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A Short Story by Teutonic Fist
Six month are up.
What actual time of year it was didn't matter anymore.
The life in the leftover overcrowded cities wasn't much affected anymore by seasons since the Central Islamic Council of Allmania put up Vitamin D supportive Street Lights everywhere, so that the enriching classes enjoy
these comforts in a way that would make them feel most welcomed in this otherwise backward and gloomy place he was supposed to call his home.
But in all honesty, this world had lost any meaning before he was even born.
At the end of this six month period, the Madrasha, the Islamic School, down the road where he lived, or more like where he dwelled, was celebrating graduation day. Little did the true believers know, that he was about to provide an extra and final lesson in the subject of Martyrdom. The self-made shells for his Mossberg 500 shotgun were as different in color as the students he would teach them with, and like them they would have a failure rate of probably 30%.
For that case, he then prepared the sulphuric acid from a drained car battery, an artifact of a bygone era, where cars when plentiful and composed of machinery the average human mind could grasp, not like these days where city dwelling cattle people needed licenses for a registered electronic carpooling community with a highly flammable lithium battery.
Salvaging these futuristic degeneracies of the ingredients for outlived insanity had gotten much more complicated by the years. But now it was time to process this rare alchemistic good into a final, nail-filled argument. The irony wasn't lost on him, that after so many years, he was playing their game on them. He thought about all the crying bereaved he would make today, and also a last bereaved himself he knew time was an endless circle, and he smiled.
Night City: The Short Fiction of James LaFond: 2015-16
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by this axe!
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BobApril 23, 2018 9:14 PM UTC

The most revolutionary act possible is turning off the TV and not reading the papers.