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.
Using advanced weather manipulating technologies he floods the fields. With bated breath, he unleashes a sour fart in anticipation of seeing the HD hordes of tiny drowned mice bodies being gobbled up by the ravenous remnants of all that still refuses to die. The dead mice look pretty cool all dying and bobbing on his 10000 inch plasma screen, like a discreetly animated screensaver, before he mercilessly scrutinises the look on each and every dead mouse’s face.
Panic. Terror. Then, here and there, something that could resemble a final peace.
He feels cheated for a second before acknowledging known unknowns and unknown unknowns. What he knew he didn’t know was how to accurately read emotional expressions in mice or people, no matter how close to the screen he got. It was like one of those old magic eye pictures where everyone who said they got it was either lying or fools.
What was an unknown unknown to Mr Lee was that the magic eye pictures actually did work. You needed to first unfocus your eyes ever so slightly and then be disappointed.
What was also an unknown unknown to Mr Lee was that even the mice that still clung to life somehow thought he was a cunt.
(This was partly due to indiscriminately drowning them using advanced weather control systems, of course. But as field workers in a grassroots organisation, the Loose Affiliation of Cute Rodents, they were opposed to all forms of hierarchical power and were instead committed to an anarcho-syndicalist form of self-governance. However, although they prided themselves on being progressive, their rules still shockingly ruled white rats as cute but brown rats as vermin. The blacks had long since been exterminated by what had once been thought of as plague but was now generally regarded as institutional racism within the rodent communities.)
The drowned mice are swiftly swooped on by the remaining villagers and Mr Lee feels tired and annoyed there are still a few peasants with the strength left to wade and gobble. If only death didn’t persuade more life somewhere else that it is still biologically viable to cling on stubbornly, he thinks. What naughty peons, refusing to plunge to their death and be dashed to pieces on the rocks of progress below.
He wonders if he could get some cool terminator robots that fire lasers and shit at the peasants as they flee for the unknown delights of Region 119/C.
He budgets carefully before deciding that clearing them to the next sector and, once rounded up, replacing them all with factory robots instead will help keep costs down. Those lasers look cool in the movies and whatnot but the battery would either be so big, he number crunches, to either render the robot too slow and cumbersome to be economically viable or only last long enough to kill exactly one peasant before having to be plugged into a charger overnight.
Briefly considering those sleepless nights waiting for the full five bars to charge will just be too tiring he thinks, and besides who are these people to him? Nothing and nobody. Deciding it’s just business he washes his hands of the matter (and sprays his bum hole with the bum gun) and then flushes the whole population down the toilet, feeling a strange sadness at it all.
He panics suddenly- he knows if the feelings aren’t immediately suppressed then he will be back to sobbing in his bed for days again then think, dammit think!
Ah yes. The failure to provide proof of each death could affect his headline quarterly losses but that can be easily offset. Plus he won’t be able to actually watch them die, wanking furiously like a bloated bonobo Masturbator of the Universe.
Thinking about wanking as an abstract concept, he wonders if he should have another wank again, then remembers he is fresh out of puppies and Kleenex and feelings of any kind now.
Tomorrow there will be a fresh delivery of European children taken into the care of the NWO’s various social services and arriving on diplomatic parcel planes, little air holes cut into their packing crates so they might arrive tired, terrified and hungry, yet still very much alive.
A stir fry, perhaps or with noodles. Or maybe mince them into sausages like in that Pink Floyd song about a wall. He saw it on the internet once and he didn’t like it. Or anything else, including himself.
He looks in the mirror and decided his original goals were typically ambitious but killing people just isn’t the same as killing trees or the rest of the planet. They keep running away and hiding.
Relax, he tells himself, there is still time.
Maybe this generation or maybe the next. He will hopefully get to see it in his own lifetime, along with the rest of VVIPs at one of the Rothschild’s mansions: some lavish and expensive party paid for in full by the blood of the proles.
Then he washes his hands again because he is paranoid about germs on the flusher.