Several weeks later, every city center of the United Kingdom looked like a hellish warzone, with territories carved up by several aggressive factions, most of it taken by Africans and Muslims in their quest to turn Great Britain into an Islamic Caliphate. Europeans were around twenty percent of London's population, located around the outskirts of the city that was once one of the wealthiest, most powerful cities in Western history in centuries past. One may look at this situation as either a hopeless battle or the British people paying for their horrible crimes of colonialism; however, numbers were never on the side of Europeans in the past during their wars, and yet each time, they almost always came out on top as the victor. They were about to get a massive force multiplier that renders their enemies' superior numbers a non-issue.
Off in the skies, the Hammer of Europe was urgently flying to one of the armories, looking to seize a cache of weapons for the various far-right militias he was going to form to fight the restless invaders of Europe. In particular, these were American military bases, used to quickly ferry US troops to and from the Middle East when they suffered injuries their military forts' infirmaries were ill-equipped to treat. Inside, he would expect to find a large cache of M4 carbine rifles, M16A4s, M82 Anti-Materiel rifles, M1 Abrams tanks, and AH64 Apache longbow attack helicopters, the latter of which he would hope to find intact. Military vehicles would be a massive boost to the currently meager combat effectiveness for his militias. First, the Hammer of Europe was going to raid Upwood.
Hastily flying from the center of London to the Upwood USAF base in a matter of thirty seconds, he carefully scanned the area, looking for any plucky defenders occupying the base. Lo and behold, there were a dozen soldiers posted on prefab watch towers in a perimeter around the base. There was even a series of pesky Patriot Missile Defense systems located along that perimeter for extra anti-air support, those large missiles more than capable of blowing apart a C-list superhero like Stormfront with but a single, direct hit. Several C47 Chinook helicopters were heading straight to the military base, carrying what looked to be M1Abrams tanks on large steel pallets hoisted to the heavy-lifting aircraft.
This was terrible news. That meant that the United States Government had quickly gotten wind of the happenings in Europe, and were thus looking to quell the unrest with overwhelming force as any government would in times of extraordinary crisis. Nolan knew everyone inside of the United States government off of the top of his head courtesy of his father. He also knew that the United States government was quite slow to act in these types of situations. So, even if they did know of the happenings in Europe, it would take months or years for those ancient fossils in congress to come to a decision regarding Great Britain. Either way, he could only smile as the United States was inadvertently handing him weapons, just as they had the Contras. Come to think of it, it was not terrible news. American military contractors made the best weapons on Earth.
Nolan waited in the air above, patiently. The Chinook heavy lifting helicopters were air lifting M1 Abrams tanks into their sole source of force projection into the Middle East. It stood to reason that he wanted his militia to have those tanks to repel the United Kingdom's invasive species that have taken up residence in the country for the past sixty something odd years. His reason for waiting was simple: he did not want to damage the tank shooting the heavy lifting helicopters down with his mighty optical blasts. Instead, Nolan Pierce intended to let it land. Then once the tank made landfall, the Hammer of Europe intended to kill everyone there with those deathly particle beams that were his crystal green, fleckless eyes.
Diving down into the base, Nolan promptly strafed the soldiers on lookout atop the watchtowers. Two high energy beams of superheated plasma shot out of his corneas at nine-tenths the speed of the universal speed limit, mere friction alone being the source of their immense thermal energy. Instantly, the superheated relativistic, atmospheric particles made contact with the iron-carbon alloy that made up the strong scaffolding of the support. Atoms were split apart, releasing the energy equivalence of several high explosives almost immediately, one of the more predictable results of high energy particle collisions.
A series of loud explosions, each as strong as the bombs that rocked the foundations of the Oklahoma FBI Office in 1995, erased the watchtowers in a puff of smoke. The explosions were as bright as a thousand suns, causing even Nolan to shield his eyes from the bright luminance almost piercing his retinas. Those were what his beams created at full power, small nuclear explosions when a few grams of steel were annihilated by two beams of air particles colliding at almost the speed of causality. Nolan reckoned the resultant radiation would have the desired effect of immediately killing everyone in the military base, while also, more than likely, leaving the equipment free of radioactive contamination.
Radiation only irradiated an object if said object was covered in radioactive elements. In contrast to the garden variety nuclear explosion, these small nuclear explosions had the effect more resembling that of a neutron bomb, where the neutrons fly through the targets, completely breaking down their amino acids. Thus, it was just a swift blast of radiation that flickered harmlessly in a brief second. It left him with plenty of ammunition to scour off the smoldering corpses of the US soldiers for his militias.
"Just like in the Turner Diaries, but in this case, Earl Turner is a demigod," laughed Nolan Pierce.
Gently descending down to assess any potential damage to the essential supplies of his war effort, the Hammer of Europe could not help but think of how quickly the United States reacted to him and his father's reconquering of Europe. America normally took a long time to respond to anything, given that they were normally staffed with people too old to work at Walmart as a greeter. None of that mattered. Nolan was going to hand out his followers' top-of the line military hardware, as planned on one of the obscure Chan threads on an imageboard site accessible through Tor browser alone.
He found a whole treasure trove of weapons to use in his bloody crusade against the non-European invaders of the United Kingdom, all left perfectly intact despite the small nuclear detonations he caused with his pseudo heat vision. The fire arms, even in the hands of the soldiers who lie dead from a lethal dose of radiation, still had their personal weapons and plate carriers entirely intact for his militia men to use.
To his left, he found the prize of his raid, an intact M1 Abrams tank complete with reactive armor, high explosive shells to be used on clustered infantry targets, or rather, armed Islamic terrorists whom Nolan guessed to have smuggled weapons in from their home country. Bullets would bounce off the armor of that tank the same way bullets would bounce off of Nolan's nigh-impenetrable flesh. Main battle tanks were the perfect tool to use against infantry, particularly unsupported infantry with no access to anti-tank weaponry, armed only with curved swords. In layman's terms, a complete and utter bloodbath for the side without a combined arms strategy.
Lifting the tank up, Nolan immediately took it to the planned coordinates on the dark net imageboard website's politically incorrect board, in the dark woods surrounding London, at the very center of it. While the tank would be heavy to a Vought supe or cause them to sink into the ground like quick sand, it was as light as a feather, weighing only six-point-five kilograms to him. With his peak human body, that was pretty light, probably lighter than the rucksacks the militia he organized on the dark net wore on their backs. Soldiers had to carry in upwards of thirty kilograms. Nolan almost pitied soldiers for having to carry thirty kilos of rations, sleeping bags, and two hundred and forty plus rounds of reserve intermediate rifle cartridges.
In around five minutes, he was there. Tents were set up all in the woods around London, traditional camp fires set up around them to cook the MRE rations they were given, quietly stolen from the United States on his way back to the UK when he checked in with his father by the crate load. This war camp was not found out thanks to the constant chaos going on around the country, from the radical Islamic factions to the remnants of the UK military trying desperately to bring order to the cities. Moreover, even if the US did know of them, they would soon regret any attack made against it, since the Hammer of Europe's brutal reprisal would have been so much worse for them. Wars were won and lost in the accounting room, and he thus intended to make any attempt made by the United States Government an excessively costly, pointless, and bloody affair to even attempt to 'liberate' the country from him.
The Hammer of Europe gently placed the tank on the outskirts of the militia camp, somehow not sinking into the mud as the laws of nature would dictate when a bunch of force was concentrated over the extremely small surface areas that were his feet. He was not actually lifting it mechanically with his muscle. Rather, Nolan was suspending it in an invisible, tactile forcefield, only actually feeling six kilograms as opposed to tens of thousands. It was the very same power that granted him flight and his pseudo heat vision: psychokinetic power. He was using a form of telekinesis.
Once the tank was placed down, a man hastily came forth to greet the Hammer of Europe.
He had short, brown hair, shaved at the sides, sort of like a crew cut. The man was in his mid-late thirties, with the results of years of binge drinking showing in his mid-section, one of the people one might see at a football game, naked, painted in his team's colors. In addition, he wore black military fatigues that were held up by a leather belt that had a silver fasces for a belt buckle. His name was Colonel Tarleton, commander of Nolan Pierce's small yet powerful militia force.
"Is that fucking it? A tank not many of us have the skills nor the training to even begin making use of?" complained Tarleton, looking Nolan dead in the face.
Nolan promptly turned to face Tarleton, sighed, and came up with a response.
"No, that is not the only thing our army has. I am not forgetting the personal weapons. Within thirty minutes, I shall return with crates full of M4 Carbines, M16A4 rifles, 5.56 NATO ammunition cans, crates full of explosives, and much more. As I have said on the thread, we are few in number. Thus, we need all of the force multipliers to shift the battle in our favor with as many casualties on the non-White invaders' side as possible. Ideally, we do not want any of us to die. I shall have the guns in thirty minutes time," stated the Hammer of Europe, smiling at the end of his sentence.
Meanwhile, in the early afternoon, the US Congress was hotly debating on what actions to take in the United Kingdom, mainly the events that resulted from their government and infrastructure mysteriously going completely dark for the last several weeks. Last time they had heard from the UK government, it had been well over two weeks, with the country seemingly descended into complete lawlessness when a NATO force desperately clambered in to investigate. It was as if the whole country's central government disappeared in a flash, taken out in an apparent terrorist bombing on the Palace of Westminster. None of the politicians were found in the Palace of Westminster, not even a shred of their clothing found inside of the building. They did, however, find charred bone fragments and some radioactive trace elements created from the vast heat, like Ceasium-157, somehow created out of the thermal effects of the explosion.
As such, everyone inside of the Capitol Building was pretty uneasy after having heard the news that the House of Commons was entirely wiped off the face of the Earth by what must have been a nuclear explosion, a tiny one no more capable of leveling a small building.
"Are you sure nuclear weapons were detonated? Generally speaking, nuclear blasts, even small ones, do not leave the rest of the structure intact. Neither does it leave scorch marks the width of a human iris on cleanly sliced pieces of rubble. In fact, that would more closely resemble a directed energy weapon than any kind of nuclear weapon. It was as if someone had accelerated air molecules to near the cosmic speed limit. The density of air molecules would hit thousands of times harder than any subatomic particle we have smashed together at the CERN Large Hadron Collider, first and foremost. In addition to that, beams of relativistic atmospheric gas would be able to cut through any earthly armor we could make, up to a thousand millimeters of rolled steel in thirty seconds," stated a bald scientist in a wheelchair.
That scientist was Jonah Vogelbaum, former, disgruntled COO of Vought International, whose work led to the creation of Homelander, America's strongest supe. It would be something far stronger, at least to him, created all the way out in Europe or, more than likely, naturally born with those insane powers. Thanks to his scientific background, Vogelbaum knew that the energy required to emit such powerful lances of molecules would be the equivalent to the nuclear reactor on a Nimitz class aircraft carrier.
"With all due respect Vogelbaum, there is no way a bunch of dumb, drunken Irishmen could develop a particle beam weapon in order to destroy the British government from the inside. They would need to be carrying a truck-sized nuclear reactor, plus meter-thick lead walls to protect themselves from the lethal radiation," replied a geriatric man, speaker of the House democrats in the center of the room.
That man was Ishmael Goldberg, speaker of the House. Standing at around five feet, three inches tall and weighing two hundred and forty-five pounds of fat, he was your typical United States career politician, an almost cartoonish stereotypical career politician from the 1960s. Goldberg had a wrinkly, jowly face, a trait typical of a man whose been in office for the past sixty years, since the start of the Cold War. That was right. Ishmael was ninety-six years old, bravely serving in both World War II and the Korean War that followed. Goldberg was your typical career politician who refused to retire even as his age was catching up with him, as much as he constantly denied that fact to the Press. It was a fact that was becoming ever more apparent as time inevitably marched ever onward.
"Well, I can tell you with ninety-nine percent certainty, in over a dozen decimal places, that it was not a particle beam in the conventional ray gun sense, but in actuality, one of those superterrorists the government mysteriously encountered in the Middle East. With telekinesis, anything is possible. One can have the power to lift tanks and passenger planes as if they weighed nothing without sinking into the ground, fly in atmosphere and in a vacuum at mind-shattering speeds, and shoot particle beams out of their eyes through a process of focusing and thus accelerating air molecules to near the speed of light. In contrast, Homelander's ability to fly stems from gyro-kinesis, his strength is largely mechanical, and his optical beams are actually high-powered x-ray lasers, emitted from focusing his x-ray vision on smaller points of contact" answered Jonah.
Goldstein, however, was completely unresponsive to the answer he was given, only able to stare down Jonah vacantly as he was, for a brief moment, forgetting that he was even in the Capitol Building in the first place. He was not only struggling to remember what he was even talking about or why he was here, he was also struggling not to immediately soil his adult diaper. His dementia meds were losing effectiveness each and every day as he approached his one hundredth year alive.
"Sure," stated Goldstein, immediately freezing again, smiling
Seconds later, the matzo and gefilte fish Goldstein ate came bursting out into his adult diaper with a loud, wet flatulent clap unpleasantly heard throughout all of congress. Everyone next to him frowned in utter disgust as the rancid fumes made their way to them, causing the people next to him to struggle keeping their composure from the immensely heinous stench that should have been considered a war crime according to the Geneva Convention. Even Vogelbaum was not spared, and he wanted to be wheeled out of there before he died horrifically of asphyxiation.
Almost immediately, an extremely heavyset African American woman dressed in a pantsuit rushed from the back of the room, obviously his caretaker, and grabbed Goldstein by the arm.
"Ya'll, we're going to need a minute," she requested.
Even as an old man in his mid-sixties, Vogelbaum felt like he was in his twenties when compared to the rest of the geriatric United States congress. Everyone in there looked like they were far too old to drive a car, let alone run a country as complex as the United States. Jonah would not have trusted most of these people to greet him at Walmart. Yet here they were, deciding the future of millions of people as their cognitive faculties were rapidly diminishing. No wonder why Vought's competitors loved these old politicians; they were of such a diminished capacity that one could ask them to do anything. If anything, it proved the ancient, deranged, racist billionaire, Arthur Pierce's point about America in its dying phase, as any nation run by decrepit career politicians often did collapse into irrelevancy.
A few hundred miles away, at Vought Tower over in the Manhattan area, the Seven were once again sat around the table, noticing that the decrepit Democratic Speaker of The House had yet another freeze where he unceremoniously shat himself on live television. That was all they could see, someone who was supposed to be running the country forgetting where he even was and shitting himself in front of his fellow senior citizens. Not only that, it showed to the people sat around the corporate logo shaped table that they were defending a bunch of helpless morons, who could not help but elect dementia-addled, elderly fossils to rule them. US politics was a nursing home for the ultra rich, staffed with people far too old to drive a car, let alone perform a task such as running a complex country like America.
They were watching a repeat of the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, complete with the incompetent leadership, barbarians at the gate, and a large military stretched too thinly across the world to help its allies. Stormfront reckoned they would not respond in time to even help Israel, America's foremost ally in the War on Terror in the Middle East. Moreover, the United Kingdom was in the process of being conquered by an unknown faction. Vogelbaum thought it was a terrorist who had powers similar in appearance to that of Homelander, thanks to the scorch marks the width of a human iris found on the House of Commons' rubble. According to the TV, they were caused as a result of high energy particle collisions, massive particles, about the size of air molecules. She shuddered to think of a Muslim extremist with that kind of power set loose on the people of Europe.
"There are Muslim extremists preying on the population of the United Kingdom, and yet here we are, watching some centuries-old grandpa void his bowels on live fucking television because this shithole country cannot enforce age or term limits," whined Stormfront.
"We do not disrespect the elderly like those colonialist, ageist, fascists out in Europe. We allow them to have their voice in public discourse. Sure, some of them might be old or very old, but the fact that they still care about this country enough to run for re-election incessantly when they could have retired thirty or forty years prior really shows their strength in my opinion. More power to them," retorted Starlight, beaming with pride in her country.
"Dear lord, please tell me that was a joke," muttered Stormfront under her breath
"And there is a lot of evidence on places like 4Chan's Politically Incorrect Board that this super terrorist is a White Nationalist looking to destabilize Western society in order to retake it like in the climax of the Turner Diaries. If that be the case, there is not a whole lot we can do about him. The Hammer of Europe, or the God Emperor of Europe, is out of our domain. The European Union wants it dealt with by American soldiers. Word on the street says we're undisciplined. And on that front, US military bases constantly go dark. Those same scorch marks from two high energy particle beams are always found on the charred, smoldering mutilated corpses that were once US soldiers. Military bases were always looted, picked clean to the bones. Munitions and weapons presumed to have been handed to White supremacist terrorists according to CIA speculation," scowled Maeve with a look of annoyance, staring Stormfront dead in the face.
"According to the CIA, around two thousand M16A4 rifles, 400 M4A1 Carbines, two 155mm Howitzers, four crates of 155mm shells, four AH-64 Apache Longbow Attack Helos, seven M1 Abrams tanks, and a dozen crates full of hand grenades in addition to C4 charges," stated Homelander, browsing the Vought News Network website on his mobile phone.
"And all of that is going to an unknown terrorist organization, with likely White Nationalist and British Union of Fascist ties based on the incessant chatter from 's political board. There are even threads on those imageboards of Stormchasers, your fucking fanbase, talking about how they are siding with that elusive terrorist organization. Then there is all of the edgy memes being spammed on there from dark net Chan users, often posting images of men holding guns with dark photoshop filters. Take a look," stated Maeve angrily, again looking Stormfront dead in the face.
Queen Maeve raised her mobile phone to show Stormfront images of the various memes of the imageboard website that looked very much like an old forum from the internet of the 1990 to early 2000s. On the Politically Incorrect board of the website, the catalogue was flooded with threads that exceeded more than a thousand posts. There were those same images Maeve described.
On those images, there was a man holding an edgy, tacticool M16A4 assault rifle in his hands. In addition, that same man wore a plate carrier, hard body armor designed for the sole-purpose of protecting its wearer from intermediate to full power rifle cartridges. However, this plate carrier had something racist drawn on it with a white Sharpie, a Sonnenrade rune, otherwise known as a Germanic sunwheel. He also wore an intimidating mask. It was the standard ski mask, but there was something edgy on the lower mouth portions of it. A skull was painted on the lower portions of the ski mask, not the upper portions, but the jaw painted on it, with sharp, menacing teeth for the added intimidation factor. The thread title read: I am off to join the Struggle of the White British. Done optics cucking to civic nationalists like Stormfront. Time to accelerate the collapse of society so that a pure Aryan nation can be built over its buried carcass. Those last words were written in green text, each statement starting with the left-shift clicked period key to create that effect.
Then Maeve flicked down on one of thread. Immediately, her eyes widened in silent horror at what she had just seen on those MP4 files posted on those very threads. From reading her expression, Stormfront could tell, clear as day, that Maeve came across graphic snuff films. Of whom the victims were in those snuff movies may have been, she could not tell, though she felt a pit in her stomach that they were old, defenseless White British people, brutally butchered by Islamic invaders. Maeve nervously turned the phone's screen over to everyone else sat around the table, her hand shaking a bit.
In that video that was shot a few hours ago and hastily uploaded on an internet café in Paris, France, it showed a man dressed in black military fatigues of about six feet, two inches tall with natural pale blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and bicep muscles the size of Maeve's head. Then there was another man on his knees, this one brown in complexion, wearing a turban on his head. Not only that, there was blood pooling from behind his legs, which had implied to Stormfront that the Muslim man was brutally hamstrung. In addition to being hamstrung, the Muslim man's hands were sliced off, from the look of the bloody, clean stumps where his hands once were. Evidently, those wounds were left by that Medieval arming sword he was carrying in his right hand, forged recently based on its extreme sharpness which cut through the limbs and sinews of the Muslim with precision the likes of which Stormfront has never seen before.
"You like raping White children, bruv? Well, here you are, with your hands chopped off and your legs crippled beyond surgical repair. Next, I might chop off your bloody tallywhacker and two veg, and shove em' straight down your cakehole, you shitskin, muzzrat fuck," yelled the blond British man.
"That poor minor-attracted-person brutalized by that evil Nazi for merely expressing his sexual orientation," cried Maeve with a sense of righteous indignation.
"For fuck's sake! That fucker raped kids, and here you are feeling sorry for him," scowled Stormfront.
"Shut yo mouth, cracka ass bitch," yelled A-Train at Stormfront's very thinly veiled, hateful remarks.
What was scary to Stormfront was not the man killing the pedophile while incoherently screaming racial slurs in an incomprehensible British dialect, it was the fact Maeve, and from the looks of it, Starlight, too—were both siding with the child molester as if he was somehow an innocent victim of White supremacy. The way she saw it, there was an angle to work with here, that anyone against her beliefs was an apologist for pedophiles. The 'think of the children' angle had always worked, since time immemorial.
Inside of the lofty Pierce Tower master bedroom, Arthur and Maeve were having one of their weekly meetings. Of course, by weekly meetings, he was actually fucking her while she did him in the usual position on his forty-thousand-dollar ornate poster bed, the reverse cow girl. Surprisingly, for a woman of Maeve's age, she had a very tight vagina pressing down on both sides of his massive, girthy member with a dozen metric tons of force on each side, somehow not breaking his nearly iron hard cock. In spite of not holding back while having sex with him, Maeve had no idea, at all, that Pierce was a supe, in spite of the fact he could withstand rough sex with her without even minor injuries and looked to be twenty-four years old despite being born in 1933, officially. Pierce even had the energy of a young, twenty-four-year-old man, even more than her, during their sexual encounters.
"I thought I would have crushed your groin area, given your advanced age and what not," huffed Maeve, getting off of his pelvis, out of breath already while Arthur was ready for round two.
"Well, maybe I am snorting magical blue space coke that grants me psychic powers and immortality? Or even better, I was injected with a green serum which granted me immortality, telekinetic strength, and telekinetic durability, and lastly flight? No, I am just a mortal who happened to train hard enough at the gym, take cold showers, and eat well. In addition, I take the magical formula of Pierce-patented body lotion that preserves my skin in all its youthful glory," teased Pierce, smiling confidently, his dick still erect, covered in cum and cunny.
"Don't worry, Maeve. My baby gravy won't get you pregnant, as I am an eighty-seven-year-old man whose balls are shriveled up as you can so plainly see, clear as day," Arthur elaborated further with a big, confident grin on his face.
Maeve looked down to find that she was sopping wet, not with dew, but with Arthur Luther Pierce's cum, and practically enough of his semen to impregnate a small country. Old men did not produce that much spooge, especially when they were eighty to ninety years of age. At those ages, men typically had hypogonadism, resulting in whatever coming out of their urethras during climax being mostly inert squirts of ejaculate or puffs of powder. They were still technically fertile at that age; however, the chance of a man at that age range having a child was slim to none, even when the woman was undergoing her ovulation cycles, which Maeve was undergoing while she fucked him. Still, eighty-seven-year-old men did not have muscles like John fucking Cena.
"You can wash up in my shower. Careful. The shower set is more expensive than your apartment inside of Seven Tower, not that it isn't a respectable place, of course," he commented, noticing Maeve's groin area was covered in his cum.
"You really embody all of the worst aspects of British people, do you Arthur?" she replied, staring daggers of annoyance at him.
"Well, class is one of many things that separates Europeans from the dark savage races we have conquered throughout the ages. It really was a shame that the pathological altruism that was the Christian faith stayed our hand in our glorious conquest. There would be no one left to complain had the pilgrims simply shot dead every savage left and right. America would be the middle-class utopia it was when I was a lad, had Lyndon B. Johnson not signed this country away to a Middle Eastern slaver cult whose wishes were to turn this once great country of Nordic stock into a cattle ranch for their dusky farming equipment," replied Pierce.
"Yeah, yeah, you are lucky you are sexually appealing enough to get away with saying that shit," scoffed Maeve while she walked off to the bathroom to get cleaned before leaving.
Arthur loved the view of Maeve, from both the front and behind. She was everything a man like him could want in a woman, with large perky tits, fairly skinny waist, and a large, tight ass a man could bounce a quarter off of. Her face was pretty great, too, with not a blemish to be found on it, no acne scars that so many of the women he had fucked in his travels had just from the makeup they covered their faces with getting into their pores alone. Those breasts, however, were big enough for him to bury his face in them without the natural consequence of them sagging to the ground as gravity would normally dictate. One of the few perfect women left, as far as he was concerned.
Sure, the other women in the Seven were hot, too, but they were in the six and seven range, whereas Maeve was nearly a ten, almost as attractive as Felicia. The other two ladies in the Seven's roster were attractive, but the one who looked as though she raided a Hot Topic strongly resembled a woman he had a few sexual liaisons with in the 1970s, without her contacts and hair dye. The other, while attractive, was more of a seven out of ten in the looks department. Nothing spectacular in his mind.
Getting off his memory foam mattress, he stood up, hiding his erect cock underneath his silk house coat to avoid flashing his servants. One of them, an extremely attractive blonde maid from France, sued him for walking out of his bedroom with his morning erection. From that experience, he knows to keep his fly zipped, or in this case, tucked under his black, silk house coat with a Norse algiz rune on the back of it.
Once he made his way to the living room area of his home, he plopped himself down on the ornate Victorian era couch with those bumpy cushions made of a black mystery leather. Grabbing the remote off of the coffee table in front of him, Pierce turned on his one-hundred-inch LED smart television set, flicking the channels nervously straight to the Vought News Network. Cameron Colemon was making an announcement under the breaking news section, something to do with Europe. It was that type of news that often caught the attention of a man such as Pierce.
"In light of recent events, President Bernard Cohen has decided to begin military action in the United Kingdom to curb the recent attacks against minorities today with overwhelming force. To that end, he will be sending a dozen nuclear subs, a Nimitz class Aircraft Carrier, and ten Ticonderoga-class Missile Cruisers. They hope to saturate the United Kingdom with enough nuclear bombs in the hopes the immense heat will vaporize whomever this is. According to the Israeli Government, they are well aware of who it is and what his weaknesses are, if any," announced Coleman somberly.
"In other news, a Saudi Prince was returned today when his ransom was paid. Unharmed, he was not. They cut off all his arms, his legs, and sucked his eyes out with an industrial vacuum cleaner, and mailed them back to the Saudi monarchy demanding billions of dollars. Ashraf El-Salih had to pay ninety-two billion dollars to a group of White supremacists out in Sweden. The perpetrators were never caught," announced Cameron Coleman mournfully, changing the story to something else almost immediately, as the details were rather scarce about the UK for it to take center-stage on the news cycle.
That was bad news for Pierce's plan. Very bad.
A/N
I really doubt Vought Crime Analytics would be able to stop White supremacist terrorists from organizing cells on the enigmatic deep web. For one, it is only accessible via the Tor browser. Thirdly, not even the CIA can crack the extremely tight encryption of the dark net sites. They only had success in taking down sites that happened to have technically savvy insiders, who brought the sites down through a process called 'distributed denial of service', essentially spamming the servers with requests until it became too bogged down to even load properly. Then the site goes back up, if the site owner decides it is worth the effort.