It's cold. Wet. I need a drink, but the bars are deserted. Fucking evacuation. I could go in and steal something, but what would be the point? They've all pretty much been looted and trashed anyway. And who wants to deal with a bunch of drunk kids at 3 o'clock in the morning? Knowing me, I'd prob'ly shoot 'em. Prob'ly get away with it too with all the chaos going on.
But fuck that, my bullets are for better things. My time is for better things.
I'm so sick of the rain. It put out most of the fires but I'd rather deal with them than this water soaking through my fur. It's fucking annoying. Oh well. Win some, lose some.
Rounding a street corner, I see a tank in which three squirrels are charred black, their limbs drawn up as if frozen in time. A little further down, a couple of moles are tossing bricks through a store window. There are women screaming. All over there are women screaming. Almost makes me cum. Almost. But the sight of half-baked, crazed mobians running around kinda kills the mood. And oh God, the smell! The smell is fucking disgusting.
I still can't believe Sonic fucked up. Actually, I can. Little hedgehog had it coming. Pride goes before the fall. Bastard fell hard this time. He better run his little blue quills off. He's liable to get strung up by the balls if he ain't careful.
Heh, I'd really like to see that honestly.
"Hey, mister!"
The kitten looks about six weeks old. A tabby, I think, but the grime encrusting his fur makes it impossible to tell. Between pinched forefinger and thumb he holds one end of a string, to which the other end is tethered to the neck of a younger kitten. Dead.
"You been draggin' that thing around?" I ask him. Even from a distance of three feet, it stinks to fucking high heaven.
"It's my little brother, sir," the kitten replies, wiping his nose with the back of his paw. "He won't wake up. I tried carrying him but my arms hurted, so I have to pull him with me. Can you wake him up, mister? Please?"
Aw, Christ. I scratch the fur on the back of my neck. Yank my hat down so that my eyes are nearly hidden. "Where're your parents?"
"They didn't come back."
Jesus, I hate having a conscience. Fucking nuisance, that damn thing is. Oh well. Win some, lose some. "Your brother's not wakin' up, kid."
He looks at me, wide-eyed. Glances down at the mangled body of his brother. Then back up at me. I think he already knew, but still, hearing it first-hand is tough. I don't stick around to listen to him bawl. I tell him I'm sorry, and then take off.
A group of foxes stand in a circle, holding paws and chanting. Chanting away. Their voices ringing against the noise of falling timbers and sirens.
When ashes become ashes
And dust begets dust
Our faith will be tested
In Him, we must trust
A smile tugs at my lips. Bible-thumpers. Always amusing.
Glossy pearls fade in the vehement crowds, a shimmering ivory haze. All sounds swish and hammer and I see the world in red, black, gold and gray hues.
Yellow building, my favorite site. The place where I'm able to express my madness. Without dire consequences, that is. Most would argue with me, but this is a holy place. The souls here, they're saved. Liberated. I was once liberated. Now I'm just…lost. I stand beside it, trembling, holding back sobs of elation.
Behind me, the Bible-thumpers keep chanting.
When destruction is among us
And despair settles in
We shall come together
And keep our hope within
I want to leave. I want to sleep on trains and stare at agitated strangers, like I used to. I want to threaten young girls by forcing the barrel of my gun down their throats and then laugh myself into a stupor when they go running down the street, crying for their mamas.
I take out my gun. Feel it. Cold, black, smooth…just like my heart. Poetry, no? Maybe I should've been a poet. I'm nihilistic and depressed enough. Maybe I should've been an artist. Create something for once.
Bang.
Unto this life I am born. Pathetic and hopeless.
Years flash into view as the pain takes over.
This world, so crude and full of hate, turns most of us into bumbling,
stupid creatures who don't remember who we are.
Dominant or submissive.
Fucker or fucked.
Used or user.
Alive or dead.
Bang.
Broken, beaten, damned.
The thought "what point is there?" crosses our minds.
Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five.
Still, forgetting is crucial.
Can we sit here and do it—swallow the gun, pull the trigger?
Can we wake, finally, in a world of new light,
a world of color, meaning, and love?
Can we get up off the ground and walk with confidence,
with passion, backbone, and brain,
remembering that we were once perfect and may still be again?
Bang.
Born again in a split-second of decision,
smiling softly and moving forward in our lives,
shrugging away battered and broken shells of former selves,
leaving all the pain behind with each step.
A fire is lit inside our hearts now—an old longing.
Recovery, rebirth, reinvention.
Time to help another remove their shackles,
make them swallow the gun.
Bang.
My target moves. I hit a pipe instead. It bends into a V, emitting dark gray gas into the dank, already-toxic atmosphere. Poison.
That's alright. The world is poisonous anyway.
Women keep screaming. Shouting. Crying.
She didn't love me in the morning. Left at first light. Left me gripping the warm bed sheets where she'd laid, sobbing like the little whore she knew she was. I wanted to kill her. I dreamt of smashing her pink-quilled head into that mirror she couldn't stop looking in, over and over and over again. Just smash it until it caved in. Whenever I think of her, I wish I had.
They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If that were true, everyone would get stronger whenever shit went down. But see, not everyone does. Some regress. Some curl up and give in. That's how PTSD works, I'm pretty sure. You go through some really nasty shit and the next thing you know, you're sensitized to fucking everything. Even a tap to the shoulder makes you jump clear out of your skin.
If you ask me, I think what doesn't kill you makes you realize how strong you already are. I think we have the strength in us to begin with; we just need to find it.
I'm not very strong. I fully admit that. I hardly ever cry. Only the strong can cry. The weak like me try to hide it.
I never face anything head on. I always weasel my way out of it. Ha! Weasel. I knew there was a reason why I am what I am.
And who decides reason?
The Bible-thumpers are still chanting; they won't stop. They just keep going, like machines—ashes to ashes, dust to dust; everything dies, everything must. And then they mention hope. What room is there for hope? Makes no fucking sense. It's just a stupid rhyme; that's all it is. Just a stupid little nursery rhyme.
I see a bench. It's covered in wet ashes, but I sit on it anyway. I lie down and stare, sideways, at the scene before me: the black smoke billowing into the sky; the scorched buildings; the lights; the frantic mobians—a mother raccoon huddled in a corner, cradling her two babies; a dead, eviscerated mouse; a beaver carrying his severed tail between his two front teeth. It'd make for a beautiful painting.
Maybe I'm an artist after all.
Crunching noises behind me. "You Nack?" someone asks.
I sit up, smearing the ashes through my fur. "Depends on who's asking."
Next thing I know, a gun is shoved into my face.
I look up. Rotor. The fat, blubbery fuck. He's not his usual happy-go-lucky self, I see. His face is heavily scarred, and despite the no-nonsense expression he's giving me, I can tell that he's weary. He doesn't want bullshit. Least of all, from an asshole like me.
But then, what the fuck does he want? "Why Rotor," I say. "To what do I owe the pleasure—?"
"You gotta come with me," he spurts out.
Narrow my eyes at him. "And why is that?"
"You know why."
I nod, chancing a slight smile.
"Get 'em up, motherfucker!" he shouts.
Three things happen after that.
One, I laugh.
Two, I laugh harder.
Three, Rotor knocks me out by slamming the butt of his gun against my temple.
When I wake up I'm hanging upside down in a dark room, shackled to the ceiling by my ankles. I don't know how long I've been like this, but my head fucking throbs. I hear something dripping on the floor. I look down—or up, whichever's the more accurate—and see a puddle of blood right below my head. Fuck. I'm bleeding. If I ever see Rotor again, I'm going to shove that gun of his…
A door creaks open. I hear footsteps echoing off the walls, getting louder with each step. "Well, well, well…" A female voice—one I recognize. Sally Acorn. She walks around to my front and stares at me, gloating in satisfaction. "Good to see you again, Nack."
"Likewise," I respond.
"It's been a long time. Too long."
"Aw, did you miss me?"
She crosses her arms. "I see you still love to flatter yourself."
"I see you still love to show off your repulsive cunt."
She punches me in the stomach, causing me to swing back and forth like a pendulum.
"You are in no position to fuck with me, Nack," she hisses, to which I stifle a laugh. "I suggest you choose your words wisely. Your execution is being voted on at this very moment; I'm inclined to kill you myself right now."
"So why don't you?"
The smirk on her face wanes a bit. "You have answers," she replies. "And I refuse to let those answers die with you."
I can't help but chuckle at her stupidity. Same old Sally. If I wasn't hanging upside down right now, I'd fuck her. I always did like stupid girls for some reason. I'd fuck her up against a wall, fast and hard. No regrets. No thinking. No time for her to refuse.
Haha, I just turned myself on.
"What could possibly be funny?" Sally asks indignantly. "This is no laughing matter."
"Everything's a laughing matter, Dear Sal. Good ole death included."
The smirk is back. "I have the power to decide how you die, you know," she says. "I can grant you a swift execution, or I can see to it that you spend your last hour in agony. The choice is yours."
Heh, who does she think she's fooling? I've been in agony all my life. "Even if I cooperate, you could still give me a slow, painful death if you wanted."
"You have my word."
"Void."
"Look, Nack—as much as I'd love to see you suffer, I am nothing if not a diplomat. However, that said, my patience wears thin very quickly. Either you give me my answers on your own or I'll be forced to torture them out of you." She grins. "Now what's it going to be?"
I have to admit, it does sound kind of kinky. "I don't know. What's it going to be, Sally?" I antagonize her. "Do you really want to torture me?"
She's confused. "What are you getting at?"
"Your efforts are futile."
"What?"
"I'm not telling you jack shit!"
A pause. She's furious.
I chuckle again. Louder. "What do you think it'll do? What do you think it'll solve? You hide out here in this fortress behind weapons and lies, and yet you can't seem to grasp the simple truth that everything you once fought for is destroyed."
"There's still hope," she spits back.
Ah, there's that word again. "What hope? Your hero's abandoned you. Everyone else is scared. We're all gonna die, Sally. One way or another. Some sooner, some later, but we're all gonna die."
She shakes her head, resigned, exasperated. "I gave you a chance. What happens from here on out you bring on yourself."
She walks back towards the door. Looks over her shoulder. "Maybe when you're in hell, you'll understand."
She keeps walking. Opens the door.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; everything dies, everything must."
...And she's gone.
Blood must be rushing to my brain. I'm hallucinating. I see her face, the way it looked when she told me she wanted to devour me. I wonder how it looked when she left. Did she cry? Was she angry? What was going through her head?
Heaven goes like this, I'd told her. It's when you're sitting alone with your ears ringing from the quietness around you, and the layer of your body between your skin and bones is warm, and you feel that force that tugs on time—an incredible sensation, like you have the power to walk on water.
"Hello, Nack." Accented voice. Whiny.
I know who it is. "Hello, Antoine."
He walks around to my front, standing erect and proud in his militia uniform, his hands clasping each other behind his back, gentleman-like. He's sporting an eye patch now. Right eye's missing. My compliments to whoever gouged it out. If I met the lucky bastard, I'd salute him.
"So Sally sent you to make me talk, eh? Can't do it herself."
"Do not insult the princess," he groans, flashing me a menacing look.
Wow. Since when did he grow a pair?
"I take it you know why you've been brought here," he says.
I don't reply. Don't need to. He already knows the answer to that.
"I also take it you know well enough the punishment that awaits you if you refuse to cooperate."
Silence.
"I must be perfectly honest with you, weasel—you have information that we want."
"You don't say."
"I don't think you understand the importance of this information. We've been…well, frankly, we've been tracking you. Doing it for quite some time, I might add. Waiting for the right moment to strike. We lost you for a while there, but then Rotor spotted you…right outside our walls. I can't imagine what you were doing there, but no matter. Here you are."
He walks away, vanishing somewhere behind me. I hear a sudden screech of metal, the clinking of chains, and the next thing I know I'm being lowered to the floor, right into the puddle of my own blood. I lie there on my stomach, disoriented, my ears ringing, my head light. I feel like I'm going to faint. Antoine continues to talk to me, but I can barely make out his words: "…insufferable…worthless pile of scum…your fault…your greed…the end of civilization…"
He kicks me in the ribs, then sends the tip of his boot into the crook of my neck. I gag and cough and curl into a ball.
He bends over and slaps me in the face, right along my jawline. It stings like the fucking dickens.
I turn over as he struts away and evaporates into the smoky darkness of the cell, and as my head tilts upward, I see her—her, in all her back-stabbing glory. Her pink quills, her big, watery "don't you love me?" eyes, her skimpy little dress (the one I found her in), her heels. She takes a few steps towards me, her arms extending outward as though beckoning me into her soft embrace, and she stops.
Stops and…stares. She just stands there and gawks at me like some spectator as Antoine comes back, no doubt brandishing some sort of torture device that, unbeknownst to him, is a substitute for the cock he lacks.
He grabs me by the ear and tries to yank me up. Knowing me and how little I have to lose, I'm inclined to let him, but by that point I'm so pissed off that I can't even control myself. I rear around and kick his outstretched arms, knocking from his grip what appear to be rusty pliers. His shock gives me just enough time to jerk to my feet and the next thing I know, I'm chasing after him.
I corner him against a grimy wall, my hands going for his neck. He grunts as I press him into the filth. Tries to pry himself from my grip. I lift him off the floor, glance down at his squirming legs, and laugh. They look so pathetic.
I'm choking him. With my bare hands. My only weapon, rage.
His eyes are bulging, begging me to please let him go. His breathing is a low, barely-audible wheeze. He claws at my arms in desperation, tearing through the fur, shredding the skin.
It turns me on.
He chokes and claws, and claws and squirms, and squirms and chokes, until finally I toss him aside. He makes a loud thud as he collides with the floor. I allow him to scramble to his knees, and then kick him back down, the force sending his nose into the cold stone. He starts to whimper like a woman, and I can only cackle.
His arms go up into a defensive position as I charge at him, but that only entices me further.
Holding him down with one arm, I use my other to force his pants to his knees. By that time he knows what I plan to do, and he belts out a wretched scream. I grab his flailing arms and hold them behind his back. Then I lean over top of him and whisper in his ear that I'll be his first love.
…And I'm sure I will be.
He says nothing while I fuck him. His body goes rigid and he holds his breath, but he doesn't utter a single word. I can't see his eyes—which I think is kind of a bummer—but I bet they're closed. I bet they're squeezed shut and that he's begging some God or Sonic or the cunt he no doubt masturbates to, Sally, to barge in and save him.
I fuck him hard, like the virgin he is, like the little bitch inside him that's been begging to come out and play. I'm doing him a favor, really. And he knows it. He wants it.
He enjoys it.
Thrust, thrust, moan. "You want answers?" I taunt. "Beg for 'em, bitch!" Thrust some more. Moan some more. All I'm giving him is cum and a sore asshole. No weaseling my way outta this. I'm facing this head on…or dick on, which is way more badass if you ask me.
I finally pull myself out of him and look, admiringly, at my accomplishment. Antoine's asshole is torn, a mixture of blood and cum dripping from it. He collapses on the floor and coils into a trembling ball. I, being the conscience-ridden gentleman that I am, lay down behind him and wrap my arm around his hunched shoulder. My nose and mouth inch to the back of his neck and softly I breathe into his fur. "It's okay, love," I soothe. "I'm here. I'm here."
Just think, I tell myself. By this time tomorrow, you'll be dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
My grip around Antoine tightens. He'll miss me.
I think he's gonna love me in the morning.