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.
Psycho Shatter 1988: Black Vice X Weiss Vice
Atrocity 05: The Victims of the White Empire
Part 1: International Servitude
Date: Monday, August 15, 1988
Time: 02:58 UTC – 09:58 LT
Location: The Outskirts of Surabaya, Indonesia
Even as the millennia neared its final decade, there remain countless century-long injustices that continue. While apartheid was a publicized evil, widely known to the broader world, and shunned away by global superpowers, there was a more insidious evil. An evil that did not merely exist in a single nation, but dozens. Slavery.
A common American may state that slavery ended in 1865, because that is the lie they were taught. Slavery did not truly end until 1942, when the last yet very real bastions were snuffed out in order to save face and unify the nation around World War II. Slavery was over in America… but that did not stop the tendrils of America from adopting functional slavery across the world.
In the aftermath of World War II, much of the developed world was scarred. Bold cities were shredded to rubble, and the circulation of trade was hampered. Nations affected by the war needed to rebuild, and thanks to colonialism, precious few nations could say they were not affected by it. The powers that once controlled these nations faded or faltered, leaving a slew of new governments to take the helm. But in order to be a self-sufficient nation, they needed to bring in capital. To trade their natural resources in order to raise their GDP. To export basic goods in order to fund the creation of new infrastructure, a military, and everything they needed to be a modern nation.
In order to achieve this, they had to broker deals with stronger, larger nations, and operate on their terms. Pay the rates they set, export what they needed, let their companies come in and put these developing nations’ peoples to work. And work they did. Men and women. Children and the elderly. All working in heinous conditions for dollars a day, if that.
While the workers are paid for their labor, it was barely enough for them to feed themselves, to shelter their families. Could a life like that truly be called a ‘free life?’ Is that truly better than being treated as little more than property? At the very least, slaves were given lodging and enough sustenance to keep them working. Their masters had some interest in their well-being.
This same narrative could be applied to many countries, including Indonesia. A collection of thousands of islands scattered across the Indian and Pacific oceans, home to over 170 million people. A former colony that rose from World War II as an independent nation, only to spend the next two decades in a state of turmoil. Rampant inflation, government failures, a second revolution to combat the first, extreme poverty, and rampant hunger. All leading to the New Order in the late 1960s.
A regime that, admittedly, averted a collapse and ended many of the most overt failings of the nation, but their economic plans did little to truly help the people of the nation. To bring in more money to Indonesia, its government eliminated regulations, tariffs, and invited foreign corporations in with little hesitation. Corporations who did not wish to aid or help this nation or its people, but merely to exploit them. When the entire world is a market, it is within the best interest of a corporation to go with the cheapest provider, to wring every last drop of value from it and its people, and leave. A process that may have made a handful of local businessmen considerably wealthy, but it left the workers, the overwhelming majority of the populus, as a subservient underclass. A group of people perpetually trapped in poverty, with little hope of escape.
Yes, the inflation may be at its lowest in two decades. Yes, the economy may be growing by 4% every year. That is great for the rulers. …But it’s not great for the people.
The only choice most truly had was their master. They could toil away at the earth, producing crops to be marked up and shipped off to god knows where. They could work in a precarious oil rig, extracting their homeland’s resource so it could be sealed and shipped off to people halfway around the planet. Or they could remain locked in dirty, cramped factories, straining their hands as they perform the same motion hundreds to thousands of times a day. Though, no matter their choice, they would end up sweltering under the heat of machinery or the humidity of the tropical climate.
The day was still young. The sun had yet to reach its apex. The skies were as clear and as blue as they could be with all the smoke wafting through the air. Factories were erected across the island of Java in waves as the demands for export and labor skyrocketed over the past decade. Some were more sophisticated, using large machines and automation to simplify the process and make the work more humane. …But this factory was on the other end of the spectrum.
A basic metal barn with buzzing lights hanging from the ceiling, cramped workstations, and loud sewing machines that created a cacophony of erratic noise at all working hours. The metal walls sealed heat in like an oven, even with the small windows cranked open as far as they could go. Bugs flew in and fluttered around aimlessly, crawling over anything they could, nipping the napes of many workers, and frequently getting themselves jammed in sensitive instruments. And while there were anti-pest precautions for rats, they still found their way in every other day.
It was a dingy and deeply upsetting place, and that fact was reflected in every worker’s face. Over a hundred people were crammed into this metal box, sweating away as they tried to maintain enough conviction and focus to carry out their work. What work was that? Producing shoes for a leading American athletics brand. Shoes with simple materials and designs, sold at an obscene profit margin, and praised for their ‘quality.’ Even though ‘quality’ was the furthest thing one could imagine when looking at a place like this. What ‘quality’ could anyone expect from a sensory hellscape where people need to work 12 hours a day, six days a week, just to survive?
The fatigue, noise, and monotony made it hard for the workers to think about anything before them. And if a stray thought ever passed by their mind, it would only be a few minutes before they saw one of their supervisors. Thuggish goons who clung to the power of authority and were rewarded with means. Enough food for them to grow big and strong. Enough money that they did not need to worry about poverty. And a job where all they had to do was walk around, look intimidating, write reports, and bash the heads of their fellow Indonesians whenever they got out of line. All to impose their part in the hierarchy. All to keep their bosses happy. All to make the businessmen and factory owners wealthy and powerful.
One of these supervisors, a larger man, in his mid-30s, sighed as he finished his latest patrol. He paused to drink from his water bottle and check his watch, seeing it tick past 10:00. With a shrug, he wandered across the factory floor, looking at the people with dead dissociated eyes, as he made it to the restricted area at the end of this factory. It was home to a break room, restroom, secretary’s office, and the owner’s office. Immediately, he was greeted with the cool embrace of air conditioning blowing onto his face and shut the door behind him. After breathing a sigh of relief as he headed to the bathroom, ready to take a piss break… only to pause as he heard an agonizing scream.
It wasn’t coming from the factory floor, it was coming from the owner’s office, behind his shut door. The supervisor knew damn well that he wasn’t supposed to disturb his boss— especially when he was supposedly meeting with an American executive— but this seemed like an emergency. With a gulp, he twisted the doorknob, muttering an apology under his breath as he entered.
Supervisor: “[Pardon the intrusion, but I heard a scream and—]“
The supervisor paused as he laid eyes on what was lurked within the office. There was a severed arm on the floor, blood oozing onto the tile. And in front of his boss’s cluttered desk, he saw a Whiterat. A repulsive cross between a human and a rat, with dead white eyes, and a mouth full of bloody teeth. He looked up at this monster to see the head of his boss poking out from this creature’s maw, and before he could do anything more than make eye contact, his head disappeared behind the monster’s teeth.
The Whiterat sat on the floor, its belly fat, the majority of an adult human man resting within it. For a brief moment, they seemed harmless, too rotund to move, let alone run… only for their stomach to shift and spurt, its contents spreading from its belly to the rest of its being. In a scant few seconds, it went from a creature about the size of a man with a giant gut, to a creature that stood at nearly 3 meters tall. It was too tall to stand up in this cramped little office… but the way it stood on all fours made it seem like it wouldn’t have any problem running.
The supervisor looked at this sight and paused. He had a baton he could use to crack this thing’s head open. It was his job to protect this factory, after all. …Or he could try to run from this abomination. He stood in the doorframe, the door still half closed. He tried shutting the door behind him, hoping that this creature couldn’t tear it down, but he was too slow.
Claws slipped in between the door and its frame at the last second, and the Whiterat swung it open. The supervisor turned his back in hopes of fleeing the scene, only for him to lose a chunk of his leg. The creature swiped at him, brought him to the ground, and as he turned to look up at this creature, all he saw was its mouth, dripping with blood, overflowing with teeth. He screamed, expecting to have his body torn to shreds by these dozens of teeth, only for him to feel claws grab his arms, digging into his flesh, and for his body to be lifted off the ground. A moment later, he saw that his lower body was already in the mouth of this beast. He screamed, cried, but it only took two more seconds before his body had been pushed past the teeth, and his vision was consumed by darkness.
Just like the Whiterat had with his boss, the supervisor was consumed, this time in one clean bite. Then, with another body in its stomach, the creature grew, expanding to the size of three men. Its body was so large that it couldn’t properly clear the door frames, but that didn’t stop it from running at the door in front of it in a ravenous rush.
The hinges flew off in a single blow, and the door flew past the railings of the stairs, leading it to fly through the air before falling onto the concrete floor. The loud noise pierced through the murmur of sewing machines and assembly, drawing the attention of the workers. It looked down at the floor, seeing that a door had fallen off, and as they looked above, instead of seeing their vindictive boss, they saw… a more literal monster.
Whiterat: “I HUNGER!”
With a howl, the Whiterat leapt from atop the stairs and landed on the nearest workstation, crushing it to smithereens under its weight. For a fraction of a second, there was some hope from the dazed workers that the creature killed itself… only for it to grab the 16-year-old woman before it and consume her in a single gulp.
Panic erupted. The workers abandoned their stations, grabbed whatever belongings they had, and ran like hell. Supervisors tried to stop it at first, but as they saw the growing Whiterat, they joined the fleeing herd. The crowd made their way to the other side of the factory, to the only unlocked door, and while most were lucky, others fell victim to this monster, their legs slashed and bodies incapacitated.
The workers breathed a sigh of relief as they escaped from the factory and dispersed in all directions. Some headed to their homes, some in random directions, and others lingered on the outskirts, going up to nearby buildings and telling anyone inside to run away. Their words were frantic, fraught with fear and vagaries, but they all made sense when they heard a massive banging noise coming from the factory as its metal wall became dented, punctured, and penetrated by massive claws. Just as onlookers turned to investigate the noise, the wall fell down, revealing a Whiterat, the size of ten humans.
The monster howled an incoherent series of chirps, a mix of disconnected syllables and the squeaking of a rodent. Everyone who saw it had the same reaction. To run away. They dispersed, weaving their way through these buildings as they abandoned their workplaces, piling into and onto cars, but the Whiterat was not only tenacious, it was fast. It lunged itself at people, pinning them down, before throwing them into its mouth, and with every person consumed, it got bigger. After a matter of minutes, it was so large that it no longer needed to swipe and injure its targets. It could ram through them, mouth agape, and scoop them up in their maw.
It did not pause as it ate, it merely continued its assault of the people of this land, swallowing them up one by one, until its ‘food’ was gone. The buildings nearby this factory had been completely evacuated. The Whiterat let out a vulgar chirp at this display, putting its pig-like snout to the ground as it tried to smell humans, before perking up and looking in one direction, to an area of trees and shrubbery. It dashed through this field, pausing only to sniff the air around it, before hearing the sound of a truck driving by.
The factory was just a short distance away from a highway, and upon realizing this, the Whiterat pounced onto the asphalt, into ongoing traffic. Truck drivers immediately slammed on their brakes as they saw this massive ‘animal’ on the road, but that was the wrong call. The Whiterat did not hesitate to slam its clawed hands into the windshields, pluck out the humans inside, and shove them down its gullet. This now abandoned car was then left to sit vacant along the highway, blocking traffic and forming a backlog of vehicles that grew larger every moment. The Whiterat no longer had to hunt for its food. The food came to it.
Part 2: Foreign Assault
Date: Monday, August 15, 1988
Time: 03:53 UTC – 10:53 LT
Location: Surabaya, Indonesia
As a major city with over 2 million residents, Surabaya had attracted a few thousand White residents. Businessmen, tourists, those who wished to harvest the value of a developing nation for their own, and people who were simply loading and unloading ships. And when the White Awakening occurred, they became like every other White person in this world. No matter if they were fresh from the womb or at the brink of death, all their forms morphed into that of a Whiterat, and all were driven by a singular impulse. The same impulse that saw them spread across so much of this Earth.
The impulse to kill, to conquer, and to claim this world for their own. They already held disproportionate power— a mere 20% of the global population who held roughly 70% of the capital— but that was not enough for them. They wanted it all. And they would seize it through definitive genocide.
The Whiterats scattered across the streets, climbed up walls, and sought whatever targets they could find, assaulting them until the life left their eyes. They were ravenous, filled with rage, and relentless in their every move. However, they were outnumbered. They represented maybe a single percent of the population, if that, and while some Indonesians feared them, others fought back, taking pipes, clubs, bricks, and automobiles to murder these freaks. Their cries were loud, but that just made the silence that came with their deaths all the sweeter.
Through the cooperation of the common folks and the arm of the law, it seemed like the people of Surabaya were going to make short work of their Whiterat infestation. …But that was before they were met with the sound of a deafening chirping roar. Before they felt the quaking steps of something beyond anything they had yet encountered.
Running down the highway, there it was. A giant Whiterat, 50-meters-long, crushing cars with every step as it ran through the highway, effortlessly running through buildings, destroying everything and anyone that dared get in its path. It moved fast enough to outrun any common car that lined the street, and all who saw it tear through the city had the same reaction. Abject horror. This was not a machine of war, this was not a squadron of men. This was… far worse. Something not driven by the mind of a person, a creature with seemingly limitless stamina capable of crashing through even the most durable building as if it were mere cardboard.
The Whiterat enacted profound destruction, trampling an untold number of people, scarring the city, all as it made its way to one of the city’s greatest treasures. An institution that had withstood nearly 500 years of turmoil and change, Ampel Mosque. A holy site that many in this city held dear. Yet it, like everything else that had fallen into this monster’s path, was swiftly destroyed. The Whiterat crashed through the building’s stone walls, slammed its ceiling into smithereens, and smacked its tower down to the earth.
Even as the mosque was reduced to a mere ruin, the Whiterat did not stop. It continued to desecrate the land, tearing the rubble into smaller and smaller chunks, wafting it away with its 12 meter-long tail. Its claws pierced the foundation of the building, digging into dirt that had been untouched for hundreds of years.
By the time the dust from its assault settled, it looked as if this monster had… simply dug a hole and left. It seemed like its assault on the city was over. A small crowd gathered as they contemplated what they had just witnessed, yet before a sense of relief could solidify, they felt a tremor in the ground. A second later, the hole before them erupted, bearing a sky bound torrent of a dark liquid that rained on these people and all surrounding buildings. As the thick fluid smacked them on the head, they realized just what this was. Oil. Crude oil in its rawest form was raining down on them.
As their bodies became caked in this stuff, they ran away, desperately wiping it off of their person as the thick aroma made it hard for them to breathe. Then, to make a bad situation even worse… they heard the horrendous chirping of this monster. The giant Whiterat had emerged from its hole, its white body rendered black from the oil gusher, yet it did not seem to mind. In fact, it began to… lick the oil off itself, aggressively lapping it up its face and hands with its tongue before looking back at the gushing oil before it. With heavy breaths, the Whiterat went back to the oil well… and planted its mouth over it, drinking up as much oil as it possibly could.
The oil, much like the Indonesians it devoured, made the Whiterat grow larger with every cup consumed. Its size ballooned past 50 meters to 60 meters and bigger still, covering up more and more of this mighty gusher. If left unaddressed, there was no telling how large this creature could grow.
The people looked on at this sight at a loss. Their city was tattered and painted black from the torrent of oil. Those that were caught in the attack were struggling to breathe, and as this threat grew larger, there were still stray Whiterats running about. It seemed… hopeless. Even if they tried to set this monster ablaze, that would also set the city on fire, destroying what they have built up over hundreds of years and bringing even more death. And if this incomprehensible monster survived being burned alive, then their deaths would be a certainty. They needed to fight back some way, somehow, but with a supernatural force before them… they were at a loss.
Just as this despair and acceptance of demise settled in their minds, the people of Surabaya heard something loud coming from the sky and looked up. It was a helicopter. One that appeared to be armed with missiles at first, but as it drew closer to the giant Whiterat, they realized they were speakers. And from these speakers emerged the booming voice of a strong, confident young man.
Helicopter Speakers: “[People of Surabaya! Are you really going to let this fat ratfuck take everything from you? This is your land, your resources, and you’re just going to let it take it as it grows bigger and fatter, leaving you with nothing? Scratch that, they’re doing so much damage they’re leaving you with less than nothing! I know it’s easy to lose faith in any collective movement. Your nation hasn’t known true stability in decades. And next to a global superpower, what are you? I’ll tell you what you are! People who have stood and survived for thousands of years! You are a nation of over 170 million! You matter, you are powerful, and if you look inward, I know you can find that power. I want you to do that. I need you to do that! And once you’ve found the power within, you gotta whoop this fucker’s ass and send it back to where it came from!]“
This man’s words, while crude and imprecise, stirred something in the people witnessing this destruction, this foreign beast consuming their national resources and destroying what they made themselves. Their people have been abused and exploited for centuries, and now, just as they were finally developing some hope that things could get better, they were being threatened with things becoming worse than ever. They could not take anymore, and with rage overflowing, they raised their fists high and chanted loud.
Thousands of voices, speaking as one, all with the same goal, the same vision, heeded the advice of the man in the helicopter and looked within themselves. And as they did… the power they craved was manifested unto reality. Their bodies shined with a flurry of color as they underwent this transformation, and the results… were all over the damn place.
Despite the people of this land lacking so much, they still were a people full of dreams and ambitions. Ones who sought to create art, film, and music, and took in wide swaths of inspirations. From national myths to ideas and characters brought in from other cultures. The results were often more violent and sexual, reflective of a people who grew up amidst such instability. Gore, exploitation, and their own kitbashed version of martial arts fantasy.
With this background, it was no surprise that they became a rogue’s gallery of disparate ‘heroes’. Some took on the appearance of soldiers armed with high power weapons made to kill, dressed in their interpretation of what a ‘cool’ military uniform would be. Others unlocked fantastical powers, gaining immense strength and dexterity, armed with either melee weapons or fists that literally pulsated with a profound strength beyond anything else. Many of the younger folks took inspiration from more international heroes, finding themselves dressed in spandex and flashy armor, striking a mighty pose as they realized they had gained the strength they had idolized. While the older ones took on a more mystical nature, gaining powers more abstract and mystical, reflected in the vibrant robes and accessories they granted themselves.
It was a mishmash of genres, of people who looked like they should be fighting against one another, but as they looked at each other, all harboring a power of their own, they found their conviction. They found their hope. They found the courage and strength they needed to stand up and rid their land of these life-sucking rat bastards!
They paid no mind to the oil or the destruction. With their strength emboldened, they rushed toward the Whiterat and unloaded everything they possibly could on it. Shooting at it with automatic weapons, pelting its thin hide with a barrage of lead that lodged itself in whatever organ it hit first. Slashing and stabbing away its person with their weapons, causing a stream of white blood to merge with the oil, forming a gray sludge. Running up to this creature and climbing it, just to punch holes in its body and watch it writhe in a righteous pain. Casting spells that summoned healing water from the sky, washing away this oil before sealing it back into the Earth anew.
It was a cacophonous mess, a barrage of attacks that were too diverse and numerous to be comprehended as a single action… but one thing was clear. The pain this was causing the Whiterat. Just one would barely phase the beast, but as thousands assaulted it at once, climbing up it and flying, attacking its entire body at once, it was enough to leave the Whiterat screeching in pain. At least until someone threw a bomb down its throat, silencing the creature as shrapnel penetrated its lungs.
It swiped, it flailed, it sent its tail at anything within range, but it did it no good. When a beast is being assaulted by a swarm of a thousand insects, they might kill a few, but the insects win. With so many different forces striking it, it would be impossible to say what the killing blow was, but after a point, it was obvious to all attacking this fat white bastard that they were truly and fully dead.
Its body laid on the remains of the Ampel Mosque, desecrating this site with its bloodied corpse. They looked at it incongruously, wondering how they could be rid of this eyesore, only for its tattered belly to jitter, to move, and finally, burst open. From it, thousands of Indonesians emerged, their bodies covered in a white ooze, yet it was clear they all bore the same breed of power as their saviors.
They cheered over this triumph, over the death of this vile beast, but before they could cheer for more than a scant few seconds, they felt a tremor beneath their feet. They stayed on guard, fearful of what monster could come next, unwilling to trust their understanding of the natural world if something like a 50-meter-tall Whiterat could be a thing.
The giant hole that this creature dug began to burst open, but instead of unleashing another blowout of oil, it was a blowout of Whiterats. The regular sized ones— the ones the size of a human— and thousands of them, all rushing from the hole, all lunging at the thousands of Indonesian warriors standing before them. Immediately, they got on the offensive, refusing to let these invaders bring any more harm to their society, eager to reduce them to piles of viscera.
However, this was far from the only place in Surabaya suffering from a second wave of Whiterat attacks. Dozens of sinkholes had spontaneously formed across the city, and from all of them, swarms of thousands of Whiterats emerged. Their numbers seemed endless, and, once again, a sense of hopeless dread crept across the people. Seeing this, the helicopter with massive speakers overhead began blaring another message.
Helicopter Speakers: “[These ratfucks are some tenacious bastards, I’ll give them that. But don’t let up! It’s two million of us against all of them! Grab whatever you can, believe in yourself, and bust these vermin like a blood sausage! In fact… let me join in on the fun!]”
The helicopter’s doors then slid open, revealing a young man dressed in black armor and spandex. Black boots, black tights, black gloves, and a black chest plate. Silver accents broke up the monotony, while a silver band beneath his pecs brought his design together. But what really made his armor shine was a silver belt with a hand-sized buckle that emitted a bright red light. It was incredibly derivative of a special effects hero who was popular in recent years, but at least he didn’t copy the mask.
The young man’s complexion was a touch darker than the Javanese majority of this island. He was not of this land, but it was clear he was from somewhere in Southeast Asia. But wherever he was from, he had a handsome face fit for film, and a flowing head of jet black hair that went down to his neck. The only thing that looked a bit off about his appearance was his eyes, colored a bright golden amber. But arguably, that just made him all the more enticing.
Smirking at the good work the people of Surabaya were doing, eviscerating the Whiterats as quickly as they were crawling in, he decided to join the fight. But rather than have the helicopter lower to let him jump off, he had a flashier entrance in mind. He reached back into the helicopter, grabbing and pulling out a vibrant green motorcycle. He got on it, revved the engine… and drove off the helicopter, landing on the streets below in a powerful thud before shooting off down the road.
He dodged the destruction and abandoned cars like they were nothing as he made way to the nearest sinkhole, and as he saw the Whiterats approach, he pulled out his weapon. On one end, a four-headed mace with enough bite to ravage any living thing. On the other end, an axe, for a cleaner, more focused cut. But no matter what side he hit you with, it’d hurt like hell!
Riding directly toward these Whiterats, the young man swung at one and sent it flying back, its head reduced to a stump. He kept going from there, riding toward danger, and hitting it with a single killing blow, all while thousands of others around him were doing the same damn thing. White blood stained the streets as the endless stream of Whiterats kept on coming. After a few minutes of this bloody vengeance, the young amber-eyed man on a motorcycle paused, bringing his wrist to his face during a lull in this battle.
Amber-Eyed Man: “Alright chopper, I think these people have gotten enough out of their system. Initiate firebomb protocol!”
The helicopter with speakers that had been flying around during this aggressive beatdown began flying back toward the amber-eyed man, and as it flew, its numerous speakers morphed. The materials melted down to metallic ooze, and from that, they formed a set of weapons under each wing. A total of 8 hellfire missiles and two Hydra rocket launchers, each loaded with 19 70mm rockers. Within a few seconds, this vehicle went from a means of conveying a message to people across a city into a weapon capable of destroying… most things. And with the amber-eyed man’s orders, it set its sights on the nearest sinkhole.
The helicopter unloaded a barrage of explosive hellfire down on the Whiterats crawling from deep within the earth. Those who were not eviscerated by the missiles were left assaulted by the shrapnel in their wake, embedding itself into their bodies, severing their limbs, and igniting their oily skin aflame. They tried to climb upwards despite their bodies literally burning, but as the 46 explosives carried on, the wall they were grappling on became unstable. Cracks formed, rocks fell, and a sea of debris caking itself onto their wounded bodies. These Whiterats then fell back into the hole they came from, their burning corpses falling onto their brethren, crushing them, igniting them, and sending them to whatever lurked at the bottom of this pit.
This seemed sufficient, but after unloading its explosives, the helicopter floated directly above the sinkhole and its doors opened, revealing a series of a dozen metal barrels. Each adorned with a yellow label with a warning of its flammability and a name for its contents. Napalm. An unseen force shoved these barrels out of the helicopter, and 15 seconds later, an explosion echoed from within this hole as the barrels exploded, releasing a flame ferocious enough for it to be visible to those on the surface.
The people around this sinkhole looked at the one responsible for this triumphant assault, and quickly spied the outsider, the amber-eyed man with skin darker than theirs. Many stared at him, but the first to approach him was a middle-aged woman armed with a mighty, ornate spear.
Spear Woman: “[Who… are you, stranger?]”
The amber-eyed man snickered, as if he was waiting for someone to ask that question.
Amber-Eyed Man: “[The name’s Quintin Abija Quinata, but just call me Quintin. I can’t say that I’m from here, but I fancy myself a warrior of justice. And whenever I see good people like yourselves get attacked by something beyond imagination, I need to do my part.]”
Spear Woman: “[You certainly have…]”
Quintin: “[… What are you guys standing around for? Just because we burnt this hole to shit doesn’t mean we’re done. These ratfucks don’t know when to quit, so we gotta keep fighting until we’re pest-free! Who’s with me?]”
Still in awe over this entire situation, there was a delay before someone stood up to agree with Quintin, and when they did, they raised their fists and started a cheer that grew into over a thousand voices.
Quintin: “[Now that’s what I love to hear! Now let’s whoop some ass!]”
Revving up his motorcycle, Quintin zoomed across the streets, carving a path in the crowds and running over the Whiterat corpses, an army of Indonesian warriors running behind him. With a force of allies like this, so diverse yet bound by a single goal, there was nothing that could stop them from taking back this land and ridding it of these repulsive vermin.
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