No wings

 

Warren Kenneth Worthington IV was an old, old man. He just died. He had just celebrated his 102nd birthday. He had lived most of his life in this large, luxurious estate on Carnarvon Drive in Houston, Texas. This magnificent European colonial style home was isolated from the neighborhood by a huge 2.5 acre wooded park. The neoclassical castle was a masterpiece of luxury and refinement, at least by New World standards. It was here, in this castle of white marble and antique woodwork, that Warren had retreated from the world long ago. Warren had always refused to participate in the mundanities of the globalist oligarchy, the very one that is in the process of brutally taking over the Western world. He had ignored invitations, calls and visits until their authors died or forgot about him. By the age of fifty, Warren Kenneth Worthington IV had sold all his shares, all his holdings in the economy of what had been his country. 

He had bought this magnificent property, had it fitted with sophisticated alarm systems and exiled himself to it, forever. Inside, he had spent years listening to classical music, reading and practicing archery. He had always made sure that he was served by white servants, preferably blond. So he used Lithuanians and Poles. His faithful and last servant had been a Finn. Warren Kenneth Worthington IV spoke little or nothing. He simply wrote what he needed to.

Warren Kenneth Worthington IV had taken over Worthington Industries after the departure of his father, the third in line, but he was not interested in the industrial field. He had taken it over a few years after his father's departure, while he sold everything. 

He had missed his father's affection. The man the superhero world knew as Angel had been an absent father, always traveling for work or to fulfill X-Men missions. Warren remembered the handsome, blond-haired man who walked majestically, like an elf among humans. When he had become Archangel, his father's skin had turned almost blue and his beautiful white wings had mutated into a metallic gray. More powerful, he had also become darker. Little by little, his father had withdrawn from all social life. Angel had explained to his son that the world was going to change, that he had to be prepared. But he had not said anything more precise, nothing of what he sensed. One day, Angel had spread his magnificent wings and had flown away without a glance in return. He was never seen again.

Warren Kenneth Worthington IV wondered for a long time why his father had left so quickly. His mother had fallen into madness before dying. She had to be interned. She screamed in terror, spoke of vampires and aliens. A friend of his father's had come to her funeral. He had vaguely explained that Warren's mother was suffering from the poisoning of those who had received a transfusion from Angel. Warren had read a letter from an uncle that alluded to his father's healing power. His blood could repair a wound, but it was a long-term poison. One day, Warren's mother had hurt her leg. Angel poured a few drops of his blood on his wife's wound, which miraculously healed.

Warren Kenneth Worthington IV had felt a lifelong pain in his shoulder blades, in his upper back. It corresponded to the attachment that should have had wings, if he had any. An X-Man, Iceman perhaps, had put in a good word for it, saying that Angel had had his son operated on so that he would not have these "ridiculous attributes". Warren Kenneth Worthington IV understood that his father had suffered from being Angel, that perhaps he had wanted to protect his son from going through all the trials that a mutant would have to go through. Warren Kenneth Worthington IV thanked his father for that. He certainly didn't admire those costumed jerks and their New York Jew stories. The comic book golems had become bisexual, creolized or suicidal. Women dominated everything. "Stupid big-titted bitches," he called them. 

Warren Kenneth Worthington IV saw America sinking every day into the absurdity of Black Lives Matter, gender issues and radicalization in the universities. Warren Kenneth Worthington IV hated this America of ignorant losers, of uneducated obese people, of statue-busters. These degenerates, these useful idiots, were marching in the streets doing the work of the globalists. The end was near for Warren Kenneth Worthington IV, permanently connected to a machine. He was dying all the time, even their fucking coronavirus labs weren't finishing him off. Since he was in a coma, he couldn't unplug the fucking machine. He couldn't wait to get out of this 21st century America that really had nothing left to hold him.