CHAPTER 57: INGLORIOUS BASTARDS, PART 1
"We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children."
-David Lane
"We declare our right on this earth to be a man, to be a human being, to be respected as a human being, to be given the rights of a human being in this society, on this earth, in this day, which we intend to bring into existence by any means necessary."
-Malcolm X
DECEMBER 24TH
The United States of America has been known for and prided itself on being the country that follows the Melting Pot model of culture, allowing people of many nations and cultures to come together and create a singular, yet all-encompassing culture that takes the best from every idea and person to be a stronger nation.
Hillwood was a city known for its diverse populace, a mix of almost every race and ethnicity the world had to offer, not unlike its contemporary cities of New York and Los Angeles in size and population. The city of Hillwood was often seen as the gold standard to the melting pot theory, and a prime example of how to follow it.
With the Fall of Hillwood and its subsequent rebirth as the island pit of suffering known as Hellwood, the once-stable relationship that the many races in the city shared had crumbled with lack of order and resources, leading many to split into groups, gangs, and nations of their own, and many being built around the most apparent factor to tell who and who is not one of their own tribe:
Race.
From the difference of skin color driving the separation of the people of Hillwood, many gangs and factions had built up their own worlds around the difference of race; black nations, white nations, yellow nations, and brown nations all coming to fruition in attempts to stay safe, only making each other at greater risk for danger.
Such is the case with the Aryan Nation; one of the largest factions in Hellwood with the focus on its keeping its homogeneous white population remaining that way, as well as conquering the rest of Hellwood and murdering all non-whites on the island to make their own Fourth Reich as they see fit.
Mere hours ago, a handful of scavengers found on the dead body on one of the victims of the Aryan Nation a photograph featuring Marquis Ronaldson, the head of the predominantly black nation known as New Mecca. The photograph found on the body identified him as Barry Ronaldson, Marquis' grandfather, and gave a fact that the Aryan Nation was not previously aware of:
Marquis Ronaldson had an infant son, and that child was just inside their borders.
Taking a small task force along with him to obtain the child for his own purposes, Wolfenstein, the leader of the Aryan Nation, brought his team just outside the location of the child just before the break of dawn's light. Ensuring that the location was correct with the photograph as his reference, Wolfenstein confirmed the location; a farmland with a small house housing the mother of Marquis Ronaldson and his son inside.
"Heh. Fucking niggers. After working on farms for us for over a 100 years, you'd think the last place that you'd ever catch a nigger these days is on a farm." Wolfenstein said.
"Well, give them some credit. It's in open plains like these that they lived on before we brought them over here, they must be trying to feel more at home." One team member said.
"Right you are. Alright, listen up. We've got only a few hours before sunrise, and niggers blend in better in the dark then we do. I imagine there's a few armed guards inside waiting for us as well as outside. Here's the plan to nab the little tar baby." Wolfenstein said.
As the task force resting outside the house began discussing their plans of invasion, those inside the house laid unaware of the plot unfolding outside; ignorant and blissfully peaceful over the quiet morning hours of the day. Though many would be asleep around this time of day, such is not the case for those inside.
One of those not sleeping is Pamela Ronaldson, the mother of Marquis Ronaldson, grandmother of his son, and daughter-in-law of the late Barry Ronaldson. Being a woman in her older years, there is not much need for her to sleep with many of her days living in retirement, even in a landscape like Hellwood.
Trying to make the best of the later days of her life in Hellwood, she tries to relax here in her small house, reading a book to herself. Keeping beside her a cup of coffee, freshly brewed and still warm, she allows herself a moment to relax from the full-time job that she still has to work here.
Another of those not sleeping is an armed guard appointed to her, reminding her of said job that calls on her now.
"Mrs. Ronaldson? He's crying again." The guard said.
"Oh, I've got it, I've got it. Please, though, don't keep on calling me 'Mrs. Ronaldson'. That's my daughter's name now. I'm just an old lady now. Anyways, I'll take care of him." Pamela said.
Moving to another room of the small house, Pamela brought her attention to the most important of those within the house, and still awake as well:
Charles Lawrence Ronaldson, the son of Marquis Ronaldson.
As the armed guard had informed the elderly Pamela, the baby boy was crying in his cradle, leading the grandmother to tend for her grandson. Taking the child out of his bed, she began gently bouncing him in her arms, ceasing his crying and drying his tears, bringing out a laugh in him.
Having made her grandson more content in the world he was in, Pamela, too, shared a smile and laugh.
Following a short briefing of the plan to abduct the infant, the plan soon found its way under effect, all to the obliviousness of those inside and outside the house.
Those outside the house were a set of armed guards, most doing their job to their leisure. Being put out in such an obscure and isolated part of Hellwood, so much unknown that the very area was not affected by the Fall of Hillwood, it seemed as though there was no chance that any threat would come their way.
How wrong they were, and how soon they would realize.
While simply waiting out his shift, standing to the side and minding his own business, one guard felt the sharp pain of metal piercing into his flesh, slowing his breathing and making what breaths he took harder. Looking down at his chest, he found a shuriken shaped like a swastika embedded in his chest, drawing blood from the wound.
Hearing some gasps from the guard, unaware of the current status his colleague was in, another armed guard approached the dying guard, ensuring he was alright.
"Hey, you alright?" The guard asked.
The inquiring guard received no answer, but, upon tapping his colleague on the shoulder, he had found his answer by seeing his deceased friend's corpse fall to the ground. Upon impacting with the ground, the swastika shuriken had been pushed further through his body, revealing the weapon that had murdered him and the shape of the weapon informing the guard of the threat they were under.
"Hey! Aryans are here, Aryans are here!" The guard shouted.
Informing his remaining comrades of the coming threat, the guards gathered up as one group, preparing themselves to ward off the threat. Unsure of where their enemies laid, when they would come, or even how many there were, the tension rose well with the guards, so much that their blood pressure began rising quickly and heavily.
With the sound of a 'swish' and the unmistakable noise of flesh cutting, one guard had been given a quick solution to said blood pressure problem, at the cost of his life. Unaware of what had become of the now-idle guard, the remaining guards gathered towards him to investigate the strange noise and his accounting of it.
Small droplets of blood began to run down his body in a straight line, much to the confusion of the remaining guards, and their confusion turned to fear with his body splitting in half right before their eyes. The split halves of their comrade sprayed a fountain of blood into the air, giving view to the culprit behind his death.
Standing before the guards was a Japanese man dressed in a black and white kimono, the colors split down the middle, with a swastika on its back and its colors inverted with the colors. Holding a katana in the air, blood dripping from the blade, the swordsman slashed the blade to the ground, throwing the blood from it.
His name is Shiroi. He is called Nippon.
Slowly stepping towards the remaining gunmen, Nippon kept his sword in hand, seemingly casual in his approach to the armed guards. The guards all made sure to keep their distance from their target, lest they would suffer a fate not too dissimilar from their fallen comrade.
The distance does not matter.
Taking his place in the center of his opponents, Nippon stopped in his step, turning slowly to observe the gunmen surrounding him. Each opponent tightly held onto their rifles and shotguns, and none dared swayed their aim away from him. Tension built well between the aiming guards, but none such anxiety existed in Nippon.
Slowly raising his sword in the air, Nippon kept it above his head, slightly kneeling down in a defensive stance. The guards still could not bring themselves to lower their defenses against their target, but a sense of security settled over them with the situation; all of them apparently having their target unable to fight back and captured.
That sense of security quickly proved to be false.
Making his first strike against the guards, Nippon threw a stab to the enemy directly behind him, holding his sword directly parallel to the ground. Drawing the blade back forward, he slashed at the gunman in front of him as well; both movements moving as one swift strike that continued along to the rest of the guards.
Slashing away at the rest of the gunmen at lightning-fast speed, his sword cut through all those in his way, hacking through skin, muscle, tissue, blood vessels, and whatever bits of flesh laid between, spilling it all out on the ground. His slashes moved wit such speed and unpredictability that the other guards could not even process his speed, making their defenses all for naught.
Finally, having his fill slashing away at the bodies of the guards, Nippon threw one last 360 spinning strike at their necks, decapitating all the guards in one fell swoop. Their severed heads all flew high into the air, leaving in their places blood spurting from the empty necks of the guards' bodies.
Giving a firm hit to the hilt, Nippon knocked the blood and flesh from his blade, cleansing it from the violence he had just perpetrated with it. The heads of the bodies soon came falling back to the ground, with the bodies they were once attached to collapsing to the ground with them.
Taking his sword to his side, Nippon gently let it slide back into its sheath.
Though the bladed attacks kept the battle mostly silent, the slaughter did not go unheard by the occupants of the house. In an area with very little noise or sounds to be heard at this corner of Hellwood, the sounds of flesh cutting and grunts were very clear to hear for anyone with an average sense of hearing, as is the case of Pamela Ronaldson.
"Did you hear that?" Pamela asked.
"Hear what?" One guard asked.
"She means that noise outside. Sound like somebody's in trouble." Another guard said.
"Then what are we sticking around here for? Let's see what's happening." A different guard said.
"No, no. You two stay here. We'll check it out."
Taking another guard alongside him, the second guard stepped to the front door of the house, preparing to investigate the strange noise outside. Keeping his shotgun firmly held tight in his hand, he raised it up to stay close to the door, slowly grabbing hold of the doorknob and preparing to open it.
Before able to open the door, the entire doorway burst open in an explosion of plaster and wood; flying across the room in a loud smash and knocking both guards to the ground. Looking up to see what could have caused the explosion, what answer the guards have to their question is one they can barely comprehend.
Standing in the shattered hallway was a 9-foot tall black man, wearing no shirt, with bulging muscles giving signs of scars and other abuses all over his body, with the word 'APE' spray-painted on his chest. On his head was a metal cage with a chain around his neck, and metal claws placed around his wrists.
His name is long forgotten, but he is called 'Ape', as his marking implies.
Grabbing the first guard in his sight, Ape began smashing him to the ground repeatedly, breaking nearly every bone in his body. Taking the broken body in his hands and lifting it up in the air, Ape sent it down to his knee, bending the entirety of the dead guard's body in half, ensuring that he was dead and gone.
Not willing to join his friend in such a horrible fate, the remaining guard pumped his shotgun and fired a shot towards the towering monster standing before him, hoping that his action would deliver him from the evil standing before him. To his disbelief and horror, it did no such thing.
The buckshot of his shotgun blast did not manage to damage the towering Ape, but the steel pellets embedded in his flesh only angered him, evidenced by an enraged growling and a foaming mouth accompanied with a pair of veiny eyeballs. Fearing the mass of flesh that prepared itself to end his life, the guard felt his own bodily functions begin to fail him.
To his surprise, this creature named Ape spoke.
"Ape hurt... You hurt Ape... APE HURT YOU!" Ape said.
The guard tried to flee from the approaching Ape, but his efforts were far too little and too late to ensure him any safety. Picking up the guard from the ground like a toy, Ape grabbed him by his arms, ripping one off with his bare hands. As the guard screamed and suffered under the brutal dismemberment, he found himself being grabbed horizontally, being ripped in half at the waist.
Tearing the flesh of the guard's body in half with nothing but his own hands, Ape held the halves in the air with a brutal roar, letting the organs and blood of his victim pour and splatter all over his body. Tossing the two halves aside, Ape made his way to the master bedroom, where the main target he was seeking out was waiting.
Still cowering behind two guards, attempting to keep her grandson safe, Pamela cradled a crying baby Charles close to her chest. The sight of an overgrown man covered in blood was a strange, appalling, and horrifying sight to behold, one that she felt all the more confused to the sight of a Japanese swordsman joining him.
Holding their ground against the two invaders, the guards stuck close to one another, ensuring that they would not grant these enemies access to the individual that they were appointed to protect. They realized that their efforts would only result in their deaths coming slower, but that attempt to buy time for themselves to live for just another moment became another driving factor to continue their defense.
"Achtung, niggers." A female voice said.
Turning to their side to see who else entered the home, the guards were met with bullet being shot into their bodies in a slew of rapid fire. Their bodies soon fell to the ground, leaving the last of the guards eliminated and Pamela and Charles completely defenseless.
The murderer of the last of the guards stepped forward from the sidelines, holding in her hands a submachine gun with a smoking barrel. Her hair was a long blonde, with most of it bunched up behind her head in a bun. Her attire was a buttoned-up brown shirt, the tie just visible at the buttoned top, with a shirt below, combat boots on her feet, and a Nazi visor cap on her head.
Her name is Sophie Sinclaire. She is called She-Wolf.
After killing the last two guards, She-Wolf became visibly aroused from their deaths; her breath turning to pants and her eyes and mouth widening as she began to grind her legs against one another. The display brought a sense of disturbance to Pamela Ronaldson, driving her deeper into fear.
Having enjoyed the display of violence inflicted upon the guards, and how flawlessly each member of his task force had achieved their goal, Wolfenstein finally stepped forward, applauding the efforts of his team. He began to smile from the acts carried out; his smile curving the American flag on his face in a manner just as perverse as the way he proudly wore it on himself.
"Did we do a good job, führer?" She-Wolf asked.
Holding her face in his hand gently, Wolfenstein smiled on the sadistic She-Wolf in approval, making her smile back.
"Ausgezeichnet, my little She-Wolf. Ausgezeichnet." Wolfenstein said.
Gingerly letting his fingers slip off her face with She-Wolf holding them against her face for just a moment longer, Wolfenstein made his way towards the cowering Pamela, his smile beginning to fade when looking upon her. His flawed perception of the world made him view her as little more than a bug under her feet, and one he was more than happy to squash.
But not before making her serve her purpose.
"What do you people want with us?" Pamela asked.
"It's not you I want. Just the tar baby. Hand it over." Wolfenstein said.
"Go to hell. I'm not handing you over my grandson. Just go ahead and kill me now if you want."
Disappointed with Pamela's defiance, Wolfenstein shook his head at the old woman's attitude. Turning to his comrades, he issued them a command.
"Bring him in." Wolfenstein said.
Following the orders of the white warlord, She-Wolf and Nippon exited the room, returning minutes later with a dead body thrown to the floor. Grabbing the body by its head and tilting it up towards Pamela to see, she screamed in terror and shock at the sight of the victim's face, recognizing it as someone close to her.
"Oh, my god! Barry! You killed him!" Pamela said.
"That's right, nigger-bitch. Funny story: A couple of scavengers dragged him into my office, dropped him right in front of me. At first I thought somebody just assumed there was some kind of sign on the front of my office that read 'Dead Nigger Storage' and I was having my time wasted, until they said they found this on him." Wolfenstein said.
Wolfenstein held up the Ronaldson family photograph to Pamela, showing the entire family on display in front of the house. Seeing the entire family identified for Wolfenstein and the rest of the Aryan Nation, Pamela began to cry, knowing the consequences for the rest of her family.
"And you've just confirmed that this wasn't a big waste of time. Thanks for that. Now, let me make something perfectly clear to you. You're going to die. I know that and you know that. But we're not gonna kill the nigger baby. Fact of the matter is, we need it, and we need it alive. Now, you can choose to just hand it over and die quick, or you can not hand it over and you can not only die slow, but you get to watch the tar baby get dropped on its head a couple of times first, maybe fuck it in the ass before we off you. Take your pick." Wolfenstein said.
Though the temptation to offer him over grew strong under the threat of harm coming to the baby rather than her, Pamela was ultimately too strong-willed to give into the demands of the invaders. As such, she held Charles closer to herself, scowling at the Nazi death squad in defiance.
"I already told you. Go to hell." Pamela said.
Disappointed with her response, Wolfenstein let out a sigh.
"Fair enough. But you go first." Wolfenstein said.
Grabbing the baby with his organic hand, Wolfenstein found himself in a tug-of-war with Pamela, both fighting over control over the baby Charles. Using his robotic arm, Wolfenstein punched her in the face, knocking the fragile Pamela to the ground and leaving her unable to get back up.
She-Wolf held her machine gun to her, ensuring that she would not get back up again, but Pamela still did her best to get back up by crawling up the wall again. Looking at Wolfenstein as he held the baby Charles in his hands, anxiety flooded her, hoping the best for her grandson.
Though not the worst was inflicted upon him that could have been inflicted, the innocent baby Charles still felt suffering at the hand of Wolfenstein.
Alone in a stranger's arms and afraid, Charles began crying in Wolfenstein's arm; his cries beginning to irritate the cyborg Nazi. Once again using his organic hand, using the softer of his limbs against the infant, Wolfenstein began slapping it in the face in attempts to make it stop.
Each slap brought louder cries out from Charles, but none louder than the screams and sobs from Pamela, being forced at gunpoint to watch her grandson be abused under a man who wore a symbol of hate against her with pride. Unable to bear watching Charles suffer, Pamela turned her head away in disgust.
Eventually, the cries came to a stifling stop, with only some fussy moans uttered in Charle's breath. Finished with the baby, Wolfenstein turned his back to Pamela.
"She-Wolf, hold this. Nip, come here." Wolfenstein said.
Handing the baby off to She-Wolf, Wolfenstein held out his hand to Nippon, which he placed his sword into. Walking up to the downed Pamela, Wolfenstein firmly held the sword in his hand, preparing to throw it down to the floor and take her head along with it, giving her a quick death from the insanity around her.
"Now, the best way for you to die would be to cut off your head..." Wolfenstein said.
Wolfenstein placed the blade against Pamela's neck and raised it up in the air, but, rather than throwing it back down, he set the blade to his side.
"...but I don't think you deserve a good death after that little act of defiance. I bet you've been wondering about the overgrown negroid specimen we call Ape over here, haven't you? Wondering why we Nazis would dare work alongside a nigger?" Wolfenstein asked.
Pamela gave no verbal nor physical response to the question.
"Well, Ape here isn't just any normal nigger. The Third Reich had done its own experimentations on whatever untermensch we had on hand, so we tried a few of our own. What you're looking at here is the result of a nigger who was already bulky as hell, probably some football player or some other nigger sport, and we fed that nigger nothing but steroids, growth hormone, and all kinds of other shit we had. That right there is no nigger. That right there is a super-nigger." Wolfenstein said.
Picking Pamela up off the ground, Wolfenstein dragged her over to Ape, who licked his lips and smiled upon seeing his offering.
"Only problem with Ape here, is that all those drugs and enhancements made him horny as hell and hard to maintain, especially coupled with his own nigger instincts to rape as much as he can. We normally feed him whatever young untermensch with a pussy we can throw at him, but you'll have to do." Wolfenstein said.
Picking Pamela up into the air, Ape ripped her clothes clean off her body, lowering her down to his crotch to use her body for his own pleasure.
"Old nigger looks pretty. Ape wants to fuck old nigger." Ape said.
Preparing to have his own way with Pamela, Wolfenstein watched the exploitative act carry out in amusement, chuckling at his victim's suffering.
"Heh-heh. She kind of looks like a fleshlight being used like that. Right, Nip?" Wolfenstein asked.
Nippon did not answer the question, instead turning away to ignore Wolfenstein and the act, much to the displeasure of Wolfenstein himself.
"Hmph. Japs. Professional and efficient as all hell, and I love 'em for it, but no sense of humor. It's times like this when I miss the spic." Wolfenstein said.
"Ew, the tar baby just messed itself." She-Wolf said.
Just as Wolfenstein and his subordinates keep at their agenda before the day has yet broken, the Freak carries out his own as well. Laying his head at the abandoned Quigley Stadium, he has sent out the 3 chosen beings he had selected for the sole purpose of foiling the Green Eye, and left to await the results.
So far, he has not yet achieved that goal, and his awaiting of that goal makes him anxious and annoyed. Moreover, he feels frustration at the death of the Jolly Olly Man; the subordinate not having served his purpose. Trying to relieve himself of that annoyance, he receives fellatio from a familiar subject: The younger half of Lars' prostitutes.
Being trapped with an extremely dangerous individual and needing to keep herself alive by sexually pleasing him, the prostitute gave her best efforts to satisfy his needs, but could not contain her terror too well during her act. The fact that her older counterpart was dead and mutilated on the floor next to her was the main cause of this emotion, and having it close was not a help.
Taking a look up to the recipient of her oral pleasure, the prostitute hoped to see the Freak enjoying her efforts, but was instead given the sight of a bored and discontent face; not seeming to even notice or acknowledge her despite his member well-aware of her efforts. Having no other choice but to continue, she continued sucking away at the phallus in hopes of an escape.
In the midst of her continued stimulation, the door to the Freak's torture chamber opened, with a guest stepping inside. Daring not look at the guest, the prostitute continued on, but the Freak looked towards the doorway to see who was present. Before him was his most faithful servant, one taken from the deceased 'Little' Nicky: The subservient man named Weston.
Noticing that he was in the middle of a sexual act, Weston nervously cleared his throat, trying to excuse himself from the room.
"Um... I see you've gotten acquainted with Rodriguez's prostitutes, sir." Weston said.
"Yep. They came around looking for him not too long ago, so I decided to have some fun with them. The older one's not doing so well, as you can see, but the younger one's at least trying her best." The Freak said.
"I'm sorry, sir. I- I can come back later if you-" .
"No, no, just spit it out. I'm trying to pass the time."
"Well... Uh... As you are well aware, the Jolly Olly Man is dead, sir."
"Correct."
"So... Should there not be a new plan to the Green Eye?"
"Nope."
"May I ask why?"
"Why do you care? All you cared about in your life was serving that fat fuck 'Little' Nicky, and he's dead. I killed him. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love with the guy. Why so interested in me? Why'd you even bother sticking with me in the first place?"
"Because... Because I recognize power when I see it, sir. I understand that you're the most powerful force on this island, and, if I'm to survive, I have to stick with you."
"Oh, so, at the end of the day, we're nothing but a little sycophant? I expected better of you."
"Well, sir... I would be lying if I did not say I felt a connection with 'Little' Nicky when I worked for him... and I was heartbroken to see you kill him so violently and quickly. And you most certainly do scare me."
"Fair enough."
"So, then, why won't you do anything now? Don't you really care?"
"Truth be told... no."
Unsure of the reason behind the answer he was given, Weston raised an eyebrow, not sure what to make of the Freak's reply.
"You... don't care, sir?" Weston asked.
"No. I've never cared about a whole lot most of my life. I was too busy chasing around whatever random thought was on my mind then and there as a kid, and spent most of my teen years chasing Rhonda. I didn't have much of a purpose or a goal until I found the Green Eye, and that's when I decided that I wanted to be his bad guy. To be his antithesis. I saw all the good he did, all the people he helped, but I didn't like it. I thought it was stupid and disgusting. I always found watching people hurt or suffer more enjoyable than seeing them happy. Seeing people happy just... does nothing for me at all. Their smiles, their laughs, their cheer; it all just... passes right through me. So I decided to make as many people suffer as I could." The Freak said.
"But you've achieved that, haven't you? I mean, you just look at what you've done to the city, you've completely destroyed it. People are suffering and dying out there all because of you. Doesn't that give you the feeling you're looking for?"
"I thought it would. It didn't. Having won and thinking I killed the Green Eye, there just seemed to be nothing left. Like I fulfilled my purpose and there's nothing left for me to do. Even with the Green Eye coming back, I don't feel like I even need to try to stop him. I mean, his city's gone, it's not coming back, and there's no way off this island. The only way that this could really end for me is to just kill everyone on this island except him, then we just fight until one or the other or both give out. What's the point of that? If the rest of those idiots want to do it, they can be my guest. I didn't really believe that I could push the Green Eye further down, I'm almost sure that he never will. I just wanted an excuse to kill those idiots and get them out of my life."
Carefully analyzing the statement of the Freak, Weston once again thought it over, thinking on how to grant him the best answer to ensure his own self-preservation.
"I don't suppose it's of any interest to you, then, that Wolfenstein and his Aryan Nation are trying to start a war with New Mecca?" Weston asked.
"Nope. They can have at it all they want." The Freak said.
"Then what are you going to do now?"
Abrupt and inconsequential to the conversation, the Freak grabbed the prostitute by the head and twisted it around, breaking her neck and killing her instantly. The surprise act of violence was stunning to Weston, and his shock and horror was only increased upon seeing the Freak kick at the prostitute's dead body.
"THAT WAS THE WORST FUCKING HEAD I EVER GOT IN MY LIFE!" The Freak shouted.
After kicking at the prostitute's body for some time, the Freak finally composed himself, calming himself down enough to answer Weston's inquiry.
"You see, for the last month now, I've just been feeling depressed and burnt out. You bring an entire city to its knees, you can't top that. I need to get back to my roots. Get back to that primal, killer instinct and tap into it again. All these bodies you see around me, what's left of them, anyway, they've all been my attempts to get back to that one source of evil I need to care again about beating the Green Eye. I'm all out of passion, and I need to get it back." The Freak said.
"Is... Is there anything that I can do, sir?" Weston asked.
Letting the question bounce in his mind for a moment, the Freak contemplated on whatever way he could find the answer he was looking for, something else that he had not yet tried. Through all the violence and horror he had enacted on countless people, there must have been some other way to get what he needed, and something that he could not find on his own.
On the other hand, perhaps he has been taking himself too seriously, and needed something to step outside his head for just a moment. In that pursuit, he asked for...
"Bring me... drugs." The Freak said.
"Drugs, sir?" Weston asked.
"Yeah."
"What, uh, what kind of drugs?"
"As much as you can bring me. I'm going to get so fucked up that Charlie Sheen is gonna look like a pussy. Bring it all."
"Even some of the more, uh, harder ones, sir?"
"Oh, please. I can take a bullet to the head and live. You think I'm scared of crack or heroin? Just bring me the goddamn drugs."
"Ye... Yes, sir."
Stepping out of the torture chamber, Weston walked off to prepare the narcotics for the Freak to consume, where the aforementioned supervillain sat in patience for his fix.
Kneeling back to the deceased prostitute, the Freak began examining her body. Holding her face in his hands, he carefully looked into the glossy dead eyes of the young woman, counting her among the many lives he had taken for his search of passion and break free of his depression.
The stillness of her dead body coupled with her youth gave the Freak a twinge of arousal, one that he tried very hard to feel, and attempted to fulfill it further by kissing and caressing the corpse. Placing his tongue into her mouth, stripping away her clothes and feeling at her body, the Freak used her remains as his own personal plaything, making her little more than a doll for his needs.
However, despite trying to find any pleasure from the act, the Freak was once again bored and disinterested in continuing. Throwing the dead body of the prostitute away, he leaned back against a wall, bouncing his leg up and down as he slowly waited for the new solution to his problem.
Just what is becoming of the mind of the Freak?