China. The near future.
The technocratic Mr. Lee, two times Most Excellent People’s Committee Grandmaster Flash and the Gang of Four and the Furious Five, has returned from his vacation at long last.
The Sektor Comptroller of Region 118/B has important decisions to make this quarter.
He sits with a semi on the 33rd floor executive suite of his ivory tower. The ivory tower had been meant to extend many stories higher, of course, but due to running out of elephants to detusk, the grand construction will unfortunately remain unfinished.
Mr Lee scrutinises the peasant remnants of the villages who still wilfully refuse to fuck off or die though their homes and farms have been levelled and concreted over to make way for empty executive hi-rises. Even from this distance their pointless grabbing onto what remains of their former existence sickens him.
He peers at his bank of CCTV monitors at the starvation and squalor way down there and shakes his head in wonderment at the sheer audacity of the rabble in their wilful refusal to either give up the ghost or disappear to the Export Processing Zone in Region 119/C to work in eighteen hour shifts making smart phones for Foxcon.
“Broody scumbags!” he mutters, zooming around until he glances the expiring of a peasant- an insignificant dot to the naked eye but pixel sharp on the endless screens that spew out their satisfying scenes of well-guarded razor wire where once there were villagers shelling peas (or whatever) and, outside the fortifications, more cameras train in on the remaining peasants who still plead in vain “Mr Lee we beseech you to help us!”
He generates a sound in his throat somewhere between a chuckle and a tickly cough and intones, “Not broody rikery!”
There is a pathetic slap as one of the peasants lands face down in mud and does not get up.
Mr Lee excitedly zooms in on the peasant’s dying moments to such a degree that he can actually see the poor unfortunate’s soul leave the body. Unsure whether to feel a tiny bit safer with one less competitor or not to feel anything at all, he finds himself roused by the few cents each wasted life has returned to him on deposit.
Enthused by the conversion of potential squandered into cash, he grabs a nearby puppy and squeezes its head as hard as he can while drowning it just to see what its eyes look like exploding underwater.
Interestingly, it resembles a lava lamp momentarily, the blood glooping into the water in a brief spurt which has created enough space in the eye socket in which to insert his tiny erect penis. However, as the hot water cools, so does his ardour.
No longer able to hold onto the sensation that the puppy is still alive and he is still fucking it to death, lukewarmed into flaccid numbness, Mr Lee returns to his sealed underground bunker and waits patiently for everyone else to either fuck of or die or drag him out and hold him to account.