Synopsis:
Psycho Shatter 1988 sees the world invaded by an otherworldly avatar of evil and oppression known as Weiss Vice. Using his transdimensional power, he ushers in the White Awakening, a cataclysmic event where a fifth of the human population is transformed into vicious monsters. With their Earth under threat, Black Vice and their divine companions must empower humanity to fight against these monsters and put an end to Weiss Vice and everything he represents.
Content Warning:
Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice contains content that some readers might find disturbing, triggering or uncomfortable. This includes sexually explicit activities, strong language, hateful language and slurs, extreme violence, violence against children, vore, extreme racism, genocide, and a wide spectrum of grotesque or otherwise disturbing content. Reader discretion is advised.
Notes:
This novel is part of The Saga of Dawn and Dusk series created by Natalie Neumann and is a direct sequel to Psycho Shatter 1985: Black Vice Re;Birth, Weiss Vice: Glory Unto Genocide, TSF Series #005-3: Ghost Milky in… The White Terror. Efforts have been made to summarize and describe all relevant events within the text of Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice with detailed summaries of the relevant events of these stories. However, it is still recommended to read these three works to better understand the characters, overarching story, and thematic intentions of this work.
Psycho Shatter 1988 deals with heavy subject matter regarding race and politics in a deliberately overt and hyperbolic manner. Concepts and elements are taken to and beyond their extremes, and the end result is almost assuredly messy. All depictions and references to White Supremacy are done disparagingly and to mock the people and systems who perpetuate it. Conscious efforts have been made to depict Black people, indigenous people, and people of color in a positive light, and this story is ultimately a work of anti-racist fiction.
Despite the well intentions of its sole creator, Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice is also the product of a singular White person who received no feedback from any other person. Let alone a person of color. It is bound to have assortments of biases and oversimplifications of complex issues that should ordinarily be approached with nuance. Natalie Neumann’s understanding of the multidimensional subject of racism, the American political machine, colonialism, and fascism are ever evolving. However, she holds the grandiose political messages of this story close to her heart. Fuck racism. Fuck fascism. And fuck White people’s centuries-long systematic abuse and oppression of the other.
All dialogue in [italics and brackets] is being spoken in a language other than English, namely Japanese, Indonesian, and Latin. The non-English language being used is explained via narration or dialogue. Certain phrases and easy to translate terms are presented in their original language.
Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice
Atrocity 01: The Nujiboe Society for Caucasoid Prosperity
Date: Sunday, August 14, 1988
Time: 07:12 UTC – 00:12 LT
Location: The Nujiboe Society, California
The night’s sky was as dark as could be, yet the forest below was even darker. A boundless stretch of trees that cast shadows so thick, so dense, that not even animals would dare scurry about in its underbrush. There was not a noise to be heard. This deep in the forest, into this dense, untamed foliage, not even the wind could be felt. The air itself was cool, yet if one were to breathe it, they would feel something bristle past their lungs. Something… sinister.
Within the darkness of the forest, a flicker of light shone between the branches of the trees. Every time it faded in and out of view, this flicker grew and multiplied, until a cluster of twelve lights drifted throughout this darkness. Each light belonged to a figure carrying an ornate torch in their hand. Twelve figures whose bodies were clad in robes of white that cast their eyes in shadow, yet from their exposed chins, it was clear to tell they were all White, and all men.
These men walked as one, remaining in lockstep as they tramped through the weed riddled path before them. As they walked, they shared in a chant, each repeating words in Latin that echoed through the woods, but there was no one to hear them, let alone understand them. But that did not matter. What mattered was that they understood what they were saying.
Their trek through the forest continued, seemingly without purpose or aim, until the tight tussle of trees gave way to their destination, a clearing. The first thing they saw within this clearing was a body of water. A pond. Shallow, clearly man-made, yet its water reflected the torchlight all the same, illuminating something far more significant than the water itself. A mighty figure of stone, a stature no less than twenty meters tall, in the shape of an owl. Its structure had been worn across the decades, decayed by the rain and wildlife, yet the shape was unmistakable. Even the impressions of its stone eyes remained, staring at the robe-clad figures as they drew near.
The statue was affixed on a base of stone. One that was as withered and reclaimed by nature as the statue atop it. The steps of this base had become worn and chipped, yet the altar beneath the stature remained in pristine condition. A marble altar, the size of a coffin. Its meticulous design was unaffected by the passage of time, with every contour and crevice retained. The only imperfections taking the form of stray specks of dirt, yet those were imperceptible as this altar was illuminated from the torchlight.
Positioned in the center of this altar, there was a peculiar metal fixture. A shallow basin, propped up by a single thick leg, its rim adorned with small owls, their pose and design perfectly matching that of the tattered statue. It was a fine work of craftsmanship, yet the discolored mesh in the bowl’s interior raised concern of this object’s purpose.
The twelve stood before this altar, their torches held high, as they awaited the appearance of their leader. A figure who emerged from behind the statue, clad in robes that matched the white garments worn by the twelve, yet were more pristine, featuring trimmings of purple and gold, arranged in elegantly sewn patterns. His sense of importance was accentuated by what he held in his hands. A metal staff, engraved with complex patterns, and embedded with gemstones, all leading up to a shimmering cross. It was lavish, affluent, and displayed an undeniable sense of importance. The twelve in attendance recognized this, bowing their heads as this figure made their way to the altar.
Once in position, the leader pulled back his hood, revealing the visage of a White man with a withered, ruddy complexion, and a head full of thick, dark hair. A man who had been stricken by age, yet still carried himself with conviction and pride, resolute in his status.
Leader: “Thank you all for gathering here. I know events like these put a wedge in your schedule, but trust me when I say it will be worth it.”
He spoke with conviction in his words, his voice bearing a slight southern twang, and a faint slurring emblematic of his age.
Leader: “You have all supported me from the day I took office, and for that, I thank you. But in a scant five months, my time shall come to an end, and my successor shall be appointed. I trust that you’ll support him as much as you supported me, and that he will achieve everything I couldn’t do. I have done much to steer this nation away from anarchy, from communism, from degeneracy. But there is so much more. So much sickness and deviancy that must be purged from the America that I want to see, the America that always should have been. A righteous nation, a nation under the one true God. A nation for Americans. For humans.”
A snide sneer crept onto the leader’s face as he lingered on that word, the audience fully knowing his private definition.
Leader: “Our success is imminent. However, there is always a chance for things to go wrong. For darkness to overtake America. To steel our chances, an offering must be made. Not to God, but to ourselves.”
The leader then looked off to the side, gesturing at something in the shadows.
Leader: “Bring her out.”
With a clunk, a wheelbarrow was rolled in from the darkness, brought onto the stage by a large White man, wearing simple workman clothes. He did not speak, and neither the leader nor the audience of twelve paid him any mind, for they were only interested in the contents of the wheelbarrow, its top covered by a bloodstained cloth. The large man parked the wheelbarrow before the altar, careful to place it at an exact location, before kneeling on the stone stage, his reverence transparent.
Smiling, the leader grabbed the cloth covering the wheelbarrow and unveiled its contents before the crowd. An audible gasp escaped their mouths as their eyes laid on it. Or rather, on her.
In the wheelbarrow, there was a woman. A young Black woman, her body maimed. Her arms and legs had been severed and cauterized, leaving behind shallow stumps, still bearing the scars and scabbing of what had to be vicious burns. Her face was bruised and scratched, dark markings and dust adorning her soft features. Every speck of hair had been burned off from her body. Eyebrows, eyelashes, and everything that rested on her scalp, all gone, replaced with burn wounds that looked to be only a few hours old. While her mouth… was gone. The impression of a mouth remained, but her lips had been sealed, sewn and burned shut in a display so aggressive and unnatural it could only be achieved through unbridled malice.
With all these damages, one would assume that her torso would be in a similarly rough condition, yet… it wasn’t. It was tattered with light scratches and markings, yet looked untouched compared to the rest of her abused body. That is, aside from the abdomen, which was protruding outwards, its shape showing that she was several months pregnant.
This woman, reduced to little more than a head, torso, and abdomen, reacted as best she could to the sight around her. She moved her jaw, trying to scream, yet no audible words could escape her burnt lips. Only vague grunts, filled with a sense of rage and helplessness.
Any decent person would react to this sight with horror and concern, yet the leader looked at her like a farmer looked at a prized pig, his whitened teeth exposed as he grinned ear-to-ear. The leader slid his wrinkled hands across the young woman’s back and lifted up her body with ease. She squirmed in his embrace, but he was unperturbed and swiftly planted her in the metal owl basin atop the altar. The basin practically wrapped around her body, as if it was made for someone of her size. She nudged and wiggled her body, but with no limbs, she lacked the means to escape. But that didn’t stop her from trying in vain.
Leader: “Look at her. She’s lost so much, yet she still thinks she has some chance to escape. Ha! She’s a teenager. Dropped out of high school after getting impregnated by some thug whose name she never even knew. She was living on the streets, rejected by her parents. And all of this could be avoided if she had the ability to think. But what would you expect? She’s nothing more than a n***er.”
The twelve acolytes cheered at their leader’s words, abandoning any trace of subtlety as they hooted and hollered, like this was a concert.
Leader: “Unless her ilk— the n***ers— are treated as the animals they are, then this nation, this world, shall fall into ruin. No matter what we say to the people, no matter what facsimile of compromise we reach, we must hold this truth in our hearts. For these things are not humans. They are nothing more than hairless monkeys. No matter how much they might look like us, even if they learn to talk like us, they have no place in this world. Which is why we do what we do.”
The leader brought his staff down to the stone floor with a loud thud before looking up at the black sky, tilting his head until he could see the owl statue looming over him.
Leader: “We are members of The Nujiboe Society for Caucasoid Prosperity. And for every n***er we kill, for every n***er we put behind bars, for every n***er we prevent from being born, we get closer and closer to our goal. Closer to… The White Empire!”
The acolytes rose their heads high before raising their right arms, their palms flat, pointed diagonally upward in a salute.
Acolytes: “Heil Ratters! Heil our Grandmaster!”
The silent large man with the wheelbarrow shared in the salute before the leader, Ratters, gestured at him to depart. For it was time for the true display of evil to begin.
Ratters planted his hand on the head of his staff, the gem-encrusted cross, and pulled it out of its long sheathe, revealing a knife. A smooth 20-centimeter-long blade that reflected the bright torchlight before it. The Black woman before him flailed in a final adrenaline-fueled rush to freedom, but the twisted look in Ratter’s dark eyes spoke to his unshakable conviction. With a smile, he held the knife high, and spoke a passage in Latin.
Ratters: “Sic enim dilexit Deus mundum, ut Filium suum unigenitum daret, ut omnis, qui credit in eum, non pereat, sed habeat vitam aeternam.”
John 3:16. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. A passage meant to embolden followers of Christianity, to affirm their God’s love for them and the conviction of their faith. Yet, in the minds of the hateful, the message and whims of God are merely a means to pursue their desired end. No matter how many contradictions are made in the process.
Ratters plunged the knife downward, penetrating the woman’s left breast. She wailed as loudly as she could with her voice stifled by a wall of flesh. She looked on at the acolytes in hopes that they would express a quantum of empathy and bring an end to this heinous act. Instead, all she saw was a dozen men standing in place, the bottom halves of their faces showing not only their complacency, but their joy.
The knife rose out of her breast a moment later. Her heart was untouched but her blood was pouring everywhere. She looked up at Ratters, holding onto hope that he would see her as human if she looked into his eyes, but he did not even offer her that luxury. Instead, he took the knife, raised it high… and planted it into her abdomen, slamming both fists down as he aimed for her unborn child.
She felt the life within her move, flickering in her womb, begging her, their mother, for assistance. Yet there was nothing she could do. She had no arms, no words, no means to defend herself, and when faced with this boundless helplessness, she cried.
The knife then left her womb. She felt her blood trickle down from her sides to her back as she laid in this basin. She knew her death was imminent when she lost her limbs, yet that did not make this any less horrifying. Rational thought left her mind. Adrenaline and terror were all that drove her, and she began to flail about, jittering her head back and forth, wailing as loudly as she could, begging for a savior.
For her trouble, for her pleas, Ratters brought the knife to her for a third time, piercing her right eye. The knife slid into her brain, and with that… her body let out a final spasm.
The blood still flowed from her, but she was well and truly dead. The Nujiboe Society for Caucasoid Prosperity had completed their latest sacrifice. And as the acolytes realized this, they cheered. Hooting, hollering, clapping, and chanting in Latin.
In response to their vigorous celebration, Ratters walked before the altar, before his people, and bowed, thanking them for their gratitude.
Ratters: “Thank you, thank you. I want you to hold onto this image, this energy. We have seen the truth and the light. We know what is right. But the media, those poor people blinded by the n***er’s swagger and cunning words, they would look at this and call it obscene. Call it cruel. When all we did was make the world a better place. A cleaner place. And together, we, the followers of Nuu-gee-bow, can make people see the truth. That American, that the world, is filled with so many different types of people… but only one of them is fit to lead. That only one of them is fit to live. And all others should be extinguished. And as humanity ventures into a new century, they will learn our truth. For it is the only truth there is.”
The twelve broke out into an uproar at Ratters’s dystopian rhetoric. No hesitation, no shame, not that there was any to give as they served as a captive audience to a brutal murder.
Ratters cleared his throat as they applauded, preparing to begin the next segment of his speech, to further embolden his people… only for his followers’ voices to grow quiet. He could not see their eyes past their hoods, yet he could tell they were looking behind him. At the body of the girl he murdered.
Her blood-soaked body was… twitching. Even with the knife still pierced through her eye, small spasms of life reverberated through her and there was… a light coming from the bottom of her body. A radiant white glow emanating from her vulva.
Ratters looked at this sight with caution. His followers moved closer, to his side, to get a better look at this anomalous sight, casting aside their hoods to reveal their faces. The faces of White men, merely a few decades younger than Ratters, all bearing the distinct look of someone with more than they could ever humanly desire.
Her stabbed abdomen shifted, rising up and down, the light coming from her sex grew brighter and more intense, and as awe grew into concern, this dead woman… gave birth.
Something too small and undeveloped to be deemed a human effortlessly slithered out of her vagina. Something the size of a softball, something glowing white, something that fell to the altar in a wet thud. The acolytes looked at this sight with perplexed expressions, looking to their leader for guidance, yet their leader seemed the most confused of them all.
As these ravenous wolves pantomimed as sheep, the glowing object born from the dead woman began to… float. It began to grow. It began to emit a pulse so mighty that it shook the ground beneath their feet. After seeing this creature of light grow three times its size in a matter of seconds, concern grew into something more impassioned.
Acolyte 1: “What the fuck is this?”
Acolyte 2: “Has God blessed us for our actions?”
Acolyte 3: “You call this God? This is some Satan shit!”
Acolyte 4: “S-Should we pray—”
Acolyte 5: “No, grab your torch and burn this Hellspawn!”
Acolyte 6: “Yeah! No way God would ever bless a dirty n***er!”
Acolyte 7: “We sacrificed her, so this is the most direct way to—”
Acolyte 8: “Oh Lord! Have mercy on our souls! We only wanted to pay tribute and manifest your will unto our reality!”
As the creature grew, the acolytes continued bickering with one another. Ratters tried to calm them down, but a panicked man’s ears only hear what he desires.
By the time a modicum of sense broke through to the men, the creature had already grown. From a burgeoning fetus to… a human. Not a baby, not a toddler, but a fully grown adult human. A woman. A tall woman with pronounced breasts, wide hips, and a slim waistline. Her skin was beyond pale, hair free of any pigmentation and rendered in its whitest form. With her body coated in a radiant white glow, there was truly no way her person could be any more white.
Rather than stand, she floated, standing well above and out of reach of any of the men before her, looking down at them with eyes lacking both pupils and irises. Her voice was laced with a slight valley girl resonance, but her mystique demanded attention.
Woman of White: “I thank you heartily for your bloodied offering. It is joyous to see a Sterk rapt in suffering. It is rare to find a world with such righteous desire. One I have not seen since my White Empire. Thanks to you, I have crossed the ethereal boundary. As a token of gratitude, you shall be made to lead this foundry. I shall grant you a power both boundless and supreme, so you mean clean this world to a gleam. Bide your time and make your plans. And make sure you steady your hand. By tomorrow’s dawn, all that will remain is the Caucasoid. There will be no need to fill any lingering void.”
Fear and panic had been usurped by confusion among those in attendance. This woman’s appearance, her words, her fixation on rhyme, it all made little, if any, sense. Yet she captivated the men nevertheless.
Ratters: “Who… are you?”
Woman of White: “I am the paragon of white. A hero, a savior, a knight. I find tainted worlds and spread my seeds. For it is the most righteous of deeds. You may call me Weiss Vice. I seek vengeance, no matter the price.”
Acolyte 3: “O-Okay, but what the hell are you? What do you mean power? The fuck is a Sterk?”
Weiss Vice: “The time for explanations shall come. But only once our mutual enemy is dead and numb. Our goals and desires are the same. So you are my allies, regardless of name.”
Rather than elaborate further, Weiss Vice cast their arms out, forming a cross with their body, before their body faded, disintegrating into a cloud of white ash. Ash that moved on its own, spreading and spiraling away, into the agape mouths of the members of Nujiboe. They coughed and gagged as these foreign flakes planted themselves on their palate and throats, but it had already seeped inside their bodies.
The apostles looked at each other and saw that their brethren’s eyes had become stark white. Their pupils and irises had vanished, yet… they could still see just fine. Their confusion and fear rekindled, they looked at their leader, who had returned to the altar, where the body of the murdered woman had vanished. Ratters was leaning against the marble, his head down, and breathing heavy. The apostles stared at him, paranoia filling their minds, before Ratters finally turned around, his eyes glowing white.
Ratters: “We… have witnessed a miracle. Our God, our truest God, has come to us. Has blessed us with their power. And this day… shall be a day of conquest. A day of death. The day we thought would not come for another century. Today shall be… THE DAY OF GENOCIDE!“
Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice Main Page
Table of Contents:
Atrocity 01: The Nujiboe Society for Caucasoid Prosperity
Atrocity 02: The White Awakening
Atrocity 03: The Black Awakening
Atrocity 04: The Apartheid Absolution
Atrocity 05: The Victims of the White Empire
Atrocity 06: The Fascistin’ Limmerickin’ Chicken
Atrocity 07: The Imperative Intermission
Atrocity 08: The White Devil
Atrocity 09: The Plan to Eradicate Weiss Vice
Atrocity 10: The Milky of Hope
Atrocity 11: The Power of Nippon Imagination
Atrocity 12: The Assault on Washington
Atrocity 13: The Evils of Richard Rooadoot Ratters
Atrocity 14: The Battle of Black X White
Atrocity 15: The World Where Evil Won
Atrocity 16: The New Future
Atrocity 17: The World of Boundless Color