There is poetry in pulling teeth. A strange, awful poetry, but poetry nonetheless. And even though the pliers feel alien in her hands, there’s something delicious about using their own tools against them (though let’s face it she could now do it sans instruments just as well thanks to the upgrades).
There’s something about yanking the bone bits out of the slumping bodies, blood staining white coats and blue scrubs, nothing like the colorful suits and sweaters of the studio, but close enough, the high pitched whine of the drill dampened as it goes places it was never meant to go. Out they come quickly, quickly, each following its brother. Onetwothreefourfive. She holds them in her hand, those little ivory stones stained red; they rattle like dice, longing for a jaw they’ll never return to. The sight of them is enough to make her sick. She rubs her throat where the collar once laid, now replaced with a comical ruff. The soft cotton is a welcome replacement.
She leaves the body like she left the others, kicking aside a copy of Highlights magazine. The pages flutter, the only moving thing left in the room. She’s carving her swath. Leaving a trail of bloodied bodies and missing teeth. Winding her way through grungy strip malls and pristine brick office buildings. She hates not knowing if this cold-heartedness is herself or just the remnants of the man who controlled her all those years.
Brushee Sunshine. A fanatic. A zealot. A man obsessed and with a god-complex to match- a deadly combination. And then his wretched sons, those boys she had seen in the studio, waved to even though they were weird, even though she didn’t want to. Those boys who were complicit for so long. Their father was long dead, but they could suffer for his sins. Wasn’t one of them supposed to be the savior after all? That was a savior's purpose, wasn’t it? Suffering. For others, for their people, for themselves. She would make them suffer like she had suffered.
None of this would have happened if dear old Mr. Sunshine hadn’t planted those papers. Those papers that dragged her father to the electric chair, forced him to die in disgrace. Those papers that were used time and time again to justify the gunning down of her brothers and sisters in the streets. Those papers that sealed her fate, delivering her into a cult where she spent years abused and brainwashed.
The laser cannon that had replaced her right arm began to glow red. She slowed her breathing, and the glow eventually faded. The hillarium had fused her new cybernetic upgrades to her system, wiring them directly into her brain. They were linked to her thoughts, her emotions. She was a ticking time bomb, a weapon of mass destruction, but she’d need to hold back until she reached New Molar.
Then the real bloodbath could begin.