“I was nearly killed by a mob of albinos,” I repeat as I raise my hands upward with my fingerpads displayed in a gesture of non-offensiveness.

“You can't say that,” the man admonishes me sternly. His tense upper lip causes his pencil mustache to wrinkle.

“I can't say what? Mob? Killed? Albino?” I can't figure out what my offense is.

“I only want my purse back,” the woman announces, removing the bag of coins from her purse, and walking over to the unconscious albino. Kneeling down, she slides the velvet coin bag under the prone snatcher.

“He's said it again!” a woman shouts.

“He's colorless, you churl!” The angry man shakes his cane for emphasis.

“It's not his fault I was born as a noble,” a man in his twenties proclaims, and removes several coins from his vest pocket. He, too, walks over to the sleeping snatcher and slides the coins beside the coin bag under the albino.

More members of the crowd break away to donate money to the snatcher I've knocked unconscious, while I try to understand what code I've broken.

“You mean I can't say 'albino'?” I study the crowd, who alternate between surrounding me angrily and looking guilt-stricken as they collect money for the sleeping hoodlum.

A woman shouts from the back of the crowd, “He's said it again! Where in the Mebed is the daywatch?”

“Get out of our park and never come back!” another yells, followed by murmured agreement

I recognize the word “Mebed” as the name of the salt flat that extends for miles and miles from the city wall.

“Wait, we all speak Siskalian here, right?” I scan the crowd, looking for agreement. “The word for a person born without pigmentation is 'albino.' How is that offensive?”

“Why are you so filled with hate?” the mustached man asks, pointing the knob end of his cane at me. “It's not enough for you to oppress the colorless, but must you also hurl racial slurs like a pigmentarian?”

“When did I oppress him?” I've decided these people are so whacked out they make Alice in Wonderland look like a documentary.

“The colorless were enslaved, and...”

“When was that?” I ask.

“Twelve hundred years ago, but the wounds are fresh,” the young man harrumphs.

“Enslaved by geckos?” I ask.

The young man freezes, and his jaw drops. Rhetorically, he's trying to box me into feeling guilt because of social injustice and the supposed actions of my ancestors in the distant past, but there's nothing in the history of the gecko people that he can use against me.

“My kind never oppressed albinos.” I move to fold my arms over my chest, but my short arms won't reach. I need to find a different gesture to display confidence.

“Your words oppress!”

“How many times do I have to say 'colorless'?” the mustached man says, while stepping forward to tap his cane against my chest.

I was burning in purgatory just hours ago. I'm not even from this damn planet, and I've got a mission to accomplish, so I don't have time for any of this sh...fecal matter. In a flash of insight, I see a way to turn the tables on them and force feed them a dose of their own insanity.

“You know what?” I yell. “The word 'colorless' offends me! He's achromatic!”

“What?” He cocks his head in bewilderment. “You mean colorless?”

I headbutt him. It's really not a headbutt, per se, but I launch the end of my snout right into his forehead. My skull is made of heavy, solid bone, powered by a mass of strong muscles in my neck. I strike him with the tip of my snout, which splits the thin skin of his forehead and causes him to bleed, in addition to stunning him.

“ACHROMATIC!” I yell in his face. “Say it, you hate-filled sack of rat droppings!”

“Achromatic,” he says meekly. He reaches up to wipe his forehead, and turns pale when he sees blood on his fingers.

“You!” I point at the next woman, but the stubby finger at the end of my tiny arm doesn't look as threatening as I hoped. “What do you call that albino?”

“Colorless?” The terrified woman is trying to fold in on herself.

“No, you hate-possessed drab!” I seize her shoulder with my snout, latching onto her, and began shaking her like a pitbull with a chew toy. I release her, throwing her onto the lawn. She backpedals with her butt in the grass to scoot away from me, but is careful not to stand.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“'Colorless' offends me! What is he?” I open my snout and slowly approach her other shoulder.

“Achromatic! Achromatic!” she shouts, and there are tears in her eyes as she tries to wave me away.

I rise up to my full height. “Is there anyone else here who thinks that albino is colorless and wants to offend me?”

“But he is colorless,” a woman holding a lacy parasol observes from the back of the crowd, calculating that my tiny arms can't reach her and there are plenty of bodies between me and her.

I turn, or so it looks, but I am directing my tail like a steel cable whip wrapped in leather. My long tail arcs up over the crowd, over the two lines of people in front of the woman, then smashes through her parasol, clubs her shoulder, and lashes her back.

The woman shrieks in terror and pain. She is clutching her broken parasol with one hand and tries to catch herself with her other hand as she staggers forward and hits her knees, but her arm collapses, and her her head strikes the grass. Apparently, I've broken her collarbone.

I quickly drop to all fours and shove my way through the crowd, butting with my hips and whipping my tail to clear a path. She shrieks when I seize her shoulder connected to the broken collarbone and flip her over like a pancake. She is blubbering in pain. While her thick green eye shadow doesn't run, I see tears beading on it, trembling before they slide down her quivering cheek.

At six inches long, a gecko looks cute, but amplify that gecko to six feet tall, and you've got a velociraptor in your face. My snout is close enough that she can smell my breath. “What do you call that albino?”

“Achromatic.” She is trying to disappear, but her limp shoulder isn't cooperating.

“SAY IT LOUDER, YOU SLATTERN!” My jaw is open wide enough to swallow her head.

“Achromatic!” She begins weeping, and lets her broken parasol tumble out of her grasp as she covers herself with her good arm.

I stand up to survey the crowd, who look ashen. I see the actors have approached, but at a safe distance. Nobody wants to meet my eyes, and the woman with the broken collarbone can be heard sobbing. I don't know if she's realized it yet, but her back is gashed and bleeding.

“You people sicken me, using the word 'colorless'! And I'm including that achromatic guy right over there, too!” I'm pointing at the albino actor, but geckos just aren't designed for pointing. “You're all a bunch of pigmentarians!”

The crowd disperses. The finely-dressed nobles mutter as they slink away, but nobody wants to say anything loudly enough that I might hear it and fly into a rage..

“He called me a pigmentarian,” a woman observes in sotto voice to her companion. “I've never been so offended!”

I don't even know what a “pigmentarian” is, but these people are worried silly about it. I guess a pigmentarian is somebody who uses the word “albino” and commits similar crimes.

The albino purse snatcher has roused himself, and finds to his surprised delight that he is lying on a pile of gold and silver coins. He crams the coins into one of the leather purses and then shoots to his feet. Seeing me, he smirks, coupled with a mocking laugh, then flashes me the claw gesture. Whether that's supposed to be the claw of a wombat, honey badger, spiny echidna, I have no idea, but I recognize it as a “Screw you” gesture. Pivoting on his bare feet, he turns to race away, confident that he's too far away for me to run him down.

It's true that I can't run him down, but I have a tongue.

My tongue shoots out of my mouth, a long tongue like a harpoon trailing a rope line, only my tongue ends in a glob of sticky flesh the size of a grapefruit. The ball end of my tongue slams into the back of his head, snapping several of the brittle twigs woven into his hair as the impact knocks his head forward. I suddenly retract my tongue, which yanks him off of his feet and drags him over the street as he yells in protest.

I've braced myself and pull him all the way in, attached to the end of my tongue, drawing his head into my mouth. My jaws nibble at the edges of his shoulder and neck, just enough to let him know I could bite his head off if I wanted to.

Well, not really. Geckos don't bite, nibble or chew: our jaws are designed to crush prey and swallow it whole, so I could crush his skull to the point it resembled an omelet.

He panics and flails at my head and neck, slapping at me and trying to kick, but I've got him bent over backwards so his kicks are feeble. I shake him a little, gently, just to let him know that I could hurt him if I wanted to, but he's too stupid to get the hint. Even when I'm still, he keeps trying to claw at me, slapping my snout which is engulfing his head, and thrashing around. He's too dumb to realize struggling is pointless, so I'm forced to slam him into the street several times to loosen him up like a bag of ice. I release him and leave him sprawled on the pavement at my feet.

“Don't make me catch you with my tongue again—you taste like a dog turd.” I lean down, which causes him to flinch, but I pick up the fallen bag full of coins with my snout, then transfer it to my hands, which in turn slip it into the pocket of my robe.

“Whoa, hey, man, that's my money!” he yells in protest, but doesn't make a move toward me.

“The misdeeds of the wicked man shall not profit him, nor will his schemes bear fruit.” I pat the bulging coin purse in my pocket, and I feel my robe sag with its weight.

“What?” He realizes as he sits up that his knee is injured. “What's that supposed to mean? You're a pigmentarian!”

“That's from the Lament of Persecution,” I inform him. “It means that I'm not soft like those other bitches. I killed an albino earlier today, and I'm disappointed that I haven't killed any more than that. If I catch you stealing again, I'll crush you.”

“I thought you Riyelans are all about peace and brotherhood, loving mankind, but I guess you're just a big hypocrite.”

I give him a quick kick to the ribs, causing him to let out an “oof!” and to roll onto his side. I want to let him know he can't guilt me.

“The Riyelans were all about peace and love, but that's played out. That was phase one, and it's over. This is phase two. I'm the gecko of God, and I'm here for judgment.”

I spin and dash for the building I leapt off of. From a side-winding run I spring into the air and land, clinging to the wall above the first floor. In moments I climb to the rooftop, where I stash my bag of coins. After a short breath, I skitter across the blue tiles and leap into the void. I soar through the air, high above the street, feeling the wind buffet my lidless eyes. By instinct I know where the Temple of Lord Riyel is; I can see it towering at the base of the mountain wall.

I am flying through the air, where it becomes clear that the towering black marble temple has been taken over. The red banner of Baal the Possessor hangs from the spire, and a bronze bull stands at the top of the steps.

I am sailing into enemy territory.