The world had fallen silent. Where once the bustling sounds of life echoed through the cities, now there was only the laughter of women through populated streets and the distant rumble of collapsing buildings. The apocalypse had swept away the old world, and with it, all men save one.
Bunio Bunio stood alone in the desolate landscape, a figure of rugged strength and charm amidst the ruins. At 185 centimeters tall, his muscular frame spoke of a time when survival had demanded more than just wit. His features, framed by a tousled mop of dark hair, gave him a rough and handsome look that belied the severity of his surroundings.
He walked with confidentaly, a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. In this world devoid of malny life, humor had become his refuge, a way to stave off the despair. As he navigated the broken remnants of what had once been a bustling metropolis,
he couldn't help but mutter a joke under his breath.
"God, i hate them blacks" he quipped, his voice echoing against the crumbling facades of abandoned skyscrapers.
The apocalypse had come swiftly, a devastating plague that seemed to target the male population with ruthless efficiency. Once the men started dying, the governments fell, and the woman started making their own camps leaving most cities empty. Bunio was left as the sole survivor of his gender, or at least he has never met any male but him.
It was a bizarre twist of fate, one he often pondered in the stillness of the night. Why him? Why had he been spared?
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He approached what remained of a once grand library, its pillars now reduced to stumps. The knowledge contained within had been a beacon of hope, but now it was a tomb, a monument to humanity's lost potential. Bunio pushed open the heavy oak doors, their groan the only protest in the otherwise silent world.
Inside, dust danced in the shafts of light filtering through shattered windows. Rows of bookshelves stood like sentinels, guardians of the past. Bunio ran his fingers along the spines of the books, feeling the weight of history and the burden of his unique existence.
"I've got to think about a nickname," he said to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Considering me being a fucking virgin all my life and my neverending hate to colored people i think i should be nicknamed the last virgin. No that sounds kinky, how about the last warrior of light?"
His humor often carried an edge, a slight racial undertone that would have been controversial in the old world. But now, with no man left to hear or be offended, it was simply another way for him to process his isolation.
As he pulled a particularly worn volume from the shelf, he caught sight of his reflection in a cracked mirror. The man staring back at him was both familiar and alien, a relic of the past era. His eyes, once bright and youthful, now carried the weight of survival and the loneliness that came with being the last of his kind.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," he mused, holding the book aloft like a prize. "Who's the last man standing of them all?"
He flipped through the pages, hoping to find something—anything—that might offer a clue to his survival. The words seemed to blur together, a tapestry of forgotten knowledge that only deepened his sense of loss. But amidst the despair, a spark of determination ignited within him. He was not just a relic; he was a beacon, a flicker of hope in a world plunged into darkness. Single handedly able to re-populate the women's world. Too bad he was deathly scared of them.
Leaving the library, Bunio set his sights on the horizon. Somewhere out there, he believed, lay the answers he sought. And so, with the weight of the world on his broad shoulders, he ventured forth, the last warrior of light in a land forsaken by shadows.
As he walked, he couldn't resist one final quip to the empty air. "Well, at least I don't have to fight over the remote."
The wind carried his laughter into the void, a sound both haunting and hopeful in the silence of the broken world.