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 06: The Fascistin’ Limmerickin’ Chicken
Date: Monday, August 15, 1988
Time: 04:04 UTC – 05:04 LT
Location: Woodley, England
The sun had yet to rise across the small English village of Woodley, and it looked like it would be utterly destroyed by the time it did. Just an hour ago, over 43 million Whiterats were awakened, and they spent every minute since then searching for any of the unaffected humans. However, most of these searches proved futile. While 6% of the population of this nation was not White, most of them were clustered around the major cities. London, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, et cetera.
With so many large swaths of this country devoid of prey for these Whiterats to pursue, they did the only other thing they are good at. Destroy. They toppled what were once their homes, bashing themselves against the brick walls until they crumbled down, and used their jagged teeth to tear up the exterior, all while hissing and chirping, going mad from a lack of sustenance. They did not care if this was land where they had won, for with their boundless hatred, this was all they could do.
Though there was one thing that could give these wretched creatures pause. The sound of authority. In one of the many dilapidated shops across this village, there was a radio that flickered between static before revealing a booming voice that any English person would immediately recognize. For it was the coos and caws of their prime minister, Mildred Hatcher.
The broadcast, curiously enough, came from right above the small village, emitting not from an airplane nor a helicopter, but a far more classy and imposing manner of aircraft. A zeppelin. Its design was antiquated by at least forty years, yet it flew through the cloudy skies with pride and speed. Colored a steel gray, it was imposing enough to catch the eye of any who thought to look up on this burgeoning morning.
This bold image of a metal and mighty war machine was one that was projected to all, but truly, most of it was for show. A lot of hot air and metal for the framing, all to carry a tiny gondola at the bottom. It was an inefficient mesh of resources, whose biggest strength was its size. Larger than any plane in the skies, and flying low and slow enough for all to catch it as it moved by. That was the power of a zeppelin. However, its intimidation factor was nullified if one were to look at the two figures who were operating it.
The first was an anthropomorphic chicken, about 120 centimeters tall, 70% chicken, 30% human, but rather than looking like a horrific creature that should not exist in this world, they looked vaguely endearing. They had big wide eyes. A body clothed in fluffy white feathers and a cobalt blue skirt suit. A round bushy red comb at the top of their head, stylized to look vaguely like human hair. And a beak wide enough to accommodate a more human-sized mouth. Their wings were arranged into a manner more suggestive of hands, with five distinct components at the end, yet they were about as dexterous as a mitten. And while their chicken legs were made thick and long enough to support their body’s weight, there was not a single ounce of humanity within those things.
The second was a figure who was deeply hard to look at, for even calling them a racist stereotype was being far too generous toward whatever this… person was. With a face smothered in shoe polish, lips as red as cherries, an unkempt cluster of coiled hair, and a set of false uneven teeth, it was an unabashed and vulgar caricature of a Black person. A flagrant display of blackface, regardless of what this person’s true race was. And when looking at their clothing… it got even worse.
They were wearing a gaudy purple dress, shimmering and adorned with tiny flourishes to draw the eye as it tightly tugged this person’s body. In doing so, it only highlighted how masculine their frame was. Thick shoulders were emphasized by the centimeter-long straps, leading to arms both muscular and pronounced. Though their dress had breast forms, they laid flat as a flapjack against this person’s chest. And despite wearing a yellow boa around their shoulders, their prominent Adam’s apple was plainly visible.
This chicken-woman hybrid and a bloke in blackface and drag at the same time were sat side-by-side. With each sitting before a microphone hooked up to one of the many apparatuses wired across the control panel. They both looked at the clock before them, counting down the seconds before the clock struck 5:10 and it was time for the broadcast to begin. The chicken proceeded to start things off, sounding like… a cartoon chicken.
Chicken Woman: “Here’s to a glorious new day in the wondrous land of the UK! I am Mildred Hatcher, the limerickin’ chicken, the hen prime for the pickin’, spreading the word with no delay!”
With the first of many limericks dished out, Mildred Hatcher turned to face her co-host, who spoke in a voice that sounded like a White person trying to mock both gay people and Black people at the same time.
Blackface Drag Queen: “And yoose can call me Gally Woggit, Imma here for the sol-ur-dey-roo-tee!”
Mildred Hatcher: “Yes, I respect any and all men, for I am not a racist hen. I don’t hate the n***er, and their profound lack of rigor, I just want to make England English again! Ba-cawk!”
Woggit: “Dayum straight! Me and my peoples was made for A-fric-ker and we don’t gots no place here no mo’. We just ain’t fitting in like y’all planned a hundo years ago and we gotsta fix dat!”
Mildred Hatcher: “Indeed and indubitably, and we shall rid you most materially. With the hellfire of a bomb, strewn across the land with aplomb, the quality provided most liberally. We have warships aplenty, the Whiterats are the sentry. So these n***ers, ch*nks, and p*kis, and other flavors of gormless Blackies, shall never be granted another entry!”
Woggit: “Dat’s da Iron Lady for ya, wanting to ay-druss all of our pro-bleams libber-lee.”
Mildred Hatcher: “It is necessary for our future, to create a state with nary a moocher. A land for workers who toil with care, not lazy monkeys living on welfare. We must cut them out and prepare the suture. A Britain where the government is nil, where the individual pays every bill. Where corporations rule all, where you pay for each call, even if you can’t live without a pill. A nation at its fullest efficiency, bereft of the social service deficiency. Merely try it on out, and do not piss nor pout, and I’ll trust you’ll accept its sufficiency.”
Woggit: “Egg-zack-lee! Society’s gotta get redefined and yoose so smurt that yoose knows what’s best. It’s why yoose was in charge fer nine years! But can I axe yoose a ques-shun? How is tings gonna work with just deez Whtierats? What does dat mean fer so-say-it-ee?”
Mildred Hatcher: “Society? Bawk! There is no such thing! There are no more rules, nor kings! There are only children, women, and men, who made everything from the streets to big ben! Compared to them, a government cannot do anything! People must look after themselves first, no fag about how they’ve been cursed. You must hold some personal responsibility, or else the business of life will be a travesty! That is the truth, and I know I am most well versed. A big government is a mere hindrance. It cannot ever truly treat others with indifference. While the person is always impartial, there’s no need for a marshall. To say that is wrong is beyond insolence!”
Woggit: “Nah, nah, that ain’t what I axin’. I axin’ how can you has kids if all dem Whiterats gots dicks. Iffin’ yoose could has a kid wit a dick, I know I’d be shaggin’ it up with a burly bloke, lettin’ him pound me right in mah fag hole till I was birthin’ dem chicklets by da dozen. I’d be the baddest welfare queen of ’em all! A welfare drag queen!”
Mildred Hatcher: “What a typical fag and n***er! Of course you like men who are bigger! You’ve got it all wrong, the benefit is not giving everybody a shlong, it’s making a people with vigor! I’ve never drank the poison that is feminism! They just whine and moan and call it activism! Women’s lib? More like women’s jib! We’d be better off with barbarism! I own nothing to my status as a female, and here’s a secret I shall unveil! If I were born as a cock, I would not even need to balk, and I’d be leader for life, without fail! Alas, alas, I am a mere biddy. If I were instead a Whiterat, I’d be giddy! But I won’t question the world, I will strive and accept being whirled, for I’m not a daft diddy!”
Woggit: “Hoowee! I ain’ts sure why yoose a chicken, but Imma glad I still a hoomin! And just thinking ’bout all those Whiterats runnin’ about wit dem dicks draggin’… If only I was out dere, I could get one of ’em, with a fat rat cock, to fuck me all silly-billy! If dey fuck half as good as reg-lur rats taste, then I’ll be da gayest faggot of dem all!”
Mildred Hatcher: “Ba-cawk! That is one of the things that’s so grand about this. Homosexuality has completely gone to piss! You cannot be gay with a single sex. It is simple logic, not some vex, and now gay culture can go into the abyss! I have already banned them from the classrooms, for I couldn’t criminalize their bedrooms. To be gay is not an inalienable right. Don’t feed me that revisionist shite! Accepting it would only lead to gloom and doom. And now that their genocide is complete, their mistakes we shan’t repeat, for there are no children to corrupt, yes their end was abrupt, but that doesn’t make it less sweet!”
Mildred Hatcher: “For decades the children have been eroding, and their enemies have grown foreboding. Inner city taint, extremist teachers, left authorities, and nonsensical preachers. The only cure is decoding. Anti-racist mathematics, political slogans, deprived of morality, becoming mere bogans! They think they have an inalienable right to be gay? They don’t know what they’re being taught to say! The erosion is down to their organs! These children were simply cheated, but now these liberal evils have been defeated. With their complete removal, the nation will have unprecedented approval, for this burden shan’t ever be repeated!”
Woggit: “Eyup, I can sees some of dem Whiterats fuckin’ down below, and dey be birthin’ dem babies fully grown. I know some girls would’ve just loved dat, but not me, I’m more of a traditional fag! …But what is dey gonna do when dey win?”
Mildred Hatcher: “Woggit, you’re always a surprise, but of a breed I particularly despise! A true retarded n***er faggot, with a mind as developed as a maggot, I cannot wait for your demise! You are only here as a mere novelty, an ostentatious bane bereft of modesty. Your kind shall live, but only in zoos and museums, or if you breed sufficiently, maybe even in colosseums. You should praise us for such generosity! Through genocide, we achieve prosperity, a greater world for all posterity. A world without needs for wars to be fought, where we write the history that is taught. To not understand this is an apex of hilarity!”
As this tireless rant of unfiltered hatred continued, the sounds of an explosion carried their way up to the zeppelin flying overhead. It was great enough for Mildred and Woggit to pause as they looked out the window to investigate. The zeppelin had already reached its destination of London, and rather than seeing streets painted in red… they were instead painted in white.
While Whiterats were plentiful enough to be seen hundreds of meters above the city streets, it was clear that they were being decimated by the small population of remaining humans. They were too far above to make out the details, but they knew what was happening. The Whiterats, for all their bravado and numbers, were being slaughtered like the wild animals they are. And as Mildred saw this… she became clucking mad.
Before Woggit could even recognize the magnitude of this bold resistance, Mildred flapped her wings in a huff and hopped back to her mic to begin her latest rant.
Mildred Hatcher: “Oh, those tenacious dastards! Fighting us back in an art we mastered! They are making a mockery of London, and for that they deserve a bludgeon! Lucky for us, they never scattered! We merely need to target their ghettos! Assault with bombs that will leave lasting echoes! It is the one true path to victory! And with this zeppelin, it shall be most easy! We drop bombs on everyone, even the meadows! A hundred for the n***ers! Just the sight of them gives me the jitters! They’re cunning and unsightly, dark as their souls yet unnervingly spritely, I’ll give them their final snickers!”
Mildred Hatcher: “A hundred for the ch*nks! We can snuff ’em out in a few blinks! These sly self-important pricks, and their oriental tricks! We can end them and their foul jinx! A hundred for the Pakis! Filth bound up in our taxis! As natural-born rapists, their haters cannot be racists! Their culture is diseased… except for the curries!”
All this ranting left Mildred bawking in incomprehensible rage, and as she darted her chicken-head around, she saw Gally Woggit and chose to vent her frustrations. She pulled out a knife and fork from her blue skirt suit and dashed toward him, her voice ravenous and movements erratic.
Mildred Hatcher: “I’m going to turn you into blackout cake! Or maybe even a fine steak! But first comes the lynching! And you better believe I won’t be flinching! So stop slithering, you n***ersome snake!”
Woggit ran as quickly as they could in their purple dress, hucking and hooting as he narrowly avoided the knife of his co-host, while having little hope of escape. He was effectively locked in a box with this control room, and even if he nabbed the controls, he would just be pounced by this vicious bird woman with a blade and trident.
He attempted to bide time by having her chase him around the desk before Mildred abruptly stopped, cooing and cawing as she found herself dropping her weapons. Her ability to bust out hate-filled limericks dissipated as pain wrecked her body, and her clucks were loud enough to be picked up by the microphones. Woggit built up distance during this, but as these seconds of reprieve built up, he ventured closer to Mildred. He saw her sticking her fat chicken cloaca into the air, revealing an object she was trying to release. This object was not an egg, nor was it a large dark turd poking out. It was… something harder, something completely black.
Mildred Hatcher: “W-What’s t-this? A-Another b-baby? O-oh, that’s a firm maybe! I’m too old to be giving birth! E-Especially a ch-child with such girth! S-Stop, I’m the Iron Lady!”
The more Mildred struggled, the more this foreign black object poked from out her cloaca, and the more defined its form became. It was a… stone. A black stone with a distinct, dirty texture. Woggit stared at this sight, slack-jawed, and aghast by the sheer size of this thing. Before he could think of a response, the friction of Mildred’s cloaca caused the stone— the coal— to ignite. Within a second, the coal had turned into a fireball poking out of Mildred’s chicken ass, and it rapidly crawled across her feathers. The burning sensation was intense, and Mildred was left running like… a burning chicken.
This was an impressive sight to behold… but then Woggit remembered that he was in a giant helium balloon, and helium plus fire equals kaboom. He immediately darted his eyes around, looking for a blanket, some water, something he could use to prevent his untimely death. As he dawdled, Mildred Hatcher’s body became completely immersed in fire and she fell to the metal floor below. As her body burned… it poofed in a tuft of smoke. The fire was gone, and all that was left was a rotisserie chicken the size of a human child, served on a ceramic white plate.
Woggit blinked at this sight. One second, he was looking at the leader of his nation burn alive, the next… he was looking at a delicious meal. He sheepishly looked at the microphones, wondering if he should tell the people or something, only to have his train of thought interrupted by the sound of heels against the floor.
He looked around and saw someone walking in from the back of the zeppelin. A young Black woman dressed in a white skirt suit, but this one had a unique flair to it. The numerous pockets along the jacket, the particular way it gripped the shirt and tie underneath, and the three chevrons on the sleeves made it clear this was not a regular work uniform. This was a modified WWII British military uniform.
As the military woman drew closer, Woggit picked up on more details of her appearance. She was average height, about 160 centimeters tall, had a cute face, and a sizable bust constrained by the many layers of clothes above them. Her head was covered by a white cap that matched the uniform, while her straight black hair was tucked into a ponytail that dropped onto her chest. She did not look like a soldier, but from the flurry of medals on her uniform, she was a veteran of many conflicts.
The woman looked at the remains of Mildred Hatcher, and grabbed them with her hands, tearing off one of her legs and looking at it as she offered a limerick, speaking in a high, sing-song voice.
Military Woman: “And here lies the Iron Lady, a pity she had to be so shady. She left her nation battered and bruised. She could have been a just ruler, yet she just refused. Truly the worst, no ifs or maybes.”
The military woman then bit into the drumstick before her… and immediately spat it out. She threw the drumstick down to the floor, looked at the rest of the rotisserie chicken, and vomited onto it. A stream of half-digested brown and green globules sprayed onto it, and the entire thing went from delicious… to disgusting.
Military Woman: “Fuck almighty! I’ve eaten literal shit that tasted better than that! Fuck!”
Woggit: “H-Hey, m-missy, whatcha doin’ here? I figured dat nobody else was on dis—”
Military Woman: “Shut the fuck up! How do you sleep with yourself at night if you dare to sell out your own people, to play into the White man’s propaganda, and pull down the gays and queers while you’re at it? Do you not have shame? Do you not have decency? Maybe you’re just some moron who was never taught the truth. You’re as Black as the color of your skin, and there’s no way to change that shit! You were born an inferior lifeform in the eyes of the powerful, and you will die just the same! You’re not making your people look more agreeable or servile. You’re dragging them down for your short-term interest. Wake up and accept the truth, you fuck-ass coon!”
The Black woman then drew her hand back and slapped Woggit in the face, striking him hard enough to knock him off his feet. He crumpled to the floor, rolling before getting on his knees. His black painted face twisted in agony as he felt something within him stir, and as he attempted to maintain measured breathing, he felt something come up from his throat. He tried to hold it down, but he could not hold it back. Woggit ejected a slug-sized wad of white goop from his mouth, leaving a gooey residue on his lips.
As this substance flowed from his person, it suffocated in the air, dying like a slug thrown in a bucket of salt. It was a truly bizarre sight, but as Woggit stared at that, he felt a burning sensation across his face, across his body, as every part of his hateful get-up fell off his person. The paint plopped off like a layer of hardened goop. The wig crumbled from his head. Even his gaudy dress unzipped itself before falling down, leaving him bare and naked, exposing his true self. And… he wasn’t a Black man. Nor a White man who avoided the Whiterat scourge. Instead, he was a young, darker-skinned Pakistani man, with short straight hair and a cute, almost boyish, face.
The Black woman in the military dress looked at this man with confusion, clearly not expecting him to be not Black. But after a mere second, she began berating him once more.
Military Woman: “So rather than insulting people of your own race, you went the full Kawkii route and blackfaced to make Black people less human. That’s great. What’s next? You tell me you’re as straight as a number two pencil? Actually, no, I could tell that much just from the broadcast, bud. …Shit, I know I say that redemption should be for everyone, and I need as many allies as I can get so… let me start over again. What’s your name, kid? Or were your parents a couple of shitheads who named their kid both ‘gay faggot’ and after the Golliwog?”
‘Gally Woggit’ looked up as this aggressive woman looked over at him before muttering an answer, ditching his painfully inauthentic ‘ebonic’ accent.
Woggit: “Ghazanfar Wani. But everybody calls me Ghazz.”
Military Woman: “My name’s Black Vice, but you can just call me Vice.”
Ghazz: “W-What kind of name is that? Who would name their kid Black?”
Black Vice: “Don’t question your superiors, Ghazz. You work for me now. Unless you want to be rat food, I suggest you do precisely as I say.”
Ghazz: “I… But how did you get to— How did you take off my—”
Black Vice: “Now’s not the time for questions! Now’s the time for doing! You heard the fowl. This thing is loaded with bombs! And if you actually care about humanity, Black people, Brown people, or any real humans left in this world, you’ll use them for the right thing! I’ll get things into position. But first, you take the mic and repent for being such a racist piece of shit. I’d have thought that living in a 94% White majority would have taught you the power and importance of racial solidarity, but no. You’re too much of a dumbass for that. But it’s okay. You can do better, and if you value your life, you will do better.”
As Black Vice explained this, Ghazz began to move… only to realize that he was actually completely naked, with his penis hanging out and everything.
Ghazz: “C-Can I get some pants before I—”
Black Vice: “You’ll get them when you earn them. Now move your loser ass to the mic and say the magic words!”
Black Vice flicked Ghazz’s forehead with enough force to send him falling onto his bare-naked ass. He cringed from the impact, grabbing his rear and forehead as he sat on the floor, but as he recovered, he felt a jolt course through his mind. It was an unfamiliar knowledge that appeared within his brain, and as he recognized it… things made sense. The opaque became clear, and he awakened to why Vice was so displeased with him. With an awestruck expression, Ghazz rose from the floor and walked over to the mic.
Ghazz: “People of the United Kingdom! I am pleased to announce that your callous ruler, Mildred Hatcher, is dead. And she shall not be the only oppressor to fall on this day! The White race has embraced destructive powers beyond the realm of anything before seen in human history. They do not desire to rebuild, they do not desire a revolution, they only desire genocide, the complete destruction of the other, even if it means sacrificing every value they hold dear. Even if it means becoming a raging, hideous animal. Those not affected by the Whiterat Awakening are all that remains of humanity, and while we may be few in numbers, we are overwhelming in terms of power. We all have a power locked within us, and when unleashed, we will have strength a hundredfold of these Whiterats. With powers like that, we should have no issue taking out 17 of these freaks each.”
Ghazz: “I am not worthy of being a leader. I betrayed you at the first sign of opposition and it took the influence of someone stronger to show me the error of my ways. However, I have woken up to the truth, and I shall do all I can to take down the colonizing fuckwits! They are an empire responsible for untold destruction for their own gain, desiring only to hoard wealth, hoard power, and spread deceptive lies to the ignorant people. This past decade has been one of nothing but decay, a government led by people who hate the very notion of government. They should not be in power, their whole damn system is wrong, so… it’s time to rise up and bring an end to them. To bring an end to the British Empire. And there’s no better place to begin… than the monarchs!”
Ghazz looked out before him, at the front of the zeppelin, and saw that Black Vice had diverted the aircraft’s course. They were now a mere kilometer away from the throne of the nation, Buckingham Palace. What was once a proud architectural achievement had, like everything else, been tainted by the Whiterats. It was infested, overflowing with the vermin as they spread themselves across every square inch of this structure, all writhing and gathering around it, thrusting into one another and intermingling their tails.
Ghazz was too far away to see what they were really doing, but any eyes on the ground could see it plain as day. These abominations were having an orgy on the palace. Fucking themselves and fucking the architecture while squeaking and shouting in a barbaric display. As they did so, they held their tails high as children slithered out of their orifices. Fresh from the womb, still covered in slime, they wasted no time joining the pile, proudly displaying their tail-based dicks and fucking the nearest hole.
With the target near, Ghazz turned his head to look for Black Vice… only to find nobody. He sneered at this situation. He had been given profound knowledge from her, had seen the truth of the world and wanted to atone for what, in retrospect, were obvious sins. Yet, she was nowhere to be seen, leaving him naked and alone to pilot this thing. Fortunately, the design was intuitive, with a big red button that read ‘drop da bombs’. He sped up the zeppelin to close the distance, waited until the palace was below… and pressed the button.
A deafening cacophony of fire and explosion erupted from the ground as these bombs crushed Whiterats and eviscerated their beings in a single blow. They shielded the building with their bodies, but a shield of flesh is one of the most fragile of them all, and the structure, for all its care and delicate stonework, was toppled just as swiftly as anything else. Its walls crumbled from the pouring rubble and girth of the falling bombs, and the billowing clouds of smoke obscured the damage to all around it. The sunless morning and smoke already filling the air made it nigh impossible for Ghazz to witness this destruction, yet he still smiled, knowing he did the right thing, that he made amends for his ways. He was redeemed… but he was not safe yet.
The zeppelin was a fragile piece of machinery, with its hydrogen balloons susceptible to all types of damages and interference. All it took was one stray spark, one malfunction, or one burning metal object to pierce its sheathe, and boom. Whiterats may be beasts, but they were beasts with access to all numbers of jets, tanks, and firearms. Ghazz wasn’t sure which of those struck the zeppelin, but something did. The controls were unresponsive, the vehicle was descending, and the echoes of an explosion could be felt even from the bottom of the airship. If things continued to burn up, he’d be cooked.
Ghazz darted his head around, found the emergency exit, and grabbed one of the two parachutes beside it. He didn’t have any idea how to properly use these things, but the big yellow pull tab made it pretty obvious. He put it on like a backpack, jammed open the door, and hopped out, escaping seconds before an explosion eviscerated the interior of the zeppelin. This left him free falling through darkness, unable to see more than a meter in front of his face, let alone the ground below. Fear slowed down the flow of time, and after what felt like a minute, he released the parachute.
The zeppelin crashed behind Ghazz, sending him flying forward into a dark cloud, unable to tell where he was going. He flustered and flailed, regretting his actions more and more each second, before he felt himself fall. Something must have damaged the parachute— he could not tell what— and he was left rapidly descending to whatever laid beneath his feet. He assumed the worst and panicked, believing that, after twenty-something years, his life would end with him becoming a messy fleshy pancake on an asphalt street. He shut his eyes, grit his teeth, and shivered in fear as he awaited this demise… but that did not come.
Instead, Ghazz crashed into a body of water and sank down over two meters. For a single second, his entire body floating, embraced in something cold, he felt… safe. He felt reassured. He had avoided death. The bombastic sounds of explosions were dulled by the water flowing around his ears. A mouthful of air escaped his mouth as he accepted this calm… before he remembered that he still needed to breathe.
Ghazz took the parachute backpack off his shoulders, letting it sink to the bottom of the water, and swam upwards as best as he could. He didn’t know much about swimming, but he managed to get his head above the water. The sight of a burning zeppelin could be seen through a tuft of several trees, and turning around, he saw the remains of Buckingham Palace. He treaded water to get a better look at the results of the bombing, and saw that while the building was destroyed and burning, a figure was rising from the ashes. One of a colossal size, as big as the palace itself, its head adorned with a giant rendition of the Imperial State Crown.
This Whiterat of a horrific size had to be Queen Maribeth II, and her body was coated in flames. She was burning alive, crying out in agony, flailing her limbs about, all while other Whiterats crawled over her person. They pressed their bodies against the flames in what was clearly an attempt to stifle them, yet all they did was serve as kindling, bringing their beloved ruler closer to her demise. It was a harrowing sight. One where thousands of these freaks died in a relentless blaze, and where a renowned symbol devolved into something unambiguously monstrous. To Ghazz, just knowing that he did this, that his actions and dropping of the bombs led to this destruction… it brought a smile to his face.
Ghazz stared at this majestic sight as he treaded out of the body of water he landed in— St. James’s Park Lake— and to the burning remains of the palace. The trees were covered in smoke, every time he stepped down on the grass with his bare feet, he worried that he would stab himself on some debris, but he continued regardless, walking closer and closer before seeing… people. Hundreds of humans standing before the burning ruins, lined up together, cheering at the sight, raising their arms high, and screaming loudly.
Despite still not wearing any clothes, Ghazz walked up to this group, cupping his crotch as he looked between heads to see someone leading these people. A middle-aged Chinese woman, standing on a toppled statue, brandishing a pole with a burning union flag.
Chinese Woman: “Look as she burns! As her devotees rush themselves to her aid, only to bring forth her devastation. This is our enemy! And even if they have numbers like this, we can still fight against them. We can still win! We just need to have faith, have hope, and manifest something better for ourselves. Channel your imagination, channel your desire, and make it true, just like they did!”
The Chinese woman at the front of the crowd then became immersed in a dizzying array of colors, her body sparkling and shifting before shaping into something new. The lights dissipated in a flash, leaving behind the same woman, but this time dressed in elegant robes. Her face was obscured by a large witch’s hat, and the flag in her hands was replaced with a scepter adorned with a burning red ruby.
She looked over her new outfit with a smile on her obscured face and pointed the scepter at the burning body of the giant Whiterat. After a moment of thought, she unleashed an orb of flame the size of a small automobile directly at the massive queen’s eye, burning it immediately.
Chinese Woman: “Look into your fantasies, make them into realities, and we can win this war. We can take this land from these colonizing bastards and treat them like the beasts they’ve always been!”
The crowd cheered at this woman’s words and heeded her advice. It was a sight more vibrant than a fireworks display, with every color imaginable appearing across these hundreds of people, all of whom assumed a different form. From knights, mages, soldiers, warriors hailing from their motherlands, many were similar, but none were truly the same, and as he saw this sight, Ghazz felt the need to join in.
Ghazz still felt guilty for the guise he assumed last time, but now he was determined to become someone bold, someone with honor and chivalry, eager to stand up to any and all injustices they saw. His body became covered in armor of platinum and gold, complete with a cerulean cape. His arms became clad in gauntlets, face locked behind a helmet, and hands contained both a shield and sword. He had never so much as touched a real sword before, but now he was his own fantastical idea of what a knight should be. A warrior instilled with both the strength and confidence to do… the right thing.
Emboldened by his inexplicable power and the similarly dressed people around him, Ghazz let out a hearty laugh, only to be met with the screeching of Whiterats. An army of them, thousands, were storming the street to the back entrance of the burning palace, and rather than run, flee, and swear fealty, he would stand up to them. He would fight. And with an army of hundreds on his side… there was nothing to fear.
With a battle cry, the army of Black and Asian warriors rushed toward the army of enraged Whiterats. They might have been outmatched, but with power overwhelming, their victory was certain.
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