You’ve two options out here. You do, or you don’t.
It’s not life or death-one of the few saving graces, I suppose. Used to be that, but when your overall population numbers are low? That’s a risk you can’t take. Wanna wipe out the human species once and for all? Bring back brutalism. Seriously, just do that. Have people get hacked to bits in front of an audience. Pretend it’s all good, all normal and well with the world. You’ll have so many fucking volunteers in this hellscape you’ll choke.
Until they run out. You can go through the prisoners, the tribals. You can go through all the unfortunates you want. But the fact of the matter is, keep on killing-and eventually the vendors got no customers. Selling premium tickets don’t fuckin’ matter when the stadium is empty. It’s do or don’t, so you gotta make do.
And that do? It’s gotta be somethin’ real special.
Nobody fuckin’ knows where he came from. Frankly, with literacy being what it is, nobody really cares either. Oh, folks want the story alright. But the old man, with his tatty robe and beard, they want him to tell it. Not write it down. I’ve tried to get it straight from him. Figure with the births on the rise it might be important. But he tells it so damned different so many times it’s hard to say what’s real, what ain’t. Nobody knows, nobody cares enough, so I stopped. But the old loon, he’s what started it.
He rolled into town one day. Big-ass jig-pipe stuck in his lip. His smoke rings the size of tables. His eyes were the color of the ocean, but the bags under ‘em were dark. Dark as the old robe he wore. He never took it off, and the thing reeked of whatever crap he puffed. I’d seen him roll up his sleeve one time, though.
Ink. Ink in every which way. Not like the raiders or the tribals, though. This was something special. I swear I’d seen it move, but only for a moment.
All the same-he came in, the braids of his beard draggin’ the dirt. He walked right up to the arena. Damndest thing that he didn’t get mugged along the way. Anywho, he waltzes in right? And he grips that pipe of his, and looks around. He puffs away, and gives a nod.
“Lookin’ like ye’ need change,” he says to me. Like we’re old friends. So I give him the usual greeting, and threaten to cut his balls off and fuck the slit. You know what he did then?
This old bastard, he stands there and he fuckin’ laughs. It sounds like sticks breaking. He laughs so damn hard he doubles over. He breaks into wet coughs, and shakes his head. “Nah, not today kin,” he says to me. He shuffles over, wiping a tear from his eye. It streaks all along his dirty, filthy fingers. He extends a hand, and says his name.
No, I ain’t gonna tell you. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s the right one. But I thought that was right ballsy, doing that. I stood there, staring at that palsied hand. He lifted an eyebrow, and shoved it closer. So I took it. He gave it a quick squeeze, then pulled away. He turned about the arena, strokin’ his beard all smart-like. He gave a nod, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in the blood, the dirt and the offal.
“Ya’ know, killin’ folks? That’s short term. Ya’ want repeat customers, ya’ gotta give ‘em somethin’ a bit more…procreative,” he said. He turned to me, those old man eyes wide as he smiled.
It’d been a while since I’d seen a man with all his teeth. Stained, but still. He had ‘em all. Right special, right odd that old man. So I crossed my arms, and listened to his spill.
And that’s how we wound up here. Him beside me in the box seat, smoking away as he leans forward. The arena fuller than a tavern on free blowie night. And down there, right in the circle-a jiggly gal and that big fella.
Procreative.
Do or don’t.
The arena sounds like hell as people scream, hoot and hollar. Men tell the woman to touch herself. They egg on the man, who stands there. Arms crossed, looking at her like she’s dinner. The woman does pretty well, all things considered. She stares, but not at the crowd. She’s looking right up at us. At the old man, and me.
The old guy, he lifts his arms. The arena dulls to a murmur. He grins, his wrinkles piling up like shit from a brahman. He lowers his hand, and closes his other.
Then it happens. Just like always. He still hasn’t explained to me how the hell he does it. He talks about the nukes, the fire that burned it all away. But he ain’t explained how in the nine hells that snappin’ his finger makes it happen. The change-the “true nature of man”, as he calls it.
That woman, that man? You’d blink and miss it. The blur of flesh and bone snapping, of hair sprouting. Her into a massive rabbit (at least, that’s what the loon called it). Him, a big ass Fenrir like you find on the planes. Ready to rip and tear, bloody his fucking maw. Dance with her fucking innards. You’d almost miss it-but you’d not miss what else he did.
The old man, he says you can’t just have people fucking. No, people don’t want to see that shit. They can see it on every street corner, the way things are. The loon says to me, the same day I took his hand, that ya’ gotta meet folks halfway. Not people, but not animals. You gotta make sure the action is the first thing that they notice.
“Action”. That’s what he called her sopping, furry cunt. The giant, dripping knot of the fenrir.
That mutt, he leaps on her in a second. She squeals, his knot plunging into her velvet folds as he mounts her. He snarls, she shudders. He clamps his massive jaws around her neck, his tail swaying as he bucks into her. And in all of this, the old man just cackles as the crowd goes wild.
Do or don’t.
That’s your options.
Live and get those numbers up.
Or die out there, in the desert, just like everyone else.