(Oh, and I haven't taken a real look at it since then. If you have to some editing suggestions, lemme know~)
Quote:
Seven years ago, on December 21st, 2012, the world did not come to a cataclysmic end. Of course, anyone with a brain and a computer would know that the ancient Mayan calendars only signaled the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. And a new era’s exactly what we got. Even though there were no meteors or floods like everyone expected, we instead witnessed an event that was every astronomer’s wet dream turned into a nightmare:
When the sun did as the Mayans commanded and aligned with the center of the galaxy, a large wormhole appeared almost overnight right next door; of course, no one had ever known wormholes to be anything other than a crazy idea in a physics equation, so you can imagine how eager NASA was to haul a** into its depths as soon as a** could be hauled. So far, so good, right? Well, let’s just say things took a turn for the worse from here. Red giant stars tend to ruin everyone’s day.
You see, while NASA was making its preparations to blindly charge into a dimensional detour, the red giant of the Southern Cross constellation, Gamma Crucis (nicknamed Gacrux by the science-types, Big Red to everyone else), decided it was gonna ditch its perch and travel on the freeway to our neighborhood. Yeah, go figure, the wormhole just had to lead straight into Big Red. You can pretty much imagine what happened next—drought, famine, oppressive heat waves, the death of life as we know it, worldwide chaos, political uprising, religious fervor…all that annoying s**t. Oh, and our beautiful blue sky is now an eye-straining reddish orangish color.
At least, I think it’s still that god-awful color. It’s hard to tell when you’re locked up. I guess that’s important, isn’t it? Yeah, I’m in the slammer. First-degree murder charges, allegations of conspiracy, and weeks of torture are a real b***h, ya know? Oh, and I suppose it’s also important for you to know my name, what with you being the one I’m telling my story to and all. The name’s Anita. You really don’t need to know much more than that. It doesn’t matter, really. Since the Day of Big Red, a lot of things have changed. But you probably knew that.
You know, I used to be quite the popular girl a few years back, especially right after The Day. It’s true. You wouldn’t believe how high food prices soared in the weeks and months afterward. You also wouldn’t believe how desperately lonely and horny some men can get when Apocalypse is knockin’ on their door. What’s more, you wouldn’t believe what a girl’s gotta do to put food in her belly.
It was a good thing there were so few of us lovely ladies, because some of those guys were quite stingy with their pay. Of course, if any of those bastards thought it was a good idea to leave without paying for the room service, they’d have to apologize to me and my .45, or else I’d be so distraught, I wouldn’t know what to do! I’d have to squeeze a shot into his soft, warm throat just to get my pay. I run a courteous business, and men are simply…disposable. A dime a dozen. All of them just as lonely and horny as the last. Shortage of business was hardly a concern.
Unfortunately, the United World Federation (the newest in a long line of auxiliary puppet governments attempting to maintain order) does not smile upon my justice. In fact, they really don’t approve of anything. To them, the best way to make a good first impression on the 14 million people who still populate the Earth (now known as Gaia, because someone high on the totem pole decided why not) is to send all of their sorry asses to The Suite for any conceivable crime. And if aggravated assault can net you five-to-nine in The Suite, you’d have a rough idea of what blowing someone’s brains out will get you.
Remember those first-degree murder charges I mentioned earlier? You guessed it—some filthy s**t named Robby thought he was gonna experience the high life with me and walk away without my requisite fee of 150 Gaian credits. I don’t ask for much, you know. Just enough for a few meals. But, according to him, 5 minutes of my time wasn’t worth the 150 big ones, so he zipped up and went to put his shoes back on. Bullshit, I said. Just because the sonuvabitch couldn’t keep his balls under control doesn’t mean he can break my sacred House Rules.
So, in accordance with the House Rules, as written and kept by yours truly, I gave him a nice new breathing hole in the back of his head. An appropriate end, I must say; a worthless death for a worthless man. Well, to me he was worthless, anyway. Wouldn’tcha know it, those United World Federation goons really don’t like it when one of their own are shot down in a cheap apartment by a Doomsday Whore.
I didn’t just take it lying down, of course. The Suite isn’t my kinda place, ya know? s**t, not even the most desparate cockroaches go near the place. Officially known as the 42nd United World Federation-Commissioned Correctional and Isolation Facility, the cells in The Suite are about as clean and sanitary as a methane junkie’s s**t-hovel. If the junkie had been dead for 10 years after inviting his friends over to spray all manner of bodily waste in every direction before a deluge of pus and vomit drowned them while they simultaneously pissed themselves. I was quite determined not to end up in here, but we both can see how well that turned out.
Anyway, I knew the Feds would be on my tail before long (since their oh-so-handy multi-functional BrainComs kinda let the entire department know when something happens to them, such as a sudden case of bullet-induced headaches), so I went further underground. These days, though, everyone was secretly a spy or a snitch or generally didn’t like you, so depending on a safe hidey-hole wasn’t always the best plan. Unfortunately, that was my grand plan. No one’s perfect, ya know. Especially Riley, who I turned to in my hour of need. Big mistake.
I knew her before The Day, and we were pretty good friends. Both worked together in the same truck stop, serving food to your typical degenerates and perverts, and we’d always get together and poke fun at the newest limp-d**k-big-britches trucker errand boy who walked in and acted like he was hot s**t. Occasionally, during the night shifts when the dumber, drunker guys would stagger in, I’d have to save Riley’s a** from certain defloration.
Long story short, she owed me a few favors, and as luck would have it, I conveniently had one to ask of her. At first, she was glad to help, and a few weeks went by without incident. It was just like old times, both her and I reminiscing about days that weren’t overpowered by sirens and red light, but I should’ve realized it wouldn’t be long before her sweaty fingers dialed up the Feds in a twitchy panic. Riley was always little too pro-government for my tastes, and it seemed a little worldwide cataclysm didn’t do much to change that.
So you can imagine my surprise when I’m sleeping in the guest room, snug as a baby, and all of a sudden, 4 or 5 suits bust into the apartment and shove an auto-taser up my a** without even the courtesy of yelling “Surprise!”
So then they drag me by the ankles and wrists out the door, while Riley gives me a pathetic, simpering look, yelling “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” while her tears mix with the snot running down her nose and into her mouth. It’d have hurt a lot less if she simply spat that concoction at me instead of bawling like a little b***h.
My a** was hauled to The Suite that very night, and as a result of the intolerable comedy the United World Federation called the Revised Universal Judicial Procedure Act of 2013, my fair and impartial hearing was a grim reminder of a little thing historians refer to as the Salem Witch Trials. Oh, it would have been all too simple for me to explain that Mr. Robby violated the rules of my humble business, but that was all wrong to the Feds. Clearly I was some sort of assassin sent by the Neo-Arabs or the Independent Military Republic of West Mexico, and my mission was, obviously, to bring down the UWF once and for all. Insults were hurled, instruments were brought out, and it’s safe to say that tendons don’t work very well once they’ve been slashed and hacked. “We only need her mouth working,” they said. I don’t really need to go into the gory details here. It doesn’t really matter, especially when you can’t even move under your own power anymore.
I wish I could say these past 4 years have been eventful, but I haven’t lied to you so far, and I don’t intend to start now. As far as the Feds are concerned, they still haven’t changed their minds about me being some covert spy on some secret mission. From the gossip I’ve heard echoing down the halls, it seems they’ve got their dicks in a frying pan with daily air strikes from the Neo-Arab Rebel Force, so the interrogations have gotten more frequent these past few weeks. The Inquisitorial Squad might get tired of my refusal to sell out my supposed allies soon, so they’ll probably fry me, grind my bones, and serve me up as The Suite’s soup of the day next week, so you understand why I’ve decided to tell my story.
I don’t even know how I’ve managed to write this much (my wrists were spared no mercy in the slashing department), but I figured I had to let someone know. Will Gaia even still be around for someone to find these pages? Is there anyone even still alive outside these walls? Hell, will this pile of tattered paper even make it out without being thrown in the open sewer-hole? Even so, I, Anita Rossetti, age 29, high-school graduate, former waitress at Twisted Jim’s Dine ‘n Drive, Doomsday Whore of Federation City Apartment Complex Number 296, have to tell someone my story before they wire me up and fry my a** in the Judgement Seat.
Because these pages are the proof that I exist.
When the sun did as the Mayans commanded and aligned with the center of the galaxy, a large wormhole appeared almost overnight right next door; of course, no one had ever known wormholes to be anything other than a crazy idea in a physics equation, so you can imagine how eager NASA was to haul a** into its depths as soon as a** could be hauled. So far, so good, right? Well, let’s just say things took a turn for the worse from here. Red giant stars tend to ruin everyone’s day.
You see, while NASA was making its preparations to blindly charge into a dimensional detour, the red giant of the Southern Cross constellation, Gamma Crucis (nicknamed Gacrux by the science-types, Big Red to everyone else), decided it was gonna ditch its perch and travel on the freeway to our neighborhood. Yeah, go figure, the wormhole just had to lead straight into Big Red. You can pretty much imagine what happened next—drought, famine, oppressive heat waves, the death of life as we know it, worldwide chaos, political uprising, religious fervor…all that annoying s**t. Oh, and our beautiful blue sky is now an eye-straining reddish orangish color.
At least, I think it’s still that god-awful color. It’s hard to tell when you’re locked up. I guess that’s important, isn’t it? Yeah, I’m in the slammer. First-degree murder charges, allegations of conspiracy, and weeks of torture are a real b***h, ya know? Oh, and I suppose it’s also important for you to know my name, what with you being the one I’m telling my story to and all. The name’s Anita. You really don’t need to know much more than that. It doesn’t matter, really. Since the Day of Big Red, a lot of things have changed. But you probably knew that.
You know, I used to be quite the popular girl a few years back, especially right after The Day. It’s true. You wouldn’t believe how high food prices soared in the weeks and months afterward. You also wouldn’t believe how desperately lonely and horny some men can get when Apocalypse is knockin’ on their door. What’s more, you wouldn’t believe what a girl’s gotta do to put food in her belly.
It was a good thing there were so few of us lovely ladies, because some of those guys were quite stingy with their pay. Of course, if any of those bastards thought it was a good idea to leave without paying for the room service, they’d have to apologize to me and my .45, or else I’d be so distraught, I wouldn’t know what to do! I’d have to squeeze a shot into his soft, warm throat just to get my pay. I run a courteous business, and men are simply…disposable. A dime a dozen. All of them just as lonely and horny as the last. Shortage of business was hardly a concern.
Unfortunately, the United World Federation (the newest in a long line of auxiliary puppet governments attempting to maintain order) does not smile upon my justice. In fact, they really don’t approve of anything. To them, the best way to make a good first impression on the 14 million people who still populate the Earth (now known as Gaia, because someone high on the totem pole decided why not) is to send all of their sorry asses to The Suite for any conceivable crime. And if aggravated assault can net you five-to-nine in The Suite, you’d have a rough idea of what blowing someone’s brains out will get you.
Remember those first-degree murder charges I mentioned earlier? You guessed it—some filthy s**t named Robby thought he was gonna experience the high life with me and walk away without my requisite fee of 150 Gaian credits. I don’t ask for much, you know. Just enough for a few meals. But, according to him, 5 minutes of my time wasn’t worth the 150 big ones, so he zipped up and went to put his shoes back on. Bullshit, I said. Just because the sonuvabitch couldn’t keep his balls under control doesn’t mean he can break my sacred House Rules.
So, in accordance with the House Rules, as written and kept by yours truly, I gave him a nice new breathing hole in the back of his head. An appropriate end, I must say; a worthless death for a worthless man. Well, to me he was worthless, anyway. Wouldn’tcha know it, those United World Federation goons really don’t like it when one of their own are shot down in a cheap apartment by a Doomsday Whore.
I didn’t just take it lying down, of course. The Suite isn’t my kinda place, ya know? s**t, not even the most desparate cockroaches go near the place. Officially known as the 42nd United World Federation-Commissioned Correctional and Isolation Facility, the cells in The Suite are about as clean and sanitary as a methane junkie’s s**t-hovel. If the junkie had been dead for 10 years after inviting his friends over to spray all manner of bodily waste in every direction before a deluge of pus and vomit drowned them while they simultaneously pissed themselves. I was quite determined not to end up in here, but we both can see how well that turned out.
Anyway, I knew the Feds would be on my tail before long (since their oh-so-handy multi-functional BrainComs kinda let the entire department know when something happens to them, such as a sudden case of bullet-induced headaches), so I went further underground. These days, though, everyone was secretly a spy or a snitch or generally didn’t like you, so depending on a safe hidey-hole wasn’t always the best plan. Unfortunately, that was my grand plan. No one’s perfect, ya know. Especially Riley, who I turned to in my hour of need. Big mistake.
I knew her before The Day, and we were pretty good friends. Both worked together in the same truck stop, serving food to your typical degenerates and perverts, and we’d always get together and poke fun at the newest limp-d**k-big-britches trucker errand boy who walked in and acted like he was hot s**t. Occasionally, during the night shifts when the dumber, drunker guys would stagger in, I’d have to save Riley’s a** from certain defloration.
Long story short, she owed me a few favors, and as luck would have it, I conveniently had one to ask of her. At first, she was glad to help, and a few weeks went by without incident. It was just like old times, both her and I reminiscing about days that weren’t overpowered by sirens and red light, but I should’ve realized it wouldn’t be long before her sweaty fingers dialed up the Feds in a twitchy panic. Riley was always little too pro-government for my tastes, and it seemed a little worldwide cataclysm didn’t do much to change that.
So you can imagine my surprise when I’m sleeping in the guest room, snug as a baby, and all of a sudden, 4 or 5 suits bust into the apartment and shove an auto-taser up my a** without even the courtesy of yelling “Surprise!”
So then they drag me by the ankles and wrists out the door, while Riley gives me a pathetic, simpering look, yelling “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” while her tears mix with the snot running down her nose and into her mouth. It’d have hurt a lot less if she simply spat that concoction at me instead of bawling like a little b***h.
My a** was hauled to The Suite that very night, and as a result of the intolerable comedy the United World Federation called the Revised Universal Judicial Procedure Act of 2013, my fair and impartial hearing was a grim reminder of a little thing historians refer to as the Salem Witch Trials. Oh, it would have been all too simple for me to explain that Mr. Robby violated the rules of my humble business, but that was all wrong to the Feds. Clearly I was some sort of assassin sent by the Neo-Arabs or the Independent Military Republic of West Mexico, and my mission was, obviously, to bring down the UWF once and for all. Insults were hurled, instruments were brought out, and it’s safe to say that tendons don’t work very well once they’ve been slashed and hacked. “We only need her mouth working,” they said. I don’t really need to go into the gory details here. It doesn’t really matter, especially when you can’t even move under your own power anymore.
I wish I could say these past 4 years have been eventful, but I haven’t lied to you so far, and I don’t intend to start now. As far as the Feds are concerned, they still haven’t changed their minds about me being some covert spy on some secret mission. From the gossip I’ve heard echoing down the halls, it seems they’ve got their dicks in a frying pan with daily air strikes from the Neo-Arab Rebel Force, so the interrogations have gotten more frequent these past few weeks. The Inquisitorial Squad might get tired of my refusal to sell out my supposed allies soon, so they’ll probably fry me, grind my bones, and serve me up as The Suite’s soup of the day next week, so you understand why I’ve decided to tell my story.
I don’t even know how I’ve managed to write this much (my wrists were spared no mercy in the slashing department), but I figured I had to let someone know. Will Gaia even still be around for someone to find these pages? Is there anyone even still alive outside these walls? Hell, will this pile of tattered paper even make it out without being thrown in the open sewer-hole? Even so, I, Anita Rossetti, age 29, high-school graduate, former waitress at Twisted Jim’s Dine ‘n Drive, Doomsday Whore of Federation City Apartment Complex Number 296, have to tell someone my story before they wire me up and fry my a** in the Judgement Seat.
Because these pages are the proof that I exist.
