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The Psychopathy of Genus Helianthus

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Twin Sunflower is always happy. Basking in the sun, soaking up the rays that reach its green leaves, travelling to little microscopic chloroplasts there to convert the sun to scrumptious energy for it and its herbaceous friends. It likes to turn its two faces towards the pale yellow disc in the sky and thank it wordlessly for its generous gifts.

It likes to dig its little roots into the moist soil and rummage around there, suckling on flecks of organic nitrogen, potassium, and phosphorous. Little specks of savory brine, tangy metallics, and palate-cleansing ashy flavors.

Twin Sunflower knows that the soil is a rotted remnant of other plants, verdant and blooming little friends long gone and returned to the earth. Sometimes it can feel its roots close around the half-rotted wooden stalk of a decomposed friend, and it makes Twin Sunflower smile.

Yes, Twin Sunflower is always happy. But what brings Twin Sunflower the most joy is death. It matters very little if it’s the death of its fellow plants—after all, what is Twin Sunflower to them except a producer of sun? A bedraggled photon whore that’s too impotent to defend itself, only good for providing energy. Essential, but useless.

The demise of the undead ones also makes Twin Sunflower smile a little wider. Limbs popping off neatly to then disappear into the soil where it can nurse on their decaying essence. Wrap its roots around bone and gray flesh. Rape atrophied veins with tiny gossamer roots and suck on festering fingers that sometimes twitch for a good while after being severed from their exanimate owner.

These are all good things.

The sound of undead teeth when they sink into the plant-flesh of a green friend elicits a sense of euphoria. When Twin Sunflower hears its fellows cry out in distress in the clandestine language of shrub and weed and flower, there is an obscene clenching in its stigma and stamen. The tiny hairs on its leaves throb and when it sees the agony and horror on the faces of its plant friends, Twin Sunflower wishes that it could autofellate.

Not long ago there was a Peashooter friend who was growing right in front of Twin Sunflower, defending it from undead attackers. In the lulls between attacks, they chatted in their secret language.

Peashooter yammered on about plant things, about the beauty of the sun (Twin Sunflower had to agree with that one), about the green grass tickling its lower leaves, and of honeybees brushing gently against its stamen, the latter uttered with a pathetic mastubatory gleam in its black little button eyes.

When the undead inevitably came for it, Twin Sunflower whispered its intentions into its ear. Before it died, Peashooter realized that the plant that was essential to all of their survival, the plant that provided them all with the sweet sunlight of life, was far beyond the undead evil that assaulted their gardens.

It was an old evil, born and born again in each Sunflower like an enduring genetic taint. It was an unfathomable malice, sadistic and beyond the most perverse depravity. Dangerous and two-faced (metaphorically and physically), worse than their undead adversaries—at least their intentions were honest!

Yes, Peashooter realized, far too late, that its sun-producing fellow inexorably relished the death of all. A glutton for the suffering of any creature, living or dead.

By the time Peashooter and Twin Sunflower had both been eaten and shat out by an undead, another Sunflower, a genetic replica, took their place. It remembered what its erstwhile brother had said to the Peashooter. Its terminal buds spasmed happily at this.

Its roots found the fresh carrion of the Peashooter, and it proceeded to violate its adorable eyes until the vitreous humor oozed out of its empty eye sockets. It was not enough, it decided. Its taproot fluttered blindly across the Peashoother's face until it found its snout, the orifice that provided them with defense.

Twin Sunflower heard the half-dead Peashooter give a weak, muffled cry when it shoved its entire taproot into the orifice, splitting its edges and feeling spurts of sap bleed from its violated plant-flesh.

These were all good things and they made Twin Sunflower happy.

Twin Sunflower continued to debase the remains of the Peashooter until it was nothing but shredded compost. After it finished sucking up the nutrients of its carrion, it noticed that there was now a fat Melon-pult now planted in front of it.

The Melon-pult turned its round, pine-and-forest green head and smiled an amicable greeting, its chubby cheeks bunching sweetly and shining in the sunlight.

Twin Sunflower smiled back in a most altruistic manner and murmured banal encouragements as the Melon-pult decimated the walking cadavers that assaulted their garden. Heads rolled, limbs popped off and bodies shattered, all with the loud groans that were the chorus of the sallow dead.

A Cherry Bomb went off in the vicinity, reducing a whole handful of undead into scorched, blistering flesh. It was an act of desperation, Twin Sunflower knew, to try to quell the cadaverous horde.

Twin Sunflower knew that the end was near, but it relished the spatters of wet, cherry-red flesh on its face all the same and breathed deep the smell of burning meat and gristle. It emitted a small, unhinged laugh at the sensations, one that made Melon-pult give it a sidelong glance.

The benevolent smiles on its two faces had turned into an unhinged grimace of bloodthirsty lunacy. Twin Sunflower allowed the Melon-pult to see its depravity in this moment before its death, and it shivered with delight when the fat, round face twisted into a mask of pure, unabashed dread.

Before they both expired, Twin Sunflower whispered its intentions to Melon-pult, remembering the pleasure that its predecessor had felt when its intentions became clear to its comrade.

It murmured of how its descendant would defile the Melon-pult’s weeping red flesh with roots, dig out its eyes and decimate its soft brain until it flowed out of its eye sockets and split its thick rind into white-green-pink chunks.

The Melon-pult’s revulsion and terror were plain on its features. It was so grand, so perfect; so very erotic.

A wail of terror escaped Melon-pult as it was butchered by the bony hands and jagged teeth of the undead. Any other plants alive assumed that it was simply its death knell, responding with a mournful, sympathetic noise before they, too, were murdered.

And when the undead reached for Twin Sunflower, its two faces smiled cheerfully.

Twin Sunflower remembers all this as it waits, suckles its yummy macronutrients and basks in the warm sun. It chats jovially with its plant fellows as its hidden roots defile their comrades in ways that are too obscene and terrible for any plant to imagine.

It waits, playing the role of the impotent photon whore, defenseless; useless but essential. It watches as Winter Melons preen themselves in front of their fellows and it watches as Kernel-pults boast of their paralyzing powers. It watches Sweet Potatoes display their slutty sap for all the world to see, allowing even the undead to lap at the sticky flesh with dry tongues, like some cheap sylvan slattern.

And Garlic, what an uncouth gas bag, letting everything suffer its toxic flatulence as it grins stupidly.

When the gray legion comes, Twin Sunflower knows that eventually, it can tell yet another fellow plant of the violation that awaits it below, in the place where they are supposed to find peace and be embraced by the rich loam from whence they came. The place where suffering is supposed to be no more, but has only just begun.

When the ruthless undead crunching starts, its almost hyperventilating with glee.

Yes, Twin Sunflower is always happy.