War on Life
The major chewed his food with great joy, and gulped down his wine greedily. More. This was a glorious moment of celebration and merriment. So many years of meagre survival, hiding from view like sullen rats, but now! Ha! Even as he ate, men died by the thousands beneath his feet.
They were all seeing what Millennium was capable of...what he was capable of…
War.
A great and magnificent war. Not for land or god; here there were no petty politics. This was not a war controlled by bureaucracy or by diplomatic relations and treaties. It was controlled by the lust and fury for hell's fires. Paper would not be involved, nor ideals, nor feckless politicians. This would all be for the simple joy of death and dying. The thrill of battle and bloodshed. Exquisite.
I, the Major declared triumphantly, war on Life- for deaths; not men- for flags.
To kill, or be killed.
To revel in the act of killing.
Destruction and creation or not that far apart. Both are violent, powerful forces. To bring something from nothing or to force it down to nothing. It was just a thinly drawn line, really, they should be thanking him. England was caught in the monotony of a modern era without open confrontation or conflict, and he had brought to them the greatest and oldest form of entertainment. He had made them centre stage of it in fact!
Still, he frowned momentarily, the gods had him in the end, their thirst unquenchable, their power limitless. Whether death by walrus or age, the heavens were cruel beyond cruelty, they killed en masse without discrimination, without restrictions. His frown grew deeper. Plagues beat him in bodies, earthquakes, floods, and all manner of natural disasters, had higher death counts than his…Oh well, if this slaughter failed to satiate him, and his enemies failed to rise to the occasion, he'd simply blow everyone up! That would solve all things quite nicely and with some finality.
With that thought, he gleefully continued on to the next plate. Soon, very soon, the fräulein--
The Major looked up, startled somewhat, only to grin childishly at the impudent creature that had jumped onto the dining table, with little regard for the tablecloth.
Ah, speaking of fallen angels…
The Butler stared at him blankly, his face smoothly pressed and completely stoic, but the Major harboured no illusions, the death angel that stood before him would kill them all if he could. And love every second of it.
"Butler, you will behave and show respect to your master! Get off--"
The Doc's reprimand was quickly silenced by the Major's raised hand.
"Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent," he chewed thoughtfully, absentmindedly, "You've done some splendid work, Doc."
The Doc was silent, but uncomfortable. He knew that the Butler was not ready, he knew that even as the Major spoke a small, hidden part of the Butler's mind was calmly sifting through various cooking recipe regarding the proper roasting of a pig. Well, he didn't know exactly, but he suspected. It would not have surprised him in the least.
"Do you think she knows?" the Major added cryptically, his grubby face shining with orgasmic delight.
Standing calmly near the door, the Doc knew that the Major was not speaking to him, had probably completely forgotten he was there for that matter. So he wisely refrained from responding. The little man did so love answering his own rhetorical questions with long winded speeches. Sensing impending boredom, the demented scientists resumed to considering the problem of mental restraints and their short-time battle reliability.
"To have lost such a prize as this… Oh well, I wonder if she ever truly appreciated the fatal power of this relic, that served her tea faithfully for so many years. Do you think she will understand the gravity of her loss, the ironic perfection?. I rather imagine she will. And oh how I would love to see her face when she finds out."
And that of her pet…"
Tear through their flesh and rip off their heads, then return, the Butler thought still standing over the obese carcass that continued babbling below him. It did not occur to him to question the last part of his thought. He simply knew it was a command, one to be obeyed.
"You may leave Doc, prepare for the Butler's release into active duty. For us. Meanwhile, I wish to play a little with my new toy."
"Certainly, Major," the Doc replied, already turned away and facing the general direction of his laboratory.
Left alone, the two men watched each carefully other. The angel of death, standing as he was on the table, resembled a sinewy cat, calmly considering the possibilities of lunch, in the fat nazi mouse sitting directly before him. One looked with a predatory gaze, the other with amused joviality.
Swirling his wine glass with great pleasure, the Major acknowledged the Butler's loathing.
"We are all going to die anyway, you know."
He giggled deliriously to himself and once again began to cram food down his lifeless throat.
"Then again, we are already dead, aren't we?"
Note: The Major chooses to pervert one of the lines in the poem, "The Next War" by Wilfred Owen. The original line reads, "...He wars on Death - for lives; not men-for flags.". In addition, this story was primarily inspired by the Major gobbling down his food in a scene in the full trailer for the new Hellsing OVAs.What a ridiculously jolly, little man. Also, I despise the uninspired title I used. Mis disculpas.
Disclaimer: Hellsing is owned by others.