BEEF TOILET
Got bored tonight, so I wrote two pieces, both carrying the same storyline. If you don't feel like reading the short story, then feel free to move onto the poem. If you're reading both however, I'd like to ask that you start with the story so you know the context for the poem 
I was really tired when both were written, so don't judge toooooo hard
Story:
Poem:
C&C, don't be too rough
I was really tired when both were written, so don't judge toooooo hard
Story:
Bullet Shells
“RAH, RAH,†they shouted, rallying in the square armed with poorly crafted torches and flags pierced upon tall scrap rods and branches. The movement hadn't turned violent in front of the president's house, though the rebel party's military was called in to keep watch. Large men, assorted blades at the ready, lined the doors to the hotel. It was, after all, the only place anyone could call luxurious around this part of Europe.
It's strange, you know, how things change in a person's lifetime. For me, when I was a kid, I always thought about what the world would be like in 20, or even 30 years. I had even thought for a day or two, after long hours of video games, that it would be fun to live in a post-apocalyptic world. No tie-downs, no law, just pure freedom. Damn it, I was naive. What happened took everything; looking back, it sickens me to the bone that I had actually wished for something like this. I've got no family, no friends, no left arm, and for God's sake we use bullet shells as currency. Kids run around outside wearing fucking gas masks, and have to be inside their shack before nightfall or else they'll get eaten. Yeah, eaten. I'm not talking about any of that zombie bullshit, though. Just regular people who sleep during the day and hunt at night. Can't exactly call them regular, of course, damn cannibals. Whatever, you do what you do to survive.
After the event that wiped out all of the American continents, half of Europe, most of Russia and a third of Africa, people took matters into their own hands. It made me think of the history lessons we got in grade 10 about dictators and secretary generals...There were a few who stuck to common politics, but they never lasted long. The world got handed over to the warlords, those who had enough shells to pay their own god damn army. And when they've raped enough women and shot enough men, they pick up the shells and, well, I guess it's just one big vicious cycle. If I hear one more God damned shell hitting the floor I'll...
Clang...Clangclangclang...
The cheers grew silent throughout the afternoon, as the president remained hidden in his quarters. However, the people stayed. Their enthusiasm waned, until there wasn't a sound at all. Night was going to come soon...It wouldn't be wise to stay out in the square, but they didn't seem to mind. The looks on their faces insisted that they were going nowhere until a reform was met. People were getting impatient...And angry. A few had already unbuckled the sheaths to their machetes.
Don't even get me started on the president. That filthy pig's been running the town since day 1. Some ex-British forces faggot. Who the hell even knows what happened to Britain? Nobody, because there's no damn communication anymore. Nobody cares, it's all about shells and survival. Shoot more people, steal more shit, get more cash. Whoever decided to make shells into currency was a damned genius. The gathering in the square seems to be getting restless, the president better make an appearance soon or else things are going to get real messy...The shortage of food drives most to cannibalism, and to avoid confrontation with large groups they stay inside until nightfall, then they break into homes and eat the little ones first. Makes me gag every time I think about it. If things last much longer here, we're going to have ourselves a beautiful three-way battle-royal. Can't wait to lose my other fucking arm.
The sun was setting, and the cheers had picked up into whispers once again. The guards in front looked uneasy. Nobody was even allowed out passed nightfall, for their own protection. According to the few statisticians left, there were maybe thousands of man-eaters who'd scour the streets late in the moonlight and feed off whatever they can find. Then, things got quiet again. Under the cover of night, rustling could be heard from behind the bushes and the clacks of shoes on the asphalt roads to the East. The silence of metal against leather deafened the night. The military officers clutched their blades strong, sweat running down their cheeks. Nobody wanted to be here tonight. If only the president had shown himself on time...
I was right about one thing, growing up. There would be no law in a world like this. There's just one sorry soul, hungry for power, who drives the rest of us to think there's even a shard of hope left. Well, fuck them I say. That's why I started this movement. Things need to change, we need a system. But that chauvinist shit never so much as looked out the window. Probably jerking off to children stories, that sick bastard. I'm just waiting for us to charge into that building so I can cut his hands off myself. He's not going to touch another child ever again.
For a moment, there wasn't a single voice ringing through the air. For that same moment, the Earth stood still, as the second before blood was spilt to the ground paused itself gracefully under the half moon. It's a shame that the moon would be stained red for a long time to come.
The rustling of boots echoed along the concrete walls of the Hotel, as the movement forced themselves forwards, machetes drawn, ready for battle. The military took their stance, though they knew they weren't coming out alive. Shadows lurked in the corners and around ledges, creepily waiting for the first man to fall. And there it was. The first blood of the fight, a small scruffy boy fighting by his father's side just like in the Dark Ages. The boy fell to the ground, surprised at how much his wounds hurt. Just as his poor father turned to help, the boy was swiftly picked up by a shadowy figure and taken into the night. The man pursued, only to be ambushed by ten more. They were quick and hungry, making haste at the built man's ready meat and leaving nothing to spare. The rest of them retreated into the darkness, waiting for their next prey.
It was noisy, what a change from what we had only five minutes ago. There were only a few military rebel guards out front, no big deal. We've lost a few good men from what I can see, though most of them have already been picked up as food. May God have mercy on the souls of the merciless. The doors were weak, we didn't have any problems going through. The stairs were wet from the rain of past nights, and rotting from the looks of it. Better make this quick. Upstairs to the right there was a group of military guards huddled in front of the room, waiting for us. These were ranked officers, time for a real fight.
The battle out in the square had started to be fought on two fronts. The cannibals were out in the light now, fighting with pots, machetes from fallen men, and their bare hands. Normally this would be a battle easily won; but their numbers were overwhelming, flowing into the gates from the main street just a dozen meters in front of the Hotel door. The movement forces were falling like dominoes.
I took a glance out of the window to my right...We were losing the fight. Whatever guards were left seemed to be fighting alongside the cannibals, at least for now. Half eaten men littered the square, as scrawny, pale, blood-soaked souls lifted their heads from the stomachs of the sane. Gruesome, and this is what God has given us. Sometimes I question my beliefs.
I clenched my machete as hard as I could. My 3 other men might not all make it back to their families tonight...Then again I don't think any of us will. Doesn't make much of a difference, they'll all get killed in the long run if the president is left alive. My six year old daughter's death will not be in vain. Let the adrenaline flow.
He was just sitting there. What the hell was he doing? He didn't even acknowledge me. I just ripped out the hearts of his highest ranked officers with my own hand and he isn't even phased by it. Finally, he looks at me. 'Bout time.
“What are you here for, Vlad?â€
“Don't fucking say a word to me. You know why I'm here. You raped my fucking kid then threw her off a damn cliff! How about to stand up and fight, or you could keep sitting there like the bitch of a man you are and take the judgement I've chosen to lay upon you.â€
“How old would she be now?â€
“19. Doesn't concern you.â€
This prick's going to die here today. Holding my pride in my one arm nice and strong, remember what I was taught, and thrust!
BANG.
Clang...Clangclangclang...
“You...Bast...Bastard...â€
“Quiet Vlad. I've got something to tell you. I'm going to buy your daughter something real nice with the shell that was used to kill her own father. I'll tell her it's from you. Regards.â€
Poem:
In the year twenty-twenty,
Where blood is of the plenty,
Where warlords roam the land,
Where the President stole my hand.
Death has become money,
And the days aren't as sunny,
There aren't anymore church bells,
Since now, we trade bullet shells.
In times rough as these,
Where souls wash up with the breeze,
A stand must be taken,
Against those left unshaken.
The President, that man,
Does whatever he thinks he can,
So here is the movement,
Asking him for improvement.
I, for one, seek his life,
Skewered, pierced, upon my knife.
For not only my hand he stole,
But also the one who made me whole.
My daughter, but six years,
Stolen from me, bringing tears.
That filthy man did the act,
So to thousands of pieces he must be hacked.
United we are in this Hotel square,
Rush in and wreck the place, if we dare,
But upon the fall of a dark moon night,
Sturs such a hungry, angered fright,
Since the cannibals roam and stare,
Lurking around in the bushes of the square.
Clang clang clang
Goes the sound of bullet shells,
Straight from the hells,
Beneath these Hotels.
The moon bright in the sky,
Passed men who were ready to die,
Run up the rotting set of stair,
To kill this man in his despair.
Out the window to the right,
Half-eaten men, oh what a sight,
For after dark roam the forsaken,
The dead from battle, are those who are taken.
Four men sitting in front of his door,
Blades in hand and feet on the floor,
Rolling into the fray just like a tank,
Four men now dead, with such high rank.
My men, down, lay dead beneath me,
The President sitting, I he can't see
"Why are you here?"
He asked in fear,
As I readied my blade,
Over the sound of the raid,
A shot rang out,
My moves in doubt.
On the floor I lay,
Bleeding in decay,
As that man stands above,
Free of all love.
"Your daughter's not dead",
Is that really what he said?
"She's alive and well,
And no memory could tell,
That you are her dad,
Really it's quite sad.
I took her, yes,
Kind of a mess!
Brought her up as my own,
Into such a lady she's grown.
So, see, with this shell,
More like a gift from hell,
That'll I'll buy from a store,
And as you wash upon shore,
Her birthday will come,
With the beat of a drum,
Her gift being bought,
With your death, by shot."
C&C, don't be too rough
