JAMES CAMPBELL - RE-CAY
“I am not going to say, WE... Because- it wasn't everyone. There were people who followed the difficult, but responsible path of; reason; logic; and Journey—I mean- science... FUCK- GET DOWN!!!....”
Scattered shrapnel and molten projectiles clank into and pass over a small trench providing cover to a mass of men, women, and children, wearing military or improvised armors. The gear they do wear gives no indication of what nation they may be fighting for, as each individual adorns a variety of pieces from multiple nations, and multiple eras.
“LOOK! THEY, THEM, IT... THAT- JACKASS—WHOEVER IT WAS, THEY FUCKED IT UP FOR EVERYONE!... As Earth fell from rationality, and the willingness to think in order to solve problems, into the depths of obscurantism, nationalism, and the belief that attitude solves all problems, its people had little choice but to fight among one another. Ironic how it worked really, as flags burned, and nations broke, the people’s emphasis on nationalism simply drew everyone apart. As attitude was employed, people quickly discovered the nature of backfiring—in other words, one person would give it, and the other wouldn't just accept it. As people had to think, construct, reason, and use the basic principles of science, arithmetic, and academics, to create their weapons of war, they rose from obscurantism—but it was too late. MOTHER FUCKER, PUT SOME FIRE ON THAT HILL!!!...”
The people inside of the trenches, poke their heads out of cover, and fire off makeshift weaponry crafted from whatever scraps remain of the crumbled society. Things like; plastic forged assault rifles which fire bullets constructed from melted down supercar parts; belt modified light machine guns Jerry-rigged to fire broken down shards of glass; single shot scatter mortars fired from the hip, shooting chemical cocktails of an unknown lethality; bone grinder miniguns, fed with the bones of the fallen—human, or animal; Sean Beaners— basically a one shot one kill sort of weapon—fired from an improvised pipe launcher, the projectiles of which are razor blades tipped in poison, set on a timer for six minutes (three minutes if we're going by Goldeneye rules), exploding upon impact into more razor blades soaked in poison, guaranteeing death; arc grenades—not some futuristic sophisticated technology—basically just an improvised explosive device filled with battery acid; die motherfucker stills, another improvised explosive device filled with office equipment (the office equipment people loathed, like printers), which didn't do much physical damage, but caused immediate aggression on the enemy line, serving as a distraction which could then be exploited for physical damage; and of course, second amendments—i.e, hands, and feet.
“The Earth has gone dark. It is black all day, every day. War rages in every corner of the world. Only minute alliances—talking tens of people, not thousands, or even hundreds—exist here and there. No longer is it one nation versus another. The environment is fucked, the sun is about to die, nobody trusts anyone, there are none left to solve global crises—as they've all been persecuted—and the Earth, is about to die... To figuratively explode from the constant war raging on its surface. The Earth will not die silently, it certainly isn't going to die peacefully, and whatever good anyone has done on this planet will soon be forgotten.”
“That's right, war, who, jam... Constantly... Twenty-four seven bloodbath, in an all-encompassing no man's land.”
“SARGE- FROM THE SOUTH” alerts a man from behind.
“WHAT THE FFFF-............”
Elias Cooper, known as “Sarge” to his small alliance of twelve, died on this date of: four hundred sixty three thousand six hundred and fifty four (that's not the year, they just started counting at some point)—reset upon record keepers death, currently unknown, month: unknown, year: unknown. Cause of death: melted from a projectile heap of burning trash, launched from the South.
A ripe orange plume explodes in the distance, sending a shockwave over a man, woman, and newly born infant cradled in the woman's arms. They are seated in a jungle hillside opening, overlooking the ravaged, smoldering land below. The family covers themselves as best they possibly can with their arms, but the force of the wave topples them over. The infant in the woman's arms, screams, and cries, as it crashes to the ground, held firmly in what is unquestionably its mother's grip. However, instead of tender comforting to ease the baby out of its fit, the mother, wraps her hand over the infant's mouth, silencing him.
The adult male of the group—the father of the child, and husband to the woman—sprints ten meters North East, into the cover of thick vegetation. He scans the forward perimeter while his wife continues to lie prone in the brush behind. After momentary observation the adult male looks back toward his wife, and performs a set of hand signals, roughly conveying; immediate area clear; keep a fifteen-meter spread; watch your footing; and stay low. The woman methodically rises from the ground, then silently retreats about three meters South West of her previous location. Upon signal from her husband, the two begin to move forward through the jungle terrain at a medium pace. Neither the man nor the woman carries with them ranged weaponry of any sort. They possess only knives, causing them to be very cautions, and patient, as they move through a land with the majority of enemy combatants armed with projectile weaponry. At the same time however, staying put in this war-ravaged world for too long is a problem. So, what caution and patience they do employ, they must also maintain near constant movement, stopping on rare occasion for food, and a few hours rest.
But, where are they moving too? Or perhaps, where are they moving from? The answer is simple and applies to both questions—nowhere. There is nowhere to go, there is nowhere to stay, there is nowhere to depart from, there is only the constant clattering of human feet from one firefight to the next—which may very well be perceived as a destination in and of itself, however, because there is no actual set location for a firefight (at least when you're not looking for one), you can never actually go- there, it only ever, occurs, or perhaps doesn't occur, if one is good enough at hiding. Hiding, being the one thing that the current family of three is seeking to execute, flawlessly. After all, it's either die abruptly, or hump it out a little while longer.
Creeping through the jungle flora the family comes to a halt, as the father of the family signals an immediate stop. He turns to his wife and signals to her that he is going to recon the area ahead. The mother signals back, inquiring an estimation of time. To which, she receives, read between the lines, meaning a three-minute break. She, and her husband, share a departing nod, before the father slips further into the dark, thick jungle, to reconnoiter the land ahead. With a silent swiftness, the woman proceeds to feed her infant babe from the teat of her breast, while also scouring the area for sources of food, and taking a quick sip from a canteen shouldered over her torso. Eyeing the jungle floor, she spots something slithering beneath vines and leaves, causing her to freeze up in terror. She follows the slithering creature with her eyes, as it slides across the ground, brushes up against her feet, and then spirals up a tree branch, stopping at her eye level. A poisonous snake, with a heavily aggressive posture, swivels before the woman. It makes eye contact, and starts to stretch outward from the tree, shooting its forked tongue out and in, anxiously awaiting its prey. The mother's eyes flash with fear. She extends her infant outward, providing a barrier between the slithering reptile and her. The poisonous snake pauses out of caution. But- it chooses to ignore possible threats and go after the food propped up in front of it. As the snake draws nearer, the mother very slowly pans the child to the left. The snake enters striking distance of the infant and prepares itself for a snapping lunge. It shoots outward, striking its fangs at the infant's neck. The mother withdraws the child from the bite, while simultaneously snatching the snake's head in midair. She drops the snake and catches it by the tail. Then with a stern whip, she breaks its neck. Lunch. Just in time for her husband's return whistle signal.
The mother peaks out of the thick jungle trees, and sees her husband, several meters away to the North East. She flashes a signal, inquiring about the status of the path ahead. The signal that the man flashes back, puts a damper on any hope of safe passage. He signals that the way ahead is booby trapped.
Vigilant steps sink into the mud heel to toe, as the family makes a slow tread through several hundred yards of land mined jungle turf. Maintaining a diagonal spread, both the mother, and father stay alert, as each take a different path through the rigged field. It doesn't help that the surrounding area is darkened, even more so now, because it is actually nighttime. The family; slide cautiously across the moist ground; curve around suspect piles of jungle scraps & out of place/misshapen plant life; skip over clustered mounds of dirt; and step lightly onto uneven ground. Their alertness however—and one of the cruel realities of war—does not pay off. While stepping through a natural looking patch of long grass, the mother—still with her infant child cradled in her arms—steps softly onto a mine, unaware, giving her no chance of disarming the explosive device. Instantly, the woman splits in half, tossing blood, guts, and her surprisingly unharmed child into the air.
Just like that, the infant born into war, lost his mother as a result of war. A war that those remaining alive, haven't the slightest explanation as to why- it is being fought.
The child, laying in the mud, stares into the stars as peaceful as can be, without the mental acuity to understand the horrific tragedy that just occurred. Light footsteps approach the child, and quivering breathes faintly drift into his ears. The boy's father pans his head into the infant's view—he is teary eyed, shivering, and holding back the pain of losing his closest ally, and one true love. The father cradles his son into his arms, and takes off, skipping through the minefield.
Sure enough, the infant born into war would grow up surround by combat, knowing only the ways of the subversive warrior, and the principles/knowledge which accompany such a discipline. His life, a collection of misery up until... Death.
One of the boy's first recognizable memories in fact, is quite a disturbing one. As a toddler, the boy—not yet named—would witness his father killing a man.
Hiding in a bush, the duo watches the jungle surroundings, having caught the sound of something nearby. The sound of footsteps snapping the ground vegetation. Based on the look on his father's face, the boy, remains quiet, but terrified. The little shocked eyes of the child scan the environment, as he clenches his tiny fists in the dirt, not moving a muscle. Before long, the child glances back toward his father, but the hardened man has disappeared. A stressed tension shoots through the boy's body, and he completely freezes up. The footsteps draw closer and closer, escalating in volume, like the boy's heart rate. Not knowing what to do, the child screams for his father—the only form of security that the little boy possess.
The footsteps cease for a brief moment—the child's pleas for his father, do not. Compounding the fear of the unknown, is the fear of being left alone, or possibly being left entirely. The break in the footsteps is over, and now, they draw closer, and closer, with a more aggressive impact, directed intently toward the direction of the child. The boy, huddled up into a ball, laying vulnerable on the ground, keeps his face hidden from the impending terror. Feet crunching into the ground vegetation grow sharper, and sharper, until the noise comes to an abrupt stop inches away from the child. Curled up, with his eyes covered, the boy listens for movement, hopelessly awaiting footstep sounds leaving the area. No other footsteps are made however, just silence. The child shudders at the thought of having to confront whatever made the stepping sounds. He has little choice but to face the danger. He peaks his head out of his tightly clenched arms and looks up. What he sees at first does not terrify him. It is the head of a deer—just a nameless animal to the child. The child relaxes at the sight of the deer and sits up to stare at the creature in fascination. “Hello” the boy, greets the deer head.
An animal doesn't understand spoken language, but what stands in the bush is not an animal. After being greeted, the deer head, rises upward. Beneath it, is the body of a man. Paralyzed with fear the boy remains seated, staring at the man in front of him. The deer headed man, removes his headgear. Underneath, the face of a disfigured human being. The man spits out tar like chewing tobacco, and states with a sadistic pleasure “dinner, or decoration... Or- desire.” He takes a step forward to grab the child, however at that moment, the boy's father explodes out of a bush behind the man, sticks his blade into the man's right kidney while at the same time violently pushing the man forward, plunging the psychopath's head into the mud below. The father holds the man's head in the mud, until the deranged individual, stops moving. After he kills the man, the father searches the man's corpse for useful items. Among the items obtained, a name for the boy is discovered. However, before the child is given his name, the boy's father delivers a swift scolding, using the back of his hand to crack the boy a good one for making far too much noise. The matured veteran isn't able to explain the problem verbally, so as to maintain silence. After he scolds the boy, he simply signals with a finger to his lips for the child to be silent. Once the scolding is out of the way, the father teaches—as best as possible—a few simple hand signals to use for communication, and then with a silent whisper, gives the child his name, taken from an object discovered on the suffocated man. The child's name, “Sexual Tyrannosaurus” as labeled on a chewing tobacco canister label.
Sexual Tyrannosaurus' first kill occurred a few years after his naming, still in his childhood years.
One day, while scaling a mountain as cautious, and silently as possible—moving from one bush, to between a set of rocks, scoping the area out, then moving to a grouping of trees, scoping the area out, then moving to a buildup of mud, and so on, so forth—Sexual Tyrannosaurus, a few meters West of his father, comes across another child roughly his same age, caught in a trap. From his position he is able to see the child, but the snared child cannot see him. Trying to avoid alerting the trapped kid to his position, Sexual Tyrannosaurus slowly retreats from the circling vegetation, and makes for his father. As he arrives with an excited glint in his eye, Sexual Tyrannosaurus alerts his father to the trapped child a little ways West. Both of them sleuth back over to the area of concern, where Sexual Tyrannosaurus is given a choice. The father describes to his son the situation; Sexual Tyrannosaurus is either to kill the child himself, putting an end to the snared boy's suffering; or—as the father, recommends—leave the child behind despite the slow death that awaits. No question about it, the kid trapped in a barbaric rudimentary snare, is already suffering. The heavy guilt weighing down upon Sexual Tyrannosaurus—as though the mountain he stands on, is resting solidly on his frail shoulders—forced him to want to end the kid's misery. He asks his father, “how should I kill the boy?” To which his father points to a large rock, and whispers “as hard as possible” then with a stern tone “he'll only suffer more if you hold back” then with a reassurance “I'll cover you.” Sexual Tyrannosaurus lifts the rock up from ground and drags his feet toward the child. At first sight, the snared boy panics, and screams in alarm while dragging himself away from the approaching Sexual Tyrannosaurus. The loud cries of the snared boy, unfortunately make Sexual Tyrannosaurus panic in response, causing him to sprint to the retreating child, and strike. Sexual Tyrannosaurus' hand slips on the first strike. The rock falls on the trapped child's head, rather than being slammed into it. The child remains alive, growing hysterical in defense, as he flails his limbs around, and scatters across the rough terrain below him, like a wounded animal attempting to flee the grip of a starving predator. Frightened, Sexual Tyrannosaurus lunges for the rock, and slams down aggressively once more. This time, he strikes the snared child's flailing arm, breaking it, causing him to cry out even louder than before. Sexual Tyrannosaurus slams down again, striking the head this time, but the boy remains alive, except instead of screaming, he now groans. A horrible, demented groan, as though the child has lost the ability to adequately convey his pain. Once more the rock strikes down on the snared boy's head, finally killing the child. An act that will remain in the psyche of Sexual Tyrannosaurus for the rest of his life.
In his early teens, Sexual Tyrannosaurs was trained in the aspects of war that he would be fighting for the remainder of his existence. He would also receive his first blade, and a set of forged dog tags.
SURVIVAL; Among other things, Sexual Tyrannosaurus learns what to eat from the environment, and where to find it; how to start a fire, and when to start a fire; where to find water, and how to purify it; land navigation; how to take care of basic injuries; medicinal properties of the environment; when to rest, what to rest in, and how to construct a resting spot; and the philosophical reasons behind survival, such as, why should we let others die, so that we can live.
COMBAT; Among other things, Sexual Tyrannosaurus learns hand to hand techniques; combat land navigation; patrolling techniques; improvised explosive construction; combat communication strategy, including hand signals; stealth navigation; knife combat; binding techniques, and knots; effective spots to kill a human; effective spots to kill varying animals; psychological warfare; and battlefield strategy.
FIREARMS; Among other things, Sexual Tyrannosaurus learns to fire any & all weapons retrieved from corpses, and the battlefield—which after practice are disposed of; close quarters combat in the ruins of still erect buildings; long range combat principles & theory; advanced explosive skills; disarming skills; disassembling practice; firearm stance & footwork; heavy weaponry tactics; mine & IED laying; and Sexual Tyrannosaurus' first knife is forged—made from a plate of shrapnel removed from his mother's corpse so that he has a little piece of mom to carry with him on his journey.
Though only half of the shrapnel plate is used for a blade, the other half; to forge dog tags... The closest thing to a tombstone that one can receive.
It was only a few months after his extensive training when Sexual Tyrannosaurus became devastatingly wounded, losing an arm, and suffering major third degree burns across his face and upper torso.
While making their way through a desolate tundra, the father-son duo, stumble into an ambush. But, not an ambush against them. They inch forward in a prone crawl, examining the environment three hundred and sixty degrees. From a distance, the pair look like a clump of mud with a set of tundra weed atop. Only the closest inspection would be cause for suspicion, and by then, it'd be too late. As they drag along at a snail’s pace, they notice a caravan of five individuals carrying an assortment of high-powered weapons seventy-five yards away from them, heading West. Fortunately, the angle and speed with which the caravan is heading West—the father-son duo heading North East—meant that the two groups will not intersect, however close they might get.
They do end up getting close—too close. The caravan, twenty or so yards away from the father-son duo, move along unaware of anyone watching them. However, it's not just Sexual Tyrannosaurus and his father who are watch the caravan. Another individual, North of the caravan, is watching, and prepping for an ambush.
The caravan halt for a quick water break several yards in front of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and his father. Sexual Tyrannosaurus has a clear line of sight on the appearances of the caravan individuals. Oddly enough, what first appear to be robes, are actually painted canvas sheets draped over each caravan member's body. The sheets are painted with religious icons, which means that the caravan is attempting to gather power and influence through religious cult behavior, selling man made word as supernatural existence, over other men who can't see, touch, hear, smell, or taste such a thing, but believe it could be so. Such tactics have been used before, and as to their effectiveness... Well, that can be judged based off of what happens to the caravan.
The caravan members finish their water break, slinging their fleshy water canteens over their shoulder. The point man of the group takes a step Westward to recommence the hike, immediately setting off an incendiary IED, catching both him, and the man behind him on fire. The two individuals set ablaze, do not scream, they do not panic, they barely even move. They drop to their knees, and in silence melt away on the tundra floor. The other three caravan members, sink into a combat stance, scanning for any assaulters. Instantly following their heightened alertness, they receive a taker—the individual to their North, fires off a Sean Beaner, which sinks directly into the middle caravan member's chest, exploding inside. The remaining caravan members retaliate. One fires his backpack fed bone grinder in the general direction of incoming fire. The other caravan member retreats a few yards—closing the distance between the father-son duo, and him—drops prone, and fires his modified light machine gun in the aforementioned direction. The caravan member who initially responded to the ambush, lowers his weapon, and retreats backward past his partner, dropping to a kneel directly beside Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and firing a second barrage of gunfire in the direction of the assaulter. With the second set of retaliatory fire in motion the light machine gun wielding caravan member jolts upward and retreats further back, however, the moment he does so, a projectile pierces through his skull, then subsequently two more projectiles pierce through his chest, painting the individual's canvas blood red. He falls down, dead. Though, as a result of the bone grinder carrying caravan member's partner's death, he now has a beat on the assaulter. He stands and concentrates fire in the area that muzzle flashes just flashed from, eventually causing an explosion of red mist to shoot out of a bush North of his position—he nailed the target. The grinder minigun slows to a screeching halt, and the agonizing screams of the assaulter rip through the calm winds. The last remaining caravan member screams back at the shrieks of his victim—his counter scream sounds like a wail of pleasure. But- his enemy, still with life in him, conjures enough strength to toss an incendiary explosive at the screeching caravan member. The grenade lands directly between Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and the bone grinder caravan member. Sexual Tyrannosaurus puts his hand out in front of the blast as the incendiary explosive device explodes. The remaining caravan member's legs are cast off of his body, and the rest of him sets ablaze. Sexual Tyrannosaurus' arm blows off to the elbow, and the top half of him sets ablaze, until his father subdues the flames with dirt and camouflage cover.
Painful third-degree burns covered a third of the young teen's body. For years, not a second went by that didn't hurt him immensely. Even a soft cooling breeze would cause agitation on the surface of his burnt skin. To make matters worse, Sexual Tyrannosaurus could not scream, shout, groan, or even sniffle at the continuous agony coursing through his skin in order to maintain a stealth cover. Though, the burns were only half of the problem, the other matter of concern, was Sexual Tyrannosaurs' missing limb—of which, the wandering pair of father and son, found a resolution, just a few days after the incident.
Bulging red eyes snap around urban city ruins, pretending to look for threats, but really, only searching for something to ease the pain. These were the eyes of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and they display nothing but anger, and suffering. His father understands as well as anyone else who would stare into the boy's eyes—his son was tormented. So, he risked the duo's constant stealth conduct, by moving relatively swift—i.e., a fast walk—through an environment that was difficult to hide in. The father's hope: that he would find some sort of medical equipment to either sooth his son's pain, or to fix his son's missing hand, which was fastened at the moment only by a dirty piece of cloth, and a belt.
What the pair discover in the crumbled city, is far more valuable than they initially imagined they were going to come across. They march from building cover to building cover, scoping out both the interior of the buildings they step in, as well as examining the surrounding exterior cityscape for enemies. Much of what was left in the destroyed city, is broken concrete, brick, and stone building blocks, leaving only scraps of useless supplies littered around the broken-down metropolis. Both father, and son, grow anxious as time goes on without so much as a single band-aid in sight. The father's anxiety comes about because he knows he will have to instruct his son to turn back, as the risk is getting to high—therefore, they'll have to leave the ruins empty handed. Sexual Tyrannosaurus' anxiety is a result of not finding any type of medicinal aid and knowing that his father is on the verge of calling off the city search. However, just before the scouting mission is called off, the two, stumble across uniquely composed materials; the building blocks of a set of ruins in front of them. The materials have a glossy high-tech finish to them—a sort of eggshell smoothness—giving off the impression that this former structure was a place for researching and developing advanced technologies. A bent, cratered sign, rests in the dirt outside of the structure, which reads: Campbell Laboratory Corp—we have been saying it for years, technologies & designs. A brief period of excitement runs through the duo's minds as they enter the bounds of the technological ruin. Their attitude swiftly changes once they realize that the place has been looted barren. Empty display cases, shattered glass containers, extracted wiring, missing computational devices, ransacked desks & drawers, graffitied crumbled wall pieces—everything is gone... Everything, except one completely intact display case. Sexual Tyrannosaurus, stumbles over to the case, and glances inside. The sight of the contents inside causes him to drop to his knees without any remaining hope. Inside the display case—and the reason why it was the only piece of equipment not looted, or desecrated—is a quilt... While Sexual Tyrannosaurs, has lost all hope, his father, figures the immaculately designed set of fabric might have some use. Seeing as the piece of cloth that is covering his son's wound is a tattered rag, the father, exchanges the quilt with the contaminated covering.
The father-son duo, leave the ruins disappointed, and discouraged... Soon to change their tune. After a painful night in the bush, Sexual Tyrannosaurus awakens with an odd feeling—he feels fingers moving where his missing hand use to be. He looks down to his handless arm, and shockingly discovers, where one hand has been lost, another hand has grown. Except, this was no ordinary human hand, this hand had grown out of the quilt. Sexual Tyrannosaurus very quickly comes to realize how useful his new hand would prove to be, when a leopard leaps out of the tree line, pouncing on the boy's father. Almost like the new hand is drawn to the threat, Sexual Tyrannosaurus grabs the leopard by the snout before it is able to bite his father, and then crushes the animal’s skull.
This is no ordinary quilt... This quilt is a special technology developed by Campbell Laboratory Corporation. Regarding choices made by society—whether they be peace, or war—the quilt would tailor its capabilities befitting the actions of man. If it is peace time, the fibers grow soft, and delicate, blooming symbols of peace, unification, and hope. But- it is not peace time, it is a time so embroiled with war, that the fibers harden to a point far beyond the constitution of a diamond, and they grow razor sharp, unevenly jagged, and immeasurably rough. Not to mention, as Sexual Tyrannosaurs finds out just moments after slaying the fearsome predator, the new limb's ability to shift shape, and shift use, as it forms into a silent chainsaw, that he uses to sever the animal's head, and field dress the rest of it. What Sexual Tyrannosaurs has stumbled across, is a dangerous weapon. Or depending on the circumstance, a powerful symbol.
Still, the young teenager suffered from the daily torment of his burn injuries. His pain brought about an aggression, and bitterness to the world he was surrounded by, and with his new tool, he reflected his pain onto every one of the threats that confronted him. Growing into his late teens, the boy developed a history of violence.
Fourteen years old, Sexual Tyrannosaurs collects three confirmed kills. Two of which at the same time; as he forms his hand into a rope bolt, shoots it through two bodies, pulls them together, re-forms his hand into a chainsaw, and then swiftly beheads both individuals at once.
At fifteen years old, Sexual Tyrannosaurus massacres a small platoon of organized individuals who call themselves, Phantacy (the phantoms of ecstasy). A group of people who take their pleasures from the shadows. Surprising then, how each member of Phantacy has their- lives taken from the shadows, as Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and father, methodically snuff the disturbed organization. When the last platoon member stands, the ground he stands on, is chunky (bo-dy paaarrrts). He is unable to scream, with Sexual Tyrannosaurus' special hand, squeezing the air out of his lungs.
At sixteen years old, Sexual Tyrannosaurus hunts down only one man. This man however, is a calling card killer, leaving behind a king card on each of his victims—all of which were murdered with a blade. After several months of finding corpses with king cards face up on victim's chests, the father-son duo, knew that whoever is leaving the calling cards, is in the area, and is a threat. They decided to go after this man to disable the threat. Another string of dead, card carrying bodies, lead Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and father, directly to the calling card killer. The man wears a crown, cape, and regal clothing. He wields a long sword, and shield. The calling card killer's goal: to establish himself as the king of this wretched world by spreading word of his claim through his calling card victims. When the father-son duo confronts him—where all evidence pointed to the king being a slick shit killer—he held no actual combat prowess with his sword and shield. Instead, the king attempts to influence the pair of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and father, by dropping his weapons after a quick scuffle, and extending his hands, so that his assaulters could kiss them as though he were royalty. The father-son duo are not so easily manipulated. They grab the king's wrists and drag him to his knees to be executed. Though, now that the king's life is at stake, he begs, and pleads not to be killed. This does not cause the father-son duo to cease execution. In his last breathes, the king proclaims his innocence, by screaming “he wanted me to marry his daughter!... In exchange, he would serve as my pawn—IT WAS HE WHO KILLED THOSE PEOPLE! SEARCH ME, I HAVE NO CARDS!” His screams change nothing, it is too late, the king has laid eyes on the duo. Being seen is always bad in this world. Sexual Tyrannosaurs beheads the king, and field dresses him for jerky later.
At seventeen, Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and father, watch... At eighteen, Sexual Tyrannosaurus sets the explosive charges that destroy the village that they were previously watching. At nineteen, Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and father, discover a set of coordinates on a male, female couple they had killed. Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and his father, have no idea what the coordinates lead to, with the exception of the word above the coordinates: Safety. In a world consumed by war, true safety is more valuable than—well, it just may be the only thing of value—at least upon first thought. The question still arises, if you're safe, will you lose your edge?... At twenty, Sexual Tyrannosaurus, and his father, start moving in the direction of the coordinates, just over a thousand miles away. Though, it is not a thousand miles of humping it over rough terrain, it is a thousand miles of methodically sneaking through the environment inch by inch. The environment by the way, is as much an enemy as the human combatants because of the damage that has been done to the Earth. That is to say nothing of the animal predators that lurk around. The ground isn't stable; bodies of water are poisonous; fault lines are constantly forming; chemical winds blow through the airways; the trees are jagged and sharp; the mists are so contaminated by death and pollution that they burn the lungs, and run red with infectious blood; the temperatures rapidly change from extreme lows to extreme highs, regardless of the time of day; the snow is acidic to the point of—in certain patches—literally melting your feet off; oh, and the plant life releases a mutated bacteria, that forms into hideous creatures, who hide in the shadows and feed off of human organs. For an entire year, the father-son duo, make their way through this type of environment, killing an enemy combatant here, staking out an encampment there, sneaking past bacterial plant life, being found by bacterial plant life, cutting through intestines surrounding that plant life, then beheading the organism, evading deep fault line caverns covered by natural debris, marching over snow topped mountains—plunging a stick into the snow before taking a step forward to check for acidity, freezing, overheating, they carry on. In one year, the pair has moved a little over four hundred miles. However, as they got closer, and closer to the coordinates, the number of human threats increases, meaning that others may be heading to the same coordinates.
On Sexual Tyrannosaurus' twenty first birthday, the boy's father—after scouting ahead a ways—brought back a present with him. A woman... A catatonic woman.
The father drops the paralyzed woman next to his son. He says nothing and makes no expression. He only points to the woman, then to the boy, and then leaves.
Sexual Tyrannosaurs hasn't the slightest idea what he's supposed to do. He looks at the woman by his side—she is certainly catatonic (whether from psychological trauma, or disorder, the woman does not move)—she is young and beautiful, she- is- there. The young adult panics and looks away, looking find his father in the tree line. But he is alone... With her. He looks back at the woman. She has black hair, smooth skin, peachy lips, delicate & slim hazel eyes, she- has- the physical attributes of a woman. Sexual Tyrannosaurus looks away again, embarrassed for having thought about touching her. He sits there, avoiding staring at the woman anymore, until his father returns.
Upon the father's arrival, he points to the woman, then to his son. Sexual Tyrannosaurus shakes his head, and nervously shrugs. The old man violently grabs the young man's collar and smacks him—he points to the woman again, and leaves once more, visibly irritated.
Even after his father put his foot down on the issue, the young man, would have liked to believe that he never touched the woman. But- he does. He does touch the woman... He engages in a terrible act... And- after the fact, he feels horrible. This is war, he has already done horrible things to other people, but they were all combatants, threats, risks—they were all out to get him. With the woman however, he has taken advantage of the situation. His mind sinks into a deep guilt, his thoughts as follows; “she can't even move-! She never did anything to you—you bastard! She- would never do anything to you! Would she?... Maybe she would?... Maybe, she- is the enemy?... DON'T YOU DARE! It was you- who is in the wrong! Look at her, she is paralyzed... That's the only chance I had though, isn't it?... Paralyzed” These thoughts continue in his head, but there is no one else around to detest, or condemn his actions, aside from the woman, and she simply does not respond. So, he is left in a state of confusion, and psychological misery. Ultimately, Sexual Tyrannosaurus—regretfully named so—knew that he has done wrong by the woman and would feel guilty the rest of his life. Regardless of his guilt, he is drawn to the woman, and feels a connection with her—even if it is one sided—so, for the rest of his life, he will carry the woman with him over his shoulders. Maybe he did not truly understand what he'd done to the woman, but he knew that what he'd done was wrong... So, he made a vow to himself. If she ever awakened from her catatonic state, without question this woman would be appalled, disgusted, and carry a malicious hatred of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, whether it be because of his vile actions, or his physical appearance, or- fuck- his personality... If she will not have his heart in bond, she can have it in hand... She could kill him. Consider it youthful love—but get over yourself, nobody is wise to the ways of life anymore, let him have this, in death.
With that, Sexual Tyrannosaurus, lifted the woman into a fireman's carry, and marched onward with his father. They were soon confronted by their biggest threat yet, someone who was specifically out for them. An individual who upon being confronted and left alive, would pursue the now trio of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, his father, and the catatonic woman at nearly every turn.
Silent steps through a thicket of long grass, Sexual Tyrannosaurus' father is clutched around the skull by a gigantic hand that engulfs the father's entire head. The hand lifts the father up and whips him back down to the ground with force. Immediately, the father snaps back up to his feet, and draws out his blade. What he sees in front of him, is a near eight-foot tall giant with sad clown face paint colored on his face. There is a baseball bat held in his right hand—the upper half resting on his shoulder—and a chunky black raven on his left shoulder. The father whistles for Sexual Tyrannosaurus—again, about fifteen meters away—to run, as possible insurmountable danger is afoot. The sad clown giant lifts his baseball bat into the air and slams it down where the father stands. Sexual Tyrannosaurus' old man evades with a leap roll toward the giant's left leg, and then jabs his knife toward the femoral artery on the inside thigh. The knife clinks into armor plating over the giant's femoral artery unable to penetrate through. The giant snatches the father's wrist, whips the man forward, and yanks him to the ground. He lifts his baseball bat into the air again, and swings down toward the father's head. Just before the baseball bat connects with its target, it is caught mid-swing by the quilted hand of Sexual Tyrannosaurus, who is supposed to have fled the scene. Strangely, as the giant catches a glimpse of the young adult, or perhaps- something on him, he releases his grip on the bat. Sexual Tyrannosaurus follows in suit, dropping the bat to the ground, and casting out his silent chainsaw in defense of his father, and the woman on his shoulders. The giant removes a set of objects from his pocket and tosses them into Sexual Tyrannosaurus' face. Sexual Tyrannosaurus catches a glimpse of the multiple objects being tossed his direction—playing cards—before swiping at the projectile distraction, cutting several of the cards to pieces. When all the cards have fallen to the ground, the sad clown giant, has disappeared. Only his fat ass raven re-appears briefly, swooping in, collecting the giant's bat.
“He's been following us, using pudgy eyes in the sky... That's how he knew where we were” Sexual Tyrannosaurus' father remarked at the time. “We'll have to be extra careful moving forward...”
Extra careful, they were, yet still, the sad clown manages to appear again, and again, and again. Usually, after an action is committed by Sexual Tyrannosaurus, or his father, the giant reveals himself to the trio, sometimes violently, other times he just stares at them from a darkened shadow, or his chunky raven would clumsily collapse from the skies. On occasion the trio would manage to shake the giant for weeks on end, but- the giant always manages to find them, no matter how well they cover their tracks, and sneak around. It is as though the giant is so tall that he can stand above the trees—the mountains even—and spot the party of three, looking down from above. Attempting to kill the giant is a great risk with the weapons that the trio possess, but, as time goes on without being able to shake the large clown, it appears to be the only option. With this action in the back of their minds, the trio, continue onward toward the coordinates, through hundreds of miles of dangerous land.
That is, until...
So close to reaching their goal the land that surrounded the trio went from hostile, to suicidal. Something that made Sexual Tyrannosaurus' father hesitant to complete the journey. But what the father was thinking, wasn't about to matter anymore.
They scan the horizon... In the distance, a large cement bunker sits atop a hill with explosions erupting on the grounds and in the air, three hundred and sixty degrees encircling it. Sexual Tyrannosaurs—this time on point, ahead of his father—signals that he will be scouting ahead. However, at the moment, the father is in his own head, debating when he should make his thoughts known on pulling out of the area. He figures to himself that he should tell his son before they go any further. However, before he is able to signal for a regroup, Sexual Tyrannosaurus has already left to scout ahead. Procedure is everything to the father, but because of the immediate levels of danger in the vicinity he decides to stray away from procedure and leave in pursuit of his son.
When the father arrives to his son's location, what he finds is a sight out of his inner most nightmares. Sexual Tyrannosaurus is standing on a landmine.
Sexual Tyrannosaurus, staring straight at his father, signals a booby-trapped field, followed by the signal for his father to approach. Carefully, the father makes his way toward his son. He manages to make it without an issue to the unflinching, fearless, awaiting to face his own death, only child—aside from the fact that he himself is nervous, fearful, and unwilling to face his son's death. The two lifelong war companions stare at one another with glances of respect, and camaraderie, before Sexual Tyrannosaurus requests in a whisper—so as to keep with the stealthy guise the two had grown accustom to “dad... At least the war won't take us all... Not yet... There has never been a better father—I'm certain...” he says with a smile before finishing, “take the girl, make it to safety... This is it for me...”
To which, the father forms a rugged expression, and slides his foot onto the pressure plate that his son is standing on. He replies to his son “No... The war will take us all”. He shoves Sexual Tyrannosaurs off of the mine pressure plate and continues “but you're not going down just yet. The way ahead—albeit a short one—is dangerous, you will probably fall, but- it's your chance to take, not mine. So, you take the girl, and get to safety... There's never been a better son—a warrior, than you...”
After a brief period of silent veneration, Sexual Tyrannosaurus states “don't move, dad... Otherwise you'll never know how far I made it...” With a nod, Sexual Tyrannosaurus turns and sprints forward in a run. Running like he never ran before—quite literally, the stealth sleuth hadn't run much in his life due to all the crouching, crawling, and inching.
A few minutes after he leaves however, the sad clown appears behind the father. Sexual Tyrannosaurus’ old man beckons the giant to come closer.
Safety was only a few hundred yards away, Sexual Tyrannosaurus only had to get passed the epicenter of the warring human parties, all trying to reach, safety.
There was no stopping now... Sexual Tyrannosaurus breaks from the tree line into the war torn no man's land surrounding a large bunker on the side of a hill. The bunker is precisely where the coordinates are pointing at. If the slip of paper containing the coordinates is to be believed, then inside the thick concrete structure, is safety.
Sexual tyrannosaurus, breaking past his physiological limit in regard to run speed, sprints further, and further into no man's land. Projectiles fly overhead and puncture the ground beside him. Explosions erupt at every angle of Sexual Tyrannosaurs' body. Heavy machine gun fire zips along Sexual Tyrannosaurus' path; in front of him; behind him; to his sides; crisscrossing him; flying overhead; snaking between his legs; and dancing around him like an invisible midget skipping in muddy puddles. Poisoned shrapnel, razor blades, jagged glass shards, flaming hot garbage, bones, melted plastic projectiles, improvised explosives, mortar fire—it's all being flung toward the one man sprinting his ass off through no man's land. Despite Sexual Tyrannosaurus' luck up until this point, remarkably, not a single shot hits him, or the woman he is carrying.
The result of which came about because of a combination of things; one, the shock of the surrounding combatants seeing someone dash through a zone that no one had passed through for millennia; two, the panic that followed as a result of number one; three, there was still the threat, and concern of opposing combatants; and four, the inordinate adrenaline shooting through Sexual Tyrannosaurus' system, coming about as a result of sprinting through a field that hundreds, if not thousands of armed combatants were firing everything they had in one direction—but in the end, in an outstanding display of tenacity, the man born into war, makes it to a deep trench in front of the bunker, alive, only a few dozen feet to the main entrance.
Out of caution, Sexual Tyrannosaurus digs a hole into the trench wall, places the catatonic woman inside, and covers the hole with a mixture of dirt, and dead vegetation, leaving the woman's head exposed, with only a thin over shirt to hide it. Then, he turns to confront the massive bunker doors behind him—or rather, one large massive slab of concrete with no openings. There is no entrance into the bunker from what Sexual Tyrannosaurus can see, but, that's when a decrepit old voice whispers “Deeellllltaaaa..” Sexual Tyrannosaurus spins back around and examines the area where the voice came from. A set of eyes open inside the muddy walls of the trench, causing Sexual Tyrannosaurus to jolt forward, and violently snag the body that the eyes belong to. One hand grips old leathery skin, and the other grips what feels like a steak inside of a trash bag, and both hands pull. Out comes an old man who has bits and pieces of his body fused with melted trash. “Who the hell are you” Sexual Tyrannosaurs questions the man.
The garbage infused man, replies “Sergeant Elias Cooper knew my name—let's see, what was it that he called me—two, four... Six, oh, one... He enlisted me as an operator in an ancient guild named, Delta. The guild was tasked with defending that very bunker behind you, millennia ago, and we have forever since, done so.”
Sexual Tyrannosaurs inserts abruptly with a snarl “what's inside the bunker!”
The garbage infused man looks blankly out into space, before returning to Sexual Tyrannosaurus' eyes, and stating “I- don't- know...”
Frustrated, Sexual Tyrannosaurs shouts at the old man “HOW DO YOU GET INSIDE!”
To which, the garbage infused man smiles, and replies “If you were a delta operator, you'd know.” Sexual Tyrannosaurus drags the old man closer to his face and grits his teeth at him in response. The old man continues with a smile on his face, even with Sexual Tyrannosaurus' quivering face just a millimeter in front of him “but- I've got some good news—we're looking to recruit, as I'm on my way out, and there is no one else left to take up the guild's reins. If you can qualify as a delta operator, I'll show you the way in, but... We're never supposed to enter. Our guild swore an oath to protect this bunker with our lives, never to disturb what's inside, unless what is inside, becomes compromised... I've peaked.”
“How do you qualify” Sexual Tyrannosaurus naturally questions.
In response, the old garbage infused man details “you first have to select a specialization. Then, once you've selected, you must past a rigorous training program of your selected specialization. Then, upon being introduced as an operator in your specialized vocation, you must make yourself available for continued training in all other aspects of a delta operator—but, at this point, you would be considered, delta, just not fully fleshed out, and mission capable—check?”
Humoring the old man, Sexual Tyrannosaurs asks, “what are the specializations?”
The old man, answers “you've got heavy preach-her, snipper, oink man, pair-a-drop-”
Before the old man can finish, Sexual Tyrannosaurs blurts out “para-drop!”
With a sneer, the old man mentions “dang it, that's the easiest one...”
The old man, continues “alright, Halo, or Haho”
“Halo” Sexual Tyrannosaurs says without hesitation—even though he has no idea what either of those mean. The sophistication of specialized warfare is lost upon a lone warrior fighting in a war without united, or funded factions, nations, and people.
The old man presses his finger into Sexual Tyrannosaurus' chest, and pushes him back a ways, stating “several feet.” The frustrated Sexual Tyrannosaurus moves a few feet back. The old man continues “pair-a-drop—means you're a medic.” He reaches into his left breast pocket, and pulls out a smooth, round hard candy that smells of mint, then tosses it to Sexual Tyrannosaurus. “Medics don't always have the luxury of rendering aid to those in need from a close proximity. Your job, as a halo pair-a-dropper, is to get that aid—using an underhand throw, as you selected halo (high altitude, low opening)—into my mouth, from where you're standing. If you pass this test, then you, are a delta operator. The- most elite... Security guards in the world... Coast guard team six, being your toughest competition.”
Sexual Tyrannosaurs rolls his eyes upward, irritated. He winds up his hand and does a couple of preparation swings to prepare himself. However, as he winds up his arm for the final toss, a loud sound rips through the air. It sounds as though a fearsome wind, shot through the skies above like lightning. A moment later, a massive explosion goes off at the bunker opening. The explosion, pierces through the cement slab, sends concrete flying outward, and sets the nearby land on fire. The shock wave from the blast, violently shoots Sexual Tyrannosaurus into the mud, in a position where he has a clear view of the bunker's interior. However, just seconds after, a scattering of concrete chunks crash into his body, and pin him to the ground.
Through an opening in the concrete chunks, Sexual Tyrannosaurus still has a clear line of sight to the bunker's interior. Inside, a figure has appeared in the bunker's opening. He is a peculiar looking man—at least in the eyes of Sexual Tyrannosaurus—he is thin, pale, and his skin is untouched by dirt, injury, or- war really. His hair is long, extending to beneath his pectoral muscles, and is pure blond in color—again, it is in no way tainted by war... Nor are his clothes, of which the man is wearing a black jacket with a white undershirt and a strange bow at the collar, black pants around his legs fitted perfectly, and his black shoes are shining without a drop of mud, or grime stuck to their frame. Although this man does not adorn clothing that looks as though it has been touched by war, his face appeared to be worn, greater than any combatant in the field, that Sexual Tyrannosaurs has ever seen. It is shivering, loose, vulnerable, and anxious.
Groaning, Sexual Tyrannosaurs, calls out “WHO- ARE- YOU!?...”
To which the man in the opening snorts nervously, and then responds in a squeaky high pitch tone, like he'd never actually spoken before in his life “do not address me- serpent!... SERVANT! As though you have earned some right far beyond your quo!... I am what's left, of the only thing worth protecting!
Casually, Sexual Tyrannosaurs, interrupts “spare me—I've heard it before.”
“SPARE YOU! It is a gift, me speaking unto you!” the man standing in the bunker entryway, shouts, having been insulted. He continues “FOOLS! ALL OF YOU!... Are you unaware of your place in this world, child!?...
“Right now, I'm buried underneath five hundred pounds of concrete, the mud beneath me is staining my underwear in the worst way, and my burn wounds have never felt worse—that's about where I'm at currently” Sexual Tyrannosaurus, responds.
The man in the entryway is stricken with rage “There is a reason why countless generations of your family have fought an unending war, while countless generations of my family have been tucked away securely in doomsday bunkers... I am the rich, the powerful, the only thing capable of saving this world! It is because of my decadence... DECENCY! YOU- MUST- PROTECT- ME!”
“Rich” Sexual Tyrannosaurs questions.
The man in the entryway screams “MONEY! My poor decrepit whelp! CURRENCY, CHING CHING CHING, DOLLAR SIGN, DINERO, CASH! YOU CANNOT- HAVE MORE OF IT THEN I DO!!!
With Sexual Tyrannosaurus' last breath alive, he quips “where's your money now?”
It was at that moment, that our solar system's sun, exploded, causing a supernova, shattering the Earth into millions of pieces, and casting those pieces outward into the icy depths of space. Chunks of Earth—jettisoned with the initial explosive force of the supernova—sank deep into the unknown. Everything that humankind had ever known, was shattered in the blink of an eye, now sailing silently into the universe, without aim, direction, value, or purpose. What had remained of Earth, of its history, its stories, its past, was minute divisions of land, with which its inhabitants had stood, now zooming through an endless cosmic arena.
But... There was something else on those minute divisions of land... As a few great musicians—now a pastime of a demolished planet—had taught us, “time... Is never time at all... You can never ever leave... Without- leaving a piece of you.” That's right, on those chunks of Earth, was DNA spread from its lifeforms. Each small piece of land contained a handful of different identities, different creatures, and various forms of flora, and fauna. One specific piece of land, carried with it, the DNA of the man born into war, Sexual Tyrannosaurs. Remarkably, not only was his DNA preserved on the chunk of Earth, but, underneath the several slabs of concrete that had pinned him down—which were breaking apart as the piece of land cascaded through the stars—his multi-era uniform, and quilted arm, were still intact. For hundreds of millions of millennia, this unique section of land, surfed the wave of the supernova, taking the rock far beyond what humankind had seen, known, or reached.
T'was in this quadrant of uncharted space that the section of Earth where Sexual Tyrannosaurs' DNA was harbored, passed through a peculiar space anomaly. And- that- is when a strange phenomenon began its first stages of... Recay. A property unique to this corner of the universe, reacted to the foreign DNA sailing through its bounds, and so-it-was, set in motion.
It began with a chaotic, rapid clattering of particles, bonding, merging, discarding, and forming. Then, it was a slow, tedious, heated flow of binding, of enveloping, and suctioning of distant molecules. Bubbling up until eventually settling into very, very, very tiny pools of liquid. Millions of these tiny pools of liquid formed all over the interior surfaces of Sexual Tyrannosaurus' uniform, and the nearby dried, and hardened dirt. The liquid pools would sit still for hundreds of years, chemically mutating until the pools transformed from a liquid, into a malleable, yellowish white substance. Oddly, for a malleable substance, the pools had sharp, glistening jagged peaks that appeared like crystalline formations on underground cave walls. The peaks would rise upward, and the pools themselves would stretch unevenly across the surfaces they were sitting upon. The peaks would rise until they reached an upper surface of Sexual Tyrannosaurs' uniform, creating a cavernous texture inside of the clothes. Peaks outside of the uniform would rise then fall into an arch, and yo yo their way toward the uniform until they attached to another chemical pool. Once set, the substance would dry, and harden. After scores of time passed, the chemical substance would start to leak droplets of liquid, only, this liquid wouldn't evaporate, or dissolve. Instead, it would build around the pillars of the chemical compound. This strange substance would absorb particular materials from its environment, and build further in body, until a big blob of yellowish white had formed. Then, it would retract inward, leaving a human skeletal frame behind. To be specific, this was the skeletal frame of Sexual Tyrannosaurs, complete with his original hand—except now, the bone mass grew into the fibers of the quilt. It was all downhill once the skeletal frame had formed. From there, what was left of the retracted substance formed into a smooth round ball attached to the spine. The ball started to pump, releasing plumes of colored mist with each contraction, which would stick to the bones, and build layer upon layer. Occurring at the same time as the pumping, little tentacles emerged from the ball, and elongated to various shapes and sizes, whipping about chaotically.
Imagine, a time lapse of a human being, decaying, only start from the end, and rewind—it was as if, someone had hit the rewind button, on Sexual Tyrannosaurs. His body recomposed bit after bit, organ after organ, muscle after muscle, tissue after tissue, until... His body was full again, reconstituted in its entirety from the age with which he died. But- his skin was new, no more did he have the painful burn wounds surrounding a third of his body, and as mentioned, no more would he go about with a missing hand. Sexual Tyrannosaurs laid there, on that heap of Earth, asleep at the moment, but... Breathing.
A ripe orange plume explodes in the distance, awakening Sexual Tyrannosaurs... Back into war, on a new planet, to live out a new nightmare.
He screams out, and lunges upward, and just—screams. It is the return of the Mack in the worst way. He doesn't know where he is, why he is alive again—or how, or when he came back, or what had happened. But he knows exactly- what surrounds him, war... And so, he just, screams... Until a familiar hand grips his shoulder. Sexual Tyrannosaurs turns to look but is met with a vicious slap across the face.
When he recovers, he returns a glance. Standing before him, is the catatonic woman he had carried over his shoulders. Except she is no longer catatonic, and two rebellious looking teenagers stand off to her side—his children.
Oh yes, this is a different planet, and yes, Earth has been destroyed. The nearby chunks of Earth however, had sailed alongside Sexual Tyrannosaurs' little piece of the planet, accept the catatonic woman's sphere of....
“Tangerine Dream” she told Sexual Tyrannosaurs, her name—received from an old soundtrack.
Tangerine Dream's sphere of land had arrived seventeen years before Sexual Tyrannosaurus' had, and she recayed along with two other unborn individuals that she held in her womb before the Earth had exploded. Leaving her to fight, and hide for seventeen years in a new, recently started never ending war.
The shock is not yet over though, as a giant foot slams down in between Sexual Tyrannosaurus' legs. As he looks upward, Sexual Tyrannosaurus nearly shoots out of his own pants, as the man—or giant—that he is looking at is his old sad clown nemesis from Earth, still with a baseball bat in his hands, and—now slimmed—raven on his shoulder. Before Sexual Tyrannosaurs recoils with an attack, Tangerine Dream, shouts in a startled cry “FATHER” causing him to draw back in surprise.
To further the man born of war's perplexed confusion, his own father walks out from behind the sad clown giant, and sings “some folk are born- fighting in a dirty war- ewww no life except for death... And when the war's done- most- will rest in peace, saved from battle grounds not- yet- to cease. It ain't me... It ain't you... Whooo... It doesn't look like ANY OF US... Are fortunate ones.”
Sexual Tyrannosaurus rises up, and turns away from his family, facing a hill that a dark red sun rises behind. He is, so- tired—not physically, as he had just been refreshed anew, but, his mind is- fucked, and he is fed up with war—dishearteningly, he marches to the top of a slope overlooking a great open space. His family walk up behind him, and they all stare outward into the open space. A great gleaming city stands gloriously erect in the distance, with miles and miles of war-torn land between them and it.
Tangerine Dream, speaks softly “what do you suppose is over there?...”
Sexual Tyrannosaurus looks to Tangerine Dream with empathetic eyes. He then looks to his two children, who are staring back at him with curiosity. Panning his eyes around, he glimpses at the giant, the raven, and then his father, who nods back to him. His head shoots back toward the open area, and he proclaims “War is all we know... I doubt that applies to ANYONE on this planet... But- I'm not going to fight another- single- god damn day. Not against those who have been given no choice but to fight... So, we- won't- fight... We will steal... We will steal the peace from above, and force it down below...”
“If success is measured solely by the amount of money one possesses, then all it will take to spike one's status, is a swift robbery. If we can only measure the worth of someone by their status, then all it will take to be of substantial worth, is a forceful overtaking of the upper tiers. If the upper tier is superior, then the inferior will cease to exist when it is the inferior- who have stolen the only measurement known to suggest an elite standing. If the inferior does not exist, then the superior does not exist. If it has all been fucking folly, then there just might be a chance for society to... Recay.”
“Anyone up for a heist” Sexual Tyrannosaurus, finishes.
And that's why they call Sexual Tyrannosaurs, bad company, even after the day he died.