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The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid: Chapter 12 - Destructoid

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My fellow internet zombie brethren:

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.

I love you!
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13




Chapter 12

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.



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