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The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid: Chapter 4 - Destructoid




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About
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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Death becomes us. Destructoid is done.

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 4

Narrator X - Good evening. I am Narrator X. I hide in the dark spaces between chapters. I implore you to read no further. This story can only end in tears and blood. Everyone will die, probably even you. The happiness of Destructoid members is a fleeting thing that soon will be extinguished. There is no way to stop it. I am so sorry.



“Hell yeah! New Dante kicks mega ass! Fuck. Hell. SHIT! This game is fucking aMAZing!” Hamza Aziz turned off his Xbox 360 and punched the wall. “Goddamnshityesfuck!! Yo CandyPop! Get your sexy ass in here.”

“What do you want, baby? I'm playing Cookie Clicker. Gotta keep clicking the cookie.”

“Have you played the new DmC?” Hamza got up and went into the kitchen. His girlfriend was sitting at the table, topless, clicking furiously. “It came out super long ago and it's been in my backlog forever. But it's SO fucking SICK, dude!”

“Check it out, I'm at 700,000 CpS.”

“Hell yeah, bitch!” He kissed the top of her head as she kept clicking. Cookies were raining down. “I gotta go back out there and do that Heisenberg shit. I betta get into my muthafucking character. Them Nelly-lookin' muthafuckas probably out there again. Just watch my back.”

“Okay, baby.” She never looked up from the game.

Outside, Hamza spotted a 20-something wearing a Loyola hoodie and texting furiously. Fresh meat. Alright, Hamzaberg, let's sell this boy some product.

“Yo cracka ass cracka. I got some real fresh 'cain. Good shit. Twenty bucks a hit.” The student never looked up from his phone.

“Hey! Cracka! You real far from home. Is you lost?” The student kept walking, entirely unaware. “Pasty-ass lil bitch.” Alright Hamzaberg. Maybe the homeboy routine scared him off. Hamzaberg is a good character, just scale him back a bit for the college kids.

Hamza walked down an alley and saw three more students.

“Hey, yo!” They looked at him. “Yeah, you. I got some real good shit. Y'all like real good shit, right?”

“Wait a minute, you look familiar.” One of them was wearing a Destructoid shirt. “Oh, holy shit! You're Hamza! Whoa, dude! I fucking love Dtoid!! Can I please get your autograph, man? Please, please?” Oh, fuck.

“Naw, man, I don't know what the fuck you talkin' 'bout. Shit, I gotta go.” Hamza started running back down the alley as the student shouted at him.

“Fap fap fap!! Bye Hamza!”

He turned left on Thorndale and then walked up Winthrop, in front of his apartment. There he saw a group of five Mad Granville Disciples. Lately they had been encroaching on Hamza's territory, selling their inferior cocaine at a lower price. He might have tolerated it, if not for the fact that their product had been killing his best customers, the burlesque dancers. In Chicago, burlesque girls were a protected class of citizen, above the cops and politicians. Their deaths had caused the city to increase police presence in Edgewater. I have to stop it.

The Disciples spotted him. One of them spoke.

“What you about, gangsta?” The Disciples started to surround him.

“I ain't about shit,” Hamza replied. That wasn't good enough for them.

“Naw, bitch. What set you claim?”

“You forget yourself, you skinny lil whiny lil bitch. This is my territory. Y'all killin' my clients. They good girls. That shit must not continue while I still breathe.” Hamza was talking to the Disciple who spoke, ignoring the others. “So here's the deal. You 'bout to run yo ass back up that block where you belong. Then...”

“This our block now.” The man got in Hamza's face.

“Yeah,” said a second Disciple. “That's called a hostile takeover in proper white boy English.”

“Don't presume to use that proper English bullshit on me you tight ass little ass tight ass shit. I'm 'bout to get a smidgeon heated. Y'all muthafuckas got five seconds to leave my block before shit get ugly. Tell ya boys Hamzaberg does not forgive.”

Nobody moved.

“Four seconds. Three seconds.”

All was quiet.

“Two seconds.”

A Disciple reached under his belt. Hamza heard a pop and saw the man stumbled back. There was red on the man's shirt.

In the apartment overlooking their block, CandyPop put her sights on another banger. She saw Hamza lunging at one of them. One down. She pulled the trigger and the bullet caught a second man in the forehead. Three left. Hamza was on top of one, grounding and pounding. The other two Disciples were just now realizing what had happened. They reached for their pistols. CandyPop, still topless, put a bullet in one's knee and another in his partner's ass. Both men collapsed and their guns went flying out of their hands.

She provided watch while Hamza choked his adversary. Two dead, two injured, and Hamza's on the last one. It didn't take long for the two injured men to regain composure and scramble for their pistols. CandyPop aimed and fired two more shots. The guns exploded into several pieces.

Hamza released the man he had been strangling. He took out his knife and grabbed the man who had been shot in the knee. He cut into the neck and began sawing. When the blood started spraying, Hamza walked over to the Disciple CandyPop had shot in the ass. His head came off in under 20 seconds. Hamza threw it on the unconscious strangled man.

He looked around. People were watching him in silence. One bystander was taking video with his phone. Good, Hamza thought. Let them see what happens when people invade my territory. Blood was pooling around the corpses of four Mad Granville Disciples. This'll be clickbait on Kotaku for months.

“Let this shit be known,” he bellowed. “Granville bangers would be wise to heed this. Stay the fuck north of Glenlake. Everything from here to Berwyn is MY territory! Also, don't forget youtube.com/dtoid. We got a new office chat for all you bitch ass honkies. Heed that shit, too. Heed all the shit I say! Heed it! HEED IT!”

He pulled up one of the dead men by the hair.

“HEED IT!” He sank the knife into the neck and sawed away until it hung by a strip of flesh. “HEED IT!”

The skin tore apart and the body fell to the ground.

“HEED IT!” He threw the head on the still-unconscious man.

“HEED. THIS. SHIT. You would be wise,” he severed the next man's head, “to heed this shit.”

He removed the final man's head.

“HEED THIS FOREVER!!” The unconscious Disciple came to and sat up. He was hit by a flying head. He looked down and saw his dead friends staring back up at him.

“What the fuck?!” He scrambled backwards. “Oh shit! Of fuck shit! No no no no.”

Hamza clasped both hands around his neck and yanked him to his feet.

“Yo, man! Chill. We was just larpin' as bangers out here. We never wanted none of this shit! I swear!”

“You done fucked with me on the wrong day,” said Hamza. “I GAVE you boys a chance. I TOLD y'all to run back up that block. But the homies there,” he pointed at the heads, “they didn't heed me. I. Run. This. Street. I. Run. This. Block. OKAY!?”

The banger nodded.

“Now you got two choices, son. Do like I wisely suggested, and you unwisely ignored, and RRUUNN yo scared bitch ass back up that mothafucking block. In a zig-zag. That's option one. Option two is I remove yo liver with my hands.” Hamza released him.

“Now. Choose.” The man turned and ran in tight, quick, unpredictable zig-zags.

“Tell the homies what happened here,” Hamza shouted as he pulled out his .45 and took aim. Two shots, he thought. He pulled the trigger and a puff of concrete shot up next to the running man. The second round caught him in his shoulder. He fell and shrieked in pain, but got up and ran faster.

Hamza's phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Yo.”

“Hey, Hamzotron 4000! Sup dudebarf? Can you stop by tomorrow? It's crazy psycho mega important.”

“Yeah.”

“Great, awesome. Thanks, H-Bomb. Catch you later.”

“Yeah.” Shit. No slangin' tomorrow. I gotta make this a banner day for Hamzaberg's Cocaine Slangatorium Inc. I gotta slang all that mothafucking cain on my beautiful Chicago block.

Hamza, soaked in blood, went back inside, showered, changed into his finest slanging apparel, and proceeded to slang all that mother fucking cain on his beautiful Chicago block.



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