In 2014, roughly two years prior to the sudden conquest of Britain by the all-powerful super tyrant, Adamantine, Hughie was sitting in his apartment, his girlfriend snuggled up under his shoulder, watching the tv show called "They Subvert," a science fiction film about aliens who take over the world by taking control of finance and the media, gradually breeding mankind down into a dumb, weak slave race for them to rule over until the end of time. It was an Olympus Prime television show, produced in eight episode batches every year starting every summer. Olympus Prime was owned by Olympus, which was one of the many subsidiaries of Pierce Enterprises, a colossal megacorporation that had a monopoly on everything to do with technology, from semiconductor manufacturing globally to aerospace engineering. They were one of the largest, most powerful corporations in the world, Vought only a close second to them in how much money they made in a year, with a very minor presence selling erectile dysfunction medicine at competitive prices compared to Pfizer and Johnson and Johnson, the medication Hughie could afford, the necessity to please Robin as a result of his hypogonadism from eating too much soy-based vegetarian products to beating it too much as a teenager. His pills were right there—on the table—if he ever felt the need to rise to the occasion for his girlfriend.
The television show they were watching was a rather controversial one. It depicted an alien takeover of mankind, seemingly inspired by a lot of fringe-right wing conspiracy theories about the new world order and the Jews, the writers often criticized for being antisemitic and racist; however, Hughie doubted such insinuations, made evident from the diversity of the cast. There were only two White characters in the entire show, the rest either Asian, African, or Hispanic, with the protagonist being African-American, thus cleverly deflecting any accusations of racism its many critics in Hollywood had accused it of. Speaking of the aliens, they were depicted as short, large-nosed, green skinned goblins, very reminiscent of Warhammer 40k's Orks, a table-top game Hughie liked to play when he was in High School, back when he was a small, weak, pimply turbo-virgin with not an inkling of a hope in hell of finding any women who wanted to date him, his interests and feminine demeanor turning every woman who so much as looked at him dry as a desert with how unmanly he was. They mostly focused on the Chads, the muscular, strong Alpha males with chiselled features, perfectly sculpted faces and bodies, often into more manlier things like skeet shooting, weightlifting, and the occasional session of Madden or Call of Duty, not the nerdy, sensitive sort that Hughie was into.
Robin was Hughie winning the Jackpot. She was the hottest woman that Hughie would ever get considering how feminine he was, showed by his dependence on Pierce Pharmaceutical's ED medication to even perform in the bedroom for her. If anything were to happen to her, it was straight to inceldom, doomed to die alone crying online to others for attention or paying E-girls for nudes on the internet. The life of a hypogonadal manchild like Hughie was normally a grim and desperate one, with him the only one who even won the lottery, his ticket from inceldom that prevented him from becoming some desperate loner whacking off to pictures of the Crimson Countess or Queen Maeve.
He looked into Robin's large brown eyes as soon as the romantic scene hit, ready to kiss her and down one of his ED pills when the need arose. They started to kiss, the action knocking over all the snacks they prepared. She did not care, nor did he, romance too much of priority to take into account the mess both of them made as they made out on the sofa, about to go to third-base, sex.
That is, until he heard someone threaten his father from the entrance of his apartment. Neither Hughie nor Robin could make out what was happening, but it seemed ominous, someone crying for help in the entrance of their apartment building. That was rather normal, otherwise. Hughie was a pauper. He lived in a high-crime rate area with a lot of junkies and meth heads whom he chose not to bother so long as they were not damaging and/or stealing his property. Even then, he did not bother, the response time of the New York City Police department more than two hours where he lived, much too far away to even bother helping; thus, he hoped that any would-be-thief would stay away from him and his girlfriend, Robin, when they were in the midst of a passionate love making session. It was a decision he would soon lament forever.
As the door opened, he noticed a muscular, dusky-skinned man in a gimp outfit, wearing a leather codpiece and straps for clothing, his father down on the floor, clothes torn off, wearing a scarlet ball-gag on his mouth, now claimed as a sex slave for the big, strong gay bull in front of him. His father was on a leash in his right hand, a thick chain around his neck, controlled like a dog, jerked around from place to place with that chain, everyone else here thinking that he was involved in some harmless, homosexual BDSM horseplay. The truth, however, was far, far grimmer, as Hughie and Robin were about to find out as he raised his scoped 44. Magnum, leveled straight for Robin's head, the laser sight of it directed straight between her nasal bridge and eyes.
"No," Hughie screamed softly as he heard a thunderous clap.
Robin fell down to the floor, blood pooling on the couch from a high-caliber round that split Robin's head almost in half, almost as if she were shot in the head with a good-sized rock as apposed to a bullet. Hughie could barely recognize her, gazing sadly into her cold, dead eyes, now protruding stalks, forced from the eye-sockets from the powerful rounds that struck her face, dooming Hughie to inceldom for the rest of his miserable life assuming he did not join her in her absence from this plain of existence. He fell to the floor, crying, completely unaware of the fact that he cut his legs to ribbons from the shattered glass, the remains of the shattered coffee table their snacks were as they were watching the show. The big gay bull was now free to do what he wanted to Hughie, hoping to God he would level the magnum to his head so he could depart this mortal coil to be with his girlfriend in heaven, hell, or whatever afterlife that had awaited Hughie in his comsumerist, short miserable life up until this point, the event horizon of no return hit as Hughie, too—like his father—was chained to the leash, a red, rubber ball-gag placed in his mouth soon after.
Hearing an unzipping sound, the big gay bull grabbed shards of glass and bone fragments of Robin's skull, doing to Hughie's horror unspeakable things with them, the stuff men would only describe in their nightmares or from post-traumatic stress as submissive play-things in a male prison. Hearing a loud squelching noise, Hughie heard the man moan in pleasure as blood spurted from all sides, some of it landing on Hughie's back. This caused Hughie to shake, fearful of what may happen next as he heard the squelching, the blood spurting in all directions, a brutal crimson firehouse from the depths of hell, shooting crimson lifeforce everywhere. Hughie closed his eyes, daydreaming he was on a meadow with Robin, free from the big gay bull… and what was about to happen to his hindquarters, an inevitable, most unfortunate fate to befall a man—any man—even in the depths of some of the worst hells ever imagined in the history of the world.
"Time for reparations, Whitey!," he said in a somewhat lisped voice one would hear from an internal decorator or a hairdresser.
Hughie felt what seemed like a tree branch covered in razer blades enter into his behind, the view of Robin's mangled face, tears streaking down his face as he was pushed back and forth, a wet pain emanating from his starfish, hearing a squelching, sheering sound, the type of sound one would hear if they were throwing meat into a grinder. That was not what was turned into crimson-soaked hamburger meat, the pain growing sharper ever more with each movement, Hughie fading in and out of consciousness each time he experienced the brutal trauma, a moment that he would have to live with for the rest of his life, like something ripped from some weird, fucked BDSM fantasy forum brought to life, and he was the unfortunate submissive who had to endure the brutal reaming from the rear, bent down like some toy. If he was going to be a toy, he would have wanted to be a Woman's plaything, thus allowing him to extract some enjoyable form of pleasure, not some sadistic homosexual's plaything. At any rate, he was fading in and out of consciousness, dreaming of being together with Robin with every horrifying thrust of that degenerate's hideously swollen, mutilated, deformed member that once he thrusted it in one last time, a gooey mixture of blood and emission came out of it, very much like a mixture of metallic-tasting cranberry juice and gooey, salted milk.
"Just so the both of ya know, I'm pozzed. You have received thine gift," he said as Hughie was fading in and out of consciousness from blood loss, brought upon by immense internal bleeding.
He awoke the next day in a hospital bed, hooked up to an EKG meter with a plastic bag of the unspeakable hooked up to the right side of his stomach. This was it. He as never going to get laid again after what had just happened to him, the shit bag acting as a repellent to just about any would-be date on the romance scene from now on; it was woman repellant. Robin was most certainly the last woman who would ever give Hughie the time of day, and he most definitely was not the sort to catfish, even he not being that pathetic. Hughie just had to man up and accept his fate as an incel for life, struck from the dating pool by that big gay serial rapist who wanted give him his gift. Hughie was rather confused as to what the gift was, but it sounded rather ominous, as if it was some kind of disease that man got off on spreading to other people as he busted into their backdoors. What ever it turned out to be, Hughie was optimistic the doctors could treat it before it destroyed his quality of life; however, his mind was racing, unsure of what that gift that sicko gave him. He knew his dad was dead, informed as he was fading in and out of conscious from blood loss by Queen Maeve, the supe who saved Hughie from being some sex slave for—what would have otherwise been-the possible last few minutes of his life, or whatever he did have left of his life if that disease turned out to be what he thought it was, his mind dreading that thought more than anything in the world, both the deaths of Robin and his dear old dad.
Before long, a doctor came into the room to check up on Hughie, looking at his chart located in a clear plastic container on the frame aft of his bed. The doctor shook his head, the look on his face as grim as ever, the type of look a doctor gave their patient when they were about to die of some terminal, borderline untreatable illness that could only be delayed or slowed as apposed to treated outright with immensely expensive drugs. Knowing what he thought it meant, Hughie was trying to keep calm, to avoid bursting the stitches on his rear-end and in his colon after the terrifying experience he had just endured at the hands of that degenerate, sexual deviant in his own apartment building, right next to his dead girlfriend. He knew exactly what was coming, the very disease that had been a scourge of the gay community, the very disease talked about since the 1980s and early 90s, just when Hughie was born, only hearing about it because his dad brought it up when he was watching an episode of South Park or Aqua Teen Hunger Force in order to explain the joke of what the characters were speaking of. He knew he had it.
"Hughie Campbell, you have HIV. You only have about 5-10 years left to live," the Doctor assigned to his case said, somberly explaining Hughie's medical death sentence to him.
"That fucking faggot!" Hugh Campbell screamed at the top of his lungs.
"It's bad enough I have to wear a bag of crap on my abdomen for the rest of my life, all because some faggot had to stick his mangled, STD-ridden dick up my ass. My life's over," he screamed.
"Calm down. GRIDs is not a death sentence. There are treatments. See, I have one. It costs three-thousand dollars a pill. Take two a day for the rest of your life, or however long you want to live. You are very lucky to be alive, Hugh. The internal damage you have sustained was immense," explained the Doctor with a look of annoyance, very much like a Doctor Pox from the TV show Scrubs.
Hughie was never seen again after he was discharged from the hospital, the immensely high rent price making it impossible to live in any city on the coasts, further inflamed by the refugee crisis in the UK, with refugees fleeing the rampant terrorism driving the price up so high to the point where the average cost of rent was over sixty-seven hundred dollars a month for a dump. The price of his medication made living in New York a rather untenable prospect for Hughie. It costed him six thousand dollars a day just to survive on some medication produced by Pierce Pharmaceuticals, able to charge whatever price it wished, for it was the only company in the world that produced such meds, leaving him with no affordable, viable alternatives to survive in the current economy, brought on by the increased demand in the city of New York for housing from displaced residents fleeing Men of Albion terrorists all the way across the Atlantic, out in Europe. Some say Hughie moved out into the woods, free from the financial fears of his medication, the high cost of living in coastal states due to millions of people fleeing the UK to America where it was safer for people of color. There was no hope for Hughie and that man who violated him, attracted to him, lusting after him because he was a little twink boy who could satisfy his needs, one of the many victims of the serial rapist identified as Ikan Hameed, perceived as a victim by virtually all media except for the Vought News Network, the only outlet condemning his actions, while the rest said he only needed psychiatric help instead of prison. Hughie wanted nothing to do with New York and chose to leave the city for good. Even sadder for Hugh, Hameed only received six months for his many, many crimes, served in the Sage Grove Wellness until cured, his sentence obviously lengthened as he was said to be known to rape the orderlies, the sexual lust to plunder the behinds of weak, feminine men too strong for him to ever have any hope in hell of ever giving up
Mysteriously, gay bars and nightclubs all over the northwestern United State were bombed, most of their partiers killed, blasted to bits without a trace of the perpetrator nor the bomb making materials that made the explosives that killed or maimed hundreds of gay people in Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, Idaho, NorCal, Montana, and Wyoming. The bombs were often parcels, loaded with demolition charges stolen from construction sites or made from gunpowder extracted from bullets, the shell-casings often discarded in the dumpsters with little to no finger prints to tie the person to a crime. It had gotten so bad that the supe assigned to Portland, Stormfront, needed to watch out for the bomber, not finding him due to the fact that he simply chose other states to attack outside of her jurisdiction, leaving the gay scene relatively safe in Portland, though tenuous in places like Salem, Spokane, and Vancouver, the places most bombed with suspicious parcels containing nail bombs or other contraptions cooked up in some shed all the way out in the woods in either British Columbia or Montana according to forensics, far outside of the operational range of any supe in the states. The Gay Exploder, as the bomber had been dubbed, became a mystery; moreover, catching him proved rather difficult as they did not know whether it was one man or several men, since the police found many copycats, often getting caught because they called in a bomb threat to the establishment before they did it for the media attention.
There was security camera footage found of a man in a red, digital camo hoody and sunglass, sporting a medium face very similar to Hugh Campbell, which promptly inspired a documentary on the Gay Exploder, with Starlight on air, crying in tears, asking Hughie to turn himself in; however, her identification was not solid enough to even turn Hugh in or launch a manhunt, as the photo was far, far too grainy for the FBI to solidly identify Hughie Campbell as the Gay Exploder, or sometimes called, the Unabomber 2.0 by some people in the media, primarily by Cameron Coleman himself, anchorman of the Vought News Network. Before Adamantine's debut in the UK, the Gay Exploder was the most hated person in the world, rivaled only by Men of Albion warlords Enfield, Axis Billy, Watson, and Jameson, some of the most hated people; however, they could be identified but not found while the Gay Exploder could be neither identified nor found. He was a ghost.
Just after Adamantine's conquest, Marvin Milk sat by a chair next to a hospital bed, depressed over what happened during the nuclear bombing of B'Nai B'rith, the effects of the radiation having spread, causing damage to many, many people, including his daughter who now laid on a hospital bed, doomed to die from catastrophic radiation poisoning. Not only was Marvin livid, he was angry beyond all belief at what had just happened to his little girl and many other people who were in the single-mile-radius of that nuclear bomb that went off in that building, deemed to be acceptable collateral damage by Adamantine's cultists, hence the use of a small, tactical nuclear bombs believed to have been delivered via a briefcase, dropped off at the building by a group of men in trench coats, who, for all Marvin knew, were back at their place of work, flipping Burgers, completely unaffected by the law or the radiation that had maimed and killed thousands living in the neighborhoods affected by the fallout of the mushroom cloud the anti-defamation league had been reduced to when Adamantine's cultists set off the bomb. How did these terrorists even get such a device conveniently right after Adamantine's big debut in England, when he delivered the final blow to the British Government in parliament? It was questions like that that kept Marvin up all night wondering if some God out there really was handing these terrorists weapons of mass destruction to purge the world of those they deemed undesirable in large numbers, thus negating the entire US military or any supe enforcing the law when some degenerate with a suitcase nuke, anthrax, or VX gas can kill thousands of people, go into hiding, and just about wait out any form of retribution from the forces of justice, on account of not being identified by the police or by any of the surveillance equipment due to it being too grainy, too old, and all around too poorly maintained to run at peak efficiency all because they did not have the tax revenue due to people like Arthur Luther Pierce III flouting their taxes to keep their profits up.
Then there was the state of Marvin's daughter who, at the time, was visiting her aunt when the bombs had gone off. Just about all of her face was completely gone, melted off from when the radiation broke down her molecular structure, fizzling it away like the chemical reactions, only more like a more rapid form of a flesh eating disease, the flesh and muscle cooked from the bone as if she was placed in a microwave for a while. Everywhere else, she was covered in sores and lesions, pustules all over her body that were filled with blood, colored crimson from the massive burns she had sustained on her insides, cooked inside out, dying slowly, still cooking from the irradiation caused by the cobalt that lined that explosive device. Not only was her flesh falling off, she was growing tumours on her legs, hands and feet, the radiation having mutated her genetic structure so badly it turned her body into what was mostly tumours, her legs, arms covered with cancerous masses that were blue in color, rough, almost like sandpaper. She was half radiation burns and half tumours; there was sadly barely anything left, the only signs of her being alive being the EKG meter and the machines used to keep her breathing, her brain and central nervous system largely reduced to sludge from the radiation exposure.
Sick of watching his daughter suffer in such a horrific state, he made a decision that he would probably regret for the rest of his life; however, it was necessary, to end her suffering, putting her at rest, free from living as a brain-damaged tumorous shell for all her life left with no hope of recovery as she would have probably died a year later from cancer anyway, her mind already dead and unresponsive, the Human part of her brain completely wiped, melted away from the radiation exposure that far exceeded the lethal dose but was still alive, the result of some twisted God. God really was a sadistic bastard at times, handing a wannabe Adolph in England superpowers on par with the best of the Seven, Homelander, denying his daughter the peace to just die instead of linger on for a year, possibly longer, never getting reaped and sent straight to heaven where she belonged. He took a breath, got up, and went behind the life support equipment, right behind the respirator that allowed her horrendously irradiated lungs to oxygenate her blood, and yanked the cord, tears trickling down his face.
"Goodbye Janine. You are in a better place now, free from all of the destruction those limey cracka mothafuckas have wrought upon ya. It was sad you were there, one of de many thousands of blacks living near B'nai "B'rith, maimed by that fuckin' bomb just to take out some privileged crackas who follow a different god than dey do," cried Marvin as he got up, his emotions rapidly shifting straight from sadness to rage once he thought of it all, the motive behind the attack of B'nai B'rith that had truly puzzled Marvin T. Milk for more than a week ever since the bomb went, preventing him from getting any rest, too enraged or sad to sleep, some of the only times he ever felt despair in his whole entire life since what had just happened.
He wanted revenge on the people who committed the atrocity. Every night, he had dreamt of caving their skulls in with a crowbar, smashing their faces to smithereens as if they were Glen from the Walking Dead when Negan had just entered, just when the leader of the post-apocalyptic raiders had revealed himself during the latter portions of the series. Even the ones who simply posted praise for Adamantine on online image boards, he wanted to simply break their knees, smash their jaws, and leave them drooling, crippled wrecks too dumb to even breath from the immense head injury he wished to give them—to send America and the West a message that being a racist or White Nationalist was bad for their health—even if the poster was just a teenager. From Marvin's perspective, he was going to bash their brains in with a spiked bat, a crowbar, or just blow out their kneecaps and elbows with 12-gauge slugs, completely damaging their limbs so horrifically they had to amputated by the time they got to the operating room. He had a sawed-off shotgun in the trunk of his Jaguar, which he stole from a Pierce Enterprises executive; those people were scumbags hated by everyone in America for their cut-throat business practice. All he needed was a sidekick to bring his revenge fantasy to life, and upon exiting the hospital, ready to live the rest of his life outside of Western law, he thought of a person who might be able to help him.
In Portland, he had met a man named Enoch Rodger, a mixed-race man who had insane computer skills, able to track the location of anyone, his computer a mobile-NSA with his fingers straight to the keyboard of his expensive RGB laptop, its electronics the top-of-the-line chipsets made by the Pierce Semiconductor Corporation, one of the many subsidiaries of Pierce Enterprises. His motives were much different than Marvin T. Milk. He was motivated by the fact the women he preferred, blond busty White women, preferred Brad or Chad over him, instead of the kind, somewhat nerdy Asian-American who would treat them better than the former, leaving him a pissed off, resentful man who found that by accusing women of racism, he could date all of the blonde bimbos he wanted, by intimidating them through fear of getting kicked out of university for prejudice. It worked. This tactic got him a blonde sugar mommy, who, on her credit card, provided Enoch with virtually anything he could ever dream of, his own computer, a fancy car, and his own personal television set, the former used for doxing racist White teenagers on places like 4Chan, sending their information to every future employer, every college, and virtually any organization that an adolescent might join except for maybe Combat 18, completely destroying any potential that boy ever had to begin with, the perfect punishment for people who never towed the line of diversity and tolerance in Marvin's opinion. With those credentials, Enoch would have made a fine ally to Marvin Milk's plan to teach teenage White boys a lesson about screwing with people of color, one potentially far better than somewhat ruining their chances for employment or higher education.
Upon making his way to Portland, Oregon, Marvin bought a baseball bat, wrapped it in barbed wire, and placed it in his trunk. Further on, he stopped by a gun store, using one of the fake identities and backgrounds provided to him by a local forger who operated in the DC area, while he was on the run for a manslaughter charge for ending his daughter's long suffering at the hands of radiation poisoning, a most unjust country indeed if one had to let their loved one's suffer through a fate far worse than any death imaginable. He also bought a can of gas, intent on lighting racist teenagers on the internet on fire to show them that their online decisions and posts have consequence, dire consequences that must affect them for the rest of their lives in his mind more than a somewhat increased difficulty gaining entrance into liberal or left-leaning institutions, which, in the case of Portland, Oregon, was pretty much everywhere. It was a more toned-down version of California in whatever whacky PC lunacy that could be enforced upon the populace, from meat bans, to the banning of top-of-the line desktop computers because they were, supposedly, harmful for the environment to whatever bureaucrat who wanted re-election for the umpteenth time in a row. Marvin did not care of bureaucracy, he was going to enforce what he deemed as the law, regardless of what some founding document written by slave owners from the colonial period deemed it to be; in his mind, the constitution belonged in a paper shredder, an antiquated piece of parchment that allowed racists a voice and lunatic teenagers access to firearms. He was going to unofficially throw it into the paper shredder in his area of Oregon.
He met Enoch at his mansion. It was a rather plain mansion, built in sterile, bland boxes and squares like some monstrosity from the Soviet Union, designed to simply cause depression in the populace in an area where creative thought was stifled in fear of it creating cultural clashes with other groups of people who happened to migrate in. Only the Soviet Union was such a shithole, virtually no one wanting live there, even people from the far-left who advocated that straight White males should be killed on the spot, for the safety and peace of mind of womyn and minorities, those same political activists that radicalized White supremacists into existence in the first fucking place. It was not a Victorian-era brownstone that most Pierce Enterprises executives dwelled, just a sterile collection of squares painted either white, purple, or just about any light color to take away from how generically bland and depressing the architectural style looked to almost everyone who had the misfortune of gazing upon its horrendously generic visage, the architects who dreamt of it bankrupt of every fiber of creativity, focusing purely on the technical side, creating some horrific monstrosity that looks bland as all hell. That was not something Marvin Milk pictured himself living in if he were rich; instead, he would opt for a house that resembled Tony Montana's from the movie Scarface, one of his favorites, having snuck into the theater to watch it in Miami when he was just a teenager.
Enoch was a thin nerdy guy, wearing thick, round glasses that covered the upper-portion of his face, the actual reason why attractive women did not want anything to with such a scrawny, weak little nerd who could not fight his way out of a wet, tissue-paper bag, his arm muscles to weak to even tear paper itself, the consequence of being so hypogonadal one was built like that of an incredibly unhealthy, eighty-five to one-hundred year old man just before his death of Alzheimer's or heart failure, of the two diseases that had a habit of killing senior citizens. His hair was black, perfectly straight, sticking like plastic without so much as a need to comb it down, his only form of hygiene either washing or shaving it down from time to time, to give him that clean cut look to prevent him from being utterly repulsing to any female who so much as had the misfortune of his visage. Fat or skinny, no woman on Earth would settle for someone this pathetic and feminine looking male, even if he was the last 'man' on this godforsaken Earth.
Enoch was approaching Marvin, the gate opening as he moved, the automated sensors responding to scans of his overall appearance, one of the many AI systems he had programmed into his building as a smart security measure. His neck was hunched down as he walked to Marvin, completely defeated from all of the times his wife slept around, cheating on him endlessly with other, more attractive, masculine men that drove the ladies wild. Like a lot of men, he married a fucking whore who sucked what little life force he had, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but a husk, completely obedient to whatever commands were thrown at him; thus Marvin would have no problem using him to hunt down people who said racist things on Taiwanese Basket Weaving forums, otherwise known as Chan sites, or imageboards to the layman.
"Will ya help me track down racists posters on de Chans, so I can teach dem a true lesson, other than dem having a slightly more difficult time finding work—in say—Dixie Fried Chicken?" asked Marvin.
"Yes, I will. Someone needs to get the band back together seeing as how almost every one from Antifa or the Black Panthers mysteriously, gruesomely perished, their corpses found strewn about all over the country in random intervals in the morning, the deaths always seemingly blamed on chimp attacks like those Mossad and KGB agents in the 1980s Northeast. It is happening all over again, except with Antifa leaders and various other left-wing organizations, from time to time, only left alive if they do not kick up as much as—say—Black Live Matter. Something or someone doesn't want us to put these people, the so-called ethnic majority—straight White men—in their place on the world stage. The police and investigators can keep blaming the attacks on feral chimps escaping from the zoo, even when private detectives often find traces of leather or fibers in the wounds or on the severed limbs, the implication being that someone had done the deed, someone clad in a costume not wanting us to win, possibly one of the evil straight White males who needed to be rooted out of Western society for the world to be just and diverse, free of hate and bigotry, the world your daughter should have grown up in, with those types of people promptly neutered, their women placed in our beds, a just redistribution of wealth and reproductive rights from those walking cancers—taken shape—in Human form!" proclaimed Enoch Rodger righteously, pissed off at being an involuntary celibate, constantly bullied by racist, right-wing Chads in High School and University.
"Seeing as how movements of de past were centralized, I think it's best we strike with two-man cells, avoiding the catastrophe of potentially losing a leader to an assassination of a key member of our group, thus confusing the authorities when they bust one cell as apposed to smashing the entire organization in one bust. Fo' dis reason, we operate as a two-man cell, one gathering de intel, de other bashing the skull in of some White teenage boy who decided to say de N-word on de internet. It is de perfect deterrence of racism, de monopoly of violence is de monopoly of all ideas throughout history, from de Greeks and Romans. De rest of dheir degenerate cohorts will stop being racist when dey see one of their friends lose their legs and arms to shotgun slugs or Timmy's head got busted in so badly he is a vegetable, wholly dependent on life support for every waking minute of his miserable life until he is snuffed out by his relatives, unable to afford to pay for the immense cost of keeping a corpse alive on machines for the rest of dheir fuckin' life. Of course, there will always be the option of waiting for de constitution to go into de paper shredder, but by de time people of color are finally a majority, I would waste away, possibly living as some derelict with a shopping cart, begging for de sweet release of death or my next bottle to down my sorrows in liquor. We must deal with dis problem at the root, the right-wing teenagers who post dis stuff online, glorifying de actions of de people who maimed my little girl, killed my wife, and pretty much rendered New England a no-go zone for people like me. I don't care if dey glorify Adamantine. Let de honkies have Europe. It just means more people to shift de demographics in our favor to finally having de constitution thrown into de paper shredder where it belongs, its remains burned to ashes and rightfully pissed on by every person whose life was ruined in the name of it, namely the first and second amendments," said Marvin, giving his speech before driving off, ready to beat the shit out of online trolls for the crime of committing hate-thoughts.
The very next day, people posting racist posts online ended up dead, their heads bashed in or their knees and elbows blasted with a shotgun, sent to the hospital screaming, crippled wrecks after each visit from Marvin, depending on his mood at various times when he committed his act of vigilantism against online trolls. Many parents even handed their children in to be brutalized once he came knocking on their door, the list of what they said online handed, their liberal parents disgusted with their actions, thus allowing Marvin T. Milk to teach them a lesson, often by shooting out their knees and elbows with shotgun slugs or rendering the teenager a drooling invalid hooked up to machinery to breath and eat for the rest of his life for the punishment of defying the politically correct establishment. They were pushed out to be beaten by Marvin, completely dead to their parents the moment they expressed their hatred of people of color on the internet, the liberal, soy, mocha, latte sipping parents ashamed and full of hatred for their kids for not following their left-wing views, perfectly justified in the eyes of most people in the United State of America, primarily by Millennials and Baby Boomers tired of the country being divided on racial lines. Only some entitled privileged redneck would object to Marvin's scare of White American youth who were thinking about not only killing people of color online, but doing so purely to impress their lord Adamantine, God King of Albion.
Then he came to the house located in Salem, just a drive away from the city of Portland, leaving Marvin free from any potential reprisal by Stormfront or any local hero protecting racist teenagers on the internet, perfectly safe, the town wreaking of the usual Norman Rockwell image one would see in a lot of towns in White suburbia. To Marvin Milk, that just meant more people who would gladly bring their children in for the greater good, to be rightfully punished for Marvin's cause against all straight White males who liked to mouth off on the internet. The entire town looked like it never experienced a tragedy or a break-in its existence, the perfect place for Marvin to find his target, whom Enoch tracked with his computer, tracing the little sociopath's internet protocol address to this location, same with the house number, twenty-four, located right between the other generic single-floor houses that were barely larger than an apartment.
"Your target is named Timothy McFadden, 17. He referred to the President of the United State as a Bur-Head. He is around six feet-two, with auburn hair, and weighs around two-fifteen in muscle. I might recommend using your trusty sawed-off, as this guy's more than a match for you in a fist fight," said Enoch matter-of-factly to Marvin when he was in his car, casing the house for any security, watching his prey's habits on when to strike against Timothy without leaving a trace from the safety of his Jaguar.
Marvin got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and moved to the back, where the trunk was, opening it. There, he found his trusty sawed-off shotgun, used for kneecapping white teenagers who spewed racial hate on the internet whenever Marvin was handed an address anywhere in the areas of Oregon whenever and where ever Enoch happened to trace some young little racist, cis-straight white male who happened to be, thinking the 1st amendment gave them protection for being prosecuted for their evil thoughts. It protected them from the government persecuting them, not from vigilantes of left-wing institutions nor Marvin T. Milk with his personal NSA-tier hacker to track them whenever they post the wrong thought on the internet. He was the panopticon, delivering justice with laser-like precision to people who would be punished for saying those types of things online, such as Europe and Canada who view freedom of speech as an old, dated, colonialist way of thinking, dreamt up by a bunch of racist, long dead white men who are now nothing but fertilizer. That was what Marvin Milk thought of this injustice, the one that allowed for losers on the internet to laugh at all of his brothers and sisters who were maimed or killed in a nuclear explosion, their lives pretty much over after they were burned, blinded, or brain damaged from gamma radiation exposure ripping them apart on a molecular level, straight down to the DNA. That was what that double-barreled cannon represented to Marvin, justice, delivered straight into a racist teenager's kneecaps and elbows, done the natural way, back before justice was decided by a bunch of overthinking bureaucrats, too naïve to think that individuals such as these could be reformed.
Just outside that teenager's driveway, Marvin grabbed it and four shells, two for the boy's kneecaps, two for his elbows, each round precisely aimed to destroy the teenager's joints, thus forcing the doctor to amputate both limbs, as Marvin knew, from his work as US marine medic, that limbs were amputated when there was not a lot of tissue or blood vessels left for the trauma surgeons to work with. A shotgun slug was essentially a musket ball, capable of ripping out even more soft tissue than a .50 BMG, the soft lead of the projectile allowing for greater expansion and thus greater amounts of soft tissue damage to unarmored targets despite the slower velocity. That was why a lot of people in the Civil War lost limbs from a single bullet wound; it had nothing to do with the surgical techniques of the time but the sheer amount of tissue loss that a large hunk of pure, soft lead took out of a person, leaving tremendous exit wounds that were roughly a foot or larger, in fact leaving exit wounds so large that the limb was hanging by two strands of flesh, the rest blasted to raw hamburger meat, with the two shreds of skin essentially being the entrance wound.
The quiet nature of the house led Marvin to believe that the kid was inside, possibly playing video games or working out in the garage, one of Timothy's many activities according to the text Marvin had received on his cellphone, manufactured by Pierce Mobile like virtually all American, British, Canadian, and Australian electronics were, with Vought only now just starting to compete with that company in that field in the computer GPU and CPU market. There was no way Timothy was alert to Marvin's presence yet, in spite of the flashy car he just recently boosted from some Pierce Enterprises executive, uttering racial slurs to some Asian businessmen on the phone who obviously were not giving him a good deal in order for him to even burn a bridge like that.
The house was your typical one floor affair, with a garage adjacent to the living quarters and a large backyard perfect for torturing the intolerant keyboard warrior whose life was about to change forever once Marvin clapped two slugs into his lower and upper extremities. The house looked like the type of home poor, blue collar suburban Americans lived in during the 1950s, back when one could fully pay off a house with the cash in one's wallet, one of the reasons why people in America were nostalgic for such a time, of course barring the racism and sexism of the era, relegating people like Marvin into poor, filthy tenements barely better than what one would get at an Indian reservation. It had a white picket fence, perfectly suited to a home nestled in some Norman Rockwell-esque neighborhood that Marvin did not bother remembering the name of, having passed through countless neighborhoods already along the way, maiming and brutalizing whom he deemed to be thought criminals. Sunny Pines. Whatever the name of the place he was in, Marvin did not remember, nor did he want to bother remembering it.
With his shotgun loaded with two slugs, he was about to kick through the blue, wooden, windowed door of Timothy McFadden's house, putting the fear of God into the teenager before maiming the racist little asshole who also thought what happened to the blacks in Washington DC was entertaining to him. Unfortunately for Marvin, he heard a loud, thunderous clap up above him, many thousands of feet, almost like a beam of light in the sky, travelling at the speed of a rocket ship through the Earth's atmosphere before abruptly stopping to descend, the blip in the sky getting larger and larger. His worst fear was realized, a supe after him, forcing him to rethink his strategy or just abandon the kid to spew hatred online for another day, free of the prospect of being maimed for life for his thought crimes. Frustrated his plan had gone awry, Marvin dove into the rose bush, the thorns digging into his skin beneath his blue jeans, in his mind completely hidden from the supe who was going to put an end to his little rampage before more people were catastrophically harmed for life.
Landing down, he slowly descended, gracefully, the telekinetic field emanating from his body allowed him to descend as if he were simply relaxing his muscles. Some elements of the yard were levitated, such as the pink, plastic flamingo in the garden, along with a few toys, obviously from Timothy's childhood long before he knew how to use a computer; however, the flight was perfect, landing as perfectly as Homelander would, if not better, the source of his flight being some strange, bio-electric aura, floating mere inches off the ground, levitating on the tips of his smooth, shiny, black leather boots, completely in contrast to any of the colorful ones used by the superheroes of the Seven. He did not so much as land, only descending down to float, his personal aura of energy allowing him to move, defiant of the laws of gravity like Jesus Christs in some versions of the story, where he stride across water casually—only, in this case—the ground, hovering.
Still floating off the ground, he silently approached Marvin, the energy field his entire body emitted leaving no tracks through the grass, only allowing him to casually float through the air as if he were on a spaceship, free from the gravitational pull of Earth's gravity. Marvin could feel something grab his throat, like robotic fingers, tightly gripping his neck as if the life was choked out of him by a robotic claw in a factory setting; however, those fingers seemed to have the grip of a hydraulic press, gradually crushing Marvin's throat as he was lifted up by the man's outstretched, thickly musculed right arm. Gasping for breath, Marvin pounded on his attacker's forearm, his strikes ineffective at freeing himself, as if he was pounding solid steel, the strange, invisible field that allowed him to fly also keeping his molecular bonds together, completely immune to kinetic impacts from Marvin's hand. Completely out of options, Marvin grabbed his shotgun, hoping the rounds might be able to damage the person's eyes, those emerald, mackerel eyes staring coldly into his, silently watching for the light to depart, coordinating his hands to brutally crush Marvin's throat, possibly severing his head in the process. Desperate, Marvin grabbed his shotgun, raised it to the man's eyes, and fired two rounds, one in each eye, the rounds making loud clatters, exploding into a loud burst of sparks that caused Marvin to wince, almost blind from the flash, feeling a slight burning sensation on his face from hot sparks of white hot lead.
"You are little more than farming equipment brought here because Jews were too miserly to pay Whites to work their plantations," he said, tossing Marvin into the other house, smashing the wall in completely, leaving him unconscious for the police to pick up.
"I will let the Aryan Brotherhood deal with you in prison, which, of course, they would after what you have done to some poor, innocent White kids, only guilty of expressing their opinion of your kind online, you wretched jungle savage," said the strange man before flying up with a loud, window shattering clap, heading straight east in the air, back to New England where the trail of smoke in the sky lead to.
Marvin was found a few hours later by a couple going back home from picking up some groceries at the local SuperStore store not more than thirty kilometers from where the mysterious superhuman showed, completely out of the blue sky like a small six foot, five-inch-tall meteorite, slowly descending down from the ether to deliver justice against people like Marvin for hurting innocents. That was what it had looked like, at least to the man and woman who found him, impaled on a busted wooden stud, painted crimson from Marvin's blood, the stud holding him up against his rib cage as he wheezed on the misfortunate account of his diaphragm being blocked, possibly splintered up by rough, hard wood grinding up against such fragile tissue. It was a mystery. There was no supes who operated in this area, thus leaving it the perfect hunting ground for Marvin to strike out against his targets, maiming them as their liberal parents cheered on, disowning him for their racist beliefs, justice done upon a wrong thinker in such a liberal progressive state that abhorred racists like Timothy. How was he tracked? How did some supe completely unrelated to Vought fly down and severely injury Marvin, all while knowing his location as if he was both completely omnipotent and godlike? He would never know.
Questions like that still raced through his mind when he was carted off to the hospital, under guard from both Police and a supe, known as Stormfront. The supes who were assigned to protect Salem were indisposed, seemingly killed by that mysterious supe in far more bloodier ways, just after his partner, Enoch, met the same fate, their limbs found by various homeless people looking for food in dumpsters, the ragged stumps of which led authorities to believe they were the victims of escaped, run-away chimps, torn apart in one of their fits of rage before one of the chimps wrote something racist on the walls of Enoch's wife's mansion. The words read, written in blood, "filthy racemixers!" with an Algiz rune painted right under the lettering. This led to the media blaming it on racism, that the racism of zookeepers led to chimps at the Zoo brutalizing Vought super heroes of color, one of them a famous, controversial, mukbang youtuber named Supercado, known for his massive weight gain doing mukbangs of various fast food items and processed chips, along with several other kinds of food. He was a member of Q-force, the superhero team tasked with protecting Salem, Oregon and hunting down the Gay Exploder, the bomber who had terrorised the gay communities of Washington, Oregon, Northern California, and Idaho respectively. This was a massive blow to LGBTQ+ representation in the superhero community, pretty much wiping out all known gay supes on the Vought roster in one fell swoop.
Then there was the media reaction, which of course was rather mixed on the opinion of Marvin's actions that maimed more than twelve teenage boys for simply saying hateful things on the internet, ranging from sympathy from CNN and ABC news all the way to down right condemnation from Fox and the Vought News Network, the latter seemingly confused as to why their supes were just killed by an escaped chimp from the Zoo, who, against all logic, managed to develop racist thoughts as if it were given the Simian Flu, only instead targeting LGBTQ+ Vought supes and minorities. CNN sympathized with Marvin on account of his daughter being horribly burned in the nuclear explosion that had rocked Washington DC not more than six months prior to his campaign of terror to prevent White teenagers from being racist in America, instead using force to stop them as opposed to educating them not to, seeing as how the school system in America tried to nail that into their heads for years but to no avail; they viewed Marvin as a supe without powers, a hero in the eyes of almost half of the American population, liked by almost the entire population of the Left Coast and a major portion of New England and New York, tired of the White supremacist acts of terror committed by fans of Adamantine, God King of Albion. Fox hated him because he maimed a bunch of straight, White male teenagers all for saying nasty things about minorities, a walking first amendment violation in a dark leather trench coat, ready to enforce his own definition of his law on the American people. VNN also demonized him for the same thing; however, those people hated Vought supes, seeing them as superpowered servants of the Zionist Occupation Government, along with Stormfront especially, seeing her as an obnoxious feminist.
Why, there was a popular 4Chan meme about Stormfront that shows her munching on carpets, reading "I want to ban straight White men from gaming!" Adamantine's cultists saw Stormfront as little more than a liberal leftist, the type of person one would see on Tumblr demanding that straight White men be thrown into gulags to be tortured forever, used as slave labor as a form of reparations for the crimes Westerners have committed in the past. It was her butch hair-style and masculine demeanor that made them presume she was a radical feminist who wanted to wear the testicles of men, trophies for each evil cis, straight man whom she supposedly emasculated in some instance. Then there was the virgin Stormchaser versus the Chad Adamantine disciple memes, depicting a Stormchaser as a weak chinned, dark-skinned virgin while depicting a cultist of Adamantine as standing tall, proud, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a very strong chin, striding confidently with an AR-15 rifle in one hand and the severed head of a poorly drawn Jewish caricature in another. Her Instagram was constantly spammed with these messages from the cultists who worshipped Adamatine as some sort of God, their sudden appearance blamed on MI6 or whatever intelligence agency Adamantine employed as God King of Albion. The toxicity of Adamantine's all male, all White, and all straight fanbase vexed Stormfront to no end, to the point where she threatened to strangle who ever posted those, in her words, "disgustingly sexist, divisive memes" on her Instagram chat; however, she could not find their IP addresses, preventing her from doing what Marvin Milk did before they went off to actually act on their terroristic threats to be gifted with fifty blonde wives by Adamantine himself in Valhalla.