Winning the $400 million Super Max allowed Carol to purchase a country estate in Napa Valley for $46 million dollars. Carol now owned a fifty-acre piece of land including the restored home of Hollywood Director Francis Ford Coppola and an award-winning winery.
Carol experienced none of the challenges that bogged down most lottery winners. Sure, her family ‘needed’ money for plenty of things, but Carol didn’t like to share. After receiving phone calls from close friends begging for money, her phone went down the waste compactor. Carol even deleted her social media identities, except for Snapshot and her eleven million loyal followers. Falling out with family would hurt most people, but Carol’s intentions filled her with a sense of focus far too intense for feelings, emotions or her stupid fucking family.
Carol cradled a glass of Coppola Cabernet in hand as her limo soared above the streets of Los Angeles. The limo could technically drive itself, but Carol preferred humanity in it’s awkward glory to the cold efficiency of machines, so she’d hired a pilot.
The limo came to an abrupt stop, tossing Carol out of her seat and onto the floor with a small thump. The driver’s divider descended and he turned around.
“We’re here,” the man said.
“Are you a professional driver?” Carol said.
“Yes,” he said. “I mean, I’m paid for it.”
“I see,” Carol said. “Well, maybe try stopping like a normal person.”
“You fell?” the driver asked.
“No,” Carol said.
“Oh,” the driver said. “It would be okay if you did. You’re a pretty small lady.”
“Fuck off, man,” Carol said.
The driver shrugged, and turned to face the front, the divider rising behind him.
Carol stepped out of the limo and examined the store. The Art of War stood two stories tall with a holographic sign above seamless tinted glass windows. Unimpressed, Carol rapped on the passenger-side window until it lowered.
“Yes?” he asked.
“You’re sure they got the big guns?”
“They’re the best,” the driver said. “They’ve got stuff in there you wouldn’t dream of.”
“Sorry for earlier. I did fall.”
“I know,” the driver said.
“What’s your deal? I thought limo drivers were supposed to be polite and classy and all that,” Carol said.
“My name is Shaun, if you ever cared to ask, and I’m only polite when necessary,” Shaun said.
“Fair enough,” Carol said. “I can relate to that.”
“Yes, you can,” Shaun said.
Carol’s hand went to her purse as she walked to the store, feeling through the leather for her cards. Previously abysmal, her credit now scored top-notch, in fact, she held enough cards for a 60 card deck. Time to make some magic happen.
The Art of War’s front doors slid open and Carol walked into a gun freak’s dream; laser-powered blast pistols with super-capacitated batteries, platinum AKs, cluster bombs and nuclear warheads. An assortment of scoped plasma rifles gleamed like jewellery in their displays and the place sold it all, from quantum ammo to air soft pistols.
An enormous, multi-barrelled turret sat bolted to the entrance floor, scanning with yellow-pixellated eyes that fixed themselves on Carol.
“Greetings Carol Holmes,” the turret said.
“Sup robot,” Carol said.
A demonstrative video played on the left wall. The demonstrator held a gun as long as a chive and fat as a watermelon, but he held the thing with both hands due to the apparent weight.
“This is the Hill Giant,” said the Demonstrator.
Gun aimed at the side of a hill, pulled the trigger and a rocket vomited out of the bloated barrel. The fat shell sank sideways like a stone, rupturing the side of the hill in glorious high definition.
“Fuck yeah,” Carol said, pumping her fist. “My kinda place.”
Carol felt completely overwhelmed between the selection of guns, the endless bins of explosives and the immense variety of pistols. Great firepower, no doubt, but she wanted a personal artillery.
“Welcome,” a tall salesperson said. He wore the finest silk adidas track suit, a shiny white vest and his oiled hair put an accent on his sharp, handsome face. “What are you on the market for today?”
Carol thought furiously until her eyes intensified, and she jerked her chin towards him.
“I want a killer. You know, the kind of weapon you’re a little bit scared to hold, like you’re holding a volcano or a fucking hurricane,” Carol said. “You got the cray cray?”
“Don’t worry about firepower, we’ve got what you’re looking for. My name’s Marvin and right away, let’s head over to the brand new pieces,” Marvin said.
They slid through a curtain of beads and into a well-lit back room with only one weapon on display. A rifle the colour of milk, flecked red and lit by spotlight. A pencil-thin barrel stretched four feet from the round chamber, alight with green and white light.
“This is the death factory,” said Marvin.
He showed off the gun’s weightlessness by hefting the weapon in one hand and lifting it into the air. Carol moved closer, reaching out slowly to run her fingers across the polycarbon material.
“This monster does more than just look good. Watch,” Marvin said.
He gestured at the nearby wall and sterile white faded into live pixels, displaying an army tank. A pause button occupied the bottom, indicating a video.
“There’s a lot to love about this gun, but my favourite thing is the self-sufficiency,” Marvin said. “It doesn’t require any ammo.”
“What the fuck?” Carol said.
“All the bullets are 3D printed and assembled in the chamber. You may need to get radium replenishing every five years or so, but other than that, you get ten-thousand shots out of box.”
Carol eyes settled on the long, thin barrel with a look of deep dissatisfaction.
“It’s a bit small,” she said.
“Are you unsatisfied?” Marvin asked.
His tone seemed to imply a personal affront.
“This barrel is pea-tiny. What kinda caliber does it shoot?”
“0.1,” Marvin said. “If firepower is your concern, I assure you, that concern is misplaced.”
Marvin gestured at the wall-screen and the video played, showing a tank rolling forward over the desert, bumping and rocking with the terrain.
Cut to a crouched man aiming down the sights of the death factory. The tank wobbled over uneven ground barely visible in the background. The demonstrator pulled the trigger, and the shot made a sound like a dime passing through a tight metal tube at an incredible velocity. The tank folded in on itself followed by a blinding corona of light.
“Wait a moment,” said Marvin. He hooked two fingers to the right, fast-forwarding until the dust cleared. Not a scrap of tank remained, but a crater occupied the space where it once stood.
“That’s hot, I want one,” Carol said.
“We can arrange that.”
“How does it do that? Like – What…” Carol trailed off, running a hand through her dark red hair. “Man, that was fuckin’ crazy.”
“The Death Factory has a one-of-a-kind bullet in that it’s three bullets in one.”
Carol shook her head in confusion.
“The shell of the bullet is lead, built around a condensed, hollow laser and a core of unstable nuclear elements to deliver death in it’s most efficient form,” Marvin said. “Absolute annihilation.”
“Unstable elements?” Carol asked. “Great, so this gun comes with cancer.”
“Oh, no, it’s no worry at all. The death factory fires bullets at a thousand feet per second, and the elements are completely isolated until they are built.”
Carol held out her hands like an expectant mother and Marvin handed her the death factory. The gun felt sleek, smooth and weighed next to nothing, resting light and easy on her forearm like one of Zeus’ thunderbolts.
“Can I try it on? See if it feels right?” Carol said.
Marvin laughed with his belly, and lead her to the northern wall of the room. He snapped his fingers and the sterile white wall dissolved into a shooting gallery a hundred metres deep. A jeep with a brand-new paintjob sat shining on a platform, looking all but factory fresh and ripe for destruction.
Carol raised the gun’s sight to her eye and the magnetic cursor locked on the jeep. Carol pulled the trigger, and a shriek of absolute power filled the air. The jeep twisted in on itself, a wormhole, before light consumed the vehicle and obliterated everything illuminated.
A sharp hiss from the death factory’s spherical chamber as a slot opened up on it’s front and a cloud of green exhaust puffed out.
Carol sniffed the air, salivating because she could smell bacon.
“Do I smell bacon?” Carol asked.
“God Bless America you do,” Marvin said. “We tweaked the emissions to smell like BBQ-smoked bacon.”
“Blessed indeed,” Carol said. “I’ll take it.”
“That’ll be two-hundred million dollars,” Marvin said in a half-laugh.
“Do you take card?”
Shaun pulled into the driveway of Carol’s heritage home just in time for Carol to tumble out of the car, squat down and pee on the driveway tiles. She raised a bottle of Vintage Champagne to her lips as she whizzed.
“Jesus lady, your crazy,” Shaun said.
“Fuck you asshole,” Carol said. “I’m rich, rich people do what they want and pay for it with cash.”
Carol snatched up her panties and started walking to the house. An obtuse doorstep caught her toes. Carol tripped, fell and banged her knee on the concrete.
Fuck,” Carol said, trying to get up but then stumbling again and tumbling down the drive into Shaun’s waiting arms.
“Hey, you’re real drunk. Maybe you should take a seat and get a handle,” Shaun said. He helped Carol into the house and guided her to the nearest couch.
“Did you bring the death factory?” Carol said. She slid off the couch and coated the floor like a puddle of slime. “I need the death factory.”
“Why the fuck you need that lady? You can’t be shootin’ that thing in this state,” said Shaun.
“Get it please,” Carol said.
“All right, I’ll get it. Stay cool,” Shaun said.
A minute later, Shaun returned holding the death factory and nodding approvingly.
“This thing is it,” Shaun said. He set the gun on the kitchen counter. “But I can’t give it to you right now.”
“I need it,” Carol said. “Please get it, I need it.”
“I got it right here, why you need it so bad?”
Carol shook on the couch and Shaun went to her, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders.
“What’s up kid?” Shaun asked. “What’s ailin’ you?”
“Why are you so nice to me?” Carol asked.
“Cause you pay me,” Shaun said.
Carol nodded. “At least you’re honest. I appreciate it.”
“What’s goin’ on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re bordering on a breakdown here, I mean, you buy a tank cracker, you get silly drunk on two bottles of Champagne-“
“I have like eighty bottles of Champagne right now,” Carol said.
“Yeah, and if you drink em’ all, you’re gonna kill yourself.”
“True,” Carol said. “But it’s not my fault I’m fucked up, so don’t give me shit.”
“Oh? Who’s fault is it?” Shaun said.
“Fuck you man, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Say their names. I do know, but you gotta address the problem to trash it,” Shaun said.
Carol sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Eric Ever-Erect, Cam Creampie, Wade Anus, and satan himself, Sam Pussy Slayer.”
“Good, and who are you?”
“I’m Carol Holmes, 24 years old and I hate this line of-“
“Were those men kind and loving to you, Carol Holmes?” Shaun asked. “I’m not trying to be cruel Carol, I’m trying to help you.”
“They were fucking demons,” Carol said. “Monsters and savages. They destroyed me, and they loved it.”
“Yeah they fucked you up, got you hooked on heroin, and next thing you know, they own your ass.” Shaun said. “Its sick, but you can’t let it hold you down. You’ve gotta rise up. You’ve got all the power in the world now, you can be a flyswatter.”
Carol’s back straightened and a deep, all-consuming calm rolled over her pixie features. The death factory rested on a nearby wooden table. Feeling signficantly more sober, Carol went to the gun, took it in her hands, and looked down. Time to fire up the factory.
“You’re right,” Carol said. “Let’s take a ride.”
“Fuck yeah,” Shaun said.
If you can afford one of the many exorbitantly expensive properties hiding behind the hedged streets of Beverly Hills, Carol hates you. Before the lottery, Carol lived in a tiny two-bedroom slum dog apartment with a bi-polar saxophone player named Hailey. Memories came rushing back as Shaun ushered Carol down her old street.
Carol came to Hollywood to star in movies, a common motivation, and on the surface she’d succeeded. Carol starred in over two-hundred films but she never bought her dream mansion and she never won an Oscar. The Hills of Hollywood ran lousy with cocks in suits, parasite pricks wearing human skin. Fresh out of Arkansas at eighteen with a great body and dream, but then she got to Hollywood. Classrooms of girls with great bodies and dreams but rent is due at the end of the month girls, don’t forget it, and definitely don’t submit alternate payment, or you’re gonna regret it.
Carol stepped out of the limo wearing Hawksworth 1A full-body armor spun from bulletproof poly carbon fibre. The hazard-proof suit rode up Carol’s chin, snug with her helmet and the SnapShot camera. The helmet’s built-in camera allowed her to live-stream everything she saw
“Damn that house is shit,” commented anon on her live feed.
Abrasive grass crunched beneath Carol’s feet as she walked passed a dead lawnmower towards a one-story house with a carrot-peel paint job. The front door hung wide open.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Carol said. Cigarette butts and cigar filters filled cracks in the pavement as she climbed steps to the door. “I don’t have good memories of this place, it’s where I shot most of my films.”
“My favourite is Gag the Bitch 6,” wrote anon.
“You fuckers are all wondering what I’m going to post on SnapShot now that I’m richer than God,” Carol said. “Well, feast your eyes on this.”
Carol marched through the door with the death factory poised, aiming around every corner. Carol rounded the end of a hallway, noticing a garbage bag full of books, and continued towards a locked door.
Carol booted the door down, revealing a young girl pinned to a sheetless bed beneath a fat, hairless, horse cock bastard.
“Knock knock cock sucker,” Carol said.
Eric Ever-Erect scrambled away from the bed.
“And here I thought you assholes would be crouched around trying to rub two dicks together. No double anal today?”
“Rekt,” wrote anon.
Eric Ever-Erect’s gaze found the gun cradled in Carol’s arms and his lip began to tremble. “No, no double anal today, just a guy-girl scene.”
The girl on the mattress mewled, closed her eyes and turned on her side, a long string of spit falling from her lips.
Carol raised the death factory’s sights, found Eric in the magnetic cursor and pulled the trigger. The Death Factory wailed, drowning out Eric’s screams with its vocal machinations.
“I came to fap not to feel,” wrote anon.
Eric’s torso separated from his limbs as the laser charge burst free and the nuclear core exploded, rending a hole in the air where he stood. .
“Fuck you, asshole,” Carol said.
The explosion died down, white-hot swirls of light fading back into the cool, damp desperation of the house. A crater in the ground mirrored a sedan-sized hole in the roof, forming a perfect circle of empty space where the bastard Eric Ever-Erect once stood.
“Ever-Erect in our hearts,” wrote anon.
Stalking out of the bedroom, Carol checked the kitchen, the games room and the toilets, but found no one else. Her helmet’s time display read ten forty-seven a.m on a Tuesday, which Carol recognized as pancake time for the weekly ‘talent brunch’. The three remaining bastards had acted on a craving for pancakes, securing their fates.
Carol strode out of the house without knowing her audience now numbered almost one-hundred million people. A row of police cars decorated the curb and almost thirty officers crouched behind them, aiming nine millimetre pistols.
“Hey guys,” Carol said.
One of the cops sprouted into view from behind a car, shaking nervously. Someone hidden from sight thrust a megaphone into his hands.
“Ma’am, put the gun down,” he said. He almost succeeded in making the words sound like a command.
“Or what?” Carol said. “This suit is bulletproof.”
The man with the megaphone sought council from his hidden companions, shrugging his shoulders and trying to pass the megaphone. The civic government didn’t possess the funds for a weapon like the Death Factory, so these cops shot old lead shells. Luckily, not many people could afford weapons like the Death Factory, so the cops held all the firepower they needed.
“Listen, the murder fee will be paid in full by five o’clock at the end of the day, and I’ll even crumble some bread your way,” Carol said.
These men never faced the likes of the Death Factory or her Hawksworth suit, and great wealth granted privileges beyond the law. The exorbitant murder fee hung out of reach for ninety-nine percent of people, but Carol now sat firmly in the one percent. The cops fell back from rigid defensive posts and nodded to each other, though the megaphone one nodded most vigorously of all.
“I don’t want this to get messy,” Carol said. Her tone struck a fine balance between affable and friendly.
“We accept,” megaphone cop said.
The officers withdrew their aim and sat on the hoods of cars with hands in pockets, content to watch as Carol slid into the back of her limo with the Death Factory slung over her shoulder.
“Shit girl, that was bad ass,” Shaun said.
“Its waffle time,” Carol said. “Take me to I-Hop.”
“Maple syrup’ jamma blast, breakfast time, bake the facts, kick the bitches ass, take it to task,” said Cam Creampie. An idyllic square of butter sizzled and foamed as he poured a river of syrup on his steamy cakes.
“I swear to God, if Eric breaks this girl’s pussy, I’m gonna chop off his dick, throw it in a skillet till its crisp, and then I’m gonna throw it out without eating it,” said Wade Anus.
Wade plucked a plump sausage from his plate with his fork, slid the meat free in a napkin, then sauntered to a small desk by the front where he gleefully disposed of the sausage in a trash can.
Sam the Pussy Slayer said nothing, his gaze focused on the bowl of unsweetened porridge steaming in front of him. In lieu of milk, Sam poured a measure of water in his porridge. He preferred to avoid calories at the cost of flavour.
Wade checked his phone and his chuckle turned into a mask of fear. “We got bad news guys,” Wade said, standing up.
The glass next to their table shattered as a wail like a banshee avalanche rang through the restaurant. Thrown by the impact, Wade collided hard with the table behind them, screaming wildly. A bright light emanated from his chest, growing brighter until the aura buckled, sending an intense wave of heat through the restaurant. Observers went momentarily blind in the flash of white.
“2.0 K/D confirmed,” wrote anon.
Carol walked slowly and steadily through the doors of I-Hop.
“You like that slut?” Carol said.
Sam’s eyes went wide as he heard her voice and he jerked, causing a pile of porridge to soar through the air and plop onto the table.
Carol stood at the head of the table. Nothing remained of Wade but an eight-by-eight crater occupied his former space.
“What are you doing?” said Sam.
“I’m feeding you my dick,” Carol said. “You like my dick, don’t you whore?”
“We didn’t make you do anything,” Cam said. “You ch-“
Carol raised the gun again and pulled the trigger, destroying Cam in a mini-sun supernova.
Turning the Death Factory on Sam, Carol raised her gun and stalked slowly towards him. Docile cops sat outside in droves. Almost five-hundred million viewers tuned in and growing by the second.
“This one’s a straight up psychopath,” said Carol. “Aren’t you?”
Sam smiled sheepishly, “I like pain.”
“You like medicating it too,” Carol said.
“It’s a business,” Sam said. “You could’ve avoided it if you’d been smarter.”
“I was eighteen,” Carol said.
“You were a legal adult,”Sam said.
Carol raised the Death Factory, aiming between Sam’s sky-blue eyes.
“You’ll always be a slu-“
One final roar from the death factory and Sam vanished into nothingness.
Dazed, Carol looked around at the stunned patrons of the breakfast cafe. A woman in her seventies began to clap, but then gave up in the wake of an awful silence. Carol’s tunnel vision retreated as she walked out of that sticky-sweet shithole and back into the light, filthy rich and finally free.