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A loud, sharp ringing noise blares at 2AM, echoing in the halls of a mansion.
In the middle of the night, just before her husband’s big day, Erika stirs awake. The alarm she set at 2 in the morning is silenced within 5 seconds of going off. Erika is swift. She knows what must be done.
She begins to pack all kinds of food into bags, which she shoves in the trunk of a rented car. Crackers, fresh fruit, water, raw food ingredients; she stocks a dozen bags full with resources. Then, just to be safe, she brings a few thousands of dollars into the car as well, because one can never be too prepared.
Her husband lays dormant, getting as much rest as possible in order to get ready for another debate with college kids. Erika smiles to herself, knowing that soon, she’d be free of this horrid man once and for all. Once her contact finally arrived at the rendezvous spot, and everything was done, she’d finally be safe and free, with her children and his property secure in her hands.
It was time for the Kirkening.
–
Twisted Scraps prowls about, in the earliest floor she could manage– Floor 2. The scent of shrimp, rage, and sweat permeates the air. She hunts a lone shrimp.
Drool drips from her maw, and ichor drips similarly from her cup. She can feel the prey draw close, when suddenly–
BLARE.
She launches into a sprint, tail twitching with hunger. The air whooshes past her paper face, and the delicious scent of seafood comes closer, closer, closer-
She locks eyes with rage packed into a tiny shrimp, and strikes.
She feels her maw connect, but it clamps shut on the empty husk of an airhorn instead. She snarls, pulling herself closer to the toon instead. She innovates, as is the nature of such a crafty cat.
As she zooms closer, honing in, the shrimp yanks out a purple-stained bucket full of water, and she can hardly realize just how prepared her prey was before her face is splashed full of water. She flails for a moment, momentarily stunned, before she feels the ichor in her paper fur seep further into her flesh, dampened and made less viscous by the water. Her paper itself begins to weaken, little tears in the surface of her fur now weaker.
The last thing she can see before her face melts into nothing is what was once prey, now predator, straining to hold her tail, when she feels a rip in her limb, exploding in agony.
Shrimpo looms over what once was a fearful sniper twisted, her tail clutched in his left arm and Brusha’s stolen and re-used paint bucket clutched in his right. Before her hearing depletes and she reduces into a pile of ichor, she hears-
“I HATE TWISTEDS!!! ESPECIALLY YOU!!!!!!!!”
Then, everything goes numb.
–
Two shadowed-over figures loom over the roof of the Utah Valley University, setting up an escape. One holds Twisted Scraps’ stolen tail in his fists, and the other has a laptop with a tracker installed into the target’s car. Both of them watch the tiny pinging signal trace its way down to the debate location, anticipatory and patient. It was only a matter of time.
–
“Blah blah blah big daddy Trump." Erika was huddled in the crowd, face obscured and identity safe. She watched as her idiot of a living bank continued to publicly humiliate himself, fingers clenched into fists. She knew his time was drawing short, and soon she would finally, finally breathe. The signal went off, and Erika began to listen to his voice one final time, before everything would change. The man she once loved.
“Counting or not counting gang violence?”
A loud snap echoed around the debate tent, and Charlie Kirk leaned back, throat leaking with shiny red blood. Screaming arises, and Erika hurries off with the crowd, keeping a low, quiet profile as she made the great escape. She ran to the rental car, starting it up, and waiting for her partner in crime to arrive.
“I HATE RUNNING FROM THE CRIME SCENE. I ALSO HATE GETTING CAUGHT!!!!!!! DRIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!” Shrimpo barrels his way into the passenger seat, his weapon of choice still red and moist with blood.
Erika wastes no time, speeding through empty roads, to make her way to Gardenview. She looks back and forth, and before long, they arrive at the “abandoned” train station. Erika and Shrimpo dismount the vehicle, now simply awaiting the train’s arrival. From within the car trunk, Erika brings out her payment. Crackers, fresh fruit, water, raw food ingredients. Everything that she was asked for in exchange for the assassination.
Shrimpo perks up from the bench he was on, hearing something. In a moment, Erika could hear it too; the piercing whistle of the train. The train slowed to a stop in front of the two, and Dyle hops out.
“Miss Kirk-” Dyle began, only for Erika to interject.
“You may call me Miss Erika, now.” Dyle nodded, so casually that one could mistake his nonchalance for carelessness.
“Miss Erika,” Dyle corrected, “Are you prepared to complete the mission?”
“Yes. I am ready to “grieve.”” Erika nodded solemnly, knowing damn well she was ready to set up Chat GPT and AI-generate a song to “mourn” her husband. After all, even if she only loved him for his bubble butt and to use him as a cover for her association with Delilah Keen, Arthur Walton, Zohran Mamdani, and the Secret Communist Service of Earth, he was still her Charlie Charlie Kirky, deep down.
Shrimpo skedaddles his way onto the train. “DYLE WHY DOES FINN CALL YOU BABYGIRL.” Dyle picks up the last of Erika’s offerings; Crackers, fresh fruit, water, raw food ingredients, and a couple thousand dollars to keep up the bills.
“How about we stop talking for a little while?” Dyle deadpanned.
“EVERYONE IN GARDENVIEW HEARS YOU RAVE ABOUT UMAMUSUME AND MY LITTLE PONY, BRITISH BOY!!” Shrimpo foams from the mouth like a rabid dog.
The train begins to move, as if fueled by Dyle’s embarrassment. “Peace out, chat. See you on the flip side,” Erika waved farewell to the pair.
When the train vanishes into the distance, Erika makes her grand escape, squirting some onion juice into her eyes to induce tears and preparing the scapegoat of the incident, some random dude named W. D. Gaster or some shit. She grins, knowing that her mission is done and she’s successfully furthered the agenda of the woke queer POC communist community’s takeover of the United States.
Everyone truly was flowkirksixsevenuinely a super sigma.