How does one commit suicide by shooting themselves in the back of the head? That was the question that was running circles around in Homelander's head once he saw Cameron Coleman's corpse inside of his apartment, face down in a pool of his own blood. Using his x-ray vision, Homelander could only see a ragged crater where Coleman's face once was, blown out where two .45 caliber hollow points made their mark. There was virtually nothing left of his facial bones, all scooped out by two hollow point rounds by the looks of it. The mechanics of this suicide seem to be outright impossible as the first shot had already perforated Coleman's brainstem. He should have been dead before he even hit the ground.
However, based on the suicide note on the coffee table before the television set, which was not even in Coleman's handwriting, Homelander's hands were tied in the matter. The Seven could not investigate further, meaning they have to go back to HQ and compartmentalize what they just seen.
Stormfront nervously grabbed a collection of files with a blue hexagram on it. The words of it were written in Israeli Hebrew, so Homelander and the other members present at Coleman's apartment suspected nothing. They had all assumed nothing of it because she looked Jewish; however, she always told them that she was a Catholic White American of Southern French and German ancestry whenever that was brought up by the marketing team as a way to find an antithesis to the God Emperor of Europe for the upcoming Dawn of the Seven, with the main antagonist, the God Emperor of Europe himself. Diamond's rants were used as the framework for the villain's tragic backstory.
"There is no fucking way this was actually a suicide, Homelander. For one, he was shot twice in the back of the skull, with the first bit of blood spatter hitting the couch where Vought Forensics was able to dig out a deformed .45 caliber slug out of the frame of the couch. Then there was the other slug dug out of a toddler's foot a floor below. This was a contract killing and a very sloppy one at that. Lastly, there was the suicide note, so poorly composed it was, that I actually thought his son wrote it. For all his bluster about shooting all of the Jewish kids in his school, the little prick does not have the balls to do nothing other than whine about being beaten up to his fellow edge lord losers on 4chan," stated Starlight.
"It is," retorted a stocky NYPD officer.
That officer was named Carmine Maroni, the New York Police Department's Police Lieutenant. He was sent in due to the high-profile nature of this supposed suicide overseeing Vought's collective investigation into the matter.
A stocky man of about five feet, nine inches tall, he was tough as nails, his face covered in several scars from his early years of his career, patrolling crackhead alley. He wore a bullet proof vest with the New York Police Department initials on his back. His badge was hidden underneath the aramid vest.
"You are being crazy, Starlight. Multiple gunshot suicides are not a new thing. Sometimes the suicide victim misses their brain, tears their face off, and then immediately tries again knowing that he will live out the rest of his days as a blind, deformed invalid. This shit ain't new, toots," explained Maroni
"Both the fucking entrance wounds are at the back of Coleman's skull with tight fucking grouping, might I add. How is he cognizant enough to angle the gun straight for the back of his head for a second shot when the first shot already took out half of his brain matter and hamburgered the rest of it. It makes no fucking sense whatsoever," complained Starlight.
Stormfront walked over to Starlight, Israeli Dossiers on Arthur Luther Pierce in her left hand, and patted Starlight on the shoulder to comfort her with her free right hand.
"No need to overthink it, Starlight. Coleman was a sycophantic piece of garbage who could not live with the fact that he was sucking Benjamin Netanyahu's mutilated skin flute for a great story like any worthless gadfly. But once the guilt set in when he realized he was betraying the only thing standing between his people's survival or their enslavement and extermination, he could no longer live with being a pathetic traitor and killed himself. The bastard threw out his own son because he didn't not align with his pathetic cuckolded belief system. He's probably taking it up the ass with Satan's rock hard, flaming cock for all eternity. Nothing of value was lost this day. Just another replaceable fucking sycophant. Nothing more. Nothing less," reassured Stormfront.
"Yeah, I somewhat agree with Stormfront here," said Homelander with an assured smile. "Good ol' Edgar will have this schmuck replaced within a week. This case is not worth losing any sleep over."
"In addition, it is not like what happened here is exactly without precedent. Garry Webb shuffled off this mortal coil the same way as Coleman, and you know what, nobody gave a fuck that it was an obvious homicide. Once a suicide note is composed, the police immediately declare it an open and shut case. Simple as that," interjected Maeve in a cynical 'seen it all' tone of voice.
"Doesn't this all seem a little odd to any of you. First, the UN got wiped off the fucking map in a massive C4 explosion, which may I remind you all, was stolen from the military base in South Africa quite fucking recently. Fuck, the explosion that took out the UN happened when we were investigating the theft. Why, Cameron Coleman was going to do an expose on Pierce that could have him being dragged in front of the Hague for the attempted genocide of Israel's population. You know, the massive mushroom cloud that went off, completely flattening Tel Aviv in 1985. It was as if a Human sized bullet traveling at a significant fraction of the speed of light caused the air molecules to collide with each other, creating an immensely powerful fission explosion the likes of which this world has never seen. Millions died. Millions more perished from the burns and radiation. Of course, the US government had assured most of the survivors hiding in underground bunkers that the mass destruction was caused by an alien with Nordic features; however, Pierce's son was kidnapped that day. Motive and opportunity," stated Starlight, her brow furrowed as if puzzled.
"Pierce had an alibi," replied Homelander coldly.
"Yes, and they do not mean shit when you can fly to other country's the same way you drive to the grocery store a few blocks away. Pierce never made a public appearance for three years after 1985. It lines up with him being gravely wounded by the nuclear blast, his spinal cord being pierced by a piece of rebar traveling at thirty times the speed of sound, enough kinetic energy to go through nine meters of rolled steel. When he showed up again in 1988, he was skinny, lithe actually, at around one hundred and ninety eight pounds at six feet, five inches tall. He was built like an Abrams tank before and now, with muscles on top of muscles like Dolph fucking Lundgren. I am not one hundred percent certain, but all of these events greatly benefited the God Emperor of Europe, and the recent assassination benefited Pierce as well. After a while, there's no such thing as coincidences. Pierce is obviously the mastermind when you use the basic pattern recognition God gave us," answered Starlight with a strong hint of annoyance.
"Patterns don't stand up in court, tootsie," replied Carmine.
Several beams of energy came crashing down onto the outskirts of several cities in Saudi Arabia, going in large flashes of blinding, lethal light as the beams made contact. Several explosions, each cloud shaped like a toadstool, went high up in the sky that day, their shockwaves causing large puffs of dust to send vehicles on the roads tumbling over. These mushroom clouds were not nuclear in nature. Instead, they seemed more likened to conventional explosions the size of a building, stretching no higher in the sky than three hundred or so meters in height.
From where Jamir Al Assad was looking up, it was as if these beams came straight from outer space, the air up above superheated to an intense blue flame. These were kinetic kill weapons, not meteorites. Assad could tell. Had they been meteors, there would be no rhyme or reason to the strikes, yet they all targeted infrastructure, with pin-point laser like precision. These were not cities; these were power stations. Whomever was behind the orbital attack studied the country's weaknesses as well. It was so well coordinated, well thought out that no tactician in history had ever thought of taking out the power grid in one quick attack.
Jamir could see just one of the large explosions standing on a watchtower looking from a far with his binoculars. He went down to the rest of the military base, and everything was quite frantic. Soldiers were running around, clambering for the landed helicopters in the slim hope that the obsolete Saudi military could quell the mass panic. That was what Jamir thought was going on when he saw that beam of light strike a power plant all the way up in the higher portions of the atmosphere from where he was looking with his binoculars. The light of it was so bright his eyes were still watery, blurry from the experience at the sides of his vision.
Jamir also desperately ran the dirt path along to one of the helicopters, some outdated UH1 Heuy Transport choppers the US sold to the country when they were obsolete, superseded by the stronger UH60 Blackhawk in the 1980s. It was almost full to its capacity of seven people, with Jamir being the last person aboard.
Every soldier inside of the craft was armed with weapons that were top of the line, equal to some of the more higher end rifles that US Forces used, like the M7; however, these were Tavor assault rifles chambered in 7.62x51mm NATO, a gift from Israel for the oil.
Then they saw a vague, dark blur flying through the air at immensely blinding speeds. They could not hear it over the loud whirring of the helo's engines, not even the tell-tale sonic boom a vapor cone around the object would entail.
"Fuck," screamed on of Jamir's comrades' in fear.
Soon the dark blur in the sky was on an intercept trajectory and before Jamir could even raise his issued weapon to fire a burst of rifle fire, two beams of superheated plasma struck above the crew cabin, at the helicopter's turboshaft engines. The extreme thermal load ignited the fuel tanks within an instant. The helicopter went up in a fireball of ignited kerosene, sending Jamir tumbling down, hundreds of feet.
In order to not shatter every single bone in his body, Jamir was spinning as he fell as a way of slowing down his descent. He found this technique out from WWII fighter pilots who have ejected without parachutes and survived with bruises. Thus, he did just that in the hopes that it would soften his landing on the way down.
He came crashing down on the ground with a loud crunch, only to see that his legs were all bent in opposing directions. Then the pain. It felt like his limbs were broken in a thousand places, the bones in each of them completely shattered to powder. His feet were also bent at where they connected with his shins as well, which was not a good sign. Jamir knew he would never walk again based on the way they were broken.
The color of his legs turned from a light coffee color to a sickly blue. Blood and pus were seeping out of ragged holes poked into his skin by large bone fragments. It pooled around the crater Jamir made in the ground where he struck. Not a crater necessarily, more like a dune. Had Jamir hit the ground hard enough to make an actual crater, he would be reduced to a red paste. He fell down with the force of a speeding car.
Where he knelt, he witnessed the ominous blur, that same one from the chopper shooting past him, kicking up a cloud of sand that got into his eyes, blinding Jamir for a brief moment.
As soon as his eyesight returned to normal, he could see a tall, blonde, muscular man with the face of a Roman Caeser staring down at him, sneering in contempt at what he had seen before him. He recognized that costume from the television set back at the army base, that supervillain who called himself the God Emperor of Europe. His green eyes were glowing a menacing reddish white, white in the center at the hottest point of his beams, red at the periphery of the menacing light emanating from his eyes.
"Don't I love the satisfying crunching sound muzzrats make when they come crashing down back to the Earth?" smiled the God Emperor of Europe with a toothy, menacing grin.
What was so shocking to Jamir was that he was saying this in perfect Arabic as if he were a native speaker of the language. One would think a racist would have no clue of any other languages besides his own, yet here he was, bragging about what it felt like in perfect Arabic. Racist were usually room temperature IQ morons, but if this one's IQ was translated into Fahrenheit, it would be enough to boil water, at the very bare minimum.
"The God Emperor of Europe, huh! Bet Games Workshop would want to sue your pathetic ass for plagiarism," shot back Jamir, spitting out blood which had coated his level four plate carrier.
"Eat shit and die, motherfucker!"
Immediately, Jamir took aim for the God Emperor of Europe's eyes with a .500 Smith and Wesson Revolver. The rounds exploded against his eyeballs with white hot flecks of lead spall and copper harmlessly. His eyes were still intact, though a little red and inflamed from the impacts of heavy, hot, supersonic lead bullets. The Master of Europe smiled smugly.
"You know, I have allergies, and they inflame and irritate my eyes more than your pathetic pea shooter. HEAT warheads and AT rounds do fuck all against them in terms of damage except give me a black eye. The only two conventional weapons that could theoretically punch through those weak points are Maverick missiles and Hellfire Missiles, each of which is larger than my head in diameter alone. Yeah, an energy shield that can withstand a hundred gigajoules per square inch can fail to a fucking overpriced handgun firing elongated .50 action express is going to be no-sold by that telekinetic aura I have around me, mortal," chuckled the God Emperor.
"You know, I'm just going to fucking attack you."
"Shi—"
Before Jamir could even utter his obscenity, he was grabbed and tossed a hundred kilometers into the sky in an instant. The immense temperatures the friction generated and the vacuum space reduced him to a puff of cosmic gas. There was no air for the heat of Jamir's corpse to dissipate into. There was only radiation, which was a very slow and inefficient method of dispersing waste heat. Thus, his cadaver became a puff of cosmic gases floating in the vast void of space forever.
Arthur was up stairs in his penthouses, gripping the shaft of his long girthy member tightly, while suspended in the air by a noose. He was hanging himself and masturbating all at the same time, the asphyxiation greatly enhancing the amount of sexual pleasure he felt. It seldom topped those moments he had sex with superheroines while snorting lines of coke off of their breasts or asses. A lot of the times he would do that with hookers. When he was all alone to his own devices, this was what got his jollies off. And since his healing factor was as great as his durability, he had no worry of death as he would wake up on the floor with his hands soaked in his jizz.
He was fantasizing about Felicia, her long, beautiful, thick blond hair, her gigantic yet still perky bosom and her large yet still tight fanny. He imagined her in a black leather corset and latex panties that left little to the imagination. The back drop was in Israel, a smoldering ruin like it was in 1985, Arthur crushing a skull on the ash covered ground of Tel Aviv underneath his booted heel like the Terminator during the intro of Judgment Day. She came up to him, grabbing on to him, staring into his eyes lustfully, her crystal blue eyes locked with his emerald green eyes. They fuck in the irradiated ruins of Tel Aviv while the burned, irradiated survivors wander around blindly, adding spice to the beautiful vista in his mind.
He tried to focus on those images in his mind, of his beautiful wife still alive. If that evil piece of shit had not decided to kill his pregnant wife, his father, the creator of the progenitor serum, and his mother and unborn child, he would have probably done nothing. He would have stayed in his mansion for centuries, millennia, or even millions of years as his dominant genetics gradually altered the human gene pool, resulting in the next logical step in human evolution as the reality warping psychics took over. These humans would have been Nordic in appearance thanks to the virus in the blood stream selecting for Nordic traits while mutating the genes enough to retain genotypic and phenotypic diversity.
Sure, he would beat gypsies and jews to the point where they were paralyzed for life or could not speak right again with Oswald Mosley. Arthur only wanted the non-European races out of his indigenous land, not extinct. Ever since Natanael blew up his mansion with a stolen Grand Slam bomb. Not only did this kill everyone he cared about, it left him poor and destitute for a decade. He crossed a line he told himself he was not going to cross, and that was killing the children of Natanael's family. First, he started with the first born due to the religious significance that the concept had in the Jewish faith, tearing the thirteen-year-old limb from limb. Then he grabbed Natanael's infant son and callously tossed him off of Big Ben on to the cobblestone roads below. The crunch and the look of horror on their faces was priceless to Arthur. They did not think that robbing a man of everything would result in what had happened, but he lashed out, to nobody's surprise.
He thought he could do it because he could. He had nothing left to lose and all the psionic power in the world to do it with. He was the strongest and fastest man alive back in the 1940s, his powers still unmatched to this very day. The gap, however, between him and a Vaught Supe was closing by the day ever since Homelander has been unveiled. He feared that they would not let him get away with his antics anymore. It was a time when Arthur and Felicia were the most powerful beings in existence. That was what the oxygen deprivation did, made him hallucinate that he was still with Felicia in some way.
To enhance the atmosphere, Dame Vera Lynn's 'We'll Meet Again' played in the background of his lavish master bedroom. He always played the song on his record player next to the end table near the window overlooking the streets of Portland. It was that same old vintage record players that have been all the rage in the late 2010s to 2020s as a result of the unexpected comeback vinyl was starting to make. The sleek, modern record player was on the left gilded, ornate end table at the opposite side of the right one with the macabre lamp. Its lampshade was what made it appear so macabre, with the face stretched out across it, carved from one of the Mossad agents Pierce had killed a few months ago.
Quite weird it was that all of his lovers were completely oblivious to that lampshade, simply writing it off as a macabre collection Arthur bought with his virtually endless funds. Thankfully, Maeve did not have the investigative skills to figure out how recent the face was ripped off or he would likely be cooked right now. Sure, Arthur was the wealthiest man in the world currently, making the Forbes top three; however, there was only so much he could do, besides jury tampering, that could actually get him off Scott-free in such a scenario. His wealth was never his safety net in those situations, it was always his sheer intellect grasping for solutions for seemingly impossible problems. Organizations like the mafia showed him that solution, and they didn't have the gift of flight to constantly scare the jury into causing a mistrial. Not even video evidence could defeat the old mistrial trick.
Stormfront was in the illustrious penthouse apartment that was the 200th floor of Pierce Tower. Everything inside of the place, from its extravagantly gilded wood paneled walls ripped straight from Buckingham Palace to the marble busts of Pierce all screamed poor money management. Sure, she was of the belief that inequality was the way of the natural world, but this was just disgusting to her. The obscene amount of money that went into this home, or for the most part, up Pierce's nose, just screamed hedonistic degeneracy of the highest order. He could have overthrown the Zionist Occupied Government through good old fashioned political corruption alone.
Arthur, officially, was worth over seven hundred billion dollars in assets, most of it in the form of crypto. He just had to tweet about it, and the price of coin for instance jumps in upwards of seventy grand per coin, essentially doubling his investment. Of course, Klara knew that it was a pump and dump scheme that specifically targeted wealthy Jews on Wallstreet. Those were his legitimate holdings. For all she knew, he was a trillionaire with about ten percent of the United States gross domestic product. It was just that it was going to take centuries to launder all of the dirty money.
She carefully walked up the stairwell to Arthur's master bedroom from the living room area, below the kitchen. Gently, Stormfront turned the golden doorknob to the master bedroom. There was some old timey music playing there from some old singer Stormfront cannot quite put her finger on. It was so long ago.
She opened the door to find Arthur hanging from the rafters of the Penthouse's superstructure, gurgling, his hands and lower suit pant leg stained with enough semen to irreversibly alter Iceland's gene pool forever . The grotesque sight made Stormfront want to vomit in disgust. Pierce was hanging himself while masturbating while somber music was playing in the background.
Stormfront walked over, urgently vaulting over the ornately framed, memory foam bed to get to Pierce.
Desperately, she checked his pulse. She found that his heart was still beating, though very quickly and irregularly.
Quickly, she stretched the palm of her hand completely flat and sliced the rope he hung himself with the sheer force she held with her hand. Arthur dropped to the floor with a loud thud.
"Felicia," Arthur rasped.
Stormfront grabbed Arthur by his black tie with the algiz rune on it with her left hand, and slapped him in the face so hard that a loud, crunching noise could be heard.
"Can't a man jerk off in peace," grumbled Arthur, his voice still raspy.
"Not when I had to clean up after you again, you idiot," she yelled.
She frustratedly tossed the dossier found in Coleman's apartment in Arthur's face, scattering the documents all over the room. It all related to that explosion that had occurred in Tel Aviv, 1985, when Arthur had finally snapped. Arthur's keen four-digit IQ quickly remembered what that was. That was the day he went into a coma after being shot with a hypersonic piece of rebar, right after sustaining third and fourth degree burns in a thermonuclear explosion. That was the only way to regenerate lost or pulped limbs and organs, and he lost both organs and fingers in that multi-million-degree furnace that was the bomb's fireball.
"You killed so many Jews in such gruesome horrific ways that I almost felt sorry for them that Christmas day. What terrified me was your inhuman aversion to pain. You emerged from a nuclear fireball like… the fucking T800 at the end of Terminator. How you've not killed the Jewish people and the other non-Aryan filth eighty years ago in the previous fit of rage I will never understand. The fact that you managed to reduce a Soldier Boy level supe to what was practically a mute, deaf, blind cripple and incapacitate another is terrifying in it of itself," Stormfront said, reflecting on those days.
"That begs the question, why didn't I get the progenitor serum?" inquired Stormfront.
"That was because the Progenitor Serum, codenamed Wodin's Blood, was not a serum. It was a primitive form of gene therapy delivered in the form of the common cold. I'm infected with a non-contagious virus that alters my nervous system to such a degree, allowing me to bend the very laws of nature to my whim. I can lift massive objects without falling through them because I do not lift them with my muscles, I contain them in an invisible field the very moment my fingers make contact with it. My punches at full force are 16-inch shells. I have a telekinetic energy shield around my body that can block anything from high temperatures, high caliber bullets, and to a lesser extent nuclear explosions. I do not have superstrength or durability thanks Compound V reinforced flesh. My son, Nolan, inherited all of my powers and seventy five percent of my Nordic phenotype. I know every single, little protein sequence of this serum. I just see no need to manufacture more because it only takes one person to change a gene pool. A thousand generations from now, Europeans are going to look very different, not in the coffee colored slaves the kikes want, not the Aryan Übermenschen, but White gods," answered Arthur, cackling.
"In short, it's like the song from Lost Boys. "Thou shalt not fall, Thou shalt not die," once the serum is in the blood stream, with the added ability of passing it on to any children you have," concluded Arthur Pierce succinctly.
"As for that dossier my hired gun never removed, I paid Carmine to convince the Seven that the whole thing was a suicide, thereby discrediting that dossier as a forgery, Klara. In addition, any gadfly who wants to make a name for their pathetic little anti-white rag will find themselves in the hospital missing a few appendages after their car had blown up the very millisecond they turn the keys. I cover all my bases, Klara. Besides, you would not want some loser paparazzi seeing you with a racist, right-wing billionaire. That fits the Liberty persona, not the Stormfront persona. So, ta ta if you want to keep your triple-digit approval rating."
A/N: I got ideas for the tactics in this story from books like Harassment Architecture and Gothic Violence for the ultra complex military strategy the villain protagonists use to achieve their goals. It is a brilliant mixture of guerilla warfare and combined arms warfare utilizing both superpowers and conventional commando-style soldiers to collapse countries.
Originally, Stormfront was going to find Arthur in a Tek Knight costume while he was pleasuring himself like Kenny McCormick on that South Park episode. I also want to illustrate the differences between both characters. If Stormfront and Arthur were communists, Stormfront would be a Menshevik and Arthur Luther Pierce would be a Bolshevik. Mensheviks care about optics and grifting gullible people while Bolsheviks, in contrast, don't care. Arthur would make a beeline for the US government, wiping out the chain of command and declaring himself POTUS for life if it wasn't for Homelander. That and his constant cocaine and hooker habit are the only reason America is safe from being turned into a fascistic apartheid state where minorities are worked to death in FEMA camps. He's an absurdly racist, nationalist version of The Plutonian. Homelander is the barrier between America remaining a free country or a manufacturing sector for the Imperium of Europe to supply cheap consumer products for the sole purpose of keeping the populace in line with Nolan's policies.