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- >Bang.
- >Your name is Anonymous.
- >As in, you literally have no name.
- >You gave it up to serve the God of Death.
- >The wood splintered and fragmented as you hammered it with your axe.
- >Bang.
- >Your task is simple: you must eliminate 101 versions of Timber Spruce throughout the multiverse.
- >The God of Death shows no mercy to those who transgress his laws, and, somehow, Timber Spruce has transgressed.
- >A wide slice appears in the door, brown oak peeking out from the chipped, white paint.
- >Bang.
- >This was number 101.
- >You would finally get your reprieve, if you could just kill him.
- >The hole is now large enough for you to stick your head through, and you just can’t resist.
- “Here’s Anon!” you cry to the two startled lovemakers in the bedroom.
- >Always a penchant for the dramatic.
- >Taking them out from range with a sniper rifle got boring after the first 10 times.
- >“Hey, man, don’t you have any idea of privacy?” this Timber Spruce says, putting his arm in front of Twilight Sparkle, as if such a feeble move could protect them. “Do not disturb?”
- >You loom over him with your large cutting implement, your shadow extending over the bed and up the wall behind it, your eyes burning red with the fires of a nuclear inferno.
- >Always more satisfying to feel the rush of the kill, up close and personal.
- >Like when you sliced him into pieces with a broadsword.
- “Timber Spruce. Your time has come.”
- >A bit less like the time Timber was a traitor to the Revolution, and you executed him by guillotine.
- >You had to feel the weapon in your hand.
- >“Uh, I don’t know what that means but - oh God!”
- >You lunge forward, quick as a gymnast springboarding off the floor, and backhand him away from Twilight onto the floor.
- >And it definitely was not like the time Timber was an American soldier, hunkered in a trench.
- >You gave the precise coordinates to a German artillery brigade, told them it was a command bunker.
- >Soon, all that was left of the trench was a crater.
- >Setting yourself on Timber’s chest, your fingers curl into a fist, and you hammer his jaw with a brutal right hook, the bone cracking with a satisfying crunch.
- >When he instinctively tries to block your next blow, you grab his arm and bend it until the shoulder joint pops.
- >“Please, stop! I’ll give you anything you want,” Timber moans.
- >Huh.
- >Only 15 Timbers you killed had said that.
- >Timber the rich English socialite had said that when he was murdered by a mugger in a back alley.
- >But what could they ever give you to replace what they had taken away?
- “How about your life?” you say as you strike him again, harder this time.
- >In your despair, you had sought the God of Death.
- >The God demanded 101 souls, and would give you the means to reap them.
- >And then you take what was yours.
- >Blood oozes into the shag carpet, and black bruises mar Timber’s stupid face.
- >Twilight whimpers and hides beneath the covers.
- “Do you think you can simply take what is mine? Can you?”
- >“What do you mean?”
- “She was supposed to be mine, Timber.”
- “What?”
- >Another fist manages to lodge itself in Timber’s eye socket, a rivulet of crimson flowing down his cheek.
- >“Please, God! Stop! She can be yours, I never even touched her -”
- “Irrelevant,” you say as you pick up your axe.
- >Timber is crying now, hot pink tears flowing down his cheeks.
- >“Please. Don’t kill me.”
- “It has already been decided.”
- >The sharp blade swings down and guillotines his head in half, brains, blood, and bone spewing onto the walls and floor.
- >The poor boy didn’t even have time to scream.
- >His breath rattles against his sliced, fluid-filled windpipe.
- >The axe falls again, then a third time, then a fourth, on and on, until his head is but a formless mush of gore.
- >Raising the blood-stained cutting instrument above your head once more, you continue your methodical disassembly of Timber Spruce’s form, cutting his body to chunks, like a butcher dividing up a hog, and piling them up in a neat, squishy mound.
- >His arms fracture neatly, muscle and sinew giving way to steel.
- >His chest caves in like a deflated bounce house, the ribs snapping like weak twigs against a hurricane.
- >Like a Nez Perce tribesman with a buffalo, you make sure no part of him is wasted.
- >While Twilight cowers behind her blanket shield, you pull a bottle of lighter fluid from your jacket and dump its liquid contents on top of what couldn’t even be considered a corpse, more a pile of meat.
- >You take your cigarette from your mouth and drop the smoldering tip into the pile, which instantly ignites in a towering inferno.
- >You hit the tape recorder in your pocket, blaring “Disco Inferno” to all who can hear.
- “Timber Spruce. More like Tinder,” you say as the flames rise higher, before turning to the frightened girl in the bed behind you.
- >Your task was complete.
- >All 101 souls had been reaped.
- >And now you could take what was yours.
- “Now why don’t you slip those panties off so I can give you the ol’ lickaroo.”
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