Whatever ya want, Pek. Anything for you. Spikes, huh? Maybe we can use their spines, instead. They’ll see ya, rippin’ they lil’ heads off. Spines, shit. Use the old fools’ necks to decorate our fuckin’ front lawn like some goddamn flamingo shit! Every eye, hell. We can sell ‘em, yer reflection, the face everyone’ll see in the last days. You’ll be the end of the world, and you’re gonna be great. But, shhh. Here they come. Prepare yourself.
{ his hands fall to his side, gun in one hand, short katana in the other and his eyes read death upon the pages, eyes read their demise and the look in the eyes of grown men as they stand before the corpses of their leaders and the new rule that will be their reckoning day, they slowly file in, wordless. words escape their pretentious lips, one at a time with a gasp and angry yelling, fingers pointed in his face and gun licks at their foreheads, gun points and tells them to shut up but not a word uttered from his smiling lips, lips made to rule, lips that never realized their potential. he looks to her, winks, and shoves the gun in a grunt’s mouth. }
Now, I want ya to realize somethin’. Half the men in this room are about t’fuckin’ die, with no damn dignity left. If I were you, I’d stay silent.
{ sweaty face begins to drip more fluid and kuzuryuu makes a face so deep in his disgust that he pulls the trigger and shrugs. }
You’re all fuckin’ disgustin’. Shall we eat?
No, no spines... Spines are funny. They're not one bone, but many small ones held together by a long nerve. If you take them out, they just flop around and fall apart. No. We need spikes. Long wooden ones. Or maybe metal. Something sharp and strong that will stay up long after their sorry heads have shriveled and shrunken and rotted so they look outside as disgusting as they are inside.
[They see men file in and they have to remind themself, not to bow, not to grovel, that they don't have to put their nose on the ground and apologize for breathing, they don't own you anymore. Can Fuyuhiko see it, that little shift in their-- their? Its posture. No, not posture. Being. Existence. Would he be ashamed? Probably. But the whole point of this bloody mess was to stop caring.
The sword is buzzing and every face in this room is a target. It waits. It watches. Fuyuhiko kills a man and it does not flinch. More blood splatters. Satellite drops. He goes down, dead weight now. It does not move. It stares a challenge. Who else wants to come forward. Who else wants to feel the cool taste of metal ending their life. Who is ready for your tool to tear you apart. It stares. It can no longer feel the difference between its blade and its fingers. It stands. Waits. A sword cannot move unprompted. Even if it does not wait for an order, it must wait for a cue.
vaporwave
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
izzy806
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
gummygunk
