Thomas J. Depaola (the J stands for “Judgment Day”) stood in the mirror casually admiring his tattooed pecs. With a cooly calculated flex, the line drawing of Kurt Vonnegut appeared to wink.
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah.” Murmuring affirmations, Tom gave himself another approving head nod before returning to his two 60 lb weights, named ‘Life’ and 'Deff'.
Suddenly, the window shattered, spraying shards of glass across the room as thick acrid smoke billowed. Chewing on the mouthful of glass delivered by this explosive power, Tom stared steely eyed into the abyss of the broken window before spitting a perfect glob of Teacher’s scotch, blood, and phlegm onto the hardwood floor.
The haze filtered out of the room, like cigarette smoke passed through Kotex, revealing a black clad Joseph “Rusty” Sackett, dong handed, depositing a powerful stream of urine into Tom’s wardrobe, soaking his collection of Jack Threads-furnished street wear.
“Ach! Das #fuccboi!” said Rusty in broken German. “Rest in pisse!”
Rusty pulled a metal sphere emblazoned with a swastika from his utility belt and shattered it against the floor, releasing a new cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, Rusty was gone, leaving behind a note with "Der juden" written on it in childlike scrawl.
“Nooooooooooooo!,” said Tom, his mighty fists clenched in fury. “Noooooooooo!”
Chagrined, Tom reached beneath the desk his dad built and pulled out his self-flagellation stick, a jagged piece of Ohio wood with nails running through. Pledging revenge, Tom furiously scratched his back.
Wednesday, May 12, 2049
Tuesday, May 12, 2048
Chapter II
Tom locked steely gazes with the German man and gently squeezed the trigger until the man’s skull spattered across the roof deck with alarming force, spraying hot blood over the newly planted flowers. Disgusted, Tom let the body slump to the floor where it joined the rest. He shuffled his feet to avoid getting blood on his shoes.
Sitting atop this pile of corpses, Tom wiped his brow with his .22 and rolled a spliff. So much death, so much carnage, and still he could not find Rusty.
With a bang, the door swung open and Tom whirled around, his glock at the ready. However, it was only Kenneth “Kenny” Spalla, Tom’s alarmingly handsome sidekick, adjusting his Bulls snapback with one hand and carrying a sack with the other. Lowering his glock, Tom growled, “what did you find?”
Wordlessly, Kenny unrolled the burlap sack. The heads of Harry and Gudo, the downstairs neighbors, hit the ground with a sickening thud. Their eyes were missing.
“No…” said Tom and he rolled Harry’s head off the roof and into the alley with the sole of his pristine Jordans.
Sitting atop this pile of corpses, Tom wiped his brow with his .22 and rolled a spliff. So much death, so much carnage, and still he could not find Rusty.
With a bang, the door swung open and Tom whirled around, his glock at the ready. However, it was only Kenneth “Kenny” Spalla, Tom’s alarmingly handsome sidekick, adjusting his Bulls snapback with one hand and carrying a sack with the other. Lowering his glock, Tom growled, “what did you find?”
Wordlessly, Kenny unrolled the burlap sack. The heads of Harry and Gudo, the downstairs neighbors, hit the ground with a sickening thud. Their eyes were missing.
“No…” said Tom and he rolled Harry’s head off the roof and into the alley with the sole of his pristine Jordans.
“Where is Rusty?”
Sunday, May 12, 2047
Chapter III
Jeffrey “Jeff” Mathias, heavily bearded, sat glumly on his unmade bed, a .45 in his lap. Lux, a small grey cat, mewled ineffectively outside his locked door.
Jeff looked longingly at the .45, admiring its precision, its steel plating, its cruel American ingenuity. It had not been a good year for Jeff and he was eager to be done, to rest. Stroking the handgun one last time, he raised it to his head and wrapped his lips around the barrel, his finger gently squeezing the trigger, a single tear running down into his beard.
“Nein.”
A strong hand in a leather glove, emblazoned with a swastika, gently removed Jeff’s hand.
Jeff looked up and met the steely but benevolent gaze of Rusty’s bedroom eyes.
“Tom Depaola ist der #fuccboi die sterben sollte.”
A quiet calm came over Jeff. Rusty clasped him in loving embrace, the handgun forgotten on the bed.
Tom Depaola was responsible.
Tom Depaola must die.
It began to rain.
“Tommmmmmm!” said Jeff, his head cast back. “Tommmmm!”
A thunderclap.
Jeff looked longingly at the .45, admiring its precision, its steel plating, its cruel American ingenuity. It had not been a good year for Jeff and he was eager to be done, to rest. Stroking the handgun one last time, he raised it to his head and wrapped his lips around the barrel, his finger gently squeezing the trigger, a single tear running down into his beard.
“Nein.”
A strong hand in a leather glove, emblazoned with a swastika, gently removed Jeff’s hand.
Jeff looked up and met the steely but benevolent gaze of Rusty’s bedroom eyes.
“Tom Depaola ist der #fuccboi die sterben sollte.”
A quiet calm came over Jeff. Rusty clasped him in loving embrace, the handgun forgotten on the bed.
Tom Depaola was responsible.
Tom Depaola must die.
It began to rain.
“Tommmmmmm!” said Jeff, his head cast back. “Tommmmm!”
A thunderclap.
Saturday, May 12, 2046
Chapter IV
Physically and emotionally drained, Tom Depaola returned to his home drenched by the pouring rain. Picking up his new package from Jack Threads from the lobby, his Jordans made a squelching noise as he climbed the four flights of stairs.
Entering the apartment, Tom doffed his wet clothes and sat on the couch in a fresh beater and fashion sweat pants, his expert fingers quickly rolling a spliff.
Ian Turner, manbunned, entered the room, his gangly form hanging on to the door frame for support.
“Hey, buddy”
Tom grunted in response, rubbing his shoulder.
“You look kinda tight, buddy. Let me fix you up real good?”
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah,” said Tom.
Leaving his perch, Ian sat behind Tom, his long fingers tracing the internal musculature of Tom’s sculpted back. Suddenly, Ian’s fingers wrapped around Tom’s throat and squeezed.
“Zeit zu sterben , #fuccboi!,” Ian whispered.
Eyes bulging, Tom flailed wildly behind him, slapping weakly at Ian. Tom remembered. Reaching into his fashion sweatpants, he found his self-flagellation stick and quickly rammed it into Ian’s belly. The foul fecal odor of Ian’s sensitive guts filled the air and the long fingers receded from Tom’s throat.
Tom whirled around furiously, his breath quickly found. With a strength found only in the seriously pissed, he grabbed hold of Ian’s lower jaw and pulled. A sick sucking sound and Tom held a chin in his palm. A torrent of blood and teeth rushed from Ian’s mouth, soaking his Knicks jersey as he collapsed against the couch.
Panting, Tom looked away before he vomited.
Rusty.
Rusty had infiltrated his home, corrupting those closest to him.
But where was Rusty?
A slow laugh from the couch.
Ian sat up, spewing bloody foam from his ruined mouth.
“Sie denken youve gewann, #fuccboi?” gurgled Ian, his tongue struggling to form words without front teeth. “Rusty wird sich durchsetzen, buddy.”
Ian’s eyes grew dull then flared red with a whirring hum. Beneath his head, telescoping metal rods extended and found their purchase on his torso. Extending to their full length, Ian’s head ripped itself from his body.
Moving at an alarming clip, Ian’s head scuttled out the open window, leaving Tom steely eyed amongst gore.
Entering the apartment, Tom doffed his wet clothes and sat on the couch in a fresh beater and fashion sweat pants, his expert fingers quickly rolling a spliff.
Ian Turner, manbunned, entered the room, his gangly form hanging on to the door frame for support.
“Hey, buddy”
Tom grunted in response, rubbing his shoulder.
“You look kinda tight, buddy. Let me fix you up real good?”
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah,” said Tom.
Leaving his perch, Ian sat behind Tom, his long fingers tracing the internal musculature of Tom’s sculpted back. Suddenly, Ian’s fingers wrapped around Tom’s throat and squeezed.
“Zeit zu sterben , #fuccboi!,” Ian whispered.
Eyes bulging, Tom flailed wildly behind him, slapping weakly at Ian. Tom remembered. Reaching into his fashion sweatpants, he found his self-flagellation stick and quickly rammed it into Ian’s belly. The foul fecal odor of Ian’s sensitive guts filled the air and the long fingers receded from Tom’s throat.
Tom whirled around furiously, his breath quickly found. With a strength found only in the seriously pissed, he grabbed hold of Ian’s lower jaw and pulled. A sick sucking sound and Tom held a chin in his palm. A torrent of blood and teeth rushed from Ian’s mouth, soaking his Knicks jersey as he collapsed against the couch.
Panting, Tom looked away before he vomited.
Rusty.
Rusty had infiltrated his home, corrupting those closest to him.
But where was Rusty?
A slow laugh from the couch.
Ian sat up, spewing bloody foam from his ruined mouth.
“Sie denken youve gewann, #fuccboi?” gurgled Ian, his tongue struggling to form words without front teeth. “Rusty wird sich durchsetzen, buddy.”
Ian’s eyes grew dull then flared red with a whirring hum. Beneath his head, telescoping metal rods extended and found their purchase on his torso. Extending to their full length, Ian’s head ripped itself from his body.
Moving at an alarming clip, Ian’s head scuttled out the open window, leaving Tom steely eyed amongst gore.
Thursday, May 18, 2045
Chapter V
Tom Depaola gunned the engine of his Duccati, its custom matte black finish studiously ignoring the neon lights of Kingston Ave. Across Tom’s chrome helmet flowed reflections of Neo-Crown Heights, its rusted skyscrapers beneath a chemical haze, its inhabitants’ languid shuffle to the rhythm of street commerce.
Pausing at the intersection, Tom lifted his visor to roll a spliff, his swift fingers unhindered by the thick motorcycle gloves. Scanning the street, Tom’s steely gaze met the yellowed eyes of a young woman, her flower print dress foul in the corona of streetlight. Wordlessly, the woman bared one small, high breast, a silent offering to Tom.
The chrome helmet winked green back at the stoplight. Unmoved, Tom sped down Eastern Parkway.
The hum of the Duccati’s motor pulled Tom within himself, calming the usually turgid waters of his mind. Images of the past crept by, deep pools of soft focus memory into which Tom could dip his Jordans:
Rusty, behind sunglasses, sucking down Newports,
An afternoon punctured by a crisp spliff.
Rusty grilling sausages on a roofdeck.
Fresh street wear, delivered.
Rusty caressing Tom’s forehead.
The red eye of the Canary device staring back at Tom.
A shrill digital voice shattered Tom’s drifting thoughts.
“Tom!!!” said JO 5000, piping in through the Duccati’s onboard computer, her voice a hot knife to the base of Tom’s brain. JO 5000 was a ROM personality recording of the long dead Jordyan “Jo” Mueller, killed in the fall of Old Crown Heights.
“The ☩AR0☩ surveillance drone system has a hit.”
JO 5000 beamed footage into Tom’s A/V skull implant. Brief snippets of grainy film. Dark alleyways of Neo-Crown Heights. Bodegas selling cheap software and food substitute. A streetlight casting red shadow.
Ian’s head folding its titanium legs into a hole in the grate at Nostrand and Prospect.
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah,” said Tom
Pausing at the intersection, Tom lifted his visor to roll a spliff, his swift fingers unhindered by the thick motorcycle gloves. Scanning the street, Tom’s steely gaze met the yellowed eyes of a young woman, her flower print dress foul in the corona of streetlight. Wordlessly, the woman bared one small, high breast, a silent offering to Tom.
The chrome helmet winked green back at the stoplight. Unmoved, Tom sped down Eastern Parkway.
The hum of the Duccati’s motor pulled Tom within himself, calming the usually turgid waters of his mind. Images of the past crept by, deep pools of soft focus memory into which Tom could dip his Jordans:
Rusty, behind sunglasses, sucking down Newports,
An afternoon punctured by a crisp spliff.
Rusty grilling sausages on a roofdeck.
Fresh street wear, delivered.
Rusty caressing Tom’s forehead.
The red eye of the Canary device staring back at Tom.
A shrill digital voice shattered Tom’s drifting thoughts.
“Tom!!!” said JO 5000, piping in through the Duccati’s onboard computer, her voice a hot knife to the base of Tom’s brain. JO 5000 was a ROM personality recording of the long dead Jordyan “Jo” Mueller, killed in the fall of Old Crown Heights.
“The ☩AR0☩ surveillance drone system has a hit.”
JO 5000 beamed footage into Tom’s A/V skull implant. Brief snippets of grainy film. Dark alleyways of Neo-Crown Heights. Bodegas selling cheap software and food substitute. A streetlight casting red shadow.
Ian’s head folding its titanium legs into a hole in the grate at Nostrand and Prospect.
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah,” said Tom
Friday, June 5, 2015
Chapter VI
With the shrill whine of hydraulics, the chrome sphincter vomited BR0-WN™ into the bag.
His jaw tightly bandaged, Ian’s head watched the fetid liquid splash against the bag’s plastic sides. Ian’s eye flared, emitting a red laser dot that traced his gaze up the hydraulic tubing and exposed circuity. The red dot continued its slow crawl to rest at the linked terminal displaying the familiar Reddit homescreen.
The terminal flew through its subroutines, briefly displaying r/nazisareok and r/hellaweirdsexstuff as it converted Reddit’s aggregated content into a nutrient-rich slurry developed to meet all of Rusty’s biological needs: BR0-WN™.
Ian looked up at the Canary device at the top of the terminal, its red eye meeting Ian’s. He quickly averted his gaze, old resentments bubbling.
Ian tapped his titanium rod impatiently, waiting for the BR0-WN™ to fill the bag.
Ian tapped his titanium rod impatiently, waiting for the BR0-WN™ to fill the bag.
Jeff Mathias lay on the white couch, absently caressing his .45. His fingers stroked the barrel as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Without warning, Jeff bolted upright and pointed the .45 at a photograph tacked to the wall.
“Bang.”
Jeff sat down, his eyes never leaving the photograph of Tom.
Enclosed in his regeneration alcove beneath a flickering neon swastika and linked to the Canary device’s mainframe, Rusty was deep in his regenerative cycle. Rusty fidgeted, his fingers knotting and unknotting as his tortured mind received the Canary’s cybernetic salve.
“Der juden”, he murmured. "Warum bin ich halb mensch, halb maschine?"
The BR0-WN™ finally done brewing, Ian scuttled over to the regeneration alcove with the bag held in two of his telescopic rods. At the base of Rusty’s sternum, a swastika-emblazoned USB port spiraled open. Rusty grunted as Ian connected the drip and went limp as the foul substance reached his veins.
A low rumble reverberated throughout the underground.
Ian looked around worriedly, sending the red laser dot scurrying wildly across the room. Jeff cocked his .45.
The wall of Rusty’s underground lair splintered under the Herculean might of Tom Depaola’s Duccati, spraying transistors and rubble across the room.
With a squeal, the Duccati came to a stop. Tom stood up and removed his chrome helmet. He unholstered his .22 with one hand and quickly rolled a spliff with the other. His steely gaze hunted around the room, hurling righteous light into the darkest corner. Where was Rusty?
Emerging from a sidecar, Kenny adjusted his Bulls snap back and picked at his fingernails with a large machete. “What a handsome man,” thought Ian.
Rusty’s eyes snapped open and flared infrared.
“Das #fuccboi,” he whispered.
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