A figure stood before the Odious Beast.

The Striped Swordsman, shaky paw on the hilt of his sword. Black and orange striped tie hanging loosely off of his exposed fuzzy chest, two black belts adorned in golden buckles, burst maroon cutoffs. His is the word of god. He is the blade of exaction. His eyes betray him; bloodshot, teary.

The Odious Beast, a wretched thing. Green waves of stench roll off its body. Yellow matted fur. Exposed bones. Exposed blood too, long congealed into what may as well be flesh. In its eyes? Only hate. It draws its lips back in a snarl. The foul air snarls with it.

Before the Odious Beast's rancid might, pressure cracking the floor, the Striped Swordsman clicks his tongue.

"Tch. It's Monday."

The paw steadies. The sword whips from its scabbard, drawing a neon line across the vibrating air. There is a hum of motion. The blade now held aloft. Tip to the sky. 

The Odious Beast's legs dig into the floor. Bunching up to pounce. Yet suddenly. A glinting steel line sears into its flesh, remnant of the unsheathed blade! Cut diagonally from the left eye across. A deep ravine in the skin.

But the pounce continues.

The Odious Beast shoots forward, green air screaming behind it. The Swordsman feels the wind pressure immediately. Spit erupts from his mouth and his eyes widen. *Then* the Beast impacts. The Swordsman is flung rapidly, chest caved in, blood dripping from seven orifices. Still the hand grips the sword.

The Odious Beast’s wound slowly seals. To the blurry eyes of the Swordsman, it looks like a closing casket.

“Ptoo.” The sound of spit teeth. “I lack your explosive power. That hasn’t stopped me before, old friend.”

But the Beast does not answer. It simply gathers its strength.

The Swordsman’s eyes darken. “Where’s your banter? Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten how.”

But there is no response. The Beast mindlessly pounces.

Anger overcomes the Swordsman’s features. The skyward blade tips toward the earth. The Beast is already here. The Swordsman recalls three words, and relives a lifetime. 

Blade of Exaction.

In the depths of the past a cat picked up the sword. He only knew simple jabs, and he was not driven to improve. But his god-given ability covered the weaknesses of his feeble will and malnourished body. The cat had the power to relive. He slept all day, dreaming of the blade. Dreaming of that simple jab, streamlining its minutiae. One day he woke up and realized he had mastered the blade. He only knew and needed one move.

And he called it…

Blade of Exaction!

The Swordsman flashes past the Beast, which freezes in the air for a moment. There is a glowing orange light trail neatly bisecting the beast... The pause is euphoric.

Then time begins to accelerate. All at once, the beast’s top half flings forward with a thunderclap while the legs collapse. There is the click of blade to sheathe.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Swordsman knows it will only be moments before it regenerates. The halves pulse and wriggle closer. He can't give it the chance. The floor behind him craters. Seconds earlier, the Swordsman flashes near.

"You're going into orbit, you caricature!"

His leg shoots forward. The air explodes, flinging the bisected Beast upwards with a thunderclap of light. Two lines of green smoke trail into the sky. 

A wind emanates from the site of the impact. Trees bend and stone shatters. The Swordsman lightly sets his paw down. The motion stirs a circle of dust. A spiderweb of sliced earth. Garfield at the crater's centre.

His shoulders shake. His teeth grit. Tears spilling to the cracked floor.

"Hey, Odie... what's the matter? You used to take three of those without even moving… You used to block my blade with your fists..!" 

The Swordsman is momentarily choked with sobs. His teeth grind. He screams at the sky.

"DAMNIT, ODIE! GET DOWN HERE! YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO DIE LIKE THIS!" A raw inhale. His voice begins to quaver. "You... weren't supposed to die..."

The sky does not respond. Garfield, the Striped Swordsman, hangs his head low.

----------------------------------------

It is years later. The Odious Beast descends from space, tempered. It leaves behind a trail of burnt, crispy air. The lush mountains wither. Oceans twist, overcome by tidal forces. The air itself cracks and craters. 

On a yet-untouched peak which shattered space glances past. A swordsman - one with orange fur and black stripes. Garfield. He is taking simple jabs at the air with his sword... and mumbling.

"On a Monday... Odie died on a Monday..."

Dried tears at the corners of his vacant eyes. His thrusts contain scant force, not even stirring the dusty earth of the crater he stands within. A faint wind blows. Garfield grits his teeth.

"That wind... always that wind on a Monday... It haunts me! Time marches on, always flowing through and around me, faint but ever-present! I don’t want this change! I want to relive the past forever!" Garfield is shouting at the air. The wind, unperturbed.

The Odious Beast in the sky, a thing of hate, stares down at him. It creaks its sickly yellow maw open, flicking acid spittle that melts an unfortunate mountain, and roars. The pressure bears down on Garfield. The floor below him turns to dust, the dust turns to ash, the ash turns to nothing. And Garfield's head creaks. Blood bursts from his ears and eyes, flows past his grit teeth.

Still, he winds his body up for another jab.

"My foe is time!" The dull blade begins to shine. "In all things time marches forward, and it truly is unstoppable. But like weather patterns and currents in the water, time, if touched, can be guided by extreme force!" Veins bulge on Garfield’s entire body. His muscles strain. Garfield has become like a tense spring, crushed back, wound up to pounce.

The Odious beast lets out a roar. Garfield finally turns to look at it. His eyes are at peace.

“Odie died on a Monday. You wouldn’t know of this, being a zombie… but you truly have surpassed him now. But I, too, have surpassed myself.” The words tumble out in a smooth flow. The soundwave of the roar has yet to reach Garfield.

The whole-body spring explodes forward. Sword-light sears like three thousand suns. It is aimed at the air. 

Aimed at the wind. 

There is an incredible screeching noise, like gears crying out in agony as they are ground to paste… Garfield’s voice above it all: “Take this, fiend! The blade that cuts through time itself! The sword that devours life like a storm gathers speed! The guiding hand of god… ‘Lasagna King’!!”

Following the terrible scream of metal and clockwork is silence. The wind noiselessly crashes against a shockwave that cracks space - and passes through it. In the path the wind will follow is nothing. There is no rock, no body, no molecule that will arrive to resist it. The storm billows against empty space, against empty time. The Odious Beast, too, is gone. Reduced to emptiness in the breath of entropy.

At the center of the splintered sky is a great quietus. Nothing that was or will be.

Garfield, standing on the peak, lowers his sword.