the lamb 0f g0d

A mass murderer plans to cull humanity. The characters are based loosely on the crew that executed the tokyo metro gas attack, the leader is in prison and passive until he sees Greta Thunberg on TV and realises how to cull the herd.

The Vanity plague single handedly stopped the climate crissis within 23 days.

It was the darkest hour for humanity in the totality of it's existance.

The Clostridium botulinum genocide or

The people marched and screamed at the elected few, politics of bipolar opinion was put side and the most powerful nations of the time where united for the first time ever. What good is war when there is nobody living to fight? Human's heard the truth of a teenaged girl. It is imposible to unhear a truth. An articulate truth, devoid of politics caused the greatest mobilization of mankind. A solidarity unlike any other. People would put asside their perspectives, and their jobs, and their education every Friday and march together in chant. But power is what power does, and the elected had investors and outstanding depts to repay for favours future and past.

A millennia of momentum drove the inertia of the world economy, which would not be stopped on a whim. Politicians, even if they wanted too, could not stop the prehistoric greed of all mankind combined. The by products of life would not permit this. The sheer magnitude of the demand for change was not really their problem. Promises where make. Laws where amended. Regulations where proposed. Elections happened, power changed hands a year went by. When the winter came, attendance of the rebellion wained, in accordance to the bitterness of a new season. On cold Fridays the people went home and watched television in centrally heated habitats and rebelled with telephone thumbs. The riders of the revolution where a telephone, a television, a piece of paper and they carried a unified voice, the voice was so loud that it reached every corner of the planet. But the voice was mute where electricty was missing. A convenient parody unseen or willfully ignored. Enormous quantities of pollution was the prerequisite to channel the unanimous voice.

A poison incarcerated in the very fiber of communication in the civilised world alone.

In side every telephone was a battery, connected to a radioactive antenna, invented to splice data high up into the sky, through the clouds and beyond earth's orbit to bounce off satellites, and back down into colossal unseen antenna. From there the data would reassemble into coherent evidence and by fed into millions of tonnes metal wires and optical fibres that traversed over-land and under-sea. The communications tangle would be impossible without the oscillation of electricity and all of it's toxic architecture.

Kitamura sat in locus position. Facing the corner. Eyes closed. Meditating. His mind was a monkey of disobedience. Inner peace and tranquillity bullied by distraction. He inhaled the curious murmurings from behind him, and ironed them into nothing. And exhaled. The gentle void from within rejected his peace offering. He opened his eyes and carefully considered the grey wall and the creased corner. He unfolded his legs and rose deliberately, feeling each muscle contribute to his erection.

Kitamura pressed his chin down and thanked the corner for it's tolerance. His ears where watching a possy of inmates that had gathered around a caged television behind him. The television was mute. A spat broke out voilent threats exchanged in whisper. The brawl was about the TV channel. Kitamura turned to leave and by change glanced at the center of their attention. A news broadcast from Tokyo Live. The anchor woman was honorably attractive.

His initial curiousity was not related to the content. Kitamura was morbidly fascinated by her, her mouth and mannerisms and her pleasantly average appeal. But there was an mysterious intangible unholiness about her. He concentrated in critical observation.

Behind the presentor was a red background that waved slowly like satin cloth. The corners where branded with the network logo, and along the bottom edge a ghosted bar sat still, crawling with breaking news. She was dressed modestly, a white blouse and two piece suit. Her complection was pale pink and petal smooth. Her lips subtly reddend and glossed and full. He watched carefully, and noticed her mouth float vertically by a miniscule amount, as if it was an island divorced from the continet of her face. He noticed the continenal drift only occured for specific syllables, and then it would return to it's natural geogrphic orientation. He noticed that the shape of her mouth, as she spoke was repeating perfectly each inflection of each word. He then observed that her torso would tilt and shift, with her head in tow, at a predictable interval. However it was her mouth that gave her away. The anchorwoman was artificially awkward, artificially absent of corporal error, a marionette articulated by an unseen ventriloquist.

The red satin background suddenly changed. Behind her thousands of people walked in peaceful protest. A closer shot showed them waving placards demanding political intervention for climate change. The background changed again. Canada. More people with placards. Subtitles translated their similar slogans. London, the same. Kitamura watched the background flick through dozens of countries, hundreds of cities, millions of people, protesting. It was the first time that he had watched television since his incarceration.

He deciphered the presenter's lips with his eyes. Each crease and fold and smile constituted a silent note of vowel or constanent, each draw of breath an oral punctuation, a chord, a lyric, a sentence. She sang to Kitamura. His eye upon her plump shining labia deciphered her song of jubilation and filed the facts and figures she carelessly divulged. Her report was interrupted, by a different woman, better looking and less stoic by composure. A real human.

The new woman spoke in earnest on behalf of an air-purifier. The miraculous bin would inhale toxic air and exhale peace of mind, and she displayed an animated graph deomstrationg scientific prove how much better it was than a tree. Do your part, help nature, help you. It would make you children happy and your pets playful and your fmaily would simle syncronisly. Good mothers do the right thing. Buy now and we will donate 5% per unit to the war on waste.

He stayed amongst the foul stench of his peers and their pathetic bickering.

The artificial woman returned briefly to introduce the teenaged profit. The TV cat away to young girl, in modest dress addressing an auditorium. The girl was pure. Her lips mouthed English, with Japonese subtitles. Kitamura liotered on every konji, assosiating with a specific object in the neirbourhood where he grew up. The child was an inspiration, she spoke logically and presented informed evidence to support her argument and the auditorium stood in avation. Her words were stripped of emotion, she planted a seed in fetrile soil. Kitamura noded in agreement with everything she said. He felt humble before her and when her address finished he bowed to the television.

The tug-of-war regarding the remote control was starting to annoy him. Kitamura tapped Haruto on the shoulder. The man turned an became solumn. Kitamura locked eyes then dropped to look at the remote.

"Hai" said Haruto and made three shallow bows and offered the remote forward with both hands, his eyes downward cast. The new guy was a large stupid idiot and snatched the remote with a victorious laugh and grinned at Kitamura.

Haruto carefully stepped back three paces and with the others fanned away from the two men in a shuffle of slippers. The acrylic painted floor of TV lounge was being polished in a state of anxious exodus.

"Get in line old man" said the new guy, "it's my turn". Kitamura just looked at him.

The new guy was not intimated and lunged forward broad chested bearing his teeth, anyone else would have recoiled in instinct. Not Kitamura.

"Stop what you are doing" blasted the intercom

The new guy look around until he spotted the surveillance camera perched in the corner. Then turned back to Kitamura. And nodded at him, and flicked his chin up with a grin. Kitamura just watched.

The new guy changed channel like a horny rabbit. His fat finger fucked a rubber button jumping through channels every two seconds. Kitamura counted each key press, until the disrespectful rabbit found a fool dressed in gold. The fool was dressed in top-hat, tails, trousers and shoe all garish gold. His face was long and decorated with a Dali mustache and bulging lecherous eyes, the grotesque cirrus front man was surrounded by a marching band of smiling teen aged girls heavy in the chest dressed in sailor uniforms with miniskirts the size of a tall belt, revealing crisp white panties with a single red polka dot on the exposed crotch. The Hinomaru. The national flag of Japan, the Land of the Rising Sun. A cheerleader marched forward and kept step beside the golden abomination thrusting a baton up and down. The clown grinned eagerly and rubbed his crotch and in spectacular flash the young woman's tight blouse burst open and her heavy breasts dropped and bounced and clapped as she continued to march on the spot. She lifted her chin and grinned proudly. Another flash replaced the spectacle with a tub of dehydrated noodles. Below the noodles a strap line of traditional Konji that read "That's what I want"

The new guy jutted his chin forward and laughed and made a slurring noise, typical of someone eating noodle and jabbed his tongue out as if licking an invisible vagina. Kitamura, walked around the Neanderthal and stood between him and the television.

"Get out of the way man" yelled the new guy.

Kitamura stabbed him in the windpipe with a spade made by his folded fingers and felt his Adams apple split under the thrusting force. The flabbergast man dropped the remote and clutched his neck, coughed a sticky mist of blood into Kitamura's face. His eyes looked shocked to see the scarlet confetti. He tried to speek but his tounge spaded a thick trecle of blood, which dribbled out his mouth and drooled over his chin. He staggered backward desperately trying to suck air through his flaring nostrils, grunting and wheezing in agony.

Kitamura bent and picked up the remote. The siren wailed and echoed through the belly of the prison. He paged back through the channels until the news presenter reappeared then he walked to the nearest table. He knelt and put the remote under its steel leg. Stood and took ahold of the corner with both hands and smashed the remote into smithereens. By then three guards had arrived with bullhorns and bamboo batons, and electric cattle prods.

Kitamura knelt down and sat back on his heels, locked his fingers behind his head, and waited.

Four gaurds and a medic entered the room. The medic attendened the choiking man will little regard for Kitamura. The first guard put a bullhorn to his mouth and blasted instruction at his face. The other three circled him in with cattle prods buzzing. Kitamura waited, eyes down. They belted his waist and cuffed his hands to the belt, one behind and one in-front. And lifted him to his feet.

The medic plunged a scalpel into the mans throat, made a clean slit in the trachea and fed a broad plastic tube into the crimson gash. The tube echoed hollowly when the unconscious man drew breath.

The gaurds dragged Kitamura down the corridor, and checked him in to solitary confinement.

Kitamura was thrown to the floor. Two guards pinned him down, and another removed his constraints and backed away. Kitamura stood up lifted his hands palms touching to his chin, and bowed forty five degree, eyes down in gratitude. The door slamed and heany bolts clanked. And then silence. A tiny room full of quiet. Perfect.

Kitamura removed his shirt and washed his face. He soaked the shirt and twisted it onto the floor, rubbed it down with the bar of soap washed toilet area. He cleaned systematically and mindfully. He pounded the bed roll against the floor like a flagelating monk in a monestry, when he was done he soaked the shirt, lathered it, and washed it against itself. and scooped the draining water into his face, and over his neck. The glaring lights stayed on for three days.

Kitamura had visited solitary before. What is felt undone between time time you arrive and the following day would remain undone for remainder of the sentence. The regimented schedual was severe. Kitamura finished his housekeeping.

He was fed once a day for those inital days, with half cooked rice, and inciped soup. The portions where half the normal ration, but despite the hardship he had time, quality time to think.

Kitamura slept profoundly and woke before the siren. His shirt was still damp when he dressed. He folded his futon and bedding. He took extra to align them, stowed them correctly. He was already standing to attention when the door opened for inspection. The guards screamed in his face with more animosity than normal. They where perhaps disappointed nothing was incorrect. They left. He remained at attention for one hour. He was not given breakfast. At eight o'clock a siren announce the commencement of "industry" and he took his seat, according to the rules, with is legs crossed.

Kitamura inhaled. He dispatched his mind to return to the neirbourhood of his youth. He looked down the dirty corridor of houses. He walked slowly forward and from the gate of his neighbour he collected the first phase of the child he watched on the television the night before. He crossed to the drain beside the opposite pavement, where he had sailed paper gallion into whirlpools. Here he took up the childs second phrase, perfectly intact. He walked through the memories recondtructing everything the young girl had said. The victorians gave this practice a stupid name, they called it the memory palace, an untouchable to the outside world it was the residence to keep mnemonic images.

In the corner of his cell a cyclope watched him. A small glass retina of an unblinking eye. Sleepless.It relayed him into the retina of a video recorder monitored by the guard on duty. But the electronic voyuer was deeply flawed. It was unable to see into Kitamura. It was incapable of seeing him till the trofs on his fertile mind, and unaware how carefully he planted the seeds for the destruction of mankind.

That night Kitamura was plagued by Hirose. He came to him again. He was walking in long stride, with his black umbrella clicking of the hard floor, his newspaper was missing, and he look grave and lifted his hand to his chin and unbuttoned his collar button, and wiped the back of his hand accross his nose. He made eye contact and nodded. Kitamura stood up, he was on esculator, already halfway up. Hirose weased behind him. He heard him suppress a cough, then clear his thoat then cough wet. It reminded him of his grandfather who drowned to death in his own phlem from acute emphisemia. He was a young boy then. That old mans fading hiss was this hiss.

Kitamura reached into this coat pocket. He fingered his cold car keys and then suddenly he was outside the metro, and the car he had highjacked was meters away. Hirose weezed his name and stumbled. Kitamura turned back. Hirose was pounding his chest with his palm. His eyes widened and shut with his mouth, weezing and hissing.

"Kitamura, you ... " his words where drowing in slobber, mucus was dripping over his lip, which he wiped away with this sleeve, " ... know ... what to do" he nodded his eyes eyed wide and closed his mouth in conclusion.

Kitamura lifted him by the elbow, his face was pink and wet, and they were both inside the car.

describe the abmistration of the antidote, the hospital, the second antidote and the arrest.

The earth was indeed precariously threathed, the environment was deteriorating, but the prognosiss was fundemetally flawed. The root cause of climate collapse was mistaken for it's symptom. The essential culprit had not been acknowledged. But the corrolation was blatanly obvious. Pollution only exists where humans congregate. But how do you tell the innocent that they are the guilty? How do you convince rats to stop fucking? The ecological problem has a terribly simple solution. Cull the heard.

But let us look at the underlying issue. The only unsustainable resource was mankind itself.

Jason peeled off the puncture plastic lid of his dinner. He picked out the cardboard outter wrapper. Italian Classics: Beef Lasagne. (Serves 1). He looked at the dish in his microwave and shook his head. The packaging and the reality where not even twice removed distant cousins. There was no apparent relationship. At all. He carried the meal and the sleeve to this desk, lined the up vertically and took a photograph. Next he opened Instagram, and shared it with the caption "Before they have your money, and after they have your money #foodporn"

Jason shoveled a spoonfull the slop into his mouth. The outer crust burn his lips and the core was still almost frozen. He returned to the microwave and gave it an addition one minute. He checked to see if anyone, had liked it. Nobody had liked it. As Jason flicked through his feed and wonder why it was called that. A feed. A news-feed. He mused to himself that it should have need named a spoonfeed. The microwave pinged.

Jason ate in front of his computers. He lived the world through a billion eyes called the internet. Jason was morbidly overweight. Male. Carnivorous. Fast approaching forty. Cisgenhetro (theoretically speaking) and if that wasn't bad enough, he was noticeably unpleasant to look at. His era in this world was over. In this world he was desperately out-of-fashion. In this world he was the reason that it was so fucked up. Jason was not yellow enough to the Chinese and not white enough to be privileged. so he straddeld his maternal and paternal heritage as biege.