Heavily armed militias aggressively patrolled the streets of London, the bodies of dead East Indians, Middle Eastern immigrants, and Africans piled up and unceremoniously burned. The gnarly smell of their burning cadavers filled the devastated streets of the city, with the occasional, loud burst of gunfire punctuating the filthy air whenever one of the scimitar-wielding Muslims was found. Another one went to the pile of burning corpses, doused with even more gasoline to ensure that they burn to ashes as quickly as humanly possible. A genocide of over twenty million plus people was a rather long and strenuous affair when one factored in the massive logistics of such an undertaking, more than likely taking years as to the supposed months their lord, the God Emperor of Europe, had promised. It was not like they even needed to be hunted down by the emperor's ruthless death squads, the artificial famines he caused was doing most of the heavy lifting. Many of the undesirable elements of England's populace simply dropped to the ground from lack of food, much too weak to move after starving to the point where they simply resembled an almost desiccated, walking corpse.
London was almost pitch black in the night, after the infrastructure had been swiftly taken down months earlier by their lord, lit only by the burning corpses of minority populations who had starved to death in the resulting famines. That region was back to being as homogeneously monochromatic as it was in the Middle Ages, minus of course, the Jewish and Romani peoples occasionally taking refuge in segregated ghettos away from the prying eyes of the intolerant, belligerent common folk. It was the land that the God Emperor of Europe had been dreaming of since he was a child, living as a test subject for a great portion of his miserable youth in an Israeli testing facility inside of a clandestine bunker in Mount Tabor.
Leonard Butcher was one of the bureaucrats of this new government tasked with the purpose of rebuilding the UK's ruined supply chains, namely its food supply. Leonard did not know where to even begin with such a herculean task as this. One of his ideas involved throwing the corpses of the dead invaders in barrels, mixing them with dirt, and using the corpses as a sort of highly potent fertilizer if the bones could be separated as well. He planned on grinding the skeletons down into a fine powder to mix with the fertilizer. This fertilizer would greatly enrich the soil of the United Kingdom's farms, even more so than the phosphorus-based chemical fertilizer that had been severely depleting the soil after too many uses of that land. In trying to find a way for the lord to supply his subjects with the 'bread' part of the bread plus circuses equation, he was feverishly jotting down notes on how to restore the agricultural quality of the crops at his ornate, maple wood desk.
His spacious office in the Palace of Westminster was lit with a measly candle, because the engineering corps of infrastructure was still struggling to figure out the extremely complex task of repairing transformers that were ruinously scorched by superheated plasma beams. The corps of engineering reckoned it would take in upwards of six to eight long months of desperately scavenging replacement parts from the supply warehouses no longer being stocked. No doubt, the powers of the world would have embargoed the UK in absolute horror over the terrible atrocities they had committed. Thus, the country needed to be self-sufficient in every possible economic categorization.
Not that he was complaining about the lack of electricity, between growing up with an abusive prick face of a father, this was the most power Leonard had ever been afforded in his wretched life. Why, he even got to live in a mansion fit for a lord when his abusive, worthless parents died, after Africans brutally hacked them up for food during the recent famines. He imagined their pained screams, always soothing his trauma of his abuse at their hands. He got a mansion while they got a pauper's grave for what was left of their severely mutilated, picked to the bone bodies. Oh yes, it was poetic justice in Leonard's mind after all of the suffering he had to endure.
In fact, what happened all across the United Kingdom felt like poetic justice in Leonard's mind—from his parents horrifically buying the farm, to the Zionist Occupation Government meeting its grisly fate at the hands of White Supremacists, who, for the past forty plus years, have been threatening to hang them from the lampposts. To which, they made good on their promises, once their Netflix and Olympus Prime subscriptions were suddenly taken out with the entire UK power grid. While Leonard never really harbored any ill-will towards Jewish people, he did really despise the Muslim population for stabbing his brother, William, to death when they were teenagers.
To Leonard, this new UK was an absolute utopian heaven of a society, in spite of the egregious fact he might have to wait several months for the country's power grid to be restored. In the meantime, he had the drudgery of figuring out agricultural methods that did not involve the use of now scarce fertilizer imported in through the Middle East. The oil, that is, for making them. That was where the idea for using corpses came in, as rotting corpses were one of the very things plants had loved since time immemorial. It would also score the United Kingdom points with the sustainability crowd, not that it mattered because they were all a bunch of communist lunatics at any rate. The Mighty God Emperor did not care for the moronic opinions of communistic rubes; thus, why should Leonard?
Still, there was only a few months' worth of rations, and that, sadly, was rapidly dwindling with each and every passing day; plus, there was a lot of corpses that could find a use instead of stinking up the already battered streets of the UK. Thus, he was writing the final words of his corpse recycling proposal, where the flesh was stripped from the bone, the bones ground into a fine powder, and the flesh placed into a barrel of dirt to decay into perfect, potent, organic fertilizers. It was a revolutionary idea, never tried before in all of human history, even by some of the most wretched regimes in history like the Soviet Union and Mao's China's standards of human decency. But there was no other choice. The United Nations Human Rights Council did not consider the UK to be a nation, just an intolerant, racist entity, not fit to exist in the modern world, let alone prosper at a first world living standard.
When he finished the final touches of his proposal, Leonard was about to hand it over to the God Emperor of Europe himself. The only problem was, he was off in his inner-sanctum, formerly known as Buckingham Palace, no doubt putting his little God Emperor into his many fine consorts on the other side of the city. Thus, Leonard's proposal of improving the country's food production will have to wait until morning, which worried him greatly because of the ever-present threat of a Malthusian food shortage.
Thus, he carefully put his proposal in a file folder. Yes, a physical one. Computers needed a lot of electricity to run basic operations like word processing, and even the smaller, lowly mobile phone had run out of power a month ago. Once his work was stored away, he pinched the candle light out, except for that one to guide him, and carefully made his way to the exit of the Palace of Westminster.
Many of the rooms were completely, thoroughly, and utterly trashed when the God Emperor of Europe had seized power in the country. Everywhere in the dark, pitch-black hallway was littered with rubble and other detritus when the God Emperor kicked a door down so hard the thing may as well have been an 81mm mortar shell with the amount of kinetic energy it held. Ragged, uneven holes the approximate radius of a metal door were found leading the way to the flaming brazier-lit lobby, the armed guards protecting the entrance seen even through that hole of light.
When Leonard made his way to the lobby, he looked to notice a large crack in the limestone around six feet across, made when the receptionist came hurtling toward the ceiling at near supersonic speeds. There was no more blood to be found. The Master of Europe made sure that the Palace of Westminster would eventually be restored to its former glory, before the Zionist Occupation Government forced his hand into action.
Leonard was extremely tired from feverishly working on the country's present supply issues and wanted to get some shut eye. From the looks of the sky overhead outside, he could tell that it was roughly midnight based on the positioning of the moon in the dark, smoke-choked night. On the road, there was a limo waiting for him, with the chauffer outside holding the door open for him so he did not have to bother opening it. One of the armed guards, a redheaded man in his late thirties, opened the already replaced exit door in turn for Leonard, treating him as if he were a member of one of the higher echelons of society, almost like nobility.
Meanwhile, across the pond, Arthur was sat on his comfy leather, top of the line gaming chair, glued to his computer screen, playing a session of Grand Theft Auto Online just after his lunch. A fun game, he would ironically play as a black person in a dark gray business suit. His avatar also had an afro hairstyle to perfectly complete his caricature of a black person, mainly the 1970s blaxploitation film era caricature of an African American male, specifically. On the microphone, he would sound like a black person, addressing team mates with racial slurs in a phony African America accent just for the fun of it. Also, it added a sense of realism playing as a criminal black man when in these sorts of murder simulation type games for Arthur Luther Pierce. Plus, it was funny, dressing up like the man from the Habo Hotel "Pool's Closed" prank during the early 4Chan days.
He was robbing a bank with some randoms he met during online matchmaking, one of the most difficult ones, Pacific Standard Bank. Of course, since his virtual money went into paying for the initial setup costs of each heist item, Arthur's username, TyroneBixNoodMuhfugguh, requested the largest slice of the cut, while everyone else got the measly table scraps of the heist. It was fair. After all, he invested the time to set it up, get all of the equipment through insanely grindy missions, and make it to this point while all of the others were off managing their virtual businesses. It was only fair that he, the facilitator, got the lion's share of the whole virtual operation.
A moment of sheer panic gripped Pierce while playing, hoping that the Chinese players who joined his heist would not suddenly leave the match to be a massive dickhead, as so many players like to do on GTA Online for the sole purpose of internet trolling. That was a common practice in matchmaking, where players would join the heist, start it, then promptly quit to piss off the host for fun. These toxic online practices among the player base greatly annoyed Pierce, in addition to the occasional hacker deciding to immediately destroy his shipment of weapons for a pittance of two thousand in game dollars. That amount of money was barely enough to fill up one's ammunition of certain firearms; thus, it was purely there to encourage in app purchases.
Getting angry just thinking about it, he took a deep breath and focused on hopefully being able to complete this in game heist without one of the Chinese players leaving the match for fun, or worse yet, using his hacks on his third-party cheat software to grief everyone until they ragequitted. That would not be fun for anyone. Not fun, indeed.
Thus, the game eventually started when the Chinese player was done readying and unreadying in the match lobby to be a gigantic dickhead after two straight hours of waiting for the rest of the lobby to start it. These missions would normally only take about thirty- or forty-minutes tops to complete, so there was already a red flag someone was going to grief him.
When the match started, a moment of sheer rage over took Arthur when a massive explosion erupted all over the computer screen, killing every player, over and over again, until the heist had failed completely. Arthur was so angry he was resisting the urge to crush that fancy, RGB gaming mouse on his desk. Why, he wanted to toss his desk, computer, and everything else from the West coast to the East Coast. Hell, Pierce even had the immense strength required to do such a thing, too. And his whole company had an army of spin doctors more than capable of explaining away the phenomenon as a lab experiment went horrifically wrong in the research and development department.
"Cheating fucking slant. I will fly over to China, kill your mom, fuck her corpse, and pluck your arms and legs off, you filthy fucking chinksect. Stick to League or Ark Survival Evolved, you faggot ass, slant-eyed little bitch," yelled Arthur loud enough to literally wake the dead from their eternal slumber on his fancy, Razor headphones.
Going back to the free roam mode of GTA Online after two long hours of loading into it despite the egregious fact that his bleeding edge gaming PC has dual, blazing fast four terabyte m-dot-two solid state drives, Pierce was unfortunately gifted with a notice on his screen that caused him to both-literally and figuratively-shake with immense rage.
"Due to your extreme toxicity, Rockstar Games has decided to ban your account until the year December 31st, 9999. Have a nice day, TyroneBixNoodMuhfugguh," read the notification in the center of his screen.
"For fuck's sake," yelled Pierce, his voice booming. "Fucking twitter, trust-fund millennial faggot, retards have taken over the moderation of all my favorite fucking video games for the last four fucking years. FUCK! As one of your paying customers, my response is this, 'go and get fucked up the ass by a pozzed faggot, you gigantic fucking, ass munching, shitskinned POOFTA! Hopefully, you will contract a drug resistant strain of the HIV virus and die a horrific death, avoided like the plague-pocked faggot you are, you piss colored piece of fucking shit. Faggot! Faggot! Poof! Poof!"
Enraged, he ripped his microphone from his head, carefully disconnected it from his precious computer since all semiconductor manufacturing was located in England, and gently tossed the microphone out the window, where it would fly to the Eastern Coast of America. Of course, it completely shattered the glass windows on impact as it instantly disappeared into the skyline above the city of Portland, Oregon. To the ignorant public, the Razor headset appeared as just yet another unidentified flying object that somehow left Pierce Tower under mysterious circumstances.
After having tossed it, Pierce was so enraged he was hyperventilating. The only person that was able to soothe his Viking-like berserker rage has long since passed away several decades ago, just prior to the tumultuous conclusion of the second world war. Thankfully for the people inhabiting the United States, he was able to calm down after having years of progress being wasted by someone half way across the world, cheating, then having the arrogant audacity to report him for cyberbullying when he lashed out with righteous indignation. He walked into the main area of his penthouse apartment, gently taking a seat so as not to accidently break the now priceless furnishings.
Off the smooth, polished coffee table, Arthur grabbed his remote and flicked the channel straight to the Vought News Network, where Cameron Coleman was doing an interview for the loathsome, vile Abram Diamond. While VNN was a staunchly conservative outlet, it was not a true right-wing outlet, as far as Pierce was concerned. Rather, the Vought News Network was but a contrarian rage farm focused on merely disagreeing with the current liberal agenda. From where Pierce sat, he was pensively looking through a time capsule of liberals ten years late to the party. That was what republicans and conservatives were to Pierce, a bunch of contrarian liberal hipsters who desperately wanted things to return to what they were ten years ago, socially speaking. Why, these right-wingers were including disgusting degeneracy, like Lady MAGA, to sell the idea of the Republican Party to the transgender community, pretty much compromising on all of its founding principles. He hated the idea of compromise with a burning, fiery passion. That was all what conservatives were, a bunch of spineless, sycophantic cowards. Pierce, ironically, had a much higher opinion of radical leftists like Antifa, because at least some of them were one bad day away from joining his cause.
"Yeah, yeah, Israel is our greatest ally and all that other conservacuck bollocks. Next!" groaned Arthur.
Then there was a long commercial break sponsored by the Vought Rifle Association whining incessantly over and over again about how the genocidal violence against minorities in the United Kingdom would be used as a pretext for the democrats to take away firearms from the American people. In fact, some of the people were even complaining that if the British Non-Whites were armed like in the American Second Amendment sort of way, they would be able to quickly organize and defend themselves from their genocide. They were correct. All they had to defend themselves were knives, which the UK had already strictly regulated thanks to the constant threat of being stabbed for so much as existing as a vaguely Caucasian person in London.
"The only thing you dicksucking, closeted homosexuals have ever conserved was American tax dollars to the Jewish apartheid state. If I were president, I would tell those hook-nosed, goat shaggers to accept all non-Whites and White homosexuals as refugees in the name of tolerance and diversity in order to give those parasites a taste of their own medicine for a few decades until their country turns into a third-world shithole," laughed Arthur with a sneer.
"H14 raped my wife so badly she killed herself," Arthur cut off, pausing the tv in a fit.
"No, he did not. My son would not waste his precious White, Aryan seed on such a vile, malformed pest. What he did, really, was do what you did to him as a child, which was shove glowing, white-hot pieces of rebar up her twat and cornhole. You kikes are just so moronic. That is not rape, that is torture, the same type of torture you fucking Arabic sadists inflict on your betters in the death camps over at the Soviet Union. All your people can do is lie, deceive, and coerce your genetic superiors until they inevitably grow weary and gut you like a fish," ranted Pierce, foam coming out of his mouth.
"Sadly, the stupid, worthless sheeple will believe all your crocodile tears," sighed Pierce
"Now to silence Cameron Coleman," thought Pierce out loud, reaching for the mobile phone on his desk next to him.
Across the country, an alleyway around Seven Tower was covered in an ocean of trash and detritus the average person could sink up to their knees into. Maggots slickly slithered all over the garbage, their instincts drawing them to the rotting remains of New York's poorly disposed of food products. It reeked of a combination of human shit and piss, almost like climbing down into a sewer main and taking a whiff of all the waste that carelessly flowed into the oceans. People, in the adjacent apartments, would simply toss their garbage out the window, often times including the horrid excrement of their pets. Litter boxes were also emptied out onto this alleyway, high up above, like filled chamber pots. This third-world microcosm was to be expected in a low-income housing district, sadly, so nothing would ever be done about this sort of egregious behavior by the other residents.
There was, however, a vagrant living there, an emaciated, wretch of a man by the name of Hugh Campbell. He was around six feet, two inches tall, covered in wheal marks all across his body from the constant use of heroine after A-Train carelessly ran through the love of his life like she was a bug hitting the windshield of his car. Hugh blew through the forty grand as if it were pocket change, turning to heroine and meth over the past two years. His father quickly disowned him after he ripped all the copper plumbing out of the house to support his meth and heroin habit once all the money immediately dried up. Copper pipes, drugs, and the occasional visit to the Vought-A-Burger for food were his only focuses in life from then on.
Next to him was a shopping cart full of copper piping. If he turned that into the nearby scrapyard, Hugh could potentially have enough money to support himself on food and drugs for the next three to four weeks alone. He took it from someone's house while high on enough methamphetamines to floor an elephant seal that day. His memory was a little rusty that day. Campbell had no idea what happened to the owners of the house.
Wheeling his haul of copper pipe to the local scrap dealer not too far away from where he was squatting, Hughie craned his head to the left, to a TV store. Apparently, someone broke into the house of A-Train's brother, crushed his skull with a golf club, and tore all the copper plumbing out of his local brownstone a few blocks from where Hugh was living in the trash. Campbell nervously thought to himself for a few second that it must have been another drug addict and made his way to the local scrap dealer, not far from where he lived.
In view was his lifeline, Schlomo's Scrap Dealing. The owner of that generous establishment was an Orthodox Jew, who normally looked down upon Hugh with revulsion when he had the great displeasure of dealing with a customer whose grey sweat pants were soaked in piss and caked in dried excrement; however, money was money. The amount Hugh was getting was peanuts compared to what he made. He cared not of the source of the scrap metal; he never asked those questions. Schlomo only cared if he could collect his daily bread off it. At the end of the day, money talked, bullshit walked.
Everyone he saw looked down on Hughie with his scraggly beard filled with bits of rotten food, maggots occasionally crawling down from his beard and on to his shopping cart filled with copper plumbing, still covered with bits of dry wall. His hands were covered in the closed-off scabs of old wounds, constantly cut so much his skin may as well have formed callouses as an adaption from having to incessantly tear it out. In fact, Hugh was quite strong for a severely emaciated homeless fellow.
He actually sneered when his malfunctioning, drug addled neuro-circuitry computed that A-Train's brother's head was bashed in with a golf club, and his nieces and nephews, too, all by some random crackhead. All that unnatural speed, all that strength, and A-Train's might was worthless against some random crackhead who wanted to just steal some things to get his fix. Poetic justice it was to Hughie after his whole life went down the shitter, all thanks to that one man allowed on the Seven because he was diverse.
Schlomo's Scrap Dealing Emporium was a rather small, family-owned operation about the size of an autobody shop, two freight bays near the entrance where supplies were delivered and melted down into more useable products. For all Hughie would know if he was still sober was that the place gave off a money laundering vibe for organizations like the Russian Mafia; however, Hugh only had meth, heroin, and food on his atrophied brain, so he did not care. Smoke also rose from two smoke stacks, which entered Hughie's nostrils, burning them almost completely numb. It was rather obvious Schlomo had friends in high places if he could violate EPA regulations so brazenly.
Now, there was a stair well that Hugh needed to climb, and even though wheels and stairs never mixed well, he decided to force up three hundred pounds of copper pipes up the stairs with all of his feeble might. He used his legs to push the load, and his hands to manipulate it, up those few steps into Schlomo's Scrap Dealing Emporium.
Once it was up the stairs, Hugh was completely pooped, his heart racing at more than four times its regular rate thanks to the immense strain on his body. He had just quickly pushed what was three times his overall body weight up a small stairwell to the entrance of the scrap emporium. He felt super, in a peak-Human, Master Chief from the Halo expanded universe sort of way, quickly pushing three times his overall body weight in copper, plus the weight of the shopping cart, up a symmetrically bumpy incline. He felt proud of that. He felt like a man's man.
Inside, the customer service area was filled to the brim with homeless people looking to trade all of the copper looted from the local construction sites for the sole-purpose of paying their gigantic drug tabs. However, in each of Hugh's hands was around forty pounds of copper pipes, a much larger amount than what those rank amateurs were taking in from their capers. Of course, given the clientele, the whole customer service reeked of piss and shit, like stepping off the Tarmac in to India. Thankfully, Campbell's sense of smell was mostly gone from the constant, horrid, fumes put off by the Emporium.
Schlomo came up to greet the costumers with a look of disgust on his face. He had a diminutive stature of about five feet, three inches tall and was a very portly man despite his young age of around twenty-six years old. His nose was so large that it was there two minutes early where ever he went. Schlomo's eyes were small, dark brown, and expressionless for the most part. His chin was almost completely absent. Schlomo was a living, breathing, Ratatouille character brought to life in a live-action format, with a sloping, low, neanderthal like forehead. As for his hair, it was a curly, oily ebon color like his traditional brimmed hat and silk, with the exception of white shawls with the typical blue hexagram on each one.
"Vho invited the entire third world in here? It schmells like a Vhite trash version of India!" complained Schlomo, looking on everyone with disgust.
"Ugh, we're here for our money that you pay for copper plumbing," answered Hugh with an incredulous, cynical look on his face.
"Right!"
"You all are flooding market with copper plumbing. Get ze hell out here, you filthy goy trash until you come back with something a little more… valuable," yelled Shlomo.
"You know what, fuck this kike! He thinks he can refuse us business when there is one of him and ten of us, all crowded in the same room. Let's just beat the shit out of him, trash his business, and take his money—by force, yelled a red-haired, potato-faced crackhead.
"Yeah," yelled all of the druggies in unison.
In a quick flash, Hugh walked out of there, obviously not wanting to get involved in a robbery with a bunch of drug-addled rednecks who have been without their fix of meth and heroin for way too long. There were cameras that linked all the way to Seven Tower, and he knew such a high-profile, racially motivated homicide would draw the lethal ire of either A-Train or Stormfront. Still, Hughie did not feel sorry for Shlomo on account of him being a racist piece of garbage himself, insulting his customer base and arrogantly expecting their business like he was god's fucking gift to Humanity. Fuck that piece of shady garbage who was finally getting his fucking comeuppance after years of screwing people over, because his god said other groups of people were created purely to serve him; therefore, it was okay to lie and cheat others so long as they were the goyim.
He pushed his cart down the stairs, the speed and force totaling the Tesla parked outside of Shlomo's Emporium, which Hugh assumed to be Shlomo's car. Well, if he's going to be paying for his medical bills, disability modifications to his home, and his trashed car he may never again be able to use thanks to the brain damage he would receive, he should be cleaned out of all his money.
Pulling the shopping cart full of copper out of the massive dent it made in the Tesla, Hugh made his way to another scrap dealer, looking off in the distance at Vought Tower for doing this to him. Some so-called superhero ran into his girlfriend, instantly splattering her all over Campbell's body like a busted open can of chunky salsa, and yet she was in the wrong for standing a foot off the fucking curb. After that, his father disowned him completely for ripping out the house's copper plumbing to sell for scrap metal to buy his drug money he so desperately needed. No woman in their right mind would ever want to sleep with a thirty-year old drug-addict covered in hair, boils, and caked in his own filth. He only wished A-Train had the decency to finish him, right then and right there. That was the only way that bastard could do right by Hugh now.
Lo and behold, A-Train suddenly appeared out of the blue, his immense shockwave shattering the windows across this whole poor, rundown city block of Manhattan. Unsurprisingly, A-Train had an angry look on his face, no doubt due to a member of the homeless community killing his entire family with a golf club so that they could rob the place uninterrupted. All Hughie could do upon seeing A-Train was sneer on in contempt at the irony of the whole situation. For once, he experienced loss at the hands of someone who was not a supe, but one of those people he so ungraciously calls insects on windshields to him.
"Wait a muthafuckin' second. I recognize you. I ran through yor bitch about a year or two ago. Yeah. And dat gave ya da right, didn't it? To kill muh brotha, muh sista in law, and muh nephews, ya privileged, craka ass muthafucka?" snarled A-Train like a wild beast.
"I did not kill them," denied Hugh with a contemptuous sneer.
"Yor prints were all ovah da house, ya worthless, fuckin' cracka," cried A-Train, tears trickling down his face.
Everyone's eyes were fixed on A-Train as he was staring down the homeless bum that day, like a scene eerily similar to that of an old western starring the great John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. Two people from varying social classes of society were about to face one another, one a wealthy, privileged black man and the other a poor, down trodden White dude who was only really privileged in theory. Everyone there was rooting for A-Train that day, waiting for the inevitable when he would cut through Hugh Campbell with his immense super speed, splattering his body all over the streets. Race relations were at an all time low since the 1930s thanks to the terrorist acts of those fascists out in Britain; thus, the American people were rooting for A-Train, for the news media said it was the fashionable thing to do.
Just before A-Train charged Hugh, something miraculous happened that fateful day. A comet came hurtling towards the Earth at ten times the speed of sound, thunderously crashing into A-Train.
A-Train's right leg was completely and gruesomely severed when a projectile struck him and the pavement below where he was standing with the force of a 155mm Howitzer shell in terms of sheer kinetic energy release. The acrid smoke from the crater near in the asphalt smelled of molten plastic, circuitry, and copper from where Hugh stood. It must have been some headphones, Razer brand to be exact, thrown across the country by someone like Homelander in terms of strength.
No doubt Hugh felt a smug sense of satisfaction knowing the A-Train's career was pretty much over. All of Vought's doctors and all of Vought's surgeons could not put the A-Train back together again. For one, the stump was jagged and unevenly made, ultimately making it impossible for even the best, worldly trauma surgeon to replant it. Secondly, his entire femur was shattered into a fine dust the very moment that object made contact with his leg. His other leg was not spared, either, cooked so thoroughly that it was charred and shriveled up, its muscles burned to stone and the skin nothing more than charcoal.
Hugh confidently walked over to A-Train, taking great pleasure knowing that he was on the ground bawling his eyes out through his tinted glasses at his future prospects in life, no doubt. He knew that Vought would just dump his worthless, crippled ass on to the streets of New York, knowing that there was no money to be made on a double amputee superhero. Hugh grabbed some pebbles out of the smoking crater and sadistically rubbed it on A-Train's ragged stump, smiling through his filthy, scraggly hobo beard like a creep.
"And now, you're just another welfare recipient living a quiet, irrelevant life in the projects," smiled Hughie with a sadistic grin.
"I guess god really does smile on us worthless, privileged crackers," cackled Hughie before hauling off his shopping cart full of copper pipes.
He was right. Unless A-Train was wounded in a racially motivated way, he would not receive any fame or money for losing one of his limbs that were insured for a hundred million dollars each. That policy only paid to Vought International for potential lost profits, not to him, the amputee who, just prior, blew through his fortune as fast as he could make it. Only now did he regret his financial decisions, investing money into worthless shit like crypto and non-fungible tokens. Nothing mattered anymore. He was injured, not by the racist, evil white devil, but by pure, cosmic chance from the sky far up above him not under his control.
"Kill me!" screamed A-Train.
"Kill me!"
A/N: In this section of the chapter, I really describe the desperate nature of the supply shortages facing the United Kingdom with its lack of food due to the lack of electricity. In addition, I go into a grisly solution to fix the problem afflicting the country in the form of manufacturing a certain Soylent Green inspired fertilizer. In addition, Hugh Campbell becoming a drug addict in this timeline makes way too much sense to me after his girlfriend died. Assuming he doesn't top himself, that is.