It was the absolute worst of times, a time of war, of sorrow and regret, of wounded and dying, and I stood amid it all. A lone man caught up in the razing of his countrymen, killing those who opposed their government, and ransacking the corpses of those who dared to think for themselves. To my friends and enemies I am known as “The Corpse Eater.”
“Let go of what you can’t control,” my father had said. “There are things that’s not yours to handle.” I hadn’t listened then, and I wasn’t listening now.
The whine of bullets passing overhead, along with rocket fire and incoming mortar rounds brought me out of my daze.
“Get behind cover, idiota!”
Behind me, a line of bullets impacted against the portion of wall left standing after the air force had bombed these new ‘bad guys’ into oblivion. Granted, our new enemies were American citizens, those who refused to bow to the incessant demands of our ‘betters.’
“Buy this, do that, don’t say that, hate these people,” it wouldn’t stop. The media played the narrative until people believed the lie, and then, they sicced these rabid dogs upon their own, all while they cannibalized the remains of those they despised.
The media kept the lies churning, unrelenting in their quest for complete and total domination of those they hated. Until this moment, I had believed in the ‘righteousness’ of the cause. America had need of its sons and daughters to stand firm in the belief that censorship and government rule was needed.
We the people are too stupid to figure out what is best for our lives, therefore, we need the government to rule over us.
I had believed that with such fervency the radicals thought me a fanatic. ‘A true believer, that one,’ an old man had said before I shot him between the eyes. Then, I shot his wife, kids, their kids, and even their dog.
There was no room for dissension. No room for freedom of expression, unless of course you agreed with the majority. If you disagreed or refused to have your life upended for no reason, then you had to die.
Years passed, and I became disillusioned with the game. My dreams of blood, of the taut, wide-eyed rebels we had hunted until we broke the back of the rebellion, never ended. Their screams echoed throughout my mind constantly. My sleep schedule broken, my hallucinations occurred with frequency, and my mind and body neared a complete breakdown.
One rebel had dared speak to me, and he had asked, “what is your name?”
“Thrash,” I responded, and then I shot him in the head. At the time, I thought nothing of it. He was a rebel, and I was hired to kill rebels. Still, his question had lingered in my mind for a while after killing him. Now, I saw him everywhere I looked.
I had never told anyone my name before. As far as I knew, I had no last name. No one had ever asked me for my name. My mom had told me when I turned six years old, “Trash, keep your name to yourself. Names have power. Remember son, you’re one letter away from Trash.”
Both my parents were rebels. I turned them in when I was nine years old. An old man, Tank, made me watch as he killed my parents.
“This is how you kill those who’d stand against us. Watch, boy.”
Tank pulled a Ka-Bar knife from its sheath and slit the throats of my rebellious parents. After disposing of my parents, Tank handed me the knife. “A bullet is to clean of a death for traitors, boy. From now on, you do your own killing.”
I’d been killing since then. Tank taught me the fine art of blade work, how to prolong the suffering of traitors, how to clean and keep my kit in top-shelf condition, Tank became a father figure to me. Right up until he started a new rebellion. That’s why we’re here. The Government homed in on Tank’s Headquarters and sent me along with a platoon of hardened killers, to root out the rebellion once and for all.
Welcome to the Suck.