THE HOSPITAL MASSACRE
Alexander sat in his chair, flipping through the news channels. The tension between the United States and Russia was on every screen.
“Mmm,” Alexander mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Monica, what’s the most absurd way to make a CEO win here?”
Monica, standing with her usual professional poise, adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I believe the best strategy would be to escalate tensions between the two nations. A nice proxy war would do the trick—then you could sell weapons to both sides without breaking a sweat.”
Alexander grinned and snapped his fingers. “Monica, you just earned your damn paycheck this month. Now, I need a quick way to stir up that tension…” His eyes lit up. “I’ve got it!”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
The hospital was calm. Nurses tended to patients, doctors moved with purpose, and the waiting room bustled with quiet chatter. People were being healed—or, more often, rejected because they couldn’t pay. You know, just another typical American morning.
And then he showed up.
Alexander strolled into the lobby wearing a stolen Russian military uniform, complete with insignia that looked a little too pristine to be authentic. His face was twisted into a mocking sneer as he barked, “Соси мои яйца, Нада де Гринго!”
Don’t ask me what that means, reader. I don’t know either. Probably something rude. The important part is what happened next.
He pulled out a shotgun and opened fire.
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The chaos was instantaneous.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” screamed a random civilian as they ducked behind a plastic plant.
“He’s cra—!” a nurse started to yell before being silenced mid-sentence by a shotgun blast.
“Holy sh—!” a doctor exclaimed, right before a pistol round ended their diagnosis permanently.
Alexander moved through the hospital like an artist at work, tossing Molotov cocktails he’d “borrowed” from a police station. (By borrowed, I mean stolen. Obviously. Let’s not kid ourselves.) Flames licked at the walls, alarms blared, and the screaming was—well, plentiful.
When the lobby was reduced to smoldering rubble and there were enough bodies to make his point, Alexander dusted off his hands and teleported back to his office. As he reappeared in his familiar red suit, Monica was already waiting with a fresh cup of coffee.
BACK AT HQ
Alexander threw himself into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “Monica, let’s watch the news. I want to see how bad they’re panicking.”
The TV flickered on. A breathless reporter appeared on the screen, her voice shaking as she described the carnage.
“A tragedy occurred today at a local hospital, where a lone assailant—believed to be a Russian soldier—opened fire on civilians. Authorities are investigating, but this attack is expected to worsen the already high tensions between the United States and Russia.”
Alexander chuckled, clapping his hands together. “Monica, you’re a goddamn genius. You just orchestrated an international shitstorm.”
Monica gave a small bow. “Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to assist you in destabilizing the world.”
Alexander leaned back, feet on his desk. “Now, let’s call the American government… and the Russian one. I think it’s time to sell some weapons—double the profit, double the chaos.”
He picked up the phone and began his pitch, speaking with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserved for selling used cars.
“Fucking hell, progress is amazing,” he muttered. Then, louder: “But progress is even better when it’s built on sacrifice. Don’t you think so, Monica?”
Monica beamed. “Of course, sir! Sacrifice is the foundation of greatness!”
Alexander raised his coffee cup in mock salute. “Damn right. To progress and destruction!”