They said it couldn't be done.
They said she was crazy.
But she simply laughed; they wouldn't understand the need to change the world, one macuahuitl at a time. And so she went to work, sandpaper in one hand and rasp in the other.
Day after day, she toiled to whittle down the angular edges, developing blisters. All in the name of progress. Her sweat turned to sawdust. Negative counsel faded into obscurity.
One day, she held up the weapon in the raw. If raw oak could glisten, it did; the sheen was magnificent and radiant. Tlaloc the Aztec Rain God spoke to her and implored it be in his image, and his will was done. It would be the most benevolent macuahuitl erected under his honor.
Collecting yucca for cordage, flintknapping blades, and making pine pitch were done with a religious fervor. Mistakes were made, but nothing could stop the coming tide. Maybe a little Gorilla Glue was used? We may never know.
Finally, as the dust settled, it emerged like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Glorious and just, it cast its mighty shadow over all those who doubted, who were simply prostrate in fear and awe.
What would be next? World peace?
One can only try.