To each generation, a single chosen must battle the forces others cannot. This sacrifice will stem the tide of darkness so that the many will live into tomorrow.
That is a load of steaming, moist crap. I know first hand because I was my generation’s chosen. My name is Harold Stubrinkowski, and I bet you’ve never heard of me.
My overseer, watcher, keeper, mentor, or whatever found me when I was ten. It was funny how overjoyed Both of my parents were with the title I received. They followed the previous chosen until her untimely demise two years ago. According to Dave, my overseer, there was another. Still, he died three days after accepting the mantle and had barely received any form of training. And he was nine. The demon, or devil, maybe just a ghost, that part is unclear, was well over three hundred and had killed many people. So what chance did a nine-year-old have?
Dave assured my parents it was a fluke, and they bought it. Lucky me. I never found out what kind of compensation they received.
Dave was a good guy, mostly. Strong, too. He could recite quotes from books no one ever heard of. Most of which he had a photocopy of a photocopy of.
My training started and continued pretty heavily for five years. That’s right, five years of basic military training. Every day I did something physical. They added some magic around year four, and I picked up demonic speak and can pull off obtuse Latin.
The powers that be decided that after five years, I would have to go out and hunt down these forces. Two years spent traveling around the world. It was cool seeing those places, but mostly it was a lot of sleazy hotels, back alleys, and camping. It was a fluke that I picked up that girl in Austria.
So at seventeen, I still hadn’t actually fought any force that others couldn’t. Once I got called to deal with a minor devil, a local priest beat me to it. If they had gotten that sports car instead of the SUV, I would have been there.
I turned twenty, and they stopped calling me chosen. By then, it was Harold. Or even Harry.
Faking the next two years, and then someone decided it was over. We had beaten the dark forces, and my job was no longer needed. They let me go and said they would call if something changed.
Six years go by, and it did change. But they didn’t call me. Why? I have no idea. Wait. Yes, I do. Someone had determined that another chosen was named. This dude, Chuck somebodyorother. They didn’t call to see if I was available for training. Hell, I would have done that.
Nope. Chuck, who is twenty when they find him, dives right in and fights some monsters. He won, too. Or for a few days. He was hurt pretty bad and then died of his wounds. They made a big stink out of his funeral. I punched my TV when they brought up pictures of previous chosen, and I wasn’t even listed. They had that nine-year-old, though.
The next four chosen are slaughtered as soon as they are…chosen. At this point, you think someone would have called. Nope. Dave claimed he didn’t remember me. When I showed up at his house, his song and dance changed. He was all apologetic after that.
Two more chosen bit the dust. Each of them lasted a week.
That was when I found an old book at the back of a comic book store going out of business. Not a photocopy, the actual book. It was hand-printed, and I spent three months translating it to Latin, and then two days translating that to English. There was a detailed plan to sap the chosen’s strength by forcing the universe to keep picking them. This was working.
I tracked a few leads to dead ends, but then one of them had a crumb to send me to the next spot. Rinse, repeat.
Here I am—Thirty-four, still single, and standing next to a four-year-old girl. The next chosen. A pit demon devoured her mentor. They found her half-an-hour ago, and she’s screaming. What four-year-old wouldn’t when a pit demon is barreling down on you?
I’m overweight but not out of shape. I also managed to keep most of my weapons. Take this machete. It replaced the sword, which I had to sell to pay for things to stay out of jail. Five different priests of different religions have blessed it. This pit demon is in for a hurtin’, and that’s for certain.
A clean backhand, and the demon is dead. Excellent.
The kid clutches my leg, and we wander out of the warehouse. Yes, that is a thing.
The news crews swarm over us. I think; finally, I’ve done my job, and now they will remember.
“Chosen Carabeth,” the reporter calls.
What?
“How did you slay the demon?”
She looked at me, tears still on her face.
Turning back to the reporters. “I want my mommy.”
And that’s it. They make that way bigger than they should, and I am, once again, swept under the rug.
Like I said, a load of steaming, moist crap. However, Carabeth insists that I stay with her. Now, I have a four-year-old to deal with, like hunting down the forces of darkness isn’t hard enough.
Shorts 