Hobgoblin Part II: The Wild Children

    Richard Bullhorn was a despicable person. Fortunately, he was dead. He died on a Thursday in the glorious afternoon sun at a park. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, children were playing; it was a downright gorgeous day. Many people thought that perhaps that was why Richard Bullhorn had died, for the day had been so antithetical to his nature that perhaps his grumpy and cantankerous disposition simply could not handle it, and he gave up the ghost. Or perhaps the ghost gave him up. In all actuality, any ghost would’ve gotten rather tired with gloomy old Richard Bullhorn.

    His body was committed to the earth a week after his death in a ceremony which contained no more than a dozen people. Eleven of them were made up of clergy and workmen to bury the body. The remaining one was a drunk who had lost his way, and had wandered into the cemetery. The body rotted very quickly, as it had already rotten a good deal in its life, and by a month after Richard Bullhorn’s death, small figures began making their way out of the ground where he had died. First popped out a sprite, a tiny little thing which had been fashioned out of a dandelion. Then emerged a moody little brounie which crossed its arms and pouted immediately after making its way out of the dirt. The dandelion sprite made its way to the brounie, waving gregariously, and was promptly punched in the face by the moody little furball. A rumbling sounded, and a great big beast of a hobgoblin leapt from the grave (leaving a good sized hole in its wake), and effectively squashed the sprite and the brounie entirely.

    “Heh heh heh.” The Hobgoblin laughed, sounding very much like a neanderthal. Peculiar creatures, those Hobgoblins: despite being marvelously witty when it comes to pranks and other such things, they are remarkably stupid little imps. The Hobgoblin grinned to itself (it was really much more of a grimace; Hobgoblins aren’t very good at being joyous) and leapt into the air, looking for a lack of chaos which it might fill.

    Wilder was sniffing the ground. His nose was an inch from the grass, his bohunkus was high in the air, and he was perched on his fingers and his toes, crawling forward like a greyhound. His dark brow was furrowed, and small streaks of tan skin appeared through the crust of dirt which covered him due to small streams of sweat issuing from his perplexed head. Wilder was a rather skinny specimen, but what he lost in weight he made up for in hair. Wilder’s hair was epic. No other word quite encompasses the appalling grandiosity which was his mane. The multicolored streaks stretched from the boy’s head like they were trying to get away, bugs crawled in and out of the long locks of static hair, and dirt permeated every cranny of the outlandish afro. Wilder reached a certain spot in the lawn, jumped, and landed again on all fours. He was obviously rather surprised. He circled around the spot, snorting furiously. It was a wonder that the waves of grass weren’t sucked up into his ample nostrils.

    “What is it, boy?” Another child called, running up to Wilder. This boy was also quite obviously a wild child, not meaning in this case uncontrollable, but unconformable. He could not be taught to leave the natural earth for the dignified house. His clothes were mere tatters, and his hair was almost (mark, almost) as interesting as Wilder’s, though it lacked the epic proportions of bugs, erectness, and length, and passed over entirely the abnormal streaks which made up Wilder’s locks. He was not quite as thin as Wilder either, but surprisingly toned (especially for a child of his age).

    “It’s a-” Wilder began, then stopped. He sat down (like a dog, it should be mentioned), and stared at the other boy, his head cocked to one side (again, much like a dog). “What did you just call me, Sprocket?”

    “Uh...boy?”

    “Like a dog?”

    “Uh...yeah.”

    “Well that’s just rude!” Wilder began, rather upset. “Some people just don’t understand…” He trailed off and began scratching his ear with the long, stiff nails of his right toes. “One moment, I have a flea…” Wilder said, then resumed. “As I was saying, some people just don’t understand how to behave in a respectable manner in their interactions with other people! Honestly, calling someone Boy!”

    “Sorry Wilder, it won’t happen again.” Sprocket (who, it should be noted, is the same nameless child referred to in certain other works as Young Lad) replied.

    “Right.” Wilder responded, incredulous. “I think I’ve found where some came out!” He shouted.

    “Perfect!” Sprocket yelled, and fell flat on his stomach next to his friend. “What’ve you found so far?”

    “Well, it smells just like you said.” Wilder started. “A little bit buzzy, and animalistic, and frabjous-like.”

    “That would be it.”

    “And also, we’re in a cemetery…”

    “They would commonly be found there.”

    “And there’s a gaping big hole right in the middle of this filled-in grave.”

    “So there is!” Sprocket shouted, clapping his hands together in excitement. “We’ve got a big one, we have.”

    “So which is it?” Wilder asked.

    “Oh, Hobgoblin, definitely. Neither a Sprite or a Brounie could be this destructive, at least not immediately after their advent.”

    “Hobgoblin!” Wilder said, the mere word causing his bladder muscles to tingle in anticipation. “I think I have to pee!”

    “I think there’s a bush over there,” Sprocket said.

    “My dear Sprocket, the moment is dead and buried. You really must learn to speak more quickly when these matters are concerned.”

    “Do you mean to say that you just urinated on a dead man’s grave?”

    “Well, he is dead. He won’t mind.”

    “Touché.” Sprocket replied, stroking his chin.

    “Oi! You!” A voice cried from across the field. “What’re you doin’ o’er there?”

    “Ah, we really must be going.” Sprocket mentioned nonchalantly to Wilder.

    “I agree with your analysis of the situation.” Wilder said, standing up and offering his arm. “Shall we?” He asked, bored.

    “Yes, let’s.” Young Lad replied, hooking his arm into his. Then, without the slightest mark of worry or fright, the two wild young children skipped through the cemetery, arm in arm.

    “I lost its track here.” Wilder said definitely.

    “A pizza parlor?” Sprocket asked, confused.

    “Yeah, it says Tony’s Pizza.”

    “Ooooohh...now it makes sense.” Sprocket replied without the slightest tinge of sarcasm. Wilder looked at him cockeyed.

    “Well, yes.” He said, studying his companion. “Of course it does. Because its Tony’s pizza.”

    “Exactly!” Sprocket replied, and sprinted toward the parlor.

    “Seriously?” Wilder called after him. He ran after his friend, who was booking it toward the pizzeria. Wilder entered just as Sprocket was calling out:

    “May I speak to Tony, please?”

    Wilder approached him swiftly.

    “Sprocket, you do know that not every Tony’s Pizza is actually run by someone name Tony, right? Tony is just a stereotypical italian name, so-”

    Young Lad cut him off, laughing.

    “Of course Tony doesn’t run all of the Tony’s Pizzas!” He cried. “He just founded them! Come on!” He then pranced into the back of the parlor, toward the kitchen. Wilder shrugged. He wasn’t one to hold anyone back. Just then a large Italian man with a massive black and greasy mustache swaggered into the room. He was wearing a high chef’s hat, and his white sleeves were rolled up past his elbows.

    “Why, it’s’a my Little Man!” He cried upon catching sight of Sprocket, who was caught up into the greasy grasp of Tony’s bear hug. “Boy am I’a glad to see you!” He cried. “I’ve gotta a problem with a gremalin in the back!”

    “What’s a gremalin?” Wilder asked, totally dazed.

    “A Gremlin.” Sprocket said, hopping over the service counter into the bakery.

    “It’a showed up this very morning,” Tony said, explaining. “I’a gotta here as soon as I could, but it had already made quite a mess of things, as you can see!”

    Wilder looked around, but thought that the pizzeria’s kitchen looked surprisingly clean.

    “What’s wrong?” He asked.

    “Look up.” Sprocket said. Wilder did. Right above him was a terrible black gaping hole whose walls looked like that of some sort of gaping wound in a man’s chest.

    “What’s that?” He asked.

    “A wormhole.”

    Wilder paused, collecting his thoughts.

    “Well crud.”

    “Yeah.” Said Sprocket as he leapt up into the wormhole. He disappeared almost immediately. Wilder looked at the wormhole, then at Tony, who shrugged.

    “Huh.” Said Wilder, and leapt up after his friend.

    “Ho ho!” Tony laughed. “These kids, they are crazy!” He chuckled to himself, and walked into the mouth of a paraplegic purple platypus, thus teleporting to the land of killer dust bunnies.

Hobgoblin Part I: Concerning Emotikind

The earth can be viewed as a place from whence life springs. Up from the soil of the ground rises green slivers of grass, the seeds of plants are nourished in its embrace, and beasts sleep soundlessly in the recesses of its caves. But the dirt is not always a place which breeds life. It is not not always the bare essentials of something beautiful, nor is it always a nice soft place to rest your feet and implant your toes; no, the earth can contain the most dreadful of things. Though from it life and plant-matter emerge, the dead and the rotten are entrusted to its care. It nourishes plants, and we reward it by burying corpses in its depths. It is common consent that the dead, when hidden in the earth, decompose and bring vital minerals to the dirt, enriching and completing the soil. While it is true that the physical material (the skin, the flesh, and the bone) dissolve into mere minerals and make the ground “healthy,” as it were, this is not all that happens when a body enters the ground. Comprehend, I beg of you, that although the useless body is dispensed of, the useless and pent-up emotion accumulated by the body has nowhere to go. The spirit (the actual essence of a Man, his being and consciousness) will ascend or descend in accordance with its true or false faith, but the anger, the hope, the strife, the charity, the stress, and the solace have no place to rest their heads. These emotions are, of course, simple feelings of the moment; when a Man is always angry, then that anger will go with him down into Hades, but when a Man feels a swift and transient feeling of rage upon stubbing his toe, that little smidgen of anger will go with him to the grave, but not to his eternity. These are the type of emotions which are thrown into the earth along with the corpses of men. Once the spirit leaves and the body is eaten by tiny microscopic microorganisms, these emotions awake once more. No longer having a body to rest upon, they abandon their parasitic nature and compose for themselves a body of their own. Logically these are very small bodies, as they house very small and silly emotions. There are undoubtedly many different kinds of these “Emotikind,” but the basic forms are defined within three classes: the Sprite, the Brownie, and the Hobgoblin.

The Sprite is a happy creature, the body of feelings brought about by, say, finding a coin on the street, or eating a goodie, or having a small animal let you pet it. These Sprites are also known as other names, the most common of these being Fairy. They are also called Pixies, Jinn, Will-o-the-Wisps, and Elves (although this is a misnomer, as the Elves are a completely different race whose origins are nowhere near the same as that of Sprites). Sprites will often fashion their bodies out of plant matter, such as flower petals or autumn leaves, and insect shells.

The Brownie is a creature of childish mannerisms, and they are just as unpredictable. While they may be the jolliest old fellow at one moment, they can be the most awful of chaps the second. They frequently fashion their bodies out of cast off feathers and fur, looking rather like an anthropomorphic squirrel. Their form often shifts with their moods. They are also known as Tantrums and Urisks.

The Hobgoblin is an awful creature, born out of temptation. They are the thoughts such as “Oh, I could just kill him!” Or, “What if I just jumped off of this cliff?” As well as other strange thoughts which people pass off the parsec after they think it. Hobgoblins are crafty and furious things, pranksters of epic proportions, and all around horrid. They produce their form from animal carcasses and molds. They are also known as Imps, Gremlins, or simply Goblins.

When a person dies, they usually leave behind Emotikind from all three of the classes, the Brownies being from their childhood, and the Sprites and Hobgoblins from their later years. Every now and then, though, an extremely bipolar person will come along, someone who has no control of their emotions whatsoever, and frequently has cause to be angry. These people will only produce Hobgoblins, and the Hobgoblins which they produce are perfectly refined; unadulterated in their mischievous hate.

The Curious Case of the Noise in the Night-Time

One cold night in December, I heard a noise outside my window.
Carefully throwing back my covers, I leaped from my bed.
"What if it's a burglar?" I wondered. I surveyed my apparel: Elmo pajamas and a t-shirt which read Dance 4ever. Hopefully it would be too dark for the intruder to notice that.
I slunk quietly to my closet, trying to control my rapid breathing. Stooping down, I clicked on a flashlight that I had snagged from my bedside table. A weapon was needed. I noticed a fishing pole, a rainboot, and a cleat. Then my gaze fell upon my cat.
Mr. Snuffles was an obese gray tomcat whom my sister had christened; I accept no responsibility for his unfortunate title. I slid my hand under his ample belly and scooped him up into my arms.
"Meow?" Mr. Snuffles inquired. I agreed with his summary of the scenario.
I crept down the stairs, my fat feline in tow, and prayed that the stairs wouldn't break. Unfortunately, they did.
"Shut up!" I whispered harshly to the steps. Mr. Snuffles looked up at me, scandalized.
"Pardon my French." I said absent-mindedly.
I made my way outside, and stalked through the freezing snow. I was about to give up my hunt when I spied a small green figure crouching behind the air conditioner. My mouth gaped.
"Are you an alien?" I asked, astonished.
"No..." the figure replied. His voice was high and Irish, like my cousin. "I'm a leprechaun!"
"A Liberal?" I asked, confused.
"No, a leprechaun!" He shouted. "and I'm here for your pot o-"
"DRUGS ARE BAD!" I yelled at him, and activated my cat catapult. The trajectory made its mark on the target's face. Then it exploded, along with the small green man.
I went to bed satisfied.
The next day I bought another fat gray cat in case another inebriated liberal visited my home. They didn't.

Burglar, Part III: Unmen and That Sort of Thing

    “Neither are we.” It was a deathly voice. A voice filled with malice and amusement, not a deep voice, but not a high voice; the sort of voice which screams power, but is old rather than strong. The voice was gravelly, and spoke as though it had seen the birth of the stars and would one day cause the cessation of their luminescence. “But we assume that you already knew that,” the voice continued, “Regarding your conversation. Yes, we are not human anymore. We are the unmen, the force whose chorus is darkness, the embodiment of impurity whose form and being rends the very Heart of the Creator.”

    “You have mutated His creation. It is only logical.” Sprocket replied.

    “Such a brave boy.” The voice said. As it neared, it began to sound more full. “The entrance of our coven is a feat undertaken by few. Unfortunately for you, young children, the exodus of our coven is completely and entirely unheard of.”

    “Is it though?” Sprocket asked. “Was there not one who went out from this place?”

    “He cheated!” The witches shouted. “He was false! He was deceitful.”

    “Oh but that’s it, my dear unwomen!” Sprocket called out. “He was absolutely truthful! Not an ounce of illusion held foot within him! It was your own deceit which made his actions seem so facadical to you.”

    “Lies! Lies and trickery! You are just like him, you are his image in the mirror! You spout falsehoods just as he does!” The voice was now three half-distinct voices. “You would offer your forgiveness as well, would you not?”

    “I would not.” Sprocket replied. “My forgiveness would do you no good. But the forgiveness within me could be extended, even to you.”

    “Even to us?” The witches replied sarcastically. “Oh high and mighty benefactor, would you stoop even to our level? You would offer the Creator’s forgiveness to us, low and base beings that we are? Oh how kind and generous of you, child. But perhaps it has not occurred to you that we have already contemplated this offer? We have pushed this filthy forgiveness away from us along with the Infiltrator’s poisonous words! We desire not your charity...but your souls!” At that moment a dark form leaped from the darkness of the cottage. It was a tumorous being, covered with unbecoming lumps. Its hair was mostly gone, apparently by the long and gnarled fingers of the Witch itself. The height of this being exceeded by far that of the average man, perhaps up to three times. Its skin was black and flaking, as if it were a burnt corpse. It was naked, but had nothing to cover. Its torso was merely a lump of scars and dead skin. Its feet looked like the roots of a tree, sinking deep into the floor with each step. The wood of the cottage floor rotted as the witch passed it, but recovered as it left. Its taloned hand reached for Sprocket, attempting to swipe him aside.

    “Sprocket!” Burglar cried, fearful and frozen to her place. But the hand went through Sprocket. His clothes did not rot as the wood had, nor did his stance waver. The witch arched her back in fear, her form suddenly somehow tenuous.

    “No!” She cried in seeming agony. “You have brought the Infiltrator with you! His power swarms about you! You are an Illusionist, a practitioner in the Fiery Arts! You lie! You lie!”

    Burglar reached out her hand and touched Sprocket’s shoulder. He was solid. He turned his eyes to her and smiled sadly.

    “I suppose, in the end, that this was inevitable.” He said, and turned to face the witch once more. “By the Power which I have received, I command you to leave them.”

    “NO!” The entity cried, its voice throaty and hoarse. The Witch was thinner yet, shrinking upon the utterance of Sprocket’s words. “They are mine!”

    “You shall not prevail.”

    “Liar!”

    “In the foolishness of your heart you have denied that which is true and called it a lie. Your self-deception can protect you no longer.”

    “Word-twister! False prophet!”

    “You cannot look at me because you know that the truth lies in my eyes.”

    “We do not look at you because you are of the Fire which bites and devours!”

    “I do not destroy. I make new.”

    “You revert all that is alive to ash and dead coals!”

    “I bring that which is ash to life.”

    “What do you know of life? You have not lived our sorrows, you have not heard the whispers, you have not been hurt as we have!”

    “I have felt sorrow.” Sprocket said. As Burglar watched him, he looked older. His eyes seemed older than the witch’s voice, and his meek power greater than their boastful intimidation. “I have felt death. I have heard the whispers. But I have defeated them.”

    “Not our whispers.”

    “You whisper them to yourself. You are your own deceiver, your own pain.”

    “You desire our demise.”

    “Though your lies are so great that they seem to be part of your being, they are not. I offer you peace.”

    “You offer subjugation.”

    “I offer freedom to do what you were made to do.”

    “We do what we wish to do.”

    “You do what your lies wish you to do.”

    “Leave us!”

    “Come out.”

    “Leave us!”

    “I command you to leave them in the name of Elkhaim!”

    The witch contorted into an awful position, bending back and forward and sideways in rapid succession. Her black skin seemed to become darker and drier. She let out a low growl of a scream, using only her throat. Black blood began to spew out of her mouth like spit when one yells. It began to tear at its own body, scratching at the back of the neck, its nails sinking deep and tearing violently at the dead flesh.

    “Stop!” Sprocket called out. “You may not harm them!”

    The witch spontaneously jerked her head toward Sprocket and stopped all movement, her bloody nails perched like the claws of a bird, her legs crouched, her spine bend beyond possibility. It was the first time Burglar had truly seen the witches face since the encounter had begun. Its mouth was contorted into a snarl, and black blood dripped steadily from its chops. What was left of its hair was matted with dried fluids. Its ears had been stopped up with dead bugs and its own hair. Scars decorated the skin around the eyes from the Witch trying to stop the things it had seen. But the eyes, the eyes themselves, was what caused Burglar pause. They looked genuinely sad. They looked so sorrowful that she could barely stand to look at them. She turned away and wept silently. Sprocket’s lip quivered as he spoke:

    “I will stay with you until the end.”

    The Witch did not speak, but did not move as Sprocket approached her. The boy crouched down beside her and stared into her eyes. He looked fixedly upon the Witch, and slowly raised his hand to caress her scarred face. As he stroked her cheek, the skin began to rejuvenate. She looked upon him, waiting to see what he would do. Sprocket licked his lips, and spoke.

    “Your immorality is forgiven. Sin no more.”

    The Witch breathed in deeply, gasping loudly, and brought her head back. She breathed out thick smoke, and as she did her skin became a natural colour. She fell over onto her side, and her body began to separate into three distinct parts, which reverted to human bodies. Three nuns. But these bodies quickly disintegrated into three glowing, beautiful, gold lights. These rose, and though one could not bear to look upon their brilliance, one knew that they were smiling. Beaming, as it were, with joy.

    Burglar slowly approached Sprocket, and crouched down beside him. She leaned on him, fatigued.

    “It’s gone?” She asked quietly. Even whispers seemed like shouts in the silence which had ensued.

    “It was never truly there.” Sprocket replied, wiping his bloodshot eyes. “The Witch was an embodiment of deceit feeding on the bodies of the nuns, birthed by the words of a demon.”

    “Is that why it couldn’t strike you?”

    “No.” Sprocket replied. He did not expand on his answer. The quiet resumed. Sprocket rose, as slow as an old man, and turned to offer Burglar his hand.

    “Let’s leave.” He said.

The Centurion's Narrative

Darkness fell.
It was like light had never existed, like the thought of it had never even entered into the mind of God. It was like some sort of behemoth of a giant had snuffed out the rays of the sun like the flame of a candle with his putrid breath.
The earth quaked.
The very rocks under our feet shuddered as if outraged at what we had done. We thought that some sort of beast was going to crawl out of the dust and punish us for our sins.
Then the dead woke up.
They walked among us looking at us like we had caused this.
And maybe we had.
The sky thundered.
Not a single flash of lightning showed its face, nor did the rain fall. It was just the thunder; pure, unadulterated, and vehement. Like the heavens were reprimanding us.
The curtain tore in two.
From top to bottom, like that sun-snuffing giant had ripped it in his anger. Except that any giant, no matter how gargantuan, would have been struck dead upon entering that place.

What had we done?
Only God could have torn that curtain. It was only by his hand that such a mighty feat could have been accomplished.
What did it mean?
Could it be that God was no longer going to associate with His People? Or could it be that He had been among us this whole time?

And even though I'm not a Jew, only one phrase enters my mind as I stare fixedly upon that figure nailed to the tree. That poor, mutilated Man. He doesn't even look like a man anymore, not after what we did to Him. He doesn't even look like an animal. But I could still see His Love. And I couldn't help but say the words which were beating into my brain, like the nails had been beaten into Him.

"Surely this Man was the Son of God."

Super: A Look into the Subconscious Desires and Idolized Heroes of Society

We needed a leader. We needed a commander. We needed someone who could bring glory back to our nation; a man who could lead us into battle; someone who knew our plights and who was dedicated to our cause. We needed King Arthur. He was the physical embodiment of justice; someone who could obliterate that which was wrong and twisted; someone who had risen from being an illegitimate child of an insignificant ruler to being the sovereign of Britain. But what or whom would he give rise to? Aristocracy dies and leaves spoiled brats in the place of wise kings, greedy fools who would tax all of our money away. And we didn’t want that.

We just wanted to be secure.

    We didn’t want the rich to look down on us anymore; we didn’t want to be handicapped; we wanted equal rights. We needed an unbiased judge, someone who could make things right again; someone who could take down the regime of the aristocrats and let common man have a shot. We needed Robin Hood. But when his merry men and lincoln greens were stripped away, what were we left with? We needed a renegade, but we needed one who would not simply try to make things right from the shadows, but instead take control of the system. Not a king, just a leader.

We needed Revolution.

    We needed a team of brothers, not a line of rulers. We needed actual people, not fictional characters. We needed thinkers and men of action; people like Washington, Franklin, and Adams; people who worked out of a heart for the country, not out of greediness for gain. But once we had freedom, what use were revolutionary thought? Once peace has come, “Revolutionary Spirits” become “Nihilistic Anarchists.” Surely they don’t desire our fruitfulness, but our fall. The didn’t want us to thrive, they wanted us to thirst. They wished things to change, but if things changed, how could they be better? We needed security once more.

We needed the Government.

    We needed a power which would enforce fair play; an entity which could not be denied. We needed a body of advisors who would look out for the common interests of the people, senators who would respect our rights of speech, belief, and land-ownership. So a Republic was given. But we could not keep it. What had been made up of people fighting for peace and innovation became a den of thieves wishing for personal gain and unnecessary taxation. But they swore that things were okay. They said that it would all be made right, that they were just sorting things out. They said that we needed to trust them; after all, we had put them into office. Their words made them sound right. But they didn’t seem so heroic anymore. So we turned to the innovators.

    We began to admire people like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs; people who were the embodiment of the American Dream. We began to love people who showed that no matter our background, we could succeed if we worked hard enough, if we had an ideal which we believed in. We wanted idols; people who we could only dream to be like. But that was the issue. We began to dream, and we never stopped. We think of extraordinary things and are content with the sweet thought of it, instead of bringing the thought into reality. In our dreams we wished for something greater, and we became masters at imagining what we could become, if we ever felt like trying. Normal humans no longer graced our thoughts, but superhumans. People who we could never become. We went from Caesars to Demigods to the Gods themselves. We created our own mythology; an American Mythology. It is full of beings who do not rule over us, but who fight for the common man in their might and glory. Because no matter what we need, there’s always something greater. No matter what hero inspires us today, we will want a new one tomorrow.

    But there is a constant. A Hero who can save no matter the circumstances; who embodies what we strive for no matter the time or the age. A Hero who will rule, but not leave His Kingdom to ruin after His death, because He will never die. A Revolutionary who will make things right and will not stand in the shadows, because although we need Revolution, we don’t need a team of brothers, but a Father and His children. With this Hero, even after peace has come, revolutionary innovation will still be accepted, because this Hero is all about creating new things. With this Hero an incorruptible government will be established, a government which cannot change because our Hero cannot change, and the government rests on His shoulders. We will constantly strive to be like this Hero, and even though He is so high above us, we will become like him one Day, that glorious Day when we will see Him face to face. Who is this Hero? He is Immanuel, which means God With Us. He is the Lord, which means Master. He is Christ, which means King. He is our Salvation.

    He is Jesus.