The street corner of the Sawitorzer Omniverse hummed with the pulse of alien life. The distant rumble of hover-vehicles mixed with the chatter of merchants hawking shimmering wares and the myriad sounds of countless beings going about their day. Yet, cutting through the city's usual symphony was a fervent, almost aggressive chorus of human voices. A tight knot of figures, clad in robes of muted reverence, stood amidst the flow of passersby, their faces flushed with passionate debate. They were the devout of this particular omniverse, passionately expounding upon dogma and divine law, their voices rising over the street's natural hum. Arguments about sacred texts and divine will filled the air, as they sought to draw in the curious, or simply to out-shout each other in their zealous convictions.
Sanchez, however, seemed utterly unburdened by their clamor. He leaned casually against a worn lamppost, a faint, almost lazy smirk playing on his lips. His posture was relaxed, a stark contrast to the agitated piety of those who preached and argued just meters away. His gaze, sharp and knowing, swept over them, letting their self-important pronouncements wash over him for a moment before he decided it was his turn.
"Funny, isn't it?" he began, his voice cutting through the remaining din like a razor. It wasn't loud, but it resonated with a clarity that instantly silenced the most vehement of their arguments, making even the distant street noise feel muted. "When you think of your god… the first thing that comes to mind is Hell. Not love. Not light. Just fire, damnation, and a long list of threats."
A tremor ran through the now-silent robed figures. Passersby paused, drawn by the sudden shift in atmosphere. A few of the devout shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flickering with immediate, defensive indignation.
"That's not faith," Sanchez continued, his smirk widening almost imperceptibly. "That's not devotion. That's just fear—and you've been calling it holy your whole life."
A collective gasp, a ripple of outrage, broke through the assembly and among the curious onlookers. Whispers erupted, sharp and agitated. One robed figure, older and with eyes of hardened steel, pushed through the crowd, ready to retort, but Sanchez cut him off, his voice rising, imbued with a cold, almost surgical precision.
"Alright, little boys. Let me ask you this: If there was no Hell—no fire, no punishment, no eternal consequences—would you still love your so-called god?"
The whispers died. Faces blanched, not just among the devout, but in the small crowd that had gathered. The question hung in the open air, a stark, uncomfortable truth laid bare. The elder's mouth opened, then closed, no immediate answer surfacing. The truth of their fear was palpable.
Sanchez scoffed, a short, dismissive sound that conveyed utter contempt for their hypocrisy. He pushed off the lamppost, stepping closer to the elder, the smirk returning, colder now.
"Be honest. Without fear… you'd forget him by morning."
And with that, the illusion of their devotion shattered, raw and exposed in the public square, leaving behind only the undeniable truth of their trembling silence, amplified by the city's indifferent hum.
Then, as if a dam had broken, the robed figures erupted.
"How dare you, you sinner! Punishable by God!" one shrieked, his face contorted in a mask of fury.
"You are a doomed sinner! Judgment, I say, judgment!" another roared, shaking a fist towards the sky.
The condemnation spread like wildfire, a furious chorus of religious fervor. The shouts of "Sinner! Blasphemer!" swelled, drawing even more people from the bustling street, curious onlookers quickly turning into an enraged, self-righteous mob.
Sanchez, however, remained utterly unfazed by the sudden deluge of hatred. His smirk, far from fading, grew wider, a glint of genuine amusement in his eyes. With a movement too fluid and fast to track, his hand dipped beneath his coat.
A sharp *click* sounded.
A sleek, dark handgun appeared in his grip, glinting dully in the Sawitorzer Omniverse's alien sunlight. He didn't point it, didn't threaten; he simply held it, casually, openly, for all to see.
The sudden shift from verbal violence to the glint of steel was absolute. The furious shouts of damnation choked in throats. A wave of stark, primal terror washed over the crowd.
"Ahh! Police! Police!" A high-pitched scream tore through the air. "People, he has a gun! He's gonna shoot! Run!!!"
Panic erupted. The mob, so righteous moments before, fractured instantly. The self-proclaimed holy men scattered, their robes flapping as they pushed through the crowd, their desperate pleas for divine judgment replaced by a desperate, mortal scramble for safety. Onlookers screamed, bolting in every direction, the street suddenly a chaotic blur of panicked movement and terrified shouts.
Sanchez watched them go, his smirk now a full, satisfied grin. He didn't bother to raise the gun, letting it hang loosely at his side as the last of the terrified figures vanished around a corner.
"That's right," he called out, his voice clear and resonant over the fading sounds of panic, cutting through the suddenly sparse air. "Go ahead and run! Run home and cry to mama!"
The street, moments ago a vibrant tapestry of life and fervent faith, was now eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the faint, lingering scent of fear. Sanchez remained standing, unfazed, the gun still casually in hand, the silence a testament to the raw power of his truth... and his willingness to enforce it with unconventional means.
Then, the distant wail of sirens grew closer, a sleek, iridescent patrol vehicle skidding to a halt near the deserted street corner. Two figures in crisp, angular uniforms emerged, their eyes scanning the scene.
"Umm, sir," one of them began, his voice hesitant, eyes fixed on the gun in Sanchez's hand. "That gun... that's not even real, is it?"
Sanchez's grin widened, a knowing, almost mischievous glint in his eye. He raised the firearm, not at the officers, but slightly to the side, a gesture of pure showmanship.
A short, dry chuckle escaped him.
A sharp *POP!* sounded.
A small, spring-loaded boxing glove shot out from the barrel, snapping outwards with surprising force. Affixed to the tiny, padded fist was a miniature, perfectly laminated picture of Muhammad Ali, mid-punch, his iconic snarl frozen in time. The glove bounced harmlessly off a nearby lamppost, retracting with a soft *thwack*.
The two officers stared, utterly dumbfounded, their serious expressions slowly dissolving into bewildered blankness, then a flicker of bewildered amusement.
Sanchez tucked the toy gun back into his coat, a final, triumphant smirk on his face. He nodded casually at the speechless officers, turning to walk away into the now-quiet street.
"I'm just doing some good shit, buddies!" he called over his shoulder, his voice light and carefree as he disappeared into the urban hum of the Sawitorzer Omniverse. "Goodbye!"
He left behind two utterly confused police officers, a scattering of forgotten holy robes, and the lingering, unsettling echoes of a very public, very profound, and very absurd confrontation.