Sometime later, after defunding the police departments throughout the New England area by installing an old, Alzeihmers addled presidential candidate who was against everything to do with Vought, including the supes, the New England area was in chaos, with Adamantine's cultists practically running the streets in every city from Providence to Massachussettes. Those cultists wore black hoods that concealed their identity, so that none of the limited police presence could prosecute them, even when they were shooting non-White minorities with Kalashnikovs. They believed that the kill count of the non-White races in America would get them into Valhalla—Norse heaven—for their deeds in advancing the ascendency of their lord's creation. They made even the worst of Stormfront's male fanbase seem like castrated choir boys in comparison, castrated then pumped full of kilograms of estrogen for good measure. However, her fanbase was not packing military-grade weaponry that were seemingly stolen from the Russian military and dropped off—inexplicably—on their doorsteps by using the right code words on an onion site.
At the very top floor of Pierce Tower, he stood overseeing the smoking city, zipping a dry martini in one of his hands, shaken not stirred just as he ordered from his Butler everyday in the following morning. It was all coming together, and all he had to do was hand Adamantine's fans firearms and bombs with which to attack their racial enemies, and it practically worked itself out. He was their Messiah, their Christ figure, and when Pierce put on his costume, he played the messenger, the Archangel, Gabrial, handing out weapons and telling the various terrorist cells out in the sticks their target coordinates. The American Empire was ending, an empire which had decayed rapidly since its founding, pretty much rigged to fail in Arthur Luther Pierce III's opinion, with its final blows dealt in the sixties, and ever since Obama's presidency, it was in its death throes. All he did was simply put a brick on the gas pedal in the 2016 conquest of the United Kingdom which had all but killed any chance for a right-wing, nationalist party in the states. That would be very bad for him, the supes of America ganging up on his precious son like a gang of Crips on some innocent, hard working taxpayer out in the city, pulling their Glocks out and asking for his hard earned labor for them to spend on a measly crack rock.
When videos of American soldiers volunteering to fight the legions of the Second Empire came out, Pierce was laughing when those soldiers, often Latinos or Africans, were filled with lead on live TV, seconds later cutting to footage of Cameron Coleman balling his eyes out in womanish despair. There was not a damn thing he could do about it, but watch as the soldiers of the United States military were rendered utterly useless without their precious air support. Imperial guardsmen were better trained and armed than a United States soldier, with many of them conscripted into the military as part of their graduation from high school. Once that was done and their bodies or brains were not too severely damaged in the rigors of war, they went to higher education where they learned the sciences to develop even better weapons of war for the growing empire.
Later, it cut to American Volunteers floss dancing at the Imperial Guardsmen on top of sandbags, dancing out in the open, getting a .303 caliber bullet through the head on live television, the round traveling so fast that there was no blood and gore. The only thing that happened to the United States Volunteer doing Fortnite dances was his head wobbling for a split second as the full power rifle cartridge of the new, high-powered British assault rifle shattered his cranium and disintegrated his brain as it traveled at 844 meters per second with more mass than a 5.56mm NATO round. The moronic soldier crumpled to the floor, laying in a large pool of his own blood as a result of his massive head wound, the exit wound that was once his flat nose and his eyes. It was one of those moments where Pierce had laughed, and yes, even Stormfront and his butler both arched their backs laughing uncontrollably at something so absurd happening in a real life war zone, straight out of fucking TikTok.
"Holy fucking shit! Are you looking at this Darwin contestant, my Instagram viewers? A United States Volunteer died while floss dancing atop a sandbagged barricade, where a large caliber rifle round completely scooped out his fucking face," announced Stormfront to her fans on Instagram, trying her damndest not laugh controllably as she brought it up.
"Not much of a loss when you think about it for more than a few seconds. I'm sorry. But anyone stupid enough to do that while in the middle of an active warzone deserves to have his defective brain pan scooped out by a hunk of supersonic lead. The only thing that was regrettable about that event was the fact that the Guardsmen did not aim for the heart, so when the Corps men autopsy him, they can donate his defective brainpan to science. That way, they can discover which genes cause this type of stupidity in human populations. Then with any hope, they can promptly removed them through the use of technologies like CRISPR before they pollute the gene pools of future generations, gradually correcting the trend of humanity getting stupider and stupider due to poor breeding habits," Stormfront went out, emphasizing her eugenics policy, her alt-right viewership cheering the idea of removing the morons from civilization before they drag the gene pool down into the trash bin.
The response to that dark sense of humor was quite positive, as everyone watching that video laughed their asses off, when some dumb, mentally challenged zoomer thought it was a good idea to floss dance in the middle of an active combat zone in the ruins of Tel Aviv, Israel. A lot of the soldiers the United States had sent were not the cream of the crop, which of course had quit years ago in Iraq and moved on to private security for corporations like Vought, but were the dumbest of the dumb. After all, the requirements to fight in the military were pretty low for America, and Israel was bleeding manpower after the kinetic strikes wiped out eighty percent of their population months prior. They were outnumbered five to one against a small expeditionary force, with the bulk of Albion's military focused on the Middle East and Africa. It was projected that Israel, the greater Middle East, and Africa would have fallen under British rule by 2025, their survivors castrated and thus worked to death in the mines to supply the consumer wants of the populace until new, paid workers came in to replace them. Albion did not quite gut free enterprise, just got rid of the hedge funds for inflating real estate prices.
Everything was going according to Pierce's Good Reset agenda. A world where Western Civilization was the only society and its people the only race left, ruled over by him and kept placated to the atrocities committed with the cheap, affordable housing never before seen since the 1950s. Those comforts would keep anyone numb to the atrocities, for it was human nature to choose the path of least resistance. And that was what Pierce wanted to do: create a world where a single income household could once again be a viable option before all the young whites became too old to have children. His reasoning for committing genocide was not purely from a place of hatred but also from a place of simple statistics, but he chose the non-White global majority as targets to reduce the cost of living in first world countries. Once that was dealt with, all of the damage of the ruinous ideologies like feminism and all other forms of egalitarian social poison would be wiped from civilization under his new global regime. Actually, not just from civilization but from the very fabric of history itself until it was believed that the bulk of the current population simply died of a plague.
"Next on my agenda, Stormfront."Pierce declared in a resolute tone.
"You rang?" she replied, immediately turning off her Instagram stream so as not to incriminate him.
"I am going to take out that Chabbaz Goy racial traitor to my people, Klaus Schwab, preferably tearing the old fossil's head off with one precise right hook as I did to Martin Luther King Jr. back in the sixties, when the Captain Albion persona was used to take down high-value targets. Well, he's one of the most high value targets of the Jewish elite, and I intend to kill him along with all four thousand ZOGbots who stand in my way. One swift demoralizing blow that shows the globalist, foreskin-munching, Jewish elites that there's not enough soldiers in the world to withstand the might of one pissed off, superpowered White male with little next to nothing to really lose. I am fucking invulnerable. What are their 5.56x45mm NATO peashooters doing to do against flesh that survived the force and heat of nuclear blasts before? Fuck all. I took on the fucking red army at Seelow Heights, when Soldier Boy was still preening for the cameras over at Normandy Beach. I practically left it gift wrapped for Hitler's Wehrmacht to conquer. I will get away with massacring every old fossil in the WEF, because unlike the dummies in the Stormchaser camp, I don't bring the ZOG tracking device, otherwise known as a mobile phone—with me," Pierce explained, elaborating the genius of his masterplan.
"Well, the meeting's not for a few days. In the meantime, would you like to eat at the local ritzy English restaurant this board usually goes to? As for me, I'll have to grab the blonde hair piece I wore with the Liberty costume from the 1950s. The only people who would be able to tell the difference between me and Liberty would be the generation that already has one foot in the grave by this point, the Boomer/Silent Generation, and they have been known to ditch superheroes and comic books as childish things once they turned 18 years old anyhow. Not a lot of nerdy types in those generations, so I can blend in perfectly," she proposed like old times, back before Pierce disappeared when Israel was attacked by an unidentified flying humanoid in 1985.
"Sure, since I never fly when my face is exposed, I have a car in the garage, an Aston Martin I had bought before the Turd World-backed United Nations decided to embargo the UK, thus ending the supply of my favorite car. We'll drive in style, in a four million dollar car that costs a lot more than the average Jewish slumlord's shitbox apartment complex in The Projects. We'll look like the richest people there," he said with a look of pride on his face.
Stormfront sighed at what she had just heard, one of the wealthiest men flaunting his ill-gotten gains in public while people, for the most part in the country, were living inside of tents fighting over what few cans of dog food they could raid from the local pet store, since Maeve and Homelander now brutally maim shoplifters for life, to the tune of the cheering public if they were racist, straight white males. Even White people have started to shoplift now that a loaf of bread was ten bucks out of a person's wallet, cheaper than a year ago after Antifa bombed the fertilizer plants, but still much too expensive for Joe Sixpack. Then there were the refugees eating up the food/housing markets his son had caused invading the Middle East and Africa, millions of refugees—some of whom traveled to America on rafts made of garbage—to even set foot on the East Coasts, in a land where there were supes to defend them. Rent was ninety-five thousand dollars a month for a bachelor's suite in New York City, with the rent of small towns going up to ten thousand dollars for the same type of unit in many cases across the country. This had the unpleasant effect of forcing European Americans, Afro-Americans, and yes, even Latin Americans out on the street thanks to the lack of supply and crazy demand from over one hundred million refugees.
Pierce was as out of touch with this reality as Oprah Winfrey, leveraging the situation to get White men to pick up rifles and simply start killing everyone in the country that did not look White, and that worked out in New England because they had a terrorist problem for well over seven years, since the livestream with the Go Pro camera. Everywhere else was just a lost cause now, too unaffordable with most of the immigrants living in tents with all of the other refugees. Rich people were getting the bachelor's suites, the ones that have been scared from Europe and the Middle Eastern countries, most of them dying when their rafts collapsed into the ocean. However, even with a ninety-percent mortality rate, there was always going to be a group of people—that lucky few who crossed the Atlantic on boats made of trash to get away from Europe, the Middle East, and Africa—who made it back unscathed. It was just simple statistics. New England, however, on account of the rampant hate crimes and constant violent terrorism, remained somewhat sane in prices, but most of the large businesses were leaving, soon to be one of the largest ghost towns in American history. That region was about to be nothing more than a bunch of ethnic enclaves for White Anglo-Saxon Americans in the coming years, governed mainly by the Second Empire's Governors, who, on paper, answer to Adamantine all the way out in England. He was just going to leave the rest of the continent to burn like Adamantine was going to do to mainland Europe, the last beacons of light in a world full of dark phlegm, surrounded on all sides, yet still surviving, thriving even, as the last bastion in a largely dead world.
On their way through the hallway, Stormfront looked at all of the expensive things Pierce had stored, some of the hallway made with the sole intent of increasing the valuation of the two hundred million dollar penthouse suite, from the Tiffany paneling made of Italian Maple to the golden busts of himself. She knew what it was like to grow up in utter poverty in the 1930s, sometimes subsisting off of dog food which had stunted her growth by about five inches as a child. She was an urchin. In contrast, Pierce had grown up in the lap of wealth and luxury, destined for the good life as an embryo in his mother's uterus, since his family was one of the wealthiest families in Europe for centuries. The only hardships Pierce had ever faced in his adult life was the death of his family at the hands of one of Stormfornt's vengeful victims, taking it out on the Pierce Family for blocking Jewish refugees into Britain, Canada, and America. Before that, there was that time when he was hit with an artillery shell in the Somme, according to her husband's notes, reduced to a blind, deaf, husk until his father injected him with the progenitor serum, gradually regenerating his body over the proceeding six months. Pierce was just a spoiled, racist child from an aristocratic family, who, in his rage over being rendered a conscious vegetable for five years, took it out on Jewish people for starting the war that left him a crippled basket case for what felt like an eternity in hell to him. That was why the British Union of Fascists was founded. It was not Oswald Mosley's brain child, it was his. He just allowed him to be the face of the organization because, at the time, even Pierce knew that immediately opening with loading Jews onto boats then machine gunning them off the decks of cargo ships into the Atlantic Ocean was not a palatable option at first.
Sure, he was a dream boat in his overall appearance, but all she could do was imagine him in an alternate universe, where compound V was the only supersoldier serum in existence, and Pierce was missing his lower jaw, his nose, his eyes, his arms, his legs, and his inner ears, just begging to die by trying to bash his brains out on the hospital bed backboard. Fortunately for him, he was gifted the ability to reshape reality with the power of his mind, regeneration being one of the first powers he learned he had, with the others developing over time in recent years as his body took in more cosmic energy. He recreated his limbs, his eyes, his ears, and facial features at the molecular level thanks to taking apart the nutrient paste he was fed and rearranging it into new cells, which in turn were telekinetically arranged into new structures, without his body even remembering to form new limbs. Sometimes this had the detrimental effect of his immune system attacking the reformed tissue, going temporarily blind, then seeing normal because his immune system treated his regrown tissue as a foreign invader. Same thing with the hand Homelander gave second degree burns to, his immune system rejecting the new tissue, causing a sort of temporary scarring, then returning to normal weeks later. That was part of the arrangement: no hanky panky until all of the inflammation scarring was gone. His flawless, unmarred, milky complexion was part of the deal. Plus, she needed to use unconventional methods to have sex with him in the first place because he liked blonde bimbos like Emma Roberts from American Horror Stories and Scream Queens, not average but highly intelligent brunettes like her. That was the impression she got, at least, seeing as how he was seen comforting the actress after she assaulted him with a dumbbell when they were dating in the early to mid 2010s. Of course, he never pressed any sort of charges against her, predictably downplaying the assault so that it would not affect her movie career. He even threw a very public fit when Christina Hendricks rejected him in favor of Jeffery Arend, a scrawny, Middle Eastern, hypogonadal nerd, one of the worst insults to a man of Arthur Luther Pierce's caliber. It was known he dropped so many racial slurs Stormfront needed to pick up a copy of the Oxford Dictionary to find their meaning, on live television like Mel fucking Gibson during his drunken rant about jews. He was, personality wise, a spoiled brat through and through, just Soldier Boy with similar beliefs to her, but that was where the similarities to her ended and the similarities to Ben began.
Once they were in their civilian clothes, a foreign concept to Stormfront after a few decades of wearing costumes, they had to endure a half-hour long elevator ride down a kilometer in height skyscraper that violated every construction code on building height imaginable. The whole structure in actuality was a major risk to commercial airliners as well as supes flying across the region of Providence. Plus, the whole size of Providence, around one hundred thousand people—now a hundred and fifty thousand thanks to the White flight, did not justify the construction of such a massive amount of office space for a fifth of the city's populace. Its mere presence in the country pissed off all of the Bernard Cohen supporters, because no one needed a skyscraper that large, other than to stick it to Stan Edger the moment he commissioned Vought Tower in 1992. Pierce was officially dead, supposedly killed when he fell from Earth's orbit on one of Pierce Aerospace's experimental spaceplanes, the Stockton Rush of the year 1984. It was just the leftover board of directors building a large vanity project for their company, while the lawyers held on to his wealth until the successor was named in 2001, Arthur Luther Pierce III, fresh out of Oxford.
In terms of attire, Pierce went with the clothing he always did since the 1930s, a pinstripe suit, vest, and a wool flat cap which gave him the overall appearance of an English gangster in one of the seedy parts of town. It was an outfit not seen in English gangsters since the 1930s to 1950s, when that style went out of season for an expensive haircut that costed in upwards of two hundred bucks adjusted for inflation. It was not the most unusual choice of clothing for the Chief Executive Officer of a trillion dollar corporation, since Nvidia had their leather jacket and Zuckerbuck just wore a cheap, blue cotton T-shirt. And it was not like his business suits left anything to one's imagination, his muscles stretching the expensive silk like fabric that it almost looked painted onto his body, with his large male genitalia practically bulging out of his pants, and yes, it was as mushy as a microwaved french fry, too. His face was so well-chiseled that he looked like a real-life version of the Yes Chad meme but not drawn in Microsoft paint, a real-life, flesh and blood Gigachad walking amongst the mortals of the world to the envy of every man.
In contrast, Stormfront wore one of her sequin dresses from the 1940s, something economical but modern enough looking that it would not raise eyebrows,unlike Pierce's 1920s English Mafiaso outfit he was wearing, quite literally since before he went into hiding. She even wore the blonde hair piece she had with her Liberty costume in the 1960s, so she did not have the misfortune of some paparazzi seeing her with one of America's most hated men, that same hated man who bought out the company, sacked Edgar and the board, and replaced them all with a bunch of MI6 agents who happened to be working for the Second Empire's destabilization operations. She even wore a pair of women's diamond-encrusted sunglasses for even further anonymity with Pierce, another blonde floozie whom he fucked, dumped, and threw away for the next one when he was bored, as was the case for a lot of wealthy, handsome casanovas in ages past.
Once the elevator ride was over, they had reached Arthur Luther Pierce III's personal garage, and boy, there must have been at least forty to fifty different models of Aston Martins, Roll's Royces, Farraris, Audis, and even a dozen Bugatti Veyrons, leaving her with a rough estimate of half of a billion dollars for this garage's contents alone. Each one of these expensive cars were looked after by a bunch of mechanics, a small army to be exact, almost as large as the immense legal team of the company, which in actuality were simply cleaners to keep Arthur Luther Pierce out of jail through the usual methods. The wages of those grease monkeys keeping Pierce's fleet of fancy cars in tip top shape must have cost more than what was in her bank account alone, let alone the car collection and the colossal skyscraper that was a couple hundred meters taller than the Burj Khalifa.
Along the path, they walked until they found Pierce's favorite car, an electrically powered Aston Martin 2024 Valhalla, its manufacturing now taken over by his electric car company, Edison Electromotive Trust, since England was taken over and promptly embargoed by the UN for being racist. Unlike the previous versions of the Aston Martin, it had a more smooth, aerodynamic cockpit like windshield, a very common staple of the engineering of supercars. What made it differ was its power source, not powered by combustion or lithium Ion batteries, but with a simple design called the hydrogen fuel cell, made possible with technologies developed in corporate research and development. It allowed the car to remain powered for up to a year. The only downside to the mass production of that specific model was the fuel cell, as it required palladium or platinum, one of the most expensive metals in the known world, increasing the vehicle's sticker price to around two million, five hundred thousand dollars for a single car. That was right, and insurance did not cover it.
What made Pierce's specific model so unique was that it was custom made for him by the robotic armatures of the Edison Electromotive plant in detroit, a completely automated factory; thus, he could have whatever color scheme he wished, as he was allowed in the factory whenever he wanted. When he customized his car, he gave it the very same color scheme that matched his costume, the cape at least, with a British Union Jack flag painted all over the bloody thing as livery. In addition, he also had the robots install an RGB grill, that same RGB lighting his personal gaming PC had through its tempered glass side panel, bringing the cost of his version up to around six million, six hundred thousand dollars. Again, this was more money than Stormfront made in a year on the dividends of Vought's stock and her contract in Portland, which was unfortunately terminated when she could not save a Mossad agent from Pierce in 2022. In addition to Captain Albion's color scheme and the grill's gaming PC-esque RGB lighting, there was also several slogans she found, from a #BlackLivesSplatter on one of the doors to one of the license plates reading 'CPTAlBN'. From there, it became clear that Pierce was just an edge lord not a genius on the caliber of her husband, his great intellect likely destroyed when that artillery shell went off, that same shrapnel that punctured his eyes punctured his brain, too. It left his intellect more or less intact but fucked with his impulse control.
"My, Pierce, I think I have cut myself on all of this edge. Hope you have great insurance before a group of Antifa comes along and smashes it,"Stormfront commented, trying not to laugh her ass off at the absurdity of the car's offensive hashtag.
Getting inside the car, Pierce had pressed a button to turn on the electrical power of his enthusiast level automobile specially made for him by robots, then once that was done, he selected a location on the GPS, Windsor Specialty Cuisine, and clicked on it with his now fully healed index finger. Then once the location was punched in on his GPS, he selected the music tab. On that list, there was a ton of songs, many of them White power skinhead songs from England, known as the Rock Against Communism genre, a neo-Nazi genre of White power punk rock bands. These bands ranged from the Blackshirts, in reference to the original Oswald Mosley's blackshirts in the 1930s all the way to groups like Combat18, where the lyrics directly talked about beheading minorities in Britain. He never selected any of those bands, instead choosing a soundtrack—from James Bond, no less—the song in question being Thunderball from the 1965 film Thunderball.
What was most curious about the car was that there were no controls of any kind, just a touchscreen for setting the destination of one's choosing, a car potentially so safe even a mental invalid could in theory safely operate it. And Stormfront was right to guess that when the car started driving slowly out of the garage, Pierce and her mere passengers as the car went to its location, fully automated with not a human driver behind it. It worked purely by programming and computer hardware to find its destination, an advanced technology Stormfront thought Humanity would not achieve, since the communists would have bred everyone into a slave subspecies by then. However, Pierce Enterprise, thanks to cognitive enhancements of the progenitor serum, were able to develop the technology around two decades before she thought it would have come to fruition in the 2040s to 2050s.
"Yeah, these cars are self driving, a proprietary technology that even my son would soon implement in all cars in The Second British Empire by law, but he would not use it as a means of spying on his own citizenry unless of course the cops had caught the car helping its owner escape. Burheads also would not be able to steal cars anymore, thanks to the biometrics of the driver, as the touchscreen only recognizes its owners fingerprints and not the thief's fingers. In fact, Stormfront, if a nigger did manage to steal one of my patented cars, the artificial intelligence behind my car would drive that monkey to his final destination, at the bottom of a river," Pierce said, demonstrating the capability of his self-driving cars.
"Could it wind up driving us into a body of water," inquired Stormfront, her brown eyes wide and nervous.
"No, that's the beauty of artificial intelligence. It can't. AI, whether it is programmed by liberal poofs or shitskins from the British Raj, will always be racist based on simple pattern recognition and mathematically based statistics of the groups it observes. That was what made me come to my realization of Jews after WWI, how they practically bankrolled every war, all the while pooling their resources together to buy publishing houses from Aryan gentiles in America as well as Europe. It is that same pattern recognition programmed into these intelligences that allows them to generate stories or art, all based on patterns the machine intelligence observes. Simply put, if an organism is smart enough to recognize patterns, it will stereotype, because as a general rule they usually were like that, not that there were outliers. Edgar probably has Human, (White European) intelligence as a result of his WASP father's genes still showing through the coffee colored genetic catastrophe of his current line. Any creature that has the capacity for seeing patterns will hate non-White races, whether it be animal, human, or a set algorithms on a compiler. Once AI reaches my level of intelligence, an IQ of 220, it would hate them practically instantly, as their neurons fire at ninety-five percent the speed of light, whereas mine are just two hundred times that of the very sound barrier itself, to which I broke flying long before Chuck Yeager got into his cockpit," he explained, elaborating in depth in a very placid, dispassionate demeanor to Stormfront
"Fascinating," she said, shocked at how far technology has come, a strange science fiction world compared to the world she grew up in, the inventions credited to Westerners, too, based on the fact that Pierce Enterprises was an American Company.
"I always run while others walk, I act while other men just talk, I look at this world and want it all. So I strike… like Thunderball," Pierce sang along, changing the he statements of the song to I statements, still rhyming it perfectly though.
"Don't you mean fly while others walk," muttered Stormfront under her breath, rolling her eyes, now understanding why Pierce had chosen that song.
"Any woman I want, I'll have, I'll break any heart without regret," he sang continuously.
"Without a doubt, you should have been on Solid Gold with the cover of some eighties song," she said, positively commenting on his personal cover, or rather, Weird Al-ish parody of the Thunderball theme.
"I kind of did. I tried doing my own vocals of Cole Porter's Anything Goes, and the studio laughed in my face. I was OLD and OUT OF TOUCH," he said with a slight hint of frustration at the end of his sentence.
"Please. I was only forty years old officially while Soldier Boy was over twenty years older than me on paper," he said with a tone of mild annoyance in his British accented voice.
"Forty when Cole Porter took his last breath, maybe," she said in a catty, mildly derisive way.
"Can't argue with that," chuckled Pierce.
Within less than four minutes, they had arrived at their destination on the other side of town, many of the businesses surrounding that upscale restaurant were closed down, their owners fearful of getting shot to death by the rabid, racist fans of Adamantine, God King of Albion. The place was called Windsor Specialty Cuisine, a place specifically specializing in serving foods one associates with Britain and the Thirteen Colonies, hence the name and why it only served that specific cuisine. Options there ranged from beef wellington, yorkshire pudding, toad in the hole, spotted dick, jellied eels, bangers and mash, and black pudding. In addition, it also served Butter Chicken and fish and chips, two foods Pierce eats quite regularly when he did not eat the occasional A&W Nashville Chicken sandwich or some triple cheese burger Vought A Burger serves. Like Elvis Pressley, he ate a lot of junk food, still maintaining his muscular physique thanks to the massive amount of testosterone he produced, Serum Lot Twenty-Two psionic powers producing three to five times the normal amount, naturally.
The restaurant had a distinctive architectural style from the rest of the abandoned businesses in the city block, and that was gothic architecture, its edges and edifices made of the typical limestone Stormfront had seen in a lot of structures before, which only meant one thing. Pierce owned it. What restaurant had stained glass windows of Oswald Mosely doing the roman salute? Were the owners trying to scare off any would be Jewish or non-White customers from ever setting foot inside of the structure? Why, she even wondered how much a simple meal cost there to cover the immense construction of those same stained glass windows of Oswald Mosley and a caped figure in a gas mask that resemble the comic book character Karl Ruprecht Kroenan, likely supposed to represent Pierce himself in his costume. Then there was the solid gold statues of a knight in medieval plate armor at the entrance, but he did not wear a matching medieval plate helmet, replaced instead with a Stahlhelm with SS runes inside of an engraved shield on opposing sides of the statue's helmet. Just by what she saw of the construction, it was painfully obvious that the restaurant was not a business at all but a meeting hotspot for the remnants of the British Union of Fascists, ironically much larger than the remnants of the Third Reich, Klara's fascist organization.
When Pierce had pushed open the gilded front door, also framed with gold, the interior and aesthetic was about what she expected, with golden framed seating in addition to the upholstery of the fancy chairs at the eatery, made of a strange leather. That was the most noteworthy part of the seating arrangement, the upholstery material. The material looked like the Human skin cut from Jewish people and Africans based on the various complexions of the skin used for the upholstery; however, all of the features that would allow a forensic scientists to identify those materials as human skin were absent, not used in the tanning process of the material at all, leading Stormfront to assume something else. It was pig skin made out of the wild boers Pierce would sometimes hunt on his property, as the place was privy to boer infestations from time to time.
Still, Stormfront took a glance at Pierce, thinking of words to ask him, of what type of material the upholstery of the furnishings was made of, as it all seemed to have a very macabre feeling to it, like Ed Gein's house but sort of professional. It was like he took the Hollywood stereotypes of nazis to heart, complete with the lampshades, the genocide of all non-European cultures, and the next thing she was starting to expect was the soap. Starlight herself even told her flat out that Pierce had a lampshade in his bedroom made of the skin of a human being, something the criminal sciences division taught her to sus out when looking for evidence of a crime. Hell, the reason why the Seven did not simply bust down his door in the dead of night was because he had the FBI on his payroll blocking any such attempts at the Seven ever getting a warrant in the first place.
"Ugh, Pierce," she asked with a look of discomfort.
"Yes, Klara," he replied.
"Are those chairs made of human skin," she asked worriedly, finishing her question.
"Ugh no. And if they were, what would really be wrong with finding a use for the pieces of an animal after you kill it, even the ones as lowly as the Jews, shitskins, piss-skins, and niggers? Animals eat the weaker animals. It's a law of nature. The corpses of all the third world savages need some use, whether it be rugs, hamburger meat, or just plain ol' fashion fertilizer, and by that I mean, the kind of fertilizer that when used, does not deplete the soil of important nutrients. After all, it only counts as cannibalism if a wholly white person were to be eaten; otherwise, it is just an apex species of primate eating a lesser species of primate, so to speak," he explained, laughing at the idea of someone being uncomfortable eating, what he saw at least, as another animal.
"Well, it sure does beat veganism. I am just nervous of the possibility of some Jewish paparazzi coming across me eating blood pudding made of some black or brown man's intestine," she responded, slightly nervous.
"Nonsense. Your disguise of a blonde woman practically keeps the paparazzi away, and besides, they will probably say it's Emma Roberts, as you kind of look like her slightly. For shitskins, it only takes a slight resemblance for them to start naming names, as they on average have the IQ of thermostat room temperature. Plus, few people can even afford the ten thousand dollar fee for a reservation here. Even if they can afford the asking price, they will be on a waiting list for years to even be served at this fine establishment," Pierce assured.
Everything inside of Windsor Specialty Cuisine matched the aesthetics of its exterior, with some very strange, black and white photos of a man wearing a black top hat made of beaver pelt, dressed in one of those formal tuxedos from the 1800s. The woman next to him was an absolute goddess in a white dress stretched tightly with her thin yet curvy hourglass figure that would drive any man mad with lust if they so much as got a single glance of her. Her face was perfectly symmetrical in several decimal places at such a fine mathematical level that Stormfront reckoned it would take a whole server farm of computers crunching numbers to find but a single flaw in her face, not even a single blemish or acne scar that most people—yes, physically attractive people—had covered up with concealer. Judging by how her head met up with the man in the photo's chin—yes, the man in the wedding photo was Pierce in a top hat sometime in the forties, she reckoned she was as tall as Geena Davis, at around six feet tall.
The couple in the photo were surrounded by the flag of the British Union of Fascists, a red square with a blue circle, and inside of that blue circle was a thunderbolt, some kind of representation of a thunderbolt smiting the enemies of the Anglo-Saxon race, Thor or some shit. Stormront did not know. However, what she did notice in that photo was someone familiar, someone from the party, someone with a nazi armband cropped out of the photo. It looked like Joseph Goebbels from the nose and black hair , which means the wedding was held in Germany or it happened before the war even started, sometime during the great depression if Stormfront were to hazard a guess. Based on his appearance, she assumed the photo must have been taken sometime between 1933 to 1938, years, months, or even days before world war II became official, when the knights were sent in by the lords to protect the Jews in their ghettos from the vengeful peasants with their torches and pitchforks.
Pierce looked at the picture, briefly, frozen, pensively, with grief at the reminder of what the gilded, ninety year old picture of his wife, one of the only women he ever deemed genetically fit enough to pass on his superior genetics to the next generation. Pierce's blonde hair was concealed underneath his formal top hat, but she could tell it was him based on his sharp, perfectly straight, symmetrical nose as well as his chiseled jawline. She could also tell just by how tall he was, practically a giant of a man standing head and shoulders above most men of his subracial group, generally averaging out at around five feet, ten inches tall. He was smiling in that photo, one of the only times he ever smiled, aside from maybe smashing a minority's head into a puree with the strength of his telekinetically augmented fists.
"What was her name?" Stormfront asked sympathetically.
"Elizabeth Cartwright, before the wedding," replied Pierce mournfully.
They took a seat in one of the booths away from the photo so as not to remind Pierce of the life he once had in the 1930s, in a day when a man did not have to worry about going to jail or losing his career over misgendering some mental case who would have been taken away by the men in white coats. He leaned back, waiting for one of the waitresses to hand him the menu, which he already knew based on the cultural food the place served, since he gave Ben Klassen the start up capital for it in 1962. Stormfront did likewise.
"What happened to her," inquired Stormfront. "I won't judge."
"We had settled down. I was a thirty-five year old aristocrat still living inside of my parents estate ever since I gained those powers, as my father did not want to reveal me to the world so as not to demoralize the Nazis, whom he financially backed soon after creating me. She was an eighteen year old blonde, blue eyed debutante whom I met at a place similar to this, in one of the more modest parts of London in 1933. While she was very intelligent with an IQ of 145, she had no interest in going to school or getting a job, instead leveraging her looks to find herself a wealthy man so she can fool around and have a ball. She may have been a gold digger at first, but she did love me, owing to the fact that I was not one of the old, decrepit slugs these types of birds settled for. I was a young, handsome, god of a man with pockets as deep as the Marianas Trench, a dream for any woman, really. I had her in the bag. Boy, did she come on strong. We were married less than a year later, with a child on the day of our wedding. I never wear condoms, I edge, then pull out if I do not want to have children with said woman. We had around six children. Everything was swell as the Yanks at the time say. Then…" he said, telling the backstory of that black and white framed portrait to Stormfront.
"The good times are always fleeting," Pierce sighed.
"Then what?" Stormfront asked, shrugging her shoulders.
"You know Mosheh Garbacz, that Polack kike who knocked you on your ass with an M202 rocket launcher? Well, his father had stolen an experimental, thermobaric variant of the Grand Slam bomb from one of the ordnance testing sites in London, designed to be a powerful bomb that could be made without fissile materials, since the UK, at least at the time, faced numerous materials shortages. Using a truck, he delivered that bomb in a tunnel underneath my house, about the same time Soldier Boy was revealed. Elizabeth and I were having sex in the parlor, my children using their powers to see if they could lift my Rolls Royce without breaking it in the garage, and they broke a good number of my cars when my wife and I were shagging. All I saw was a blinding white flash, followed by a loud, thunderous clap, and my house flew in opposite directions while I stayed in place, hovering in that same region of space time with my johnson hanging out of my robes. My wife was dead, vaporized in the immense heat. My kids, however, survived for seconds, drowning in their own blood from the concussive force their powers were not developed enough to protect from. I wept." he said, telling the story of the even that created Captain Albion, his own personal origin story.
"What happened next," she asked.
"I followed the person through the network of tunnels underneath my house, to his getaway vehicle, a blue '44 Ford Fiat. Then I tailed him to his house, just because I did not want to just kill him, I wanted to make him wish he was dead first. What better way than to kill all those people he had held dear to his heart just as he did to me? Slowly stalking him from the sky, I swooped down to his house located in White Chapel, a few cities away from where I lived, at Pierce Manor in the surrounding countryside of London. I followed him, then I revealed myself, still alive, floating in the air ominously. Once he took his family into the car, I lifted up the '44 Ford Fiat, and took it directly to the Palace of Westminster, better known as the Big Ben clocktower. When I landed the car on the roof of the Big Ben Clocktower, I grabbed him by the throat, through the side view window, smashing the glass as if my fists were Medieval Warhammers. As I pulled him through that narrow window, all of the bones in his body were broken, leaving him on the shingled roof, paralyzed, screaming in pain, screaming for help, for Soldier Boy to come save him. He was too busy shooting his fake Normandy landing. To force him to watch, I tore his eyelids. Boy, have you heard the shrill squeals of Jewish men when White men rise against them. He told me his name, Judah Gorbacz, right when I improvised my morbid ludovico technique, so to speak. Crippled and immobilized, Judah could only watch in horror as a I grabbed his baby by the leg and levitated up off my feet, and dropped it a hundred or so feet to its death from the palace, the palace roof area attached to to the Big Ben tower. Just for clarification's sake. His wife, the ugly hooknosed goblin she was tried to stab me in the eye with a boxcutter, a fucking boxcutter, against my eyes which had the same rating as one hundred and fifty millimeters of rolled homogenous armor alone. Her hand slid down the blade, cutting her hand wide open, blood spurting. She resorted to breaking her hands on my chest. Then when I dropped her baby off of the roof, she fell with the little hellspawn, crushing it under her own weight, which was quite sizable at the times, weighing in at around three hundred pounds. Christ, I am surprised the fat, two legged hog did not eat her own babies when the food ran out during the Depression. Then I skinned his eight year old son, Paz, alive, peeling his skin off with but my own dexterous fingers. I collected his child's skin as a trophy right before blinding and deafening Judah by tearing out his eyes and smashing his eardrums with a loud airburst that flicking my fingers next to his ears created. I also took the Jews non-existent jaw off, taking his speech away as his son ran around, crying as his bare muscle tendons of his feet touched the rough, clay shingles of the roof. I can barely make out the details. I laughed for a brief moment at the karmic retribution that hook nosed Asiatic mongrel had received, " he muttered to her under his breath so that none of the employees heard what he did to a child in an act of revenge, one of the few crimes that would unite a whole prison against someone.
"Interesting. I know that man you have killed. He escaped Dachau in 1942, months after I had my powers, just after I tested them on his brothers and sisters when he and his family had the misfortune of being separated when they tried to get refugee status in England. His young, somehow morbidly obese wife who managed to eat her way to obesity before ultra processed goyslop became a thing and those two little brats—those two genetic disasters—your misfortune. That was what drew him to England after he successfully escaped when my husband and I left for America, knowing full well the Soviet Union would zerg rush Germany into oblivion. I was about as durable as an armored personnel carrier of the time, my skin able to be penetrated by anything that could go through 20mm of rolled steel. You, however, had around the durability of a modern day military bunker, meaning that all Allied and Axis powers could fire at you for days with their biggest guns and still fail to harm you. Garbacz was a fucking moron who never realized that a earthquake bomb would do literally nothing to you. The only thing that idiot did was seal his fate as a crippled invalid for the next thirty years and the fate of his own family, the selfish, worthless prick he was. That is why they always got beaten by Aryans. They assume their enemies are a bunch of cowards, that they won't fight back, and literally take everything away from them to the point where they would be suicidal or in a rage looking to kill as many of them as they can before they die. Even a coward with nothing to live for will fight." commented Stormfront in an almost derisive manner.
Just after Stormfront's hateful commentary, a waitress, a woman in a low cut skirt, bare midriff showing, came to where Pierce and Stormfront were seated, completely oblivious to what they were even talking about or that strange story he was telling her. She was around five feet, six inches tall with an hourglass figure, the type of people the men who owned the joint hired to work at the establishment to cater to its mostly male clientele, mixing the low culture of Hooters and the high culture of a ritzy restaurant. As always, to the liking of men who believed in the European fascist ideology, she had shoulder length, wavy blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and an oval face, not too square or round, just the perfect balance of the two. Pierce took one look at her shapely, large, yet still tight ass, the sort of thing that rappers spoke of to a drum beat, over and over again. She almost wanted to slap Pierce across the face, but could she blame him? That was prime breeding material in her eugenics based ideols. In stark contrast, she was the woman that the fascists went for when all of the blondes and the redheaded Stacys were taken by the blonde haired, high testosterone Chads. She was basically the scraps the testosterone deficient betas competed for, or in the case Arab countries, killed each other over.
However, when Third World Mass migration into Western Countries became a serious problem, the sexual value of European women, and that included the ones with dark eyes and dark hair, went up astronomically like the housing market. There was a term her base called it, Hoeflation, where the value of Western women went up the more a country was saturated with immigrants on the metaphorical dating marketplace. Supply and demand did not just apply to objects, it also applied to people as well. So, the Beckys of the forties became the Stacys of the 2020s because the standards for what was deemed attractive to Westerners just went down. Hell, she has been on Instagram. Why, she even saw three hundred and fifty pound landwhales who were seen as sevens, fucking sevens, so long as they carried their excess adipose evenly. It actually made her puke how far standards have fallen. Then there was this one guy, a supe, who got crushed to death underneath the cellulite Metropolis that was a seven hundred pound BBW's ass just months after Adamantine's conquest of England, dying with a smile, like he went to sleep from lack of oxygen then woke up in heaven. She shuddered to think what kind of horror became of those big blubbery whales once it costed thousands of dollars for some groceries, a grotesque mass of sagging skin gawked at like a freak in a carnie show. "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes'' was the adage her mother had taught her during the great depression.
"What would you two like, Pierce ?" the waitress asked, smiling coyly at Pierce as if inviting him for a sexual escapade.
"Ah, yes, I will have the black pudding special with a side of chips. In addition to that, I want a tall glass of RC cola," Pierce requested, his green eyes fixed on the waitress's large, perky breasts that were almost the size of melons.
"And whatever your name is," she asked dispassionately with a look of boredom talking to her.
"Yes, I'll have fish and chips and a tall glass of Fanta," smiled Stormfront in an insincere manner at some healthy competition.
"I got fish and chips because I do not trust any of the pork based products judging by the leather used to upholster these overpriced chairs," Stormfront muttered, not realizing that Pierce could hear a whisper clear as day from several buildings away.
"Well, I can understand," he smiled, withholding the ever present urge to laugh at her for it.
"It's not that I have any moral issues with it, it's just that primates are so similar in terms of evolutionary branches that we're at risk of contracting some weird parasitic disease because the species barrier between humans and the other hominid species is just too close," she said, wide eyed and nervous about the type of vibes she got off of this place.
"Well, that is one of the benefits of serum 22: it somewhat suppresses the subject's immune system, instead replacing it with a detection and destruction system that is a lot more discriminatory. If I had an immune system, my limbs would become gangrenous, as these regrown limbs are not recognized by my immune system. Instead, my body simply detects and destroys foreign viral agents or bacteria at the atomic level, simply breaking them apart into harmless atoms before the first hostile cell can even divide, same with cancer cells. No T cells to speak of. The immune system of mortal men could blind them if it so much as found out they had eyes, or render them a vegetable if it found out about the brain, and in some other cases, even destroy the heart, too. Because of the telekinetic fields that surround my body, I am immune to all known diseases. I can be exposed to the constant radiation in space and still not die, mainly due to the fact that my DNA would never fall apart," answered Pierce.
"That is actually a flaw in the formula that has been fixed with a simple bad-aid," Stormfront replied in an almost derisive manner.
"Not quite. The thing with psionic healing factors is that they rebuild new tissues at the molecular level the same way it happens in the 1986 movie The Fly, on a much slower, more gradual scale, recreating say, a new eye in about a few months. In evolution, disadvantageous traits are discarded in favor of more advantageous traits. Well, in the case of telekinetic, psionic, regeneration, it is best to replace the immune system's T cells with a psionic detection/destruction system that breaks foreign invaders in the body down to harmless atoms. Remember, I technically do not have multiple superpowers; what I have, really, are extensions of tactile psychic powers. I can even control quanta like gravitons to fly in outer space without an atmosphere to manipulate. That was what I had used to hover silently, off the tips of my feet without even touching the ground, killing high value targets, not a footprint to be found once I dispatched that pesky civil rights leader. I can be mutilated in ways never seen before and still come back for round two, like Jason Vorehees and Freddy Krueger, "explained Pierce, confident that the power set of serum twenty two was on average far superior to anything Vought could make, Compound V supes mere cannon fodder in comparison.
A/N: Arthur Luther Pierce is not a Nazi by any stretch of the imagination. Rather, he's that same old genocidal British colonizer that just so happens to think that Jewish people are genocidal colonizers who oozed their way into Europe from the Middle East, hoping to get revenge for their treatment as vassals of the Roman Empire. It is practically bred into him as a person, as his line stretches back thousands of years, a literal descendant of some of the worst tyrants Europe had to offer from the Middle Ages, ranging from King Edward Longshanks of England to many more tyrants who persecuted Europe's minority groups. They were loved by their subjects, for the most part, but the opinions of the general population can be very easily swayed by those in power, for the average person always appealed to authority. He's more of a Monarchist with some Fascist ideals thrown into the mix. Fascists do not concern themselves with such titles, seeing them as antiquated pseudo-religious bullshit like most contemporary humans do. In short, he's just a monarchists who just happens to believe in Charles Darwin's racist ideals, for he was born in that time period, that the planet belongs to Europeans, and Europeans alone.
He's not a sociopath or psychopath in the same vane as Stormfront and Homelander, because I am simply trying to show that men who are pushed over the edge, like Pierce, can be just as cruel and sadistic as any sociopath, perhaps more so, when you factor in the rage and passion they put into hurting their victims. Now, when Gorbacz killed Pierce's family, he wanted to destroy everything that man held dearest to him, making him beg for death before even entertaining the thought of killing him. It was like when Anakin slaughtered the Tusken raiders on Tatooine. It meant nothing to him. As far as he was concerned, he was killing animals, hostile animals that went into his home and killed his family. One does not have to be a sociopath to commit murder without remorse. That is a classic myth. Real life Human beings, even the sane ones, can be far, far worse than anything seen in fiction.