It is my specious pleasure to be addressing you in the fullness of time. My name is Zombie Orwell. You will be hearing a lot from me in the coming months as we ratchet up the intensity of our Zombie Rights Revolution.
I wish all of you safe human-hunting. Please message me (ZOMBIEORWELL@GMAIL.COM) if you have questions or free tacos.
You already know everything about me. You know where I live, you know my status as a post-deceased citizen, you know I'm the most Orwellian being ever to grace this lovely website, you know that The Devastation And Destruction Of Destructoid will all end in tears (and nudity).
But there might be one small thing you don't know.
I watched you fap. And also I am drafting a new Constitution for the Dzord. I have already posted one law. More will follow. Anybody found in flagrant violation of the Constitution shall be flogged and devoured.
I am the zombie who is Orwell (who is me). I have fury. And I'm way more important than Hamza CTZ Aziz (AKA Hamzaberg). He answers to me.
You may now take this time to smoke a cigarette while asking me Orwellian questions.
Dale threw himself at the glass in Niero's bedroom window. It shattered. He landed on the ground, shards raining down upon him. He stood up and sniffed the air. Solitude and loneliness. Master had no friends. No girlfriend. Only Dtoid. The thought incensed him. He wanted to cry and scream for his fallen hero. We shall avenge master. Master will be Dtoid's Marytr-In-Chief.
He looked around the room and saw a heart-shaped bed. Shapes danced and spun on the walls. Dale realized they came from a disco ball. Stacks of FHM magazines littered the nightstand and desk, both made of ivory. A whiteboard proudly displayed Maxim is SHIT! as well as COD>Halo>Gears>>>>>>BF. There was a verb chart just below. To rad, it said. I rad, You rad, He/She/It rads, We rad, They rad. Below that: Preterite = I radded, You radded, and so on.
“Master has been conjugating a nonexistent verb,” Dale said aloud. “He was radding. No! He had been radding.” Never again would Niero rad. Neither would he have been radded. He would never conjugate another verb ever again.
Enough. He had to find Niero's computer. Perhaps he would see something useful in the C drive. Master told Dale to research. He looked in the stove, but found nothing. The computer was not in the garbage can or the freezer. It wasn't even in the microwave. After four long, exhausting minutes of searching, Dale had worn himself out. He padded back to the bed and laid down. When his head hit the pillow, he felt something hard and unyielding underneath.
Dale lifted the pillow and found the laptop. Master is a genius! Nobody would ever think to look under a pillow! He turned it on and spent several minutes looking for evidence. He didn't know exactly what he needed to find, but he knew he would recognize something useful when when he found it.
So far the search was turning up only drift-racing videos. He looked at the clock: 7:42 pm. Dale has been searching for 10 whole minutes. This is folly. The internet will provide better results.
He took a detour to Hotmail in order to check if the Dtoiders had responded to his message about Poly and DRECK, but Niero's account loaded automagically.
He looked at the screen name. Was Niero the father to pumpkin children? He never told us.
Every email came from Pumpkin Factory L3C and they all bore “Weekly Earnings Report” in the subject line. Dale opened one from September 14, 20XX and was assaulted by endless charts and graphs. The final chart said “Peace-Pumpkin Continuum.” The X axis was labeled “# of pumpkins.” The Y axis was “# of peace (in millions),” and it increased exponentially.
At the bottom was commentary. It read, “weekly pumpkin sales exceeded projections by 9000%. Sales remain strong, but last week's editorial in Pumpkins Weekly predicts pumpkin famine in Nepal, Canada, Germany, Sweden, all of sub-Saharan Africa, eastern Russia, and, most troubling of all, the United States of America. The famine should hit within 3 years. The board of PumFac recommends increasing revenue to PumEd dept as mitigation. Also, synergy.”
Dale is in the wrong business. But I didn't come here to read about the formal pumpkin economy. On the left side of the screen he saw “Drafts (1).” Without thinking on the enormous breach of privacy he was about to commit, he opened the unsent email titled “Confession.”
Last Scion of the House of Blue Lions And Also Other Words Are Part of His User Name Probably felt his phone buzz in his pocket; a new email from his charge, Dale. Before he could open it, Dale exploded out the front door of the apartment building and sprinted down the street. The wretched creature was sputtering to himself; something about Must Inform Others. Reluctantly, Last Scion left his bushy hiding place and ran after him. Mayhaps this time I fail in my duty. Dtoid would be none the worse without the beast. But he knew his reputation would not survive Dale's death. Despite their differences, his orders were to keep Dale from harm, no matter what. And nobody was more capable than Last Scion.
What am I if not a lion? He tried to remember the words of his centuries-dead leader. What did Genghis say? An army of donkeys protected by a lion shall outlast an army of lions protected by a donkey? Either that or something similar enough as to make no difference. And what am I if not a lion?
Dale rounded a corner. Worry not, Dtoid donkeys. I shall be your lion. He followed Dale for what seemed like a thousand dusty centuries. He was happy there, lion chasing donkey in the concrete jungle.
You love Dtoid. You love the cblogs. You love chocolate. But do you love the lack of Shenmue 3 content on the cblogs?
No. You don't love it. You hate it. It is the single worst aspect of everything ever ever. It's not even slightly Orwellian.
What can be done about this?
I have scoured my prescient mind for answers to this terrible question. I have communed with the Greek gods. I have communed with the Norse gods. I have communed with the Mayan gods. They all say the same thing. They say it with a force of convictions that startles my radically intelligent brain-aparatus. Here is what they spout from their mighty cerebellums.
Yes, I know. That's exactly what we all expected them to say. So here's the deal. We shall now be havings a new law for the Destructzord cblogs. This new law must not be broken ever. Ever.
Here is the new law: All blogs heretoforthwithly must needs make it topmost priority to discuss any aspect of Shenmue 3. These aspects include: its beauty, its wonder, its cultural significance, its importance among the truly knowledgeable, and the amount to which it makes Half Life 3 entirely irrelevant and unnecessary.
Nothing is more important than Shenmue 3. Not even Shake Weights.
I, the zombie who is Orwell (who is me) shall take it upon myself to enforce this new law. All articles found to be in violation of Article 3.A.1.b will be deleted and replaced with pictures of Shenmue. Or cows.
Chapter 11 (secret hidden message for M Randy Dixon)
10,000 YEARS AGO
DTOID HQ – CHICAGO
“Niero, have you seen this new site? I think it could be a problem.” Samit was reading PolygonalGaming.com. Niero walked over and looked at the screen.
“What, Poly? Naw, they're cool. They have some totally radtastic writers.”
“Yeah, but look who runs it.” Samit clicked Staff. “Are you really okay with Ricciticcitello's daughter running an influential game blog?”
“There are a million blogs, Sammich. I don't see the harm. And I really don't feel like policing them all.”
“I don't know, man. Something just feels so wrong here.”
“That would be the burrito, Sam Hills.”
“No, I'm serious. Let me check it out.”
“Sorry, dude,” said Niero. “You gotta review the boring sports games that nobody plays except you.”
“Please, Niero. This feels all kinds of fucked up, and I don't even know why.”
“Samburger, I love ya, dude. I love ya to pieces and bits and sprinkles, but people depend on you to tell them about [INSERT GENERIC SPORTS GAME HERE] and its [INSERT MEANINGLESS NEW FEATURE HERE] and how it differs from [INSERT TITLE OF LAST YEAR'S IDENTICAL OLDER SIBLING HERE].”
“Please, please, please please please! I'll work nonstop until my pending articles are done. All I need is four days to check out Poly HQ afterward. Pleeeeaaaasse. I'll never ask for another favor ever again. And I'll owe you 10 favors in return.”
Niero sighed. “Fine, Samba de Amigo. If it means that much to you, go for it.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much, man. I know something's up with them. I'll prove it.”
“If you find something, great. I really doubt it, Sam Raimi, but I trust you like a billion. Do your work and take some time off to investigate.”
THIS IS A MID-CHAPTER BREAK.
ALSO, DIXON DIXON DIXON DIXON
When Samit had finished his articles and manually placed them in Dtoid's Magic Article Timer, he walked out of the office and headed to the hangar, grinning. He didn't need to research, he just needed to meet some people at Poly HQ.
He entered the hangar and looked up. The prototype Dzord's construction was just beginning. Hundreds of large spiders crawled to and from, building it one nanobot at a time. His space ship, outfitted with wings shaped like one of the last letters in the alphabet, had recently been painted bright pink. So rad! It was capable of FTL travel and had a killer soundsystem. How is this possible 10,000 years before the invention of mechs and nanobots? Samit thought of a satisfying sci-fi explanation, and his mind was at ease. He opened a can of delicious sugary soda several millennia before the creation of neoliberal industrial capitalism and was entirely untroubled by the chronological impossibility of it all.
Yummy fizzy bubbles tickle my tongue. Me is happy. He jumped in the space ship. “Poly HQ, please.” The ship shuddered to life. He played Pokemon 6: Fabula Crystal Spectra Dodecahedron the whole way there.
NIERO'S APARTMENT – CHICAGO.
Samit Sarkar, AKA Samitshaska, AKA Shotgun Octopus, turned they key and stepped into Niero's apartment. He was greeted by roughly a dozen topless women. Holy shit, Niero was a serial killer. I've just saved these women. I'm a hero! Then he remembered that heroes in situations generally wound up on the news and, later, with auto-tuned remixes of their speech.
Samit couldn't risk Dtoiders knowing he had been to Niero's. I can't let them tell anyone they saw me. What should I offer? Money? A Youtube Partners deal? No, they'll probably only be satisfied if they can have their way with my body.
“Girls, you're free!” he said. “That psycho can't hurt you anymore. But you can't tell anyone I was here. I don't have any hush money. All I can offer you in repayment is your freedom and my body. I won't struggle. You may have your way with...”
“Have you seen him? He's been gone for days and he won't answer his phone.”
“He hasn't even tweeted.”
“He said he had to go back to the factory for a couple hours, but he's been gone way too long.”
“Wait, what? What factory?” Samit was starting to think he had incorrectly assessed the situation.
“The pumpkin factory. He's the owner. Where the hell is he?”
“Niero owns a pumpkin factory?”
“I don't know who the hell 'Niero' is. Pumpkin Daddy told us his name was Johnny Gat. Pretty badass name, right?”
Samit realized these women had been lied to and had no idea who their Pumpkin Daddy actually was. Samit could take advantage of the situation. “Quick, girls!” He tried to look out of breath and frightened. “Niero told... I mean Pumpkin Daddy told me to come here. Look, he's in serious shit with some bad dudes. They're coming here right now looking for him. You have to leave! He said to meet him in Naperville. He's hiding out there.”
“Yeah, besides, Naperville? That's the suburbs. That's Illinois. I don't live in Illinois, I live in Chicago. Illinois can go fuck itself.
“I'm serious,” said Samit. “You have to go right now!”
“I already said you're lying. Should I say it again? I can say it all day, spandex man.”
“Fine,” he said, “I'll level with you. He skipped town and he ain't comin' back. He paid me to come here and tell you.”
“You're still lying. Hey, CandyPop! He's still lying. What should we do with him?”
“Nothing,” said CandyPop. “Fuck this. I'm going back to my other man. At least Hamza doesn't hang around with men who wear red spandex outside of dungeons.” She started to leave, and as she passed Samit, she looked him dead in the eyes.
She knows! If she knew Hamza, she had to know Niero. Is it the same Hamza? How many Hamza's can there be? He watched her walk away. Probably as many as there are Samits. He let her go, deciding to deal with her later.
“She's right,” said one of them. “Fuck this.” The rest of the women left, too; not a single one of them bothering to put on a shirt.
“What the fuck was that?” Samit said aloud after he had shut the door. He tried to forget about it and find Niero's computer. He checked the fridge; nothing. He checked the oven; nothing. He checked suitcases; nada. The computer wasn't even in the toilet bowl. Of course! It's so obvious. He lifted up Niero's pillow and there it was; and IBM Thinkpad 701. He opened the lid, admiring the sleek, boxy designs of mid-90s hardware. So subtle, yet so extreme.
The laptop prompted him for a password. D-T-O-I-D, he typed. Nothing happened. N-I-E-R-O-D-T-O-I-D. Still nothing. S-A-M-I-T-I-S-S-E-X-Y produced zero results. After several failed attempts, something popped into his head. P-U-M-P-K-I-N-D-A-D-D-Y. Success! He double clicked AOL and used the same password to log in as xXxPumpkinXxXDaddyxXx. After an eternity of waiting, the computer began slowly loading AOL's homepage.
He knew not to leave the false confession in Niero's work email. Too obvious. So he used his old friend's Hotmail account instead. Again, Pumpkin Daddy was the name and password. Samit started a new draft and titled it Confession, like the Usher song. He threw in the text, saved the draft, and slipped out of the apartment. Only a dozen people knew he had been there. Looks like good Samit the silent continues his legacy of astounding stealthiness. He was about to become even stealthier, however, when he dealt with the so-called CandyPop. Samit started walking stealthily towards Hamza's apartment in Chicago's lovely Edgewater neighborhood. He also missed Dixon.
In his wifi-capable cave, hidden in the subway tunnels, Dale was scouring the internet for information about Polygonal Gaming that wasn't on their website. He cursed himself for spending all night on Steam, but he was happy with his new purchases. There was a sale; every game was 10,000% off, including recently released PC copies of Wii and 3DS exclusives. Finally Dale can play all the games Jonathan Holmes loves!
He clicked on Staff and his screen showed the names of all Poly employees. The first name he saw was Bubsy Ricciticcitello – CEO/Editor-in-chief/Hereditary Monarch. No! The evil Raccoon John has spawned hellspawn! Bubsy's father, John, had gained slight fame in the gaming press for his bloody 483-year reign over Electrical Artisan Studios, transforming it from a small soup kitchen for orphaned leper kittens into a multinational corporation that built concentration camps and filled them with orphaned leper kittens.
Narrator X - They stole me.
Dale searched for Bubsy and found a 2012 video interview with her father, conducted by the fine “journalists” of Large IED, a well-known gaming blog. He clicked play and had to sit through several minutes of ads in Swiss. Fucking proxy servers. Then the interview started.
“Why is every game released by Electrical Artisan Studios the bestest game ever?” asked the “journalist.”
“Well,” said Bubsy's father, “that's a good question. EAS games aren't solitary, one-off experiences. For example, ever played Portal? There's literally only one way to beat each level. The story never changes; and change is a huge marker of quality. Portal doesn't even have a cover system. Or a suite of iOS apps and books and graphic novels. You can't customize your portal gun. You can't engage in wave-based combat against increasingly powerful enemies. You can't save the galaxy. You can't purchase fish for your captain's quarters. There's no dubstep. No recharging health. Yikes. No thanks, man. I'll take Mass Effect 3 over Portal any day of the week.”
“And your daughter, Bubsy? She seems destined to follow in dad's amazing footsteps.”
“She's doing a really fantastic job over at Polygonal Gaming. I couldn't be more proud. And she had the great sense to snatch up Samit Sarkar from Destructoid.” Samit Sarkar! Dale was struck by an unthinkable idea that he instantly knew was true. Samit Sarkar IS Samitshaska!!!!!!!!! Then he realized nine exclamation points were not enough for his emotions, so he added several more of them. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Samit and Bubsy are gonna increase Poly's shares by at least $14 each. Anyone thinking of buying should do so right now.”
“Tell us little about how DRECK is gonna improve gaming.”
“For anybody who doesn't know, DRECK is short for Foundation for the Advancement of Cover Systems, Online Passes, Shoehorned Multiplayer, DLC Suites, RPG Elements, and Corporate Kickstarter Campaigns. The whole acronym is FFTAOCSOPSMDSREAECK. We shortened it to DRECK in order to give it more zoom, more zazz, more pizzow. DRECK reminds you of 'direct' or 'recreation.' Direct Recreation is what we aim to offer the entire gaming community. And 'K' is a letter that really resonates with our audience.
"Our plan is multifold. It involves synergy, upward horizontal growth trend shaping, turnover capitalization, entreprellanthropy, capitalizing on the backend, and producing IWs, or 'Increase Waves,' of market growth saturation. In more ground-level detail, we plan to buy out all currently existing developers and incorporate them into DRECK. Luckily, the Save Gaming Act has just passed Congress, which makes our job easier. Soon all indie developers – parasites working to destroy gaming – will be arrested. However, they will be treated more fairly than they deserve. After arrest they will be shipped to one of our Indie Paradise Facilities. Each IAF is a wonderful place to live and they're totally not starvation camps filled with gas chambers.”
“Who runs this awesome new venture?”
“I do, of course. After resigning from EAS, I needed a way to stay involved with the industry I love so much. Bubsy is my VP. Samit Sarkar is CFO/Whipmaster General in addition to his duties at Poly. We have the capital and know-how to make this an immediate success. The gaming community will tremble with gratitude.”
“Sounds very cool, man. Very dystopia-chic. I'm pumped. Bring on the horse armor!”
“Thanks for having me. Keep doing the great work. It really helps to have people out there doing our own PR work for us, emphasizing only the positive aspects of games in your reviews. And those consistently middle-of-the-road reviews are stellar.”
Dale paused the video. What has Dale just seen? There, on his screen, contained within a 6 minute interview, was all the evidence he needed to rally Dtoid and get revenge for Andy and Niero. Why is nobody talking about this? This is a huge deal.
He hit CTRL-T and opened his email. The Evidence Against Polygonal Gaming, he wrote in the subject line. Then he erased it. They'll never read that. I need a title that captures attention. He wrote Free iPad Miley Cyrus Nudes – Dtoid Exclusive!!! His friends and coworkers might not care about an email containing evidence against Poly and Samit, but everyone would open a link to a video promising free iPads. The perfect click-bait, he thought.
Dale sent his spam across the tubes and surfed over to The Pirate Bay because he was worse than Hitler.
The Chicago Post Herald Review Times Examiner Daily
The body of internet superstar Mr. Andy Dixon was found on North Ave. Beach early this morning. Exact circumstances surrounding the demise of the 3,219 year old blogger and pervert are unknown. Police Chief J. Jenna Jameson offered only scant details, instead using most of her press conference to implore the public to “find that Spidered-man and deal him the mustard.” Before ending the conference, an associate handed her a slip of paper. As she read the statement, she injected her own thoughts and commentary, which is entirely inappropriate and which this journalist finds disgusting in the extreme.
She told the assembled journalists, “I forgot to say something super important. 'Mr. Andy Dixon's corpse was found with a huge metal dildo in the rectal cavity.' What a freak, huh? I mean, I'm a porn star and police chief, but even I find that super duper creepy. Man, what a weirdo! 'At this point in the investigation, and given the nature of the deceased, we will most likely rule this death Auto-Aquatic Asphyxiation. We refuse to speculate on the exact type of fish that Mr. Andy Dixon most likely found sexually attractive, but with the invasion of Asian Carp in Chicago's watershed, it's probably Asian Carp.' Golly, poor fish. What did they ever do to deserve that?”
This is the second Destructoid-related death in as many days. The website's founder and leader, Niero G, was decapitated in a live video broadcast by a group calling themselves Polygonal Gaming.
Mr. Andy Dixon Sr., the deceased's father was reached for comment. “He died how he lived, disgracing the once-great House Dixon. He was always a disappointment, not like that Jonathan Holmes fella. A really standup guy, him. The son I never had, but always deserved.”
There will be no funeral service. They grand city of Chicago does not tolerate public perversion and fish-lust, no matter how badass any given community manager might be. Also, cocks.
DTOID HQ - Chicago
Jonathan Holmes put down the newspaper. “Gosh,” he said, “that was nice of Andy's dad to say about me.”
“Oh, god,” said Elsa. “I need to sit down.” Andy and Niero are both gone. This can't be real. The Dtoid crew had spent the previous day crying, drinking tequila, and breaking things at HQ.
“Niero had plan!” said Dale. “Niero told Dale, 'Dale must listen, dude. If Niero gets killed, it may mean gaming is under attack. What a bummer, man! Dtoid has angered powerful forces. So if Niero is killed, Dale must research. Dale must unite Destructoid.' That is what Niero told Dale.”
“Dtoid is coming,” said Occam's Electric Toothbrush. “His last words. Like a call to arms.”
“Oh, god,” said Caimdark, “you mean like at the end of every single fucking episode of Extra Credits? I hate how they pitch up that dude's voice. But the Mario 64 intro music they use is pretty rad.”
“I woulda told Samitshaska to shut the fuck up,” said Jim.
“He wasn't filming an old Jimquisition, dude,” said Caimdark.
“He shoulda said thank god for me.”
“Will you fucking take this seriously for once?” said Elsa.
“We need to go kill that Shaska dude,” said Hamza, caressing his knife. “A head for a head.”
“No, guys,” said Phil. “Market forces.”
“What!?” Strider, in his Pikachu costume, was ready to join Hamza. “Market forces? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Think about it,” said Phil. “Dtoid is beloved the world over. Niero was killed by a representative from Polygonal Gaming. The market will devour them. Karmic justice! Soon, Samitshaska will living under a bridge eating cardboard.”
“Forgive me, Phil,” said Strider, “but are you some kind of moron?”
“I'm anything you want me to be, baby,” said Phil, pinching his nipples. “All night long.”
“We must research,” said Dale, but the other ignored him.
“Let us royally smite that Shaska bitch,” said Hamza.
“Bloody vengeance on Shaska and Poly.”
“Research!” implored Dale. “We must unite. Niero told Dale.”
“We gotta spank him,” said Hamza.
“JONATHAN HOLMES!” shrieked Jim. “Is it pedophilia or not?!?”
Jonathan frowned and walked away. He left the warehouse.
“No!” yelled Dale. “Come back! Jonathan must come back. We must unite and research.” Dale ran after him. “Come back.”
“You can do your research,” said Jonathan, “but I'm sure a polite email will clear up this whole thing.” He kept walking. “Also, fuck Canadians.”
Email, thought Dale. “Jonathan is wrong, but Jonathan gives Dale and idea,” he said to himself, and he ran back to his cave.
“I'm telling you,” said Phil, “the market is gonna handle this.”
“The market?” Hamza was irritated. “The benevolent, magical, invisible hand of the market is gonna restore balance to the force? Is that what you're telling us right now?”
“The same market that needed slave labor to build Dubai? Shit, fuck Dubai, the entire USA. You're telling me the same market that depends on slave labor and occasional gigantic contractions to keep from eating itself within a millennium is the same market that's gonna avenge Niero?”
“The market works in mysterious ways, my friend.”
“You know what kinda person you sound like? Have you been smoking my product?”
“Are you coming on to me, you manly man?”
“Maybe a little, sugar,” said Hamza.
“Look at that,” said Jim. “I wish Jonathan would talk to me like that. He always runs away or changes the subject. Or he laughs it off.”
“Oh, Jim,” said Elsa. “You just need to take him on a nice date and be clear about what type of relationship you want with him.”
“I thought I was being pretty damn clear on Podtoid every single week for the last few years.”
“He thinks you're joking,” said Occam.
“He fuckin' what?!” said Jim.
“Yeah. The way you laugh, the way you intersperse the harassment with silly movie pitches and ridiculous ideas.”
“Silly?!” he sputtered. “Ridic... I'm not fuckin' joking! Why would anyone joke about that shit? Why would I spend so much time developing those movie pitches if I weren't serious?”
“You've never been serious,” said Elsa.
“Excuse me? I'm always serious!”
“You can't even bring yourself to be serious now, with all that has just happened. Look at yourself, you carry around that Saints Row dildo like a sword! On the rare occasion you're not nude, you always wear sunglasses and a top hat. For fuck's sake, Jim, you're pining for a coworker when we just lost Andy and Niero.”
“You make a good point, madame. But the Violator, here,” he held up the Saints Row memorabilia, “is an integral part of my identity. The clothes grant me a cohesive visual aesthetic for my videos, and the nudity broadcasts my intentions toward my future princess: the world's freakiest Constantina.”
“Okay, whatever,” said Elsa. “Look, I just lost two friends. I need to be with my husband. If you guys need me, you know how to find me.”
Narrator X – They got a little bit off topic, considering two friends had just met their demise, but let us grant them a few brief moments of stimulating conversation and cuddling as they debate Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine before their flames, like Niero's, are forever snuffed out.
That night, Hamza took the bus up Clark Ave to his favorite Irish pub. Lady Chatterley's was usually busy, but now it was nearly empty. In a dark corner, two men were clearly conspiring against him. I might have to slip back into character, he thought. Candle-lit shadows danced on the mahogany walls, and the men's Russian stouts appeared a shade brighter than their intentions.
“Evenin', Hamzaberg.” The bartender, as always, was wiping dust off a wine glass. His red bow tie was off center and his comb-over was particularly unkempt. “I saw what happened to Niero. Drinks on the house tonight.” Hamza sat down and looked the bartender in the eyes. He nodded toward the two men in the corner.
“Never seen 'em before,” whispered the bartender. “They ordered Rasputin. Beer don't get any darker than that.”
Hamza got back up. He approached the figures, who were now staring at him. “Who the fuck is Samitshaska?” he asked.
“Tell me what I want to know right now. Hamzaberg don't fuck around. He ain't yet fucked around ever, not in his whole life. He ain't about to start now, not for you beer-sippin' Poly bitches. Now, tell me, who is Samitshaska?”
“Sorry, man. We don't know what you're talking about.”
“Wrong answer.” He whipped out a throwing star and threw it at one of them. Before it reached the man's neck, Hamza's knife was in the other's heart. “You do it to Niero, I do it to you.” Hamza began his fifth decapitation that week. He spoke softly to his victims.
“You will heed me, Samitshaska. You will heed me forever.” He finished and removed the throwing star from the other man's bloody throat. He put it, dripping, in his pocket and began to work on head #7. When the job was done, he went to the bathroom.
As he washed his hands, he saw himself in the mirror; red eyes, blood spattered face, and perfectly-maintained hair. Whiskey. He went back to the bar and sat down. “Laphroaig. Quarter cask. Neat.”
He sniffed it, noticing very slight floral notes. He sipped. Melted band aids, he thought. God I love whiskey.
POLYGONAL GAMING HQ - A billion miles above Los Angeles
A day had passed since the execution, and Samit was tense. Why haven't they busted down the door and strung me up? He was slightly behind schedule, having spent most of intervening hours watching cat videos. He needed to write Niero's letter, but procrastination always won. No longer! he thought. Today I break the habit. I must write that letter immediately. He opened his laptop and clicked on Word. He knew it had to be convincing, and was unsure how exactly to word it.
Friends, colleagues, Dtoid crew, these are my final words. Samit was pleased with the opening sentence. If you are reading this, I am dead. This letter is my confession.