JOY TO DEPREVER
1
THE DEPREVERIAN TIMES
Sunday June 5, 2033
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, DEPREVER!
'FIRST THING I'M GONNA DO IS WASTE MY GRANDPARENTS!' SAYS ERIC FILSTROM, 17, ECSTATIC DEPREVERIAN YOUTH
by Frank Fitzfarrell
The Depreverian Times staff writer
YES,it's that time of the year again. The most wonderful time of the year. When the sound of delightfully cheerful music can be heard flooding through the streets, and the atmosphere is addicting and infectious. Impossible to ignore! Murdersex is in the air and life is oh so fair!
The anniversary of Deprever is here! We're all one year older now, and all lucky to be here in this gem of a supracountry. Remember to salute our great and glorious Leader tonight, when He makes His much-anticipated appearance from the top of the Freedom Spire.Without Him, surely we would all be lost and dying in the decay of the wasteland beyond. It isn't safe out there!
But enough negativity. Let's think positive! What have all you Depreverians got planned for the celebrations of tonight and tomorrow?
Perhaps a relaxing romp with a Sexxslaven minor? Club Sexxxerotica is the place to be. Buy one, get one free—today and tomorrow only! You don't want to miss an exciting opportunity like this!
Or maybe a gangbang on a sex-bot, with a group of your closest friends and family? Talk about a bonding experience! For your enjoyment, we've attached some handy-dandy coupons to The Horse Lounge, valid throughout our two-day celebration. Half-price for anyone under eighteen, and entirely free for those in a party of six or more!
Or if you feel like seeing some blood, how about a family-friendly trip to The Slaughterhouse, where you can let your hair down and get wild?Cripples, midgets, the homeless, and MORE! Kill 'em all and feel good in knowing you're serving Deprever! Out with the old and in with the new! It's two for the price of one—today and tomorrow only!
Want to see a real-life gladiator match? Head down to The Kitty Ring and watch two Kattemen fight to the death! Bet on the kitty you think will win, and you never know—you might just get lucky! Enclosed area couple betting stubs, both worth five dollars. Win or lose: It's on the house—so go crazy, Deprever!
And all you folks who like to kick it old-school, we've still got the annual Resolution to look forward to, over at Centre Square, beside the Maypole, in downtown Deprever City. Classic entertainment there—come one, come all: the fun begins at 12:06 AM sharp, shortly after the clock strikes midnight. And if you can't make it to the City, you can view the festivities from the comfort of your home, via the television. Either way, you're in for a fantastic Deprever Day!
But don't take it from me. How about some exciting first-hand admissions from your fellow Depreverians, eh?
"First thing I'm gonna do is waste my grandparents!" says Eric Filstrom, 17, an ecstatic Depreverian youth who also does volunteer work at The Slaughterhouse in his free time. "They're getting to be a burden on all of us, and since I'm the oldest one—out of all my siblings—I get first dibs. It's f*cking hardcore! I can't decide between the hammer and the power drill..."
Miranda Jessup, 23, and a contestant on last year's season of Deprever's hit reality television show, The Next Top Whore Of Deprever, wishes all you Depreverians to stay reckless and exercise suitably thoughtless behaviour. "It's, like, not every year that we get Deprever Day, you know. Well, it is, but that's,like, beside the point. Like, when I was on TNTWOD, I realized that it was, like, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I made the most of it, you know? I'm crushed I didn't, like, win... but thanks to our fabulous society, I can pretend that I did. And Deprever Day is a great way to, like, embrace all that! I love you, Leader! WOOOO!!!"
But not all Depreverians are happy, unfortunately. Before being taken away by the Deprever Police Department for processing, Winston Marx, 39,managed to have a short—albeit scattered and deranged—talk with us. "This isn't right! Deprever is a sick society, a world built for psychos to thrive. You can't win! They drug our food, our water,the air is toxic. They want us to be content with this enslavement.This horror show we live and breathe. This reverence for the depraved. You all make me sick! SICK! SIIII—!"
Don't let the weirdos drag you down. The Winston Marxes of the world are a clear minority, not normal, and, therefore, severely mentally ill. We wish him all the best, and know that he will receive all thehelp he needs. Upon successful rehabilitation at one of the many Deprever Reprogramming Clinics, he will return to our great society achanged man: One who functions as he should, engages in all the wonders of our superior culture, and doesn't call the rest of us normal, happy Depreverians horribly insulting names, like sick and psycho.
Thismissive has gone on long enough. Happy Deprever Day, everyone! Makeit a special one, one you will always remember. Whatever fits your fancy, come on out and enjoy the evening with the rest of your fellow Depreverians. Don't be a numbrod!
~For the Depreverian Times ~
2
CARL Duncan set the news-reader down on his desk, inhaled the last of his bag of coffee vapour and scanned the massive multi-screen display taking up the whole of the wall in front of him. He was a Watcher:Someone who was employed by the Deprever government to sit around all day, viewing the security cameras inside people's apartments, as well as the various entertainment sites and government facilities, making sure they were being perfectly obedient Depreverians.
It was a boring job, for the most part, but the pay was swell and that was fine for Carl. Once a month, he would get a holiday—all expenses paid, of course—and travel to a luxurious establishment located in the south-end of Deprever City. Orgies, buffets, massacres—any sort of indulgence the mind could conjure, and it was his to enjoy on that vacation. One of the many perks for being a government employee.
The screens shifted from complex to complex, going from the A apartments to the B's, the C's, all the way to the Z's—one big babble of voices, clear words lost in the din of it. Carl could control the camera system: It was voice-activated, which meant if he wanted to partake in his own voyeuristic tendencies and focus on anyone screen—watching the people inside, living their lives; maybe doing something illegal—he could.
He watched families sitting down to eat in front of the TV, reality shows blasting murdersex into their minds. Squabbling siblings settling their differences with some government-approved incest. Pets squaring off against one another in amateur death matches, before being beaten with baseball bats and billy clubs by their loving families. A homeless man being stomped, pummelled, doused in lighter fluid and set ablaze—much to the joy of participants and onlookers alike.
Business as usual. Nothing illegal. Nothing out of place.
That was when Carl caught a glimpse of something in the lower-right screen, just before the cameras cycled to the next group.
"Back!" he ordered the machine.
The multi-screens all shared a quick blink, then diverted back to the feeds they'd been showing just a few seconds prior.
"Freeze!"
The cycle froze, leaving Carl the ability to observe that specific group of camera feeds until he gave word for the cycle to resume.
There it was. Bottom-right corner.
"Focus: Complex D7, Residence 11."
The feed expanded, filling up the entirety of the wall display. Each residence had multiple cameras in it, though the residents were only aware of the one. He was free to see the actions of that particular resident in Complex D7–11—all the detail, nothing left to the imagination.
Illegal activity.
Time for Carl's favourite part of the job.
He pushed the red button in the centre of his desk. Watched and waited. His grin first surfacing, and then widening.
3
MABEL Malloy quickly brought the box of soil and plants from one room to the next, trying her damnedest not to be seen by the camera.
She'd been committing an illegal act for three months now, evading the authorities and their sick sense of justice with what she considered to be either serious luck or a blessing from above. Both of which were considered to be reprehensible acts by the state's standards—unless, of course, you were referring to luck in terms of government-sanctioned gambling; and a blessing from above as that which had been granted from the Leader of the World Himself. Which she was not, but that was neither here nor there, as she was already breaking the law with her deplorable green thumb.
Ever since Deprever enacted the Act of National Beautification Act—a law stating that private gardens were not to be grown or maintained, lest their providers be punished by the fullest extent of the state—Mabel had been loath to give up her passion and main hobby. Sure, at first she had given in to the new regime, but that was only because she hadn't yet worked out how she would fight it. It had taken a lot of work, paranoia and secrecy to gather the good swhich would allow her to start growing a new garden.
And with the rejuvenated garden came stress and strain. Mabel was by no means Whore material, but she hadn't ever considered herself to be ugly, either. But these days, she found herself picking clumps of her own hair off her pillow each morning, her aches and pains had become more pronounced and more frequent, and she seemed to be more forgetful than she'd ever been. And she was only thirty-four, for Leader's sake!
Enough,Mabel thought to herself, as she set the box down on the table with as mall grunt. Her garden was located in what was supposed to be a broom closet—it was small, sure, but until she figured out how to expand her operation, it would have to do. There was only the one camera in the residence, and its sight didn't reach that side of the room.
She opened the door to the closet, basked in the beauty of all those green leaves and vibrant blue-yellow-red-orange-violet flowers—a rainbow in a room—and scooped out a space in the soil for the new arrival. The Depreverian government said that all you could find beautiful was the human form. Mabel, however, thought otherwise.
Singing low to herself, almost a hum (if not for the words): "Friend sare like flowers, beautiful flowers. Friends are like flowers, in the garden of life." She plunged the new plant into the soil, right beside the red-white flowers of what she believed was a small Osiria rose plant. Topped off the roots with fresh fertilizer. Patted the mound of soil to ensure it was firm.
Keeping her hands in her pockets, she grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and brought it back to the closet-garden. She watered all her plants with just that glass. Smiled at her handiwork. "My pretties."
There was a thud of feet from down below. She shrugged it off, thinking it was probably just some poor, degenerate soul being trodden upon. The box of supplies went into a space below the shelf holding the plants,and the door went locked shut. Back to the kitchen to wash the dirt off her hands and from under her fingernails. She had managed to turn the dirt to mud, browning her hands, and was about to rinse it all away, when a thunderous CRUNCH occurred in the living-room.
Mabel knew the day had finally come.
Feet marching as one unit, the sounds louder as they drew nearer.
She put her head down and waited.
Large hands—man-hands—grabbed her by the arm and the neck, and a boot kicked her off her feet. She was thrown to the ground, flat onto her stomach grown fatter by the day. She saw the combat boots of man ymen, laced in perfect uniformity: straight and tight. Not daring to look up, she knew who they were all the same: The Deprever Police Department. Come to take her away for crimes against the state.
One set of feet marched over to the closet. She heard the click-click of something mechanical.
BANG.
A gun went off and the lock went clattering to the floor, all contorted metal.
The closet door opened and the artificial grow lights were reflected in the floor.
"Mabel Malloy," said the deep voice of the man on top of her, with his hands buried deep into her back. "You're under arrest for illegal gardening."
Another set of hands patted down her sundress, taking special care to grope the spots still worth groping. She blinked away the sting of tears, focusing purely on the dirt-water running off her hands and seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.
"Do you have anything left to say, Ms. Malloy?"
"F*ck you, cree—"
Her voice died as a mask was placed over her mouth, pumping in sweet-flavoured air. Some sort of drug-gas. Mabel's eyes grew heavy,her lids lowered, and she was out cold before she even knew what had happened.
4
CARL watched with a sick sense of satisfaction as the full-screen display showed D7–11's resident, Mabel Malloy, being given the sweet knockout gas and dragged off by some of the DPD officers. Others stuck around to scour for more evidence they could use against her during her processing—assuming there was any, but the police were wont to be as thorough as possible, on the off-chance they were dealing with a serious threat. We're talking organized resistance...
The plants were removed, stomped, and then set on fire.
Books on gardening were found in various hiding places, and brought to the living-room to be burned to ashes.
The final bit of protocol was for each of the cameras in the residence to be disabled and removed. One by one, Carl switched from feed to feed, watching as the officers examined a checklist and found various hidden cameras throughout the apartment. A pile of them were gathered, and before Carl knew it, there was but one camera left—the main one. The rest of the cameras were melted down to a heap of plastic mush. Then one officer walked over to the corner where the main camera was, grabbed hold of it and yanked it from the wall.
The feed finally went blank.
All evidence gathered and promptly destroyed, the job was now complete. A criminal would be processed and, if possible, reprogrammed.
Carl stood up, grabbed his bag and made his way to the vapour bar,mumbling as he walked: "Mabel, Mabel, Mabel. Dumb. Thoughtless.You and everyone like you. You can't win. You can't beat the Leader of the World. He's God among us mere mortals. He chooses whether we live or die. And, most importantly, He's always watching. His eyes and ears are literally everywhere, picking up everything. No running, no hiding. Just being perfect Depreverians. How hard is that? Honestly?"
He shook his head, not understanding what led his fellow citizens to try and beat the state. Why even bother? And for what? Gardening?Carl just couldn't believe it. What a lame cause to lose yourself to.
He attached the bag to the vaporizer, and inserted a fresh batch of ground coffee into the device. Carl hit the green GO button and the bag filled with that earthy smell, rich and vaguely nutty with hints of chocolate. Of course, the coffee wasn't natural. Like nearly all the products fit for eating, drinking, or inhaling, the coffee was made in a government-operated lab.
Carl's father—Ralph Duncan—had worked in one of those labs, long ago... back when the world was under the thumb of a mega corporation, Wilwoxx. When Carl was a boy, his father would bring home all sorts of test foods and such—supposedly safe, but now that Carl thought about it, he was basically a living, breathing lab rat. F*cking prick. He was glad he'd offed his father with state-approved gratuitous violence last November. Strangled with a shoelace, all while pounding away at the man's skull with the shoe the lace had come from. Call it a sort of subconscious act, one of repressed emotions he hadn't even been aware of at the time: atavistic bloodlust.
Carl removed the now-filled bag of coffee vapour from the device. He put the mouthpiece to his lips and inhaled a warm lungful. Straight to the source. Deprever had done away with traditional liquid coffee at the start of the decade. The caffeine hit you faster with the vapour, and the taste was even better. It was, however, much easier to overdose—which meant you could unknowingly hit the states of anxiety, mania, depression and even psychosis without intending to. Recalling an old coworker, back when the vapour was first introduced, he remembered when the DPD had to be brought in to take the giggling madman away for processing. Carl never saw that man again.
He went back to his desk, drawing vapour into his lungs along the way. When he returned, he sat down, told the machine to refresh, and watched the multi-screen display return to regularity, cycling through the massive list of camera feeds.
5
AFTER nearly falling asleep from the dullness of everything he saw on the camera feeds—it was a rare occurrence to spot someone breaking the law, after all, simply because of the sheer number of screens to sift through—Carl was in dire need of some entertainment. Sure, he could peruse The Depreverian Times again, but he didn't feel like reading. It was boring to him. He only liked the front-page shit, asthat was always the most interesting part of each issue. The big story.
When he needed a quick laugh, he always found himself scanning the First World Problems on FaceSpace. It was populated mainly by dimwitted teenagers, and acted as a primary outlet for their unfettered inanity. Quite insightful, if you needed a firsthand glimpse into the whims and woes of Depreverian youth.
So Carl grabbed his news-reader and brought up the FaceSpace application. Prepared his eyes for a near-constant rolling...
WE NOW BRING YOU THE LATEST
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS
BROUGHT TO YOU BY FACESPACE
Alec in Deprever City writes:
"sheeeeeit doods wee gott hourselfs n epikk bash 2nite @ brainsplas cum 1 cum all n get fukkin waaaaasteid wit us n all da sluuuuuts lolll"
Jordanin Deprever City writes:
"ur gay lol fagot"
Alec in Deprever City writes:
"fukk u bish u aint gott SHIT on me u myy cum on yo mommas ass"
Nathan in Madrisco, California writes:
"dad staking me to the kill-zone tonite,,, pretty xcited!! :)"
Jordan in Deprever, City writes:
"gaaaaaaaaaaay lol"
Bern in Madrisco, California writes:
"hey u shut up about my son shithead!!! c u at home nate"
Charisse in Deprever City writes:
"OMG THE LEADER OF THE WORLD IS SOOOOO F*CKING HOT!!!!! im gonna flash him when he cums out 2nite ;P"
Jordan in Deprever City writes:
"flash me sluuuut lol:P"
Hans in Waldorf, Rhineland-Palatinate writes:
"me 2 baby :) hahaha"
Mark in Carrabina, New South Wales writes:
"me 3 lol i wanna lick those titties nd cumm aaaall over them!!"
Jamal in DepreverCity writes:
"u whore material gurrrl dayum!"
Charisse inDeprever City writes:
"wow thanks guyyss! lol :P watch the tv 4 me!"
Becky in Birmingham, West Midlands writes:
"so sad i cant see the leader in person :'( not fair!"
Jordan in Deprever City writes:
"haha sluuut u can c my cock tho ;)"
Becky in Birmingham, West Midlands writes:
"f*ck off loser!! you arent the leader!"
Jordanin Deprever City writes:
"pissed off!! cant go out to centre square tonite!!! fukk u mum nd dad!"
Keithin Winnebago, Alberta writes:
"kill urself bitch"
6
THATwas about as much as Carl could take. He could only handle thatparticular brand of stupidity in small doses. Reminded him ofhimself, back when he was a teenager. Spewing whatever came to hisunderdeveloped mind—no filter, all ego. It was the sort of trashyou were embarrassed about later on, after you had matured and had afew dozen kills at The Slaughterhouse under your belt.
He set thenews-reader down again and watched the camera feeds. Minutes passed.His eyelids lowered, eyes glazing over, as the glow of the brightmulti-screen in the dark of the room made him tired. He nodded off,jolted awake, nodded off once more. The second time he jolted awake,he jumped out of his comfy chair, did a few laps around the dark roomhe worked in and then inhaled the rest of his coffee vapour.
Feeling noticeablymore alive, Carl sat back down and decided to pay a visit to somefriends from the news-reader. In addition to selecting variousestablishments for closer scrutiny, the machine he worked on alsopossessed the ability to search the camera feeds, sifting through thenames of the residents until it found the one he wished to watch. Itwas like TV, and a useful feature to have—in case he received amemo from the DPD, or his superiors, to keep tabs on any particularperson or persons. And sometimes Carl just liked to use it for hisown purposes.
He was a voyeur,after all... and this job was made for him. Or, he: It. Whichever.
7
ERICFilstrom rushed home from school with so much enthusiasm drippingfrom his pores. His grin was contagious, and all who saw him as heraced through Deprever's grey streets—like a concrete coffin forthe masses—couldn't help themselves to a smile as well.
Today was the day he had been looking forward to for ages.
It was like something out of a dream.
He turned left and leapt up the stairs to the entrance of hisapartment complex. Like someone had been expecting him, the dooropened seemingly on its own accord—but, really, it had been thelady, about to walk out, who had opened it for him.
Up the stairs, through the mazelike corridors that made up all ofDeprever's apartment complexes, and finally to the residence heshared with his parents, siblings and grandparents.
"Hey, Eric!" his fourteen-year-old sister Heather saidcheerfully to him as he walked inside. She smiled at him and hesmiled back. The two had started f*cking each other recently, as mostsiblings did in Deprever. Their relationship had never been better.There was a lot less bickering between the two, with all that sexualtension released.
"Hi,Heather. Are Mom and Dad around?" Eric asked, scanning thekitchen and not seeing anyone.
"Yeah, they're in the bedroom with Gramma and Grampa, getting ina final farewell f*ck." She turned her body to the side, givinghim a view of her figure, already womanlike. Girls looked likegoddesses from the time they entered their teenage years, Eric hadnoticed. "You like my new outfit, Eric?"
"I wanna f*ck you so bad, Heather." He gave a pat to hisgrowing cock, which made her grin. "After I dispose of the oldpeople, okay?"
"Okay, Eric." She smiled at him again.
Eric went to the bedroom his parents and grandparents shared. Thereweren't any doors, since there wasn't any need for privacy. He foundhis younger brother Wayne with his pants around his ankles, jerkingoff in the hallway outside of the bedroom. Eric poked his head intothe room, unfazed by the incestuous orgy occurring inside. "Whattime can I kill Gramma and Grampa?" he asked the writhing pileof sweat-soaked bodies.
Dad put a pause on the fellatio he was performing, raising his headand wiping his mouth. "How about we have a family meeting afterwe finish things here, son?" he offered.
"Okay, Dad." Eric nodded, turning to leave. "Hi,Gramma. Hi, Grampa," he added with a wave.
For the next ten minutes, Eric sat on the couch in the living-room,absent-mindedly watching his sister perform Kegel exercises—she washoping to one day become the Whore of Deprever; a goal he felt wasentirely achievable—while daydreaming about how he'd kill hisgrandparents.
As hetold the reporter in the morning's news, he was stuck between thehammer and the power drill. Both seemed like oodles of fun, but hewas starting to think that maybe it was best to ask Gramma and Grampahow they preferred to be executed. It was only respectful todo.
The rest of hisfamily joined him on the couch and on the armchairs adjoining thecouch. The meeting began and the atmosphere throughout what proceededwas, for the most part, calm.
"Have you thought about which tool you'll use?" Grampaasked him.
"Yes.The hammer and the power drill were my personal preferences," hesaid, nodding, "but I sort of got it into my head that maybe itwould be best for you and Gramma to decide which way you wanted toget it."
"Oh,such a thoughtful boy you are, Eric," Mom said proudly, kissinghim on the cheek.
"Nofair! Why does Eric get to kill them?" Wayne asked with thepouty-faced petulance of a three-year-old. "Why can't I killthem, Dad?"
"It'sa rite of passage, Wayne," Dad told him. "When you getolder, you can kill your mother and me." He smiled reassuringly,which seemed to satisfy Wayne.
"Then who do I get to kill?" Heather asked. "Therewon't be anyone left for me."
"You can come down to The Slaughterhouse one day when I'mworking and kill a cripple," Eric offered.
Heather smiled. "Okay! We can do some other stuff, too,right?"
"Ofcourse. So, you two—" Eric steered the conversation back tohis grandparents. "—how would you like to die?"
"Violently," Grampa said, his face firm and fearless. "Thepower drill seems too easy. Bash my skull in with the blunt-end ofthe hammer, Eric. Give it a nice hard whack." He turned toGramma, put his hand on her knee. "And how about you,Virginia?"
Grammathought hard, her eyelids fluttering up and down, her head doing theol' Parkinson's tremor. "I... I would rather something...less... painful," she said, slow and deliberate, as if everysyllable was a chore to keep in line with the others.
"I could use a bag and suffocate you," Eric suggested. "Isaw it on TV once."
"That would be lovely," Grampa said in Gramma's stead,patting her on the knee.
Eric grabbed the hammer from the drawer in the kitchen—where he'dplaced it the night before—and found a plastic bag from his room.He returned to the living-room with his heart beating in his chest.His sister, brother, Mom and Dad were on the couch, watching andwaiting. Gramma had moved to a chair opposite to the one where Grampawas now sitting. "Who first?" he asked them.
"Me." Gramma raised her trembling hand.
Eric nodded, walked over and stood behind her. His heart was beatingharder than ever. This was like his first time wasting a midget atThe Slaughterhouse. The anxiety. The high. Pure adrenaline. He'd useda crowbar that time. And this time it would be the bag. He breatheddeeply. In, out. In, out. Aware that all eyes were on him, watchinghis every move. Judging him and his methods, the ease at which hemurdered. He opened the bag and coasted it up and down, allowing itto expand—like a parachute, he noted—from its movement throughthe air.
"I'd...rather you... than... someone else..." Gramma added.
He brought the bag down over her head, pulling on the hand-holes andtying them together as close to her neck as possible. There was agreat gasp as the front of the bag was sucked inward, a concavecircle of thin plastic where Gramma's mouth was. Then the bag waspushed out, and in again. Rapid cycling. Gramma was hyperventilating.Her hands started to claw at the bag, but he grabbed them and heldthem down before she could make a hole to breathe through. Eric'sheart was in his throat, his hands trembled, and part of him wantedto rip the bag off her head.
But he didn't. He continued to watch. It didn't take long at all forGramma to drop dead. Her lungs weren't very strong at her ripe oldage of sixty. He saw her nails go blue from the lack of oxygen. Thepart of the bag over her mouth stopped transitioning from concave toconvex and back again, gradually the changes became imperceptible.Eric waited a few more minutes before he checked her pulse. It hadflatlined.
"Now dome," Grampa said. He leaned back in his chair and closed hiseyes, waiting patiently for the grim reaper to come and snatch himaway from this world.
Eric's hand found the hammer. He walked as if in a dream, feelinglight as a feather. Floating over to behind the chair. Behind Grampa.He saw his hand raising the hammer, noticed he had the claw-endfacing out. He quickly twirled it around so the blunt-end faced outinstead. He took a few practice blows, lining up the shot. Right tothe temple. Knock him unconscious before killing him. As before, hebreathed deep. He could see his heartbeat in his vision now, apounding drum in the eyes.
"Go on, Eric..." Grampa muttered.
The hand raised and the hammer came down. Missed the temple by a hairand instead hit the bone of the cheek. There was a sickening smashingof the jaw. Grampa fell forward, yelling gibberish. Eric descendedupon him, feeling a sense of bloodlust he hadn't felt before. Theblows were relentless. One. Two. Three. Four. Up and down. Up anddown. Smashing bone. Crunching skull. Blood flowed, bone showed, andbrain had been exposed. Eric just kept pounding away. Animalinstinct. Chaos of the soul.
When he was finished, he wiped the sweat from his forehead anddropped the brain- and blood-covered hammer to the floor. Grampa'sskull had been heavily indented at the forehead, oozing brain matterand dripping blood. There was a red puddle on the floor aroundhim.
Gramma still satdead on the chair with a plastic bag around her head.
Dad wiped some blood off his cheek, looked at it. "So, whatshould we have for dinner? State-approved spaghetti and meatballs?"
8
WINSTONMarx awoke with a start. His eyes could only see blackness. He heardthe footfall of heavy boots on tiled floor. All around him.Echoing.
"Hello...?"he asked, uncertain of who he was speaking to, of whether he evenwanted to know. "Why can't I see?"
Something was removed from his face and the harsh light—so bloodybright—flooded his senses. Made his eyes sting. He closed them inresponse. Gradually he opened them again, just a crack. Then a littlemore. He saw that a blindfold was in a man's hand. That must havebeen what he'd had over his face!
"Winston Marx," the man holding the blindfold said. Hisvoice was reedy, yet raspy. "You have been charged withdisturbing the peace, speaking the truth, attempting to dissuade thepublic, conspiring against the state of Deprever, terrorism, andaiding the Triple-R Ascension terrorist group. Do you have anythingyou wish to add, correct, or dispute, Mr. Marx?"
"I never—!" He was slapped in the face. Felt a ring witha gem in it cut him. His cheek was bleeding.
"You lie, Marx. We don't like liars in Deprever. Of course, wedon't like truth-tellers here, either."
Winston looked around the dingy room he was in. A lone fan oscillatedin the far corner. His hands were cuffed behind his back. He wassitting in a chair. His feet were cuffed, too. He looked up at theman who was accusing him of so many crimes. A DPD officer. "Whyare you doing this to me? I haven't done anything!"
The officer backhanded him. "No more lies, Marx. You want to getout? You want to go back to Deprever, the land you love?"
He didn't respond. His tongue held under clenched jaw, locked andset. Winston didn't know what to say.
"Then allow me to help you," the officer said calmly,removing his baton from his belt. "You seem to be at a loss forwords. This should jog your memory."
The baton raised and came whooshing down, clubbing Winston upside thehead, sending him reeling sideways, off the chair and onto the floor.As his hands were tied, he had no way of breaking the fall. He brokeit with his face, knocking a tooth loose. The blood flooded hismouth, salty and warm—he couldn't stand that taste and thatsensation. He spat the tooth out onto the floor, sending it tumblingand rolling over to the drain grate. Down the tooth went: To where...nobody knew.
"Don'tbe afraid," the officer cooed, in between strikes and jabs andthrusts of the baton. "I'm only trying to help you. Don't beafraid."
The blowsnever seemed to have an end. One after the other. Winston feltbeaten, felt like a dog, like a piece of meat at The Slaughterhousebefore the fatal blow was granted. "Enough!" he screamed,finally.
The officerstopped attacking. Pulled Winston up and dusted him off. Picked somestray hairs and fluff off Winston's clothes. "Are you ready toreturn to the land you love?"
"Yes, yes! Anywhere but here!"
"Not anywhere, Marx. Deprever. That's where you'll be going.Back to the city. With a new name. A new identity. Nobody willrecognize you. You won't even recognize yourself. But, you'll alsohave a new mind: Less free, less mobile to make choices. Stuck in onegear, let's say. Our gear. You won't be a traitor to the state.You'll be a slave. Sound good?"
Winston sighed, closed his eyes and gave the officer a begrudgingnod.
"Good, good.Because you don't have a choice. You're starting to get that. You'rewell on your way to becoming a respectable citizen of Deprever. APlebe. Now, sir, if you'll just come with me, we can ship you off forreprogramming." The officer opened the door. Beyond it was agrey hall with grey walls. Clinical and cold, calculating.
"Wait, officer!" Winston cried. "I— I have a wifeand daughter."
"Oh, we know you have a wife and daughter. Julia and LeninaMarx."
"Can Inot speak with them? Can I not say goodbye? Will I see themagain?"
Theofficer blinked in recognition. "Mr. Marx, we've alreadyinformed them that you're dead. And soon you—Winston Marx—willbe dead. You'll be somebody else soon enough. Now come along, GuyStrorm. You don't want to be late. Your dinner will be cold."
Who? Guy Strorm? Was there someone else in the room with him? Winstonlooked around, expecting to see another man, perhaps also beinginterrogated—or processed, as was the proper term. It took him afew seconds to realize he was no longer Winston Marx—the man he wasborn—anymore, but Guy Strorm. His new life. He stood and shuffledhis feet over to the officer. It was uncomfortable work and he nearlytripped a few times, merely in covering the five feet to thedoor.
"You goingto be a good man, Mr. Strorm?"
"Yes," he said. He felt oddly beaten already. He wasn'teven the same man anymore. Winston Marx was dead. How could things beworse? He was an unperson, a body. A sac of muscle, bone and blood.With a new name that wasn't his own. None of this felt real.
"There, there, Guy. You have nothing to fear. I'm trying to helpyou. This is all quite real. You're you: Guy Strorm. All is as itshould be." The officer bent down—clearly showing off hisweapon, an automatic pistol with a silencer and a scope—andinserted the key to unlock Guy's legcuffs. The chains fell to thefloor, the lock rattling around before settling. Standing up, theofficer said, "Now, follow me. No funny business,Strorm."
GuyStrorm—no, Winston Marx; remember that name, god damnit; rememberJulia; remember Lenina; Winston Marx—followed the officer throughthe halls, and into the lobby. He passed by a large woman with dirtyhands. She looked at him with fear and loathing in her eyes; contemptfor the state and all who served to maintain the status quo.
"Move along, Ms. Malloy," her accompanying officer ordered,giving her a push.
"Come on, Strorm," his ordered him.
They went in separate directions: He going out for reprogramming, andshe going in for processing.
Joy to Deprever.
9
THEreprogramming class was comprised of Guy and eleven others, five maleand six female. Guy stood in a line, along with the others, in frontof a massive monitor showing blackness. There were seats, each onemarked with a name, and each seat had had some sort of diabolicaldevice installed onto it. Hooks; claws; needles; fluids bubblingwithin large tanks; for the men, something that looked like a suctioncup on a bendable stick; for the women, something ten inches long andvery clearly shaped like a phallus, the top oozing a white gooeysubstance.
Guards werestationed, rank and file, in front of the double doors off to Guy'sright. He looked at them, trying to decide if they were even bloodyhuman—massive men with primitive faces, they stared blankly at theceiling, their hands hovering over a handgun on one side and a stungun on the other.
Adoctor stood at a podium the guards had wheeled out for him, speakingsome highfalutin jibber-jabber on what the purpose of thisexperience—yes, he referred to the class as anexperience—happened to be.
Guy wasn't convinced by the doctor's bloated rhetoric, nor by hisegotistical method of delivering it. Regardless, it appeared hedidn't have a choice in the matter, for the doctor's well-preparedspeech came to a sudden finish and all the students—anotherridiculous term—were ushered to their designated seats. Oneman—Norman Ketulic—tried to run. He was promptly shot in thefoot, forced into his chair, strapped down, and a staff of nursesrushed in to treat the wound.
Not feeling brazen or brave, Guy willingly sat in his seat, inbetween two women: Rosalind Loughton and Petra Johannesburg. Theyboth stared forward, waiting for the monitor to begin playingwhatever it was to play.
The doctor's voice—loathsome to Guy—started to speak again, thistime over a surround sound speaker system. "Students, thepurpose of this experience is to resensitize your psyche and body tofit that of the Depreverian norm. You all have been brought here fora reason: Namely, one regarding your flagrant heretical views.
"Chastity andmodesty are forbidden and illegal, ladies. Some of you must learnthat. Men, it is not your civic duty to be compassionate. You aremade to mate... that is the order of things.
"All of you must learn to love our Leader: Mr. Keuvelaar is abrilliant man. Yes, that is His name, but you all will forget such aname—once the experience starts—as you are all set to becomecommoners: Plebes, a loanword from the Roman Plebeian."
The devices activated and everybody was strapped in for the ride. Themassive monitor first went through various pictures of Deprever andits cultural zeitgeist, starting with the gloomy streets, movingthrough the various sources of entertainment, and culminating withthe Freedom Spire and Mr. Keuvelaar—the Leader of the World. Theimages repeated, faster and faster, until it all became a blur to theeye.
The device jabbeda needle into Guy Strorm's neck, pumping whatever that fluid was intohis system. He found he couldn't close his eyes, and yet they neverwent dry. He also felt sedate, at peace and also very horny. A set ofclaws protracted and proceeded to unzip his pants, then took out hisswollen member, already beginning to secrete seminal fluid. Thesuction cup device bent itself over and received him, sucking withoutregard as a machine would: With mechanical efficiency.
He looked to his left and right, and saw Rosalind and Petra withtheir pants at their ankles, being penetrated by their respectivedevices. The moans and groans that came from them only served to makeGuy even more elated. Another round of injections went into hissystem, and he found himself enjoying the experience of robofellatio.The images on the monitor aroused him, especially the one of theLeader of the World. Part of him thought he once knew the attractiveman's name, but he didn't see how—surely he'd remember the name ofa man that beautiful?
Audio began blasting through the speakers—not music, but screams. Amixture of pleasure and pain. Murdersex, straight into the mind. Oh,the euphoria! It sent tingles down his spine and he couldn't help butthrust his hips. He grew more excited and found himself grunting andmoaning alongside the din of the speakers, as had his fellowstudents. Another injection.
The experience was almost at an end, when the pictures changed tomovies. Murders, assaults, incest and the Leader—the great Leader!Oh, how glorious He was! And He stood atop the Freedom Spire, asymbol of all things possible in the land of Deprever!
Guy started to weep, the tears rolling hard and fast down his cheeksin a near-endless stream. He wanted to stand up and proclaim his lovefor the Leader. He wanted to bash in the head of anyone who said theLeader wasn't good and just and fair.
Along with his fellow students, Guy Strorm left that firstreprogramming class feeling a changed man: Ready to kill and f*ck atthe beck and call of the glorious Leader. The twelve of them engagedin a fabulous orgy—that very same night—as the Resolution playedon the TV.
Joy toDeprever!
10
DOCTORJanet Ardillio click-clacked her heels as she walked proudly throughthe halls of DepRevolution Research, a laboratory complex where shestood at the helm. Her new set of implants, showing ample cleavage,were paired with an expensive push-up bra, and she was keen ongetting some opinions. So she'd pass by her coworkers, male andfemale alike, and ask for their thoughts. She was happy to say thateveryone had thought the new tits were a major upgrade. Talk about anego boost.
Janetbrushed past Pat Cornwall—an advisor to the various labs—and whenhe called her name, she quite purposefully turned to him, bent overslightly and gave him a good look. "Likey, Patty?" sheasked him in a baby voice.
Pat grabbed around his inner-thigh. "You know it, babe. Noscarring, eh?"
"Not at all, Patty-cake. Maybe you'll find out later." Shegave him an obvious wink. "Still on for later?"
"You know it," Pat said. That was his go-to phrase. Youknow it. She loved it. It went well with everything. "Seeyou later, Janet. And I'll be seeing you later, little ladies."He blew kisses to her tits.
A smile on her face, Janet brushed back her black hair with her hand,and continued through the halls to her lab. Her test subjects weresupposed to be waiting for her. If they weren't, she'd have TraineeGreyson's head on a platter, shipped directly to Mr. Keuvelaar tonail on his wall. She'd attended numerous dinner parties with theLeader of the World, and she'd come so close to f*cking him, butevery time she worked up the courage to ask him, he'd always retreatto his private quarters and the party would die down.
One day, though. One day, she'd f*ck Mr. Keuvelaar. Any way he wishedto have her, she would be his.
She passed a few of the other labs, and finally reached hers. Thesign next to the door, in bold, said: Doctor Janet Ardillio, HeadScientist.
"That'sme." She giggled and went inside.
Immediately upon entering, she was bombarded with questions from hervarious trainees: Greyson, of course; Muldoon, an idiot suprême;Lavesque, the only girl she'd allowed to work for her, mainly becauseBridget Lavesque was hideous as all hell; and O'Brien, probably thesmartest man working at DepRevolution Research... even for atrainee.
"Shouldwe have shaved the patients? Because we did—"
"Did you want your coffee vapour shaken—?"
"Some of the patients have started to complain about hunger.Were we supposed to feed them—?"
"Can I eat dinner in here? I won't make a mess—"
"—Shut up, shut the f*ck up!" Janet shouted. It went deadquiet. She commanded authority. "Now, tell me: How do my titslook?"
Thetrainees looked to each other. "Great!" they all said."Fantastic! The best I've ever seen!"
"You know it! Ten grand," she boasted, squeezing themcloser together. "Now, let's get to business. The test subjectsare to be shaved and not fed. We want to see how they function atbase level. Later, if any couples survive, we can attempt similartests with food in their systems."
Janet grabbed her folder from her desk and led the four trainees tothe cages at the far end of the lab, where the test subjects werebeing held. She eyed the four groups of two—supposed soul-mates;the term was almost laughable to her, but she lacked a proper senseof humour—locked in iron-barred cages like the cripples at TheSlaughterhouse. The perfect test subjects. They'd all been shavedfrom head to toe, she saw, which would've made it rather hard toidentify who was a man and who was a woman if they were wearing anyclothes. But they'd been stripped naked. They may have lacked hair ontheir heads, but they weren't lacking sex organs.
"Please, let us out!" one man, #8941, begged.
The good doctor ignored his pleas, readily comparing her own breaststo those of the female test subjects. One girl, #3357, had tits sosmall they were like mosquito bites. She laughed at the very thought."Have the test subjects been properly sedated?" she askedher trainees.
"Yes,Doctor," Lavesque said.
"Is the euthanizing agent ready for injection?"
Greyson nodded and showed her the table which had been covered indozens of syringes, all containing the death-dealing fluid. "Yes,Ms. Ardillio—"
"Dr. Ardillio," she corrected him.
"Sorry, sorry. Dr. Ardillio," Greyson agreed.
"All here, and in the specific proportions you requested,"O'Brien added.
Janetgave O'Brien a seductive stare. Made him uncomfortable. She smirked.Still got it, girl. "Bring out 8941 and his soul-mate—"She snickered when she said that word. "—9605. Swab their armswith alcohol and prepare them for injection."
O'Brien did as he was ordered and unlocked the cage for the firstpair. He opened the door and they stepped out, holding hands.
Muldoon was on a requested observations-only position. The last timehe'd been given any more responsibility than that, he'd somehowmanaged to let two test subjects get away. So he watched as Greysonapplied the rubbing alcohol on the right shoulder of 8941 and then on9605. Lavesque then injected the euthanizing agent into 8941'saffected shoulder.
Janet noted the effects of the injection, scribbling furiously in aneffort to keep up. 8941 appeared unaffected at first. Roughly tenseconds later and his face grew pale, his skin grey. Five secondsafter that and he keeled over, dead of a heart attack—interestingly,9605, his soul-mate, dropped to the floor as well.
O'Brien checked her pulse. "Dead," he said.
"Fascinating." Janet jotted down a one-word question on hernotes and drew a circle around it: BOND? "Next testsubjects. 1138 and 3417."
The same process was followed for the next two test subjects. Thesame results were gathered. Four corpses lay on the floor. Four testsubjects left.
"Doyou think it's true, Doctor?" O'Brien asked.
"Is what true?" she snapped.
"The soul-mate bond." The idea of soul-mates was outdated,ancient history, a relic of the past. It was also illegal, but Mr.Keuvelaar had put in a direct order for DepRevolution Research tostudy the phenomenon.
"We've only tested our hypothesis on two couples so far,"Janet explained, as if to a three-year-old moron. "We have twoleft. We will need hundreds more to gather sufficient results, Isuspect."
O'Briennodded respectfully.
"Now, bring out 0014 and 2966."
As with the two previous couples, the same procedures were followedto a T. The very same results. More scribbles onto thosenotes.
"Lastpair," Janet said. "Hurry up. I'm starving."
She watched as Little Miss Small Tits (3357) and her soul-matewere removed from their shared cell. Alcohol rubbed onto the shoulderof the female, no need to do the male yet. Their hands were clenchedtogether, neither willing to leave the other behind—even in death.The needle inserted, the fluid injected. The wan and waxy skinappeared. Then Small Tits fell to the floor in a heap, bringing 7863down with her, but he didn't die. This part stunned Janet, along withall of the trainees.
There was a great gasp, a chatter of "What just happened?""Why?" and "How?"
Janet was filling pages upon pages of notes, nearly burning holes inthe paper. When she finished, she looked down at the sole livingsoul-mate—perhaps his love wasn't as pure,wasn't as true as the other test subjects? Something toconsider. He was weeping, though she couldn't understand why. Deathwas a natural and very normal part of life. There were other women toscrew—namely, her. "So, 7863, can I ask yousomething?"
Test-subject #7863 looked up at the good doctor, his eyes all full oftears, his nose runny with snot.
She exposed her breasts to him. "Do my tits look nice? Give thema feel. Go on."
11
CARLwatched as the only remaining test subject averted his gaze from theboob-bearing, hotter-than-f*ck scientist, preferring to weep over hisdead girl than squeeze those titties. He shook his head, notunderstanding how a man could care for any one girl that much. Itjust... wasn't normal.
That was when he heard the footsteps behind him. Carl's second-shiftreplacement-Watcher had arrived, and in the nick of time, too.Midnight loomed ever closer, and he wanted to attend this year'sResolution. He'd missed the last one—had to watch it on the camerafeed.
"Hey, Carl.How's it hanging?" John asked, dropping a bundle ofstate-approved sandwiches down onto the desk. The man was short—notmuch taller than a midget, but tall enough so as to not be placed asmeat in The Slaughterhouse. Lucky guy.
"Hanging high. Just watched that scientist slut fromDepRevolution. She's got some new titties, John. Check herout."
"Iwill, man. Hey, you mind if I use this bag?" John held up theempty bag Carl had been using for coffee vapour.
"Knock yourself out," Carl said. "And thanks fortaking the graveyard shift this year."
"No problem, man. I'm pretty pissed I won't get to bust a nut onthe Whore before the Resolution rolls around, though."
"You got to last year," Carl retorted with a laugh.
"Different Whore, man. This one's way hotter."
"They all look and function the same to me, John." Carlmade to leave. "Anyway, see ya. Have fun."
"Get nasty," John said, getting settled into the chair,preparing for a long night.
Carl went down the elevator and left the Watcher's Office. He walkedout onto the dirty streets of that bleak grey city. Never felt morealive.
12
THEREwas much excitement in the air. Kids were screaming, ranting, ravingabout their first Resolution. Carl remembered his: Even though he hadbeen quite old at the time, he'd stood on Dad's shoulders so he couldget a good view of the executions. The crowds were massive and whenthe Leader made His much-anticipated appearance, people went insane.Carl couldn't remember ever hearing that much noise in his life everagain—but part of that was probably the nostalgia, which tended toplay tricks on the memory.
Through mazelikestreets, moving like a mouse searching for the rewarding bit ofcheese, Carl headed in the direction of Centre Square. It reallywasn't too difficult, seeing as how the Freedom Spire towered high inthe darkened sky, dwarfing everything else in the area. The neonsigns pointed him in the general direction, too, so Carl ended upreaching the Maypole minutes before the festivities had started.
A huge crowd hadalready gathered. There was much pushing and shoving, as many wantedto get right up to the Maypole and leave their mark on the Whore ofDeprever. Carl made his way up, too, tagging along behind a rowdygroup of teenagers who were spouting curse words and expressing theirinnermost desires to ravish the Whore.
Some people had taken offence to the group's brute-force approach,and so a scuffle had broken out. With an opening secured, Carl madehis move, rushing through the throng. He was right beside Deprever'sfamed Whore, under the glowing streetlight she'd been tied to. Johnhad been right—she was hotter than the one from last season.Beneath red hair, the old Whore's face was white and runny, paintedwith the ejaculates of countless men. One lucky teen was giving her agood ramming from behind, hoping for the last f*ck of her life.
Carl looked up atthe giant digital clock, saw that it was 12:04 AM. Not long now. Henoticed this Resolution's public executions: Two Kattemen—a weirdrace of man-sized, non-human, bipedal cats, apparently discoveredhiding out on the planet during the Leader's rise to power; the signsunder their crucified bodies saying they had been caught trying toescape from The Kitty Ring—and one Engel—a race of men who hadsomehow come to possess large white-feathered wings; whose signstated he had committed the simple crime of existing. They all bledfrom their hands and their feet, where they'd been stapled to awooden beam, left out in the sun to roast for the entire day, exposedto the awful elements and the ruthless Depreverians. They'd beencovered in various food products and bodily fluids—no doubt a gameplayed by the teens.
12:05 AM. A team ofspecialists came 'round to the Whore, told the teen the ride wasover—he refused to budge and continued thrusting, even harder thanbefore—and started pouring gasoline all over last season's luckywinner. Not long now.
12:06 AM. The time of Resolution was at hand. The crowd started tocheer like a pack of Depreverians always did. They'd grown antsy intheir period of waiting. The Leader was almost ready to make Hisgrand appearance. They could see His shadowy, backlit shape, standingup at the top of the Freedom Spire, ready to join the City at theperfectly timed moment.
The Whore's team ofspecialists threw a lit match on her flammable form. Used up for theseason, she started to burn—as did the humping teen, riding hereven in death. The immolation had begun. Their screams were lost inthe din of the crowd, who were howling out their own happiness to therest of the world. They all wanted the new Whore to take her rightfulplace under the Maypole. Men were already unzipping their pants,ready for a savage f*ck, ready to work in the new Whore's body. Womenwere eager to join in, too, salivating at the prospect of using theirtongues on fresh meat, double-ended dildos up their orifices, waitingfor the Whore.
Out with the old andin with the new. The smouldering, smoke-spewing corpse (along withthe dead teen) was kicked aside like trash and the new winner wastied in her stead. Carl watched the line get larger, everybody wanteda piece. So much so, that within less than a minute, it had alreadyturned into a gangbang.
And as if that wasn't enough excitement, the Leader made Hislong-awaited appearance. He stepped out onto the balcony of theFreedom Spire and addressed His screaming Plebes, His adoring fans.Though there were no speakers, His voice was magnified so much thateverybody could hear him clearly through the crowd's crazed noise.
"My people,"He said, "it pleases me to see you all here. So very excited forthis truly special time of our year. This was when Deprever—"He paused for the crowd to scream their love for the greatestsupracountry to ever exist, and for the man behind it. "This waswhen Deprever came into fruition. On this very night, oh so manyyears ago. My father, may his memory be forever damned like all ofours, he taught me some of what I know. I wouldn't be the man I amtoday, without him to guide me."
Carl watched as a teenage girl suddenly flashed the Leader her perky,enhanced tits, howling at the moon and proclaiming her love for Him.He remembered reading earlier about a girl named Charisse saying onFaceSpace that she'd do something like that. Maybe it was her. Thecrowd went wild at the sight of flesh, of course. Racing over anddevouring her. She disappeared into the crowd.
There may have beena smile working across the Leader's lips. He continued: "Enoughabout my father. For this night, Deprever Day, is about you! Thepeople! You are the reason why this City stands tall, why this worldgrows better by the day. I love you all and I want you all to knowit. Never forget the joy that fills my heart when I hear you chant myname. Never forget the passion in your own hearts, when you do allthat you do, when you follow the laws of our land. Curse theterrorists! Curse the scoundrels! Curse the illegals, who think theycan make what is rightfully ours wrongfully theirs! And mostimportantly of all, my beloved Depreverians... Joy to Deprever!"