On the two year anniversary of the death of the first chloroplast, Brunhilda got declared the natural predator of narcos, having scored slightly over two kills per capita[1].
The next day, and due to completely unrelated circumstances, to a hill near a river that ran in circles to forget the fact it had gotten rejected from a marathon arrived a group of picturesque individuals. All of them were men, and all of them hailed from the same place, a city of brown-skinned white supremacists.
Their leader, of bleached hair with dark roots, androgynous face and delicate hands, stared at the town below their noses. It was a shame such a cute place would be razed to the near ground.
The second in command, dark haired, with a small turned up nose and big eyes, was watching his long nails while, with the other hand, he scratched his sculpted buttocks. “These skinny jeans make things itchy, people. Also, what’s going on with that river?”
“It goes in circles.” Commented the shortest one, his hair cut short and straight, like his head had been circumcised. Yes, Dickhead was one of his nicknames. And , yes, he was a dickhead sometimes. This said, he still donned a feminine face. His own, to be clear.
The fourth one, standing more than two meters tall, also had a feminine face. In his belt. Sewn there crudely. Not his own, to be clear. Well, it now belonged to him because faces are feeble things, treacherous things that leave one at the first brutal sanding or skinning. His appearance clashed with those of the rest of the group members, but they tolerated his presence and his inscrutable stare. Nobody present there dared to guess what was on his mind. Luckily, I, omniscient narrator extraordinaire, don’t need to guess, and can relay to you his factual thoughts at that moment: Dubadubadu, genocide, dubadubadu, war crimes, dubadubadu.
“Hey, Genocide, what should we do today?” the leader asked, teasingly.
“Genocide.” Genocide answered. He had killed off all commas in his speech, no matter the power of the Verbum Dicendi present. The period had been ascended de facto to absolute monarch.
“Love how he is like a Pokémon,” the leader pointed out, and nobody understood him, because the others hadn’t suffered that sort of interuniversal epiphany.
“Genocide.” Genocide repeated.
The second-in-command trailed a mischievous finger across his leader’s shoulder “With all due respect,” he lied, “Kilic,” he spoke truth, “darling,” lied again, “nobody cares about your another-dimension children show references.” Truth again.
“Genocide.”
The short one stepped up to the edge of the boulder where the other two stood. “Except for Genocide, he probably cares, in his… very own way.” He fixed his gaze on the river. “I got it, I know what happened to that water course for it to go in circles!”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Please illuminate us, Galdo.”
Galdo reached for his pocket, took out a small flashlight and turned it on. , pointing at his dear leader Kilic.
“Is this a joke or are you genuinely this stupid, newcomer?”
Genocide cackled, the sound that escaped his mouth would have triggered the PTSD of most war veterans.
“I like making Genocide laugh, lest I end up like my sister,” he gestured with a quick gaze to the belt tightened around Genocide’s gaze, sewn out of the skin of his victims.
“Anyway, what happens with the fucking river, Galdo?” Kilic was losing his patience, and his patience was not unlike virginity in that regard. Except he would not be the one to bleed, in this instance.
“Well, rivers usually follow the slope of the terrain, except when they are too stubborn and determined to go against it, like that waterrise back home.”
“I am with you, carry on.”
“Well, this means they follow depressions. Often fall into them. What if a meandering river got depressed, and thus the path of least resistance was itself? Makes sense to me.”
“Genocide.” Genocide agreed.
Kilic’s face was a monument to big brothers hearing the delirious ideas of their little siblings. “Okay. Okay… I will… consider it.”
“Genocide.” Genocide barked with a gravity often absent from his mellifluous voice.
“Enough chit-chat, are we known for idling on hills overseeing our quarry and ruminating about wanton abusers of the laws of physics, or do we come down and kill ninety-eight percent of the population of a random settlement each Saturday as an act of ecoheroism to diminish world’s population, one act of mercy at a time?” Kilic asked his associates.
“Genocide.” Genocide clarified.
The second in command raised his open hands, palms pointing towards the sky, and gestured like he was calculating the weight of air. “Eh, fifty-fifty. We are pretty conversational, last wekk we had that long rant of Galdo about popcorn.”
“Well, but popcorn is popcorn and he works as an overseer of popcorn. It’s natural. We love popcorn, he hates it, and he needs to vent before the killing, Polk.”
“As you say, darling. We leave a child alive, right? “
“The population of this tidy cute place is a hundred ninety-seven people, according to the last census. That means we should leave three point ninety-four people alive.”
Genocide brought out his calculator and started button mashing like a literal madman. A few moments later, he communicated his results. “Genocide.”
“So we should leave three humans, two hummingbirds, four thousand ants, and two geckos alive to reach the remaining 0.94 persons… seems okay. We can do that.”
“Or a person with three amputated fingers on each hand,” Galdo suggested.
“Yeah, darlings, I prefer to amputate fingers instead of counting spared ants,” Polk gave his support to his companion’s proposal.
“Genocide.” Genocide voted in favor of that solution too.
“Or we can do that.” Kilic crossed his arms and blew a troublemaking bang away from his eyes. “Le me hear the name of our association, friends!”
“Genocide.”
“The Sub-Aryan Traps!” said the other two in unison, and then they raced towards the town, ready to commit atrocities in the name of mother nature and, maybe, make some men think they were ladies just to watch the hope in his eyes die as he felt the unavoidable and warm bulge of death against his skin.
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[1] One of the Narcos kept reincarnating into easily brunhindable forms, including a frightening reverse hydra with one head and (originally) three bodies, that grew other two bodies whenever you managed to cut one off. Brunhilda killed him by eating him whole, as this hydra measured a total of ten centimeters, head to longest tail.