by Matthew Sanborn Smith
And there shall come a skyscraper man. And he shall rise from the earth and the sewers shall be his bowels. He shall grasp the wicked with his crooked street light fingers and hurl them into the abyss, the aftermath of his own creation.
Mighty bridges will be his limbs and he will enter the sea in long strides to wrestle with the cold evil of all mankind's hearts which has sunk these long years to the pit of the icy ocean floor and conglomerated into the Demon Bysphor. These titans born of man, one of head and hand, one of heart and tongue shall struggle without relent, seeding cataclysm in their wake. Only the skyscraper man shall survive to rise from the water and shine light upon all the lands of the earth, reflected by his blue mirror-glass shell.
Darkness shall burn like dry fields of tinder. Peace will rain from above and a heaven shall be made upon earth. His labors complete, the skyscraper man shall lay his groaning metal hulk down on the plains of the Serengeti. The hunters will find shelter within his lifeless body. The hunted will find shade without.