
Unbeknownst to the court and the world, Ezekiel, an immortal of limitless power, innocent of the crime charged against him, faced a death sentence with a quiet, unshakable calm. The execution chamber crackled with tension—guards strapped him to the gurney, needles slid in, and the lethal drugs surged: sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, potassium chloride. Eyes locked on him. Nothing. Ezekiel blinked, alive, serene, his pulse a silent rebuke to death.
Chaos broke loose. Technicians scrambled, the warden snapped—bad drugs, they guessed. They paused, rescheduled. Ezekiel waited in his cell, wordless. Retries followed—electric chair sparked in vain, gas swirled harmless, bullets passed through like mist. Each failure pulled in watchers: lawyers, press, the curious. “Death Row Defier!” roared headlines. #Unkillable lit up X, and clips of Ezekiel’s steady gaze spread fast.
The law faltered. Was it cruel to persist? Appeals surged, the Supreme Court loomed, but Ezekiel grew weary. One night, he stepped from his cell—no bars bent, no alarms tripped. He roamed the prison, a Juggernaut gliding through steel. Guards fired, tasers fizzled—useless. At dawn, he stood before the warden. “Open the gate, please,” he said, voice even. “I’m innocent. No need to lie—I’m immortal.” The warden, shaken, obeyed. Ezekiel walked out.
He flew—Superman swift—landing in a city diner, neon humming. Hungry, he ordered a burger. “No money,” he said plainly. The waitress hesitated; he offered, “I’ll work. Any task.” The manager, half-grinning, pointed to the grease trap. Ezekiel scrubbed it gleaming, grease to his elbows, as phones filmed. #ZekeWorks trended—death row to dishwasher, unreal. Cops lingered, feds watched, but he ate, debt settled. Mid-meal, he faced a live-streamer’s camera. “I want to see the President. Tell him I’m innocent.” Diners froze. “Well?” he added, sipping coffee. “Do I have to go to D.C.? I’m happy with these fine mortals.” #ZekeDemands soared, D.C. reeled. “I don’t want to harm anyone,” he said, “but I could kill you all. Let me go of your free will.” The manager nodded—cops retreated. Ezekiel stayed, a guest.
The diner boomed—fans swarmed, profits skyrocketed. “Zeke Specials” sold out. He leaned into the cameras: “I see to the universe’s end. Mister President, I’ll know every enemy’s move years ahead. Scrap military spending—I’ll protect America. Come here, shake my hand.” To prove it, he called for a roulette wheel. For an hour, he named spins—Red 17, Black 32—dead-on. #ZekePredicts buried X.
POTUS wavered. Ezekiel pressed: “I know your choice. If America doesn’t want me, I’ll find a nation that does.” Ambassadors stormed the diner—Russia, China, France—offering empires. #ZekeBiddingWar raged. POTUS, boxed in, flew in. Marine One roared; the President strode through, hand out. Ezekiel shook it, cameras blinding. “Let’s talk,” POTUS said.
At the diner, Ezekiel showed his power. “Watch Mount St. Helens.” Satellites locked on—then, silence. The mountain vanished, with no trace or sound. “Any nation attacking America or its allies will vanish,” he said. POTUS paled; #ZekeErases trended. “No strings,” Ezekiel added. “I guard what’s mine.” The President offered, “Live at the White House.” Ezekiel nodded. “I’ll greet you there.”
Secret Service gasped—Ezekiel stood in the Oval, waiting. Yet he stayed at the diner, joking with truckers. Two places, one man—#ZekeEverywhere surged. In the Oval, he gazed out the window, city lights flickering, and said, “Adam Schiff’s presence in D.C. does not please me.” POTUS blinked—“Why?” No answer. “He’s a liar, unfit to stand within a hundred miles of me.” Schiff heard and fled to L.A. by dusk, #SchiffFlees viral. “Others will notice,” Ezekiel said, “especially Eric Swalwell.”
D.C. erupted—senators, reps, lobbyists flooded the diner, begging favor. Schumer bumped Cruz, AOC filmed, Swalwell stammered vows. The manager cashed in—“Zeke’s VIP Coffee,” $20 a cup. Ezekiel watched, then spoke: “I see all before it happens. Congress is needless—too costly. But that’s America’s call.” #ZekeNixesCongress sparked fury, pleas. Swalwell trembled, pols groveled, but Ezekiel sat, sipping, his Q-powers a soft hum.
He didn’t force it—just spoke, showed, waited. America faced its truth: its shield or its chaos. The diner glowed, a nexus of wealth and power, and Ezekiel, immortal, innocent, held court, coffee steaming, seeing all ends.
Published by Editor, Sammy Campbell.