User:Patrick MacManus

Patrick MacManus

Patrick MacManus Urbandead ID Cult of the Goddess RG Report Death Cultist Patrick MacManus History Player Killer Sandbox Talk War Crimes: Mass Genocide Use of Illegal Weapons Serial Killer Dictator Crimes Against Humanity Targeting Neutral Parties Executing Wounded Soldiers Invading Massacres Coercion Kidnapping Treason against Humanity Somebody has spraypainted Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? onto a wall. Patrick is covered in blood and dirt. He wears no shirt under his flak jacket, which bares a bloody handprint, symbol of the Goddess. He has tattoos of a skull, three dots and an ace of spades across his chest. My work will be known and feared not just across Malton but across the world. My work will be as well known as the Mona Lisa or the Bible. Many will talk about my work as if it was either something great or in a hushed whispered voice. None will deny my existence or that the fact that they know of me. They will know of my runed blade, my accuracy with a gun, and my devastation to the people of Malton. They watch the windows. They man lookout points. They maintain the barricades. They count down the night-time hours. They prime their weapons and ration their supplies and wait for the strike. It comes from behind. Go for the important ones first. The leader, the alpha male. Loud-mouthed egotistical tosser, thinks he's got a plan. Well, here's the plan. The shotgun that some poor blonde kid loaded for me just two hours back is emptied in seconds. Discard it, dead weight. Pistol shots scare the rest of them behind cover, and the big lad's gurgling blood. I watch for a few seconds, hovering over him, and laugh. I laugh at his pathetic beliefs, his structure and his rigmarole and his lust for glory, and I laugh. Then a heavy stomp ends it. Why? Not for the love of violence, or the feeling of playing God. No. Just for shits and giggles. Just because I can. Scream. Thhhhhht. Pant. Tudt. Splash. Groan. Drip. Drip. Drip. Pant. Drip pant drip drip dripdripdripdripdripdriptrickle. Sigh. I'm savouring the kill now, breathing in the acrid copper fumes of hot blood and bile. The knife handle is slick with the wet effluence of what used to be a life, and it slips, begrudgingly, from my hand, and I watch it fall. It makes a splash in the growing puddle beneath me, and I can't help but think of how Bret Easton Ellis might describe this scene, but then I tense up, fearful, at the sound of many footsteps. Maybe they'll actually get me this time, maybe they'll catch me and I'll find out the hard way how this feels from the other side. The noise rushes past below the window, and peering out, I see it's only the horde. Nothing I actually need to worry about, so I retrieve my weapon, and relief washes over me in an awesome wave. The healthy human mind doesn't wake up in the morning thinking this is it's last day on Earth. But I think that's a luxury, not a curse. To know you're close to the end is a kind of freedom. Good time to take... inventory. Outgunned. Outnumbered. Out of my mind on a suicide mission, but the sands and rocks here stained with thousands of years of warfare... they will remember me for this. Because out of all my vast array of nightmares, this is the one I choose for myself. I go forward like a breath exhaled from the Earth. With vigor in my heart and one goal in sight: I will kill them.