Finally the moment came. Jozaza bobbed her torso at four of her assistants. They each took hold of part of the giant leather sheet, and, on the count of three, they pulled it aside, revealing the statue.
It was made of white marble veined with gold that glistened in the sunlight. The statue was almost five times life size, rivaling the biggest meatscooper’s length. The resemblance to Cholo was uncanny—it was him down to the very life; no one could mistake it for anyone else. Still, to assure that the statue fulfilled its purpose for generations to come, Cholo’s name was carved into its base, along with a description of what he’d done for the Shizoo people.
Cholo stared up at the giant sculpture; the white stone was almost painfully bright in the glare of the sun.
A statue in his honor—a statue bigger than any other anywhere in the world. His nictitating membranes danced up and down.
He would be remembered. Not just now, not just tomorrow. He would be remembered for all time. A million years from now—nay, a hundred million hence, the Shizoo people would still know his name, still recall his deeds.
He would be remembered forever.