkness assault rifles thundered and ripped up the poor lad’s body. He fell back lifelessly on the old man’s stoop. The old man looked on in terror as he saw men in black dart across the street carrying a battering ram.

A storm raged in the man’s mind. He told himself to die, to martyr himself. He imagined the hundreds of faces of his young men in heaven, who would exalt him, but their exaltation was what broke him. He broke like Saint Peter and escaped through his bedroom window.

The next day, he built himself a tunnel in the woods modeled after Saddam Hussein’s. In it he sowed the seeds of mushrooms, curiously keeping his holy tradition.