Trump / Nunes (or Christie) 42%
Biden / Harris 41.9 %
Schultz / 12.5 %
Other 3 %
Steve Cefala 1%
Decided for Democrat Party by the Electoral College
Trump / Nunes (or Christie) 42%
Biden / Harris 41.9 %
Schultz / 12.5 %
Other 3 %
Steve Cefala 1%
Decided for Democrat Party by the Electoral College
The undead condors were sent off with Heinous Wench Excoriation demos, which they dropped on the failed utopian population. Written on tiny scrolls of human flesh, and encrypted with a micro-palladium script, the propaganda also explained the necessity of death metal, to a healthy world:
Death metal is a challenge to false utopias. It is hard and reality based. It reflects the truths which mankind wishes to ignore. Society ignores, death metal, ignores reality, because it is more fun to go down sinking if the band is still playing while the Titanic goes under. It is more difficult to achieve, as well as to appreciate death metal, than it is other genres. You need a lot more than a drum machine and a mall reject. Death metal is blood, sweat, and tears. There are blisters from blastbeats, sweat from head-banging and grinding, there will be muscle aches from moving several hundred half-stacks into position. When you first listen to death metal, it will be hard for you to even understand the notes, through the thick distortion. It will be hard for you to hear the lyrics through the growls and all the guttural sounds.
Eventually, if you stick with it, you will reach a higher level of consciousness. You will understand the balance between chaos and order in society, and the role that such chaos music fulfills. Also that nothing good comes easy. Therefor, you will no longer yearn for leftist hand-outs. Nor will you any longer will you allow yourself to be used as a sacrificial lamb, taxed to death for the benefit of others. You are an individual. You have self-worth, beyond anything the state can measure. Through cultural enrichment and death metal, you will reach a state of balance between yourself and nature, where you will want to take responsibility for yourself, rather than for others.
In this new society the way to advance society will be through music and the arts, rather than through money or through raw power. Leave your master, Pablo the Great, while you still can. The Death Metal Army sits at your gates, ready to conquer and enslave all of you. If you leave now, give up all tropical house music, and convert to death metal, you shall be given reprieve.
The vast metal army was now in possession of the digital layout of the university, thanks to Shirley having prostituted herself as a spy for the cause. Also, it had become apparent that the leftist state in Panama was failing, since nothing was being produced now that people had a ‘guaranteed income’. While the leader was busy having slaves build gold pyramids, and a replica of Sea World San Diego, basic supplies of oil and toilet paper had dried up. Morale was low there. It was time for the blitzkrieg.
Daryl and his headhunting band mates manned the front lines, and he led the charge in his three wheel bicycle, while slinging arrows at the ID post guards, who soon abandoned their posts. After they were struck with arrows he jumped from the bicycle and applied a front guillotine choke to finish off one guard, and then a did a judo hip throw and trachea stomped the other guard to death. The mere sight of his bandmates with the decapitated head waistbands was enough to send some of the other Swiss mercenary guards fleeing. Seeing the front gate vulnerable, the giant metal army became bloodthirsty, descending upon the university from the hills above.
At the same time, a mini revolt occurred over the lack of toilet paper, in the stall. The stylish, however misguided, leftists there took up crude home-made iron weapons. They thought: ” OK who knows?”
The hard thing is lets not piss everyone off all at once , right?? After all , it is important to overthrow their masters, while not being overly offensive at the same time. Very challenging! Yet another problem However, was that the tasers that Pablo the Great had implanted in their spines was activated, and they were quickly fed to the cloned killer whales at the mock Sea World facility. Animal activists rejoiced.
A large battalion of brainwashed fascists appeared dressed in all black, with shields and helmets. They confront Daryl and his band. The metal army stormed in in great numbers, quickly beheading all the students and adding them to their belts. Pablo the Great was falling back on his elite inner guard. The Mercs feared they wouldn’t get paid after the fall, and began to abandon ship. The ogre king used the blueprint to target them. He began shelling the dictator’s quarters from above with the bloodbog cannon. Bloodbog reacted similarly to lava in regards to leftists, slowly melting and mutilating its victims into a pile of bleeding ooze.
Next to the school’s rec. hall, howitzer guns were being fired back towards the metal forces, pinning them down temporarily. Suddenly, the ravens of the undead swooped down and snatched up the gunners, biting out whole bloody chunks, while flying off.
Emboldened, the metal army came up the elite sex workers lair. “Lets kill them all”, said a band-member.
“No. Lets enslave them,” Daryl said, “But kill all the trannies, we’ll sell off their organs.”
“No! They’re OK,” came an anonymous cry. “The women these days are even more of a pain in the ass than ever. We may need them!”
“Well, if you insist, lets just enslave the trannies too then,” Daryl obliged.
“No! Let’s try CAPITALISM.” chimed in a voice of reason.
Approaching the dictator’s personal quarters they found he had escaped down a hatch, on an underground tram, headed to his replica Sea World.
Daryl and his bandmems jumped on and headed down the dark chute. Cowering and cornered, Pablo the great held a grenade beside the head of the last blue whale in the world. Daryl could see that Pablo’s facial scar matched the tracer of his beloved pigeon’s IED. He was pissed.
“Behold!” exclaimed Pablo “The Last of the Great Blue Whales in the entire universe. You wouldn’t dare kill me and risk the future of the global ecosystem. We are all in this together. It is one world. One big tropical paradise. Let’s work together! I can share my kingdom with you, share my power. What do you say?”
Daryl shot Pablo the Great through the heart with an arrow, and a bandmember swiftly decapitated him. Pablo’s body fell into the chlorine pool, but his trigger finger pulled the plug on the grenade. The last blue whale in the whole world turned into a pile of aqua green and teal oozing pus.
“Don’t worry, we can clone another one someday,” Daryl offered with glee.
In the end, Daryl and his bandmates in Heinous Wench Excoriation finally were able to have enough electricity to begin regularly practicing and performing. The ogre king and his vast army were able to begin a system of barter and trade, as well as to reinvigorate the fine arts, by having two stages from 7am in the through the day and evening until about 3am, every day. On one stage there was grind2159core, and the other was classic styled death metal.
Daryl and his metal army were steadily approaching Pablo the Great’s territorial empire, gear in tow. The time arose to discuss the strategy for the impending invasion and subjugation of the locals. Daryl decided to send Shirley (his sexbot) and Rosita (the cannibal girl -who was/is (ha) over 18 years old with multiple valid ID’s) in under deep cover, as missionary environmental leftists, to gather information on the enemy, through whatever means necessary.
Rosita and Shirley ditched their environmental outfits, since they thought that would fail. Instead, they skanked their way past the guards, by posing as imperial sex workers, which were placed way above the trannies in that society. A trooper in a Jeep picked them up with his security detail, and brought them to Pablo the Great, at the university, which was overflowing with blood. Crappy half assed reggae was playing.
“I need to test your loyalty to the state. Do this coke and let me see a little girl on girl action, while you shake those rumps to some crappy tropical music, like Pitbull,” mandated the Cigar chomping NWO grease-ball. He still had the scar from the IED explosive device the pigeon had detonated in his face. And he was constantly applying petroleum jelly and aloe to it while sweating profusely. His teethe were still perfect though, since he was really Swiss and had the best dentists that were left over from the end times.
Rosita and Shirley had always been competing for Daryl, but the built up tension made for a hot sex scene. Meanwhile, Shirley was making a complete graphic layout of the entire complex with her internal scanner.
“Wait! Hold it. Right there…” as he spread some computer parts around the area as a backdrop. Pablo, taping everything, remarked, “I will call this one Bots ‘n Babes.”
Shirley had to sleep around even more, but eventually she was able to get a new battery charger from the evil government. She got stuff stuck in her hair and looked like an old bag of donuts afterwards, but at least she was loyal and headed back, with the graphic layout of the enemy HQ.
Meanwhile, Rosita was so happy that they had her native foods, such as flan, that she was in no great hurry to return to the metal encampment. She had gotten tired of bloodbog, and had decided she liked the big government and her new found Latin lovers. Daryl made a mental note to himself that Rosita was being very, very naughty, and that he would have to have a stern talking to her when he catches her later on. She will need discipline!
Back at the metal encampment they had a campfire going and were doing acoustic versions of death metal classics such as God of Emptiness.
“I want them all decimated, kill every one of them – slowly and painfully, if possible.” said the Ogre king.
“Wait!” Daryl exclaimed, “If we slay them all then there shall be no listeners left for our metal empire to reign over. I say we kill only those necessary for victory, and then convert or enslave the rest of them. It seemed to work well for the ‘Catholic Church’.
“Lets give them a choice,” inserted one of his band-mates. “Our pigeon is deceased, sadly. However, we can have the ravens of the undead drop pamphlets with our demo inside. And then they can decide, or should I say deicide, for themselves.”
“Hail Smidgey. He was a good and loyal pigeon,” Daryl commented with pride. “Yes, you have a good point. So that’s what we’ll do.”
Hans Schmidt didn’t realize that Daryl’s pigeon had a tracking device and an IED implant. The explosion was small, but instant. Hans would be scarred on his neck for life, but would live. Also, upon having its neck twisted it set off a ping to Daryl’s sensor. Daryl was torn apart inside by the loss of his beloved pet. He took a moment to jam some Mournful Congregation riffs on his guitar, in his pet’s honor. Thankfully, the ping showed the location to be south, in Argentina. His huge death metal tribe was headed that way already. “I will have forced vengeance!” he swore.
Hans was pissed about the scar. He called his expert tracker to study the implant and try and track it. “Bring me this fucker’s head,” he commanded, as he dispatched a small band of Corporo-ninjas and Swiss mercs.
Things were headed south of heaven in Argentina. Hans decided to rename himself Pablo the Great and declare himself continental Emperor. By the way, the elites always change their names and operate under fake names, so that they can avoid liability or disappear if necessary. Pablo the Great started his purge in the universities. Conservative students were fed to sharks and piranha, one by one, in an Olympic pool. The pool filled with blood. Severed limbs hung from the ceiling. A disgusting steaming hot tub with hungry alligators was reserved for any resistance leaders, of which there were few. The victims were plundered for all of their worldly possessions, mostly fine art, watches, bullion, and jewelry. He also took over political talk radio and did nothing but play commercials for government security products all day.
There was also something going on with the infrastructure. Two junkie bum types, Alyssia and Barbero, walked into the public restroom. She was weaing a sloppy bathing suit out of season, and looked ok except for her belly, boasting weird Mongol-ish Asian features were on her face. She looked wasted.
“Ya man, we can totally trade those blood oxe marbles for some oxy”, said the chick.
“I am gonna try and get some packs of smokes instead!” responded Barbero. He was one of those sunburned, RV in the parking lot, disheveled hair type of guys (with glasses and a short beard).
“No lets go looks for cans and get some recycling money,” she retorted, “and maybe if you do things my way we can fool around afterwards.”
Barbero sat on the toilet, and started taking out his rusty needle and black tarry junk, getting ready to get fucked up. He had no idea his butt was being remotely scanned through a database to determine if he could be useful to the state or not. Meanwhile, Alyssia started begging him for a tad. She was pulling on his arm and begging, rubbing his groin even. All of the sudden, just as the dude started to inject, the restroom lit up and a screen appeared which read: HOLD STILL. SCANNING.
“Oh shit its scanning your ass, and my face!” said she.
Both victims’ full names and addressed, complete with blood-type and social media history appeared on the screen. The floor suddenly turned into a green grid made of many different dimensions. As the floor sliced upwards, they were cut into exactly thirteen perfectly symmetrical pieces, and sucked completely out of existence into other dimensions. Therefor there was no mess whatsoever. This new technology represented a great new achievement for Octagon, and could be implemented in any restroom, giving the state total control. After all, everyone has to go to the bathroom.
The purge continued at a brisk pace. The Swiss mercenaries, dressed like Lakers Jesters in purple and yellow, purged the churches and private businesses of all individually minded people. They were now so brainwashed, that they burned every trace of independent thought, including people’s vintage death metal cd collections. Little did they know that of all their war crimes, it was the destruction of vintage death metal cd’s which would someday render them in legal jeopardy for the death penalty, under the Nuremberg Rulings.
Using samurai swords to behead those who would not submit to arrest, and then tossing those arrested into the central university’s pool to be devoured by sharks and piranha was making quick converts of the university students and discontented unemployed youth. People began turning in their own relatives so that they could be part of Pablo’s revolution.
Pablo felt he was started to have good control of the populations in South America. He derived great pleasure from the constant look of fear in all those around him. Although those who survived were already scared shitless, and would do whatever he commanded, he decided to implement further controls. First he had his tech support implant Axxon Enterprise tasers in the spines of everyone but him, as well as microphones implanted in everyone’s Adam’s apple. These were connected to a central control room, where people could be constantly censored and punished. Also, Pablo had all the nation’s sexbots rounded up into one place for his pleasure, as well as most of the good looking women. Many of the other women were placed in work camps, where they toiled resurrecting the lost Mayan gold pyramids. The guy was a real scumbag. Also, crummy house music, like Pitbull, was blared throughout the land, on old Communist P.A. systems, in between daily government statistical updates on the state of the purge.
The pigeon decided to return. Had it not, the retro-Powermetalers would have maimed him fatally, with buckshot fire. Despite his cute appearance with those tiny post apocalyptic goggles of his, he would have then been eaten slowly by cockroaches over time. Before he came back he grabbed a 5 Bolivar silver coin from what was left of Panama. It was hard to fly back over the 500 foot wall that Trump had built, back in the technology age. Not only did it have retracting metal spikes on top, but there was a moat with alligators on both sides. Dead bodies were strewn along both sides of the fence, with vital organs missing. No one ever came in. No one got out alive either. Fortunately for Latin America, the wall mitigated the radiation winds on that side.
Upon the bird’s return, Daryl noticed the silver Panamanian coin in his beak. It was a very low mintage coin and he was thrilled of the indication that there was power still now in that region of the world.
“Good bird, I knew you wouldn’t fail me” Daryl said, and he gave him some crickets as a reward.
He turned to his bandmates Pulverizer (who had informed him that he wasn’t thrilled about his metal name and wanted something deeper) and Megaclaw. “There is power in Panama apparently. That is where we must head. There we will pillage and loot. We will plunder whatever gear we need to conquer the world.”
Pulverizer was 6’5 of Samoan and Armenian descent and weighed 280 pounds. He wore metal spikes everywhere and had decapitated heads around his waistband. He was eating bloodbog and burping and farting a lot, because he often had indigestion. “I am so tired of eating this processed bloodbog, that I am definitely up for world domination. I need to secure my food supply. Plus, I enjoy destruction.”
Megaclaw agreed also, however he was a realist and ,in turn, emphasized self-preservation of Hobbesian thought. “I will come too. But if it comes down to me or you. Honestly we may have to destroy each other,” he said chomping down on some DOG, which was a rare delicacy.
Megaclaw was smaller, but he had a giant claw for a right hand which had been severely mutated to a dark green shade, with giant black demon claw nails. He had demon eyes too. Which chicks dug a lot. Also he had more heads hung around his waist (decapitated ones ha!) than any other Brootal, due to his pure cunning.
“Let me tell you a Biblical passage, from before the Great Western Purge”, Megaclaw ranted, like a bad talk radio host, continuing to eat DOG and drool. “Verses 9 Apocalypse 17: Boy and Dad walking through post-nuclear winter Christmas in the Park. Sees a stray dog or two. Says to the dad:
“Gee what are they doing?”
Mutant Dad says, “Well dog in front hurt his leg, dog in back’s just carryin’ him on home”.
“Gee dad, that’s just like life!” The boy replied, “Try and help someone out and you get screwed!” and with that the young boy netted both dogs, and would have enough DOG jerky to last for months.”
Daryl and Pulverizer nearly spit out their bloodbog laughing. As they fell over, some bloodbog even came out from their noses. When they were through jesting they got more serious and began to plan.
“We will need supplies” Daryl said.
His band mates suggested they steal the giant bloodbog cannon, which worked like if you filled a Gatlin Gun with lava. It was 30 foot high and rested on a giant dolly. It was unrealistic to move this thing though. Instead they consulted the King of the Brootals, who was kind of an ogre. He decided he was sick of eating bloodbog all the time too. He even decided to go procure the Bones of the Elders from the Giant Cave, because they could be used as massive clubs to blunt force attack by his underlings. The king gave a speech to the Brootal masses. It was one of those Academy Award type of speeches, like in that movie Braveheart. He was really yelling and riling them on towards their shining brootal destiny.
“Look guys! Basically we can sit around here eating bloodbog and having live concert orgiastic frenzies once a day for only one minute, perpetually until the end of time, though the radiation will gradually mutate us. Or we can seek our destiny! We can go Southwards, to where there is running electricity! Then we shall have all the power that we need for the large amplifiers which we shall plunder from the locals! We shall crush every small enclave who resists our conquer and rule! In the end we will have brootal music on two stages, 24 hours a day. There will be a main stage which will consist almost entirely of old school brutal death metal. And there will be a second, smaller stage where we will have non stop grind-core with really low vocals, maybe even an octave!!!”
So the ravens of the undead, Daryl and his bandmates, the ogre King and the kingdom of the Brootals, the pigeon, and the sexbot were all in tow. They now were hauling the giant blodbog cannon southwards, while Daryl outpaced them somewhat in the front. Hidden in the flank was the shy cannibal girl, hiding behind a catus. She was always so shy. She had a belly full of bloodbog. Everybody was really happy that they were going to go off together and conquer and slay what little was left of this pathetic world.
Daryl had been so busy slaying rubble-dwellers, and hamming it up with the Brootals, that he had neglected his loyal pigeon and sexbot. He dispatched the bird with instructions to find a reliable power supply. Now that he had started finding band-mates he would need maximum voltage. “Fly as far as you must go. Take as long as necessary. Do not return until you find me a reliable power source,” he said, as the bird soared into the radioactive heavens, with his cute little post apocalyptic goggles on. “Fly onward, in the name of metal! Let the wind not carry you astray!”, he shouted, for inspiration.
Then he turned his attention his lovely sexbot Shirley. He had gotten tired of her hyper aggressive sexual setting. So he decided to trade in the SJW he was towing in chains behind the three wheel bike. He bartered it with one of the Brootals, who doubled as a sexbot repair shop. The repairman immediately dismembered and sold off the captives organs for ceremonial harvesting.
Some things never change. There was still a battle of the sexes, even after the end of civilization as we know it. The Brootals did have some human women slaves too, who always just so happened to be sleazy or backstab behind their boyfriends backs at the shows, some of that was enticed by meat-sharing (cannibalism). Shows were just one minute long, once a day due to power supply, and produced an orgiastic frenzy, with many left dead. These women generally annoyed the other crowd members, because they were always trying to be the center of attention instead of just part of the crowd. Also they only listened to metal in public. Privately, they were listing to Taylor Swift or even Katie Perry sometimes, which would be an automatic death sentence, like how it was with the Taliban in the old days, ironically. If the males ever found out, they would surely be thrown into the bloodbog. The more independent female Brootals listened to a bunch of under-noticed underground bands, and were not gf material. For one thing, they were tough, and would slay you and eat you in your sleep. So you couldn’t trust them. It was a dog eat dog world.
Now that Shirley’s sexual aggression setting was adjustable, he turned the knob back to 1. He turned her power supply on, but still he knew he would have to conserve her battery. She sprung to life. She was more subdued now, with those dull, tired, SSRI-like eyes.
“I want you to make love to me. Kiss me so deep. Caress my breasts!” And they bagan to elope. “Slide it into my ass. Have me in any way that you want to. Would you be interested in a threesome with another guy”
Suddenly Daryl’s metal ‘not-gay’ instincts kicked in. For better or worse, these instincts were inbred from multiple generations, having started with his great-great grandfather in the Florida scene back in the 20th century. He had never done anal on any of his prior girlfriends, and because there was no sanitization possible in the future, it just plain didn’t seem like a good idea. It was hard for Daryl to comprehend social change, due to his nature, which was mostly about conquering and slaying (musically and otherwise).
“No”, Daryl replied, as he quickly adjusted her knob back to 5, “I wish to make love like a normal couple would (before the Wars). Though we Deathmetalites have a wild image, we generally hold to rather socially conservative norms.”
Then, he realized it was silly trying to reason with a sexbot. And he began to fuck the shit out of her, while sucking on her lovely synthetic breasts, the 5 setting having turned out to be just fine after all. As Socrates once said: moderation is key! Little did Daryl realize, the cannibal girl who had become so attached to him was an evasion expert. Also, the undead ravens thought she was pretty cool, and gave her a pass through the bloodbog. With the setting lowered, the cannibal girl now came out from behind a pile of rotting corpses, where she was hiding. Finally, he was able to have the threesome with the cannibal girl and the sexbot that he had been hoping for. Thank God for the adjustable setting on the sexbot. A few of the Brootal ladies looked on in amazement, and the whole camp broke out at once into a giant orgiastic (and cannibalistic) frenzy, yet again.
Daryl spent a great amount of time with the cannibal girl and his band members for the next week or so , writing riffs, and feeding the shy petite brunette girl (who was over 18, not that this mattered after 3 postmodern nuclear wars). He shared portions of his canned bloodbog with her in between shags. He had never seen cannibal girl so happy. She really liked his Henous Wench Excoration demo alot. Though she couldn’t bear to tell him that You’ll Never See Heaven was her all time favorite, since it wasn’t in style anymore apparently. Maybe they were in love, he thought, realizing though if he ran out of food someday they might try and kill each other still, for some fine cuisine or to get cash. But at least he had this one Kodak moment in time for now.
Meanwhile, his loyal pigeon was headed south towards Latin America, and was buoyed by strong winds at his back, and minimal turbulence. Along the way the pigeon noted a promising band of locals in Panama. They were into a weak form of retro power metal, all wearing the same Atreyu and Iced Earth shirts. The good thing was that there seemed to be widespread power available.
Should the pigeon:
A) Make an extra stop to distribute demos to the power metalist colony?
B) Continue southwards
C) Immediately return back to Daryl to notify him
Little did Daryl know that there was a dark plot which was not only behind the nuclear wars, but which was corroding the culture on a global basis, and gradually conquering the planet. They were just some evil European dudes alright. So don’t get too worked up! They did this by beaming horrible music, mostly crummy Incantation clones, from satelites at the global population. This was beamed at low frequencies which can only be heard subconsciously. The result was that the population only wanted to hear the same shit over and over again. In the end, record labels failed to advance new sounding bands. As music failed to evolve, inspiration within the genre started to die off, as failed imitation after failed imitation diluted the overall quality of the culture on a global basis. So mostly just old stuff, or stuff that sounded like old stuff was the overall trend.
Hans Schimd III was at the center of most of this. He ran Octagon, which in turn ran the Illuminati/Jesuits, and just below that was Corpgov. From high in his bank suite in Bern, Switzerland he had planned the false flag attack which had promoted the third (postmodern) nuclear war. At the time he was so thrilled that he told his 2nd in command, “You know what this means? This means I can now fund my international space station, as well as buy myself an extra 5000 human slaves and sexbots to take to South America on my next mission. Those low income, day job working metal heads will never know what hit them when I conquer them globally. I will have them listening to metal that is so bad, that they’d almost be better off listing to Mili Vanilli, or dancing to Rico Suave.”
Thus, Hans took great joy in collecting the insurance money from the annihilation of what people assumed to be his home country. Of course he was really from somewhere else. And another thing is that the elites never really used their actually names, but rather shell names, so they could play multiple identities and be accountable for nothing.
There was still a command post in the thermo nuclear bunker below Octagon headquarters in Switzerland, which was set up as an insurance policy, in case anything ever happened to Hans. Meanwhile it served as the intelligence/command and control center. It was three miles deep and was reinforced with 30 foot wide steel titanium and gold alloys. Elite sexbots, human sex slaves, food delicacies, luxury good lifestyle necessities such as Cuban cigars and Krystal champagne (and so-forth) had been stock-piled in the chamber to entice bankers, who were enticed with a post apocalyptic life of corrupt bliss. There was only enough oxygen to last one generation, however they were not concerned about the next generation, except to pillage them in any way possible.
Hans basically was now the shadow ruler of the universe, by contrivance and default. He and his team of elite corporate Samurai Octagonians fled Bern for the southern tip of South America. Just prior to the Iranian British nuclear war, which also wiped out Europe completely. The plan was to take over what was left of modern civilization, which was only left in South America and Africa. They planned to start with the southernmost tip, and gradually work their way north. Once they reached the American border they planned to don NBC suits and go to work the remaining domestic gold and silver mines, once owned by Hecla and Stillwater Mining. The precious metals were useful in their satellite and solar power schemes.*
These regions were rich in precious metals, and still had power, water, and sewage services. They had not been nuked, since they were the only continents which were not nuclear, since S. Africa gave up its nukes voluntarily long ago. The Sumurai Octagonian assassin squads wore light blue ninja like outfits with octagon shaped hats, like in a graduation ceremony or something.
First, important people started to go missing all over South America, especially at sexbot brothels, where they were easy targets. Next the Octagon assassins targeted the roads, and cause a trucker strike. Also, anyone who tried to distribute a high quality metal demo was being publicly assassinated by Octagonians who dressed like government workers, in a false flag. The roads were blocked, and no food was getting through either. People started starving, and resorting to cannibalism, of course. People also increasing started fighting to the death over sexbots and stuff. This created a credibility gap for the governments down there.
“Now is the time. We strike!”
*They had even launched an EMP to take out the grid one time, in order to promote solar energy use and sell their client’s goods.
Daryl now made his way back towards the forests, places which used to be called National Parks. Of course nothing was left of them except for ashes and dead, splintered tree stumps. The sun was golden, and gave a hazel tint to the landscape, due to the time of day, and the post-nuclear clouds. A fallen SJW lay bleeding beside one such tree stump, with his leg chopped off.
“Who did this to you? Do you think they might be interested in listening to my death metal demo, Heinous Wench Excoriation?” Daryl inquired.
“It was the Brootals who did this to me. I don’t know. I was really into social justice and top 40 type of tropical house music,” replied the victim.
“Tell me where I can find them,” Daryl demanded, squinting his blue eyes in disgust as he drew his crossbow, “I need to get this demo out. Now tell me or I will kill you.”
They replied, “Look! Don’t hurt me! I’m already dismembered. The Brootals are just are over that monumental hilly mound of human flesh and bone, which is just beyond the horizon to the southwest. But you will have to pass through the bloodbog first.”
Daryl put him out of his misery and took his organs to barter with. He had to kill him anyways, since he was wearing a Dave Mathews Band shirt. Noticing something moving in the brush behind him (in his blindspot), Daryl took a second enemy as captive for possible ransom, and chained him at the ankles and wrists, dragging him behind his three wheel bike.
Daryl headed onwards in his journey. The monument of flesh was very impressive. It was over a hundred feet tall, composed entirely of corpses, and was encased in clay bricks made from mud. Also, it was pentagonal in shape. Which was encouraging, since Govcorp. always shaped things as an octagon, even back to the days of the old USA. So these guys were presumably not corporate. He wished he had band-mates to take pictures in front of it, to use for inside of an album. But he didn’t have a camera anyhow. Though once in a while he sketched things with a stick in the dirt.
Just past the monument of flesh, lay the bloodbog. The bloodbog basically stank like necrosis, blood, and shit. The problem was that there was no way around the bloodbog. There were really steep rocks, with spikes and nails implanted all over them to prevent circumvention. In front of the blood bog was a sign which read:
Welcome to the land of the brootals. We have but one Warlock guitar and amp in our society, which our religion is built upon. An early ADT with sovtek tube preamp, a Mesa tube power amp, and a Boogie 4×2. All powered by one solar panel connected to a generator, and powering one minute of play per day. This serves the same function a church bell did, in antiquity. Grab the guitar, and if your riffage is good enough, the bog will drain, and you can pass. If your riff sucks, you die though.
“You go first,” Daryl said, drawing his bow.
The dude grabbed t he guitar and started playing some really light bullshit and singing about how “You’re perfect just the way you are”, and progressing towards some dull, clichéd, predictable, and thoroughly exhausted tropical house chord pattern. As he began to do millennial whooping, giant ravens of the undead began to descent down upon him. At which time they pecked his eyes out and thoroughly dismembered him, as he screamed like a girl. Finally they dropped him into the steaming blood-bog.
Daryl noticed that the bloodbog corralled down towards a ravine and that it appeared that they might be fermenting the bog and canning it for consumption.
“Give me that fucking guitar,” Daryl commanded the undead ravens. “It is time to be mortous now.” And the birds brought him the Warlock, as he commanded.
There were only 30 seconds left of power now from the solar supply. Certainly he didn’t want to get bogged down. So he planned. Three riffs. Ten seconds each. Quickly he detuned, and turned the gain to 10. Wanting to play something familiar to the brootals, Onward to Golgotha came first. Next followed some Suffocation (something from Breeding the Spawn). Finally, as he began to play (Mortician) from Mortal Massacre the ravens suddenly carried him over the bloodbog, and dropped him at the feet of the throne.
Daryl looked around. He couldn’t help but noticing that the Brootals all dressed exactly as he did, with jeans and a death metal tshirt. There were lots of Boltthrower and Obituary shirts too. The main difference was these guys had decapitated heads worn around their waist-bands, whereas daryl would have sold or traded the heads off for profit. The brootals had been headbanging and playing air guitar to his riffs. Daryl was really stoked! Finally, he had some hope of distributing his demo, and finding some bandmates.
“Welcome to the land of the brootals. Drink from this chalice of fermented blood, and become one of us dude,” offered their leader, who was kind of an ogre.
“Cool.” And he did. He also gave them his demos and sd cards. Some of the Brootals had their own Walkman cassette players with batteries (which were worth what gold is now). So they began to go into a violent frenzy, which was normal there.
Daryl was a bit concerned that he might lose tone and be unable to play chords, if in the future he went with such a brutal detuned guitar tone. Luckily, he found two band members, Pulverizer (another guitarist) plus a drummer named Megaclaw. These dudes were ready to journey and conquer too. They enjoyed collecting decapitated heads of non-brootals as a sort of hobby. It gave them great joy. So now he just needed a bassist.
The Coastals were a very diverse group, but they all had one thing in common. They were emaciated since the fish had died off. They wore plastic Glad-Bags for clothes. After the fall of civilization they had formed a tribe like enclave, built around a couple of old cement bodied ships in the harbor, in which there were greenhouses. The weed was still toxic and radioactive, but no-one seemed to care. They smoked it anyhow, GovCorp had enriched them at first, tying their tiny weed crop to CryptoCann., a virtual weed coin. But the locals spent it all on tin drums and alcohol. These days they spent most of their time playing primitive death metal with really basic drum beats, and chunking de-tuned guitars. They did this while chanting into the giant volcano, and throwing an occasional SJW into the steaming molten lava (for good measure).
They also worshipped a giant green emerald portal, which was carved out inside a dark hollowed out, decaying RedWood tree. They claimed they learned about the portal by following time travelling Yeti, who he was pretty sure hid those black onyx monolith slabs inside the trees for some reason.
Daryl was emaciated at this point too. He was trying to get their attention, to play his demo for them, but they were too busy chanting and doing a prolonged riff build-up towards a riff which would never come.
“Can you possibly make your demo sound more like this? And also I do not like the production factor on it,” they chided.
“Yes”, Daryl replied. At this point he was sick of working so hard to get others to listen to his tunes and he had had it. “But the world can do without you”, he said as he shoved the Coastal into the lava.
A bunch of the tribalists now came at him with spears in their hands, threatening to castrate him and feed him to their Artichoke god.
Daryl had two choices:
a) he could either stand and fight the large group of emaciated tribalists (to the death).
b) run back towards the portal and attempt to teleport