(even if you aren't vegan)
Corruption: Finale
Bang. Bang.
Bullets ripped through the air, just inches away from his neck. He kept running. He didn't think about what was ahead of him, he just ran as fast as he could. Another bullet whizzed past his head. Nobody's protecting me this time. Nobody's standing up for me. A bullet hit the wall and bounced away. I'm not going to make it out alive this time. They want my head for this. He turned around to see the assailants, in the hopes that they had left.
One last bullet flew through the air. It approached in slow motion, it seemed. Right between the eyes.
Raiku fell, in a heap, to the ground. He looked dead. Probably was.
"Alright, he's down." One of the gunmen walked up to Raiku and gave him a swift kick in the gut. "Looks like he's out like a light."
"Well, don't just stand there waiting for him to get up!" said the other gunman. The two walked toward Raiku and picked him up. They decided the effort was too much, however, and started dragging him off instead.
The first thing Raiku saw when he opened his eyes was concrete. Mostly concrete. There were some cigarette butts here and there, and he could definitely smell pennies. He could taste them too. He got off his stomach and spat out a mouthful of blood, and turned to look at the room surrounding him. There were bars; it was a prison, presumably. Raiku had been to jail a couple times, sure, but that was only for a week at a time. This was different.
Raiku looked out of the cell and saw his friends in there. What did they do? He could have asked, but he was missing teeth and it hurt to open his mouth. One of them looked over and noticed Raiku, bloody and battered.
"Raiku... Raiku!" Strong Rad yelled to his friend. "What the heck are you doing in here?"
"D-dunno!" Raiku said, cringing as he spoke.
"Oh, geez, Raiku..." Ninja Pom Pom chimed in. "You're in bad shape. What happened?"
"Shot!" Raiku said, tears falling from his eyes. He was in immense pain, and he was in no condition to be making small talk.
"Must've tranqed him," said Ninja Pom Pom to Strong Rad. "Gets 'em every time."
"What a way to go." Strong Rad shook his head in disbelief. "What do you think he did wrong?" he asked Ninja Pom Pom.
"No idea, SR," Ninja Pom Pom replied back. "Probably just stood around and they got him for loitering. They find all sorts of reasons nowadays."
"You know, it was better way back when," said Strong Rad, "back when Sam cared."
"Before the war."
"Right, before that," Strong Rad added. "Now, look at this place. It's a wreck."
Raiku agreed, silently.
"Shut up in there!" yelled one of the guards.
Strong Rad began to whisper. "What if we took it back?"
Strong Rad was a nice guy. He meant well, and he didn't like to cause trouble. Sure, he was a little odd—he sometimes dribbled when he talked, but that wasn't really his fault—and he was into things that other people weren't. He was called a schizophrenic, a psycho, a manchild, whatever name you can come up with. He was a social misfit for all the wrong reasons, which got him into trouble for nothing.
So what did Strong Rad do? He created. He was an artist, a poet at heart. It was his calling. For weeks, he would strive to create masterpieces, things that once brought beauty to the world, now diamonds in the rough. The mods hated it.
For as long as he could remember, Strong Rad's creations were found and subsequently destroyed by the mods. He couldn't cry, he couldn't scream in anger... he never said anything, because he couldn't say anything. They tore apart his paintings, they burned his manuscripts, they smashed his statues—and they destroyed his studio. He had nothing to work with.
Strong Rad walked the earth an artist without a medium. All his ideas were in his head, waiting to get out. It drove him mad.
The mods caught him stealing from the studio of the city's only artist, Skullbuggy. Skullbuggy was the official painter of the city's government, being commissioned to create portraits of The Leader day in and day out. He enjoyed the busy work. There really wasn't much else to do. Of course, his work hit a roadblock when Strong Rad sneaked into his studio during the middle of the night and purloined his paints and brushes. The mods were furious.
At this point, Strong Rad was more than screwed. He had stolen from and trashed the studio of an official artist. Messing with officials, as a whole, was bad news; even the smallest misdemeanor, if directed at an official, or (God save you) a mod, would get you in jail for a long time. Strong Rad's sentence was eighty years. No parole.
Chwoka sat at his desk. Things were pretty good, all considered. Behind him hung a full-wall portrait of himself, sitting at his desk. In the portrait was another, this time of Chwoka wrestling an anaconda. Chwoka turned his chair about to admire Skullbuggy's work. Sure, Skullbuggy was paid in peanuts, but he happened to like peanuts, so it all worked out in the end. Suddenly, Chwoka heard the door creak open. He groaned and whirled his chair around.
"Is this important?" Chwoka always found himself saying that, no matter what the situation. He was inundated recently with all sorts of requests and complaints on his part, so he was sure to weed out anything unnecessary.
"Yes, of course," said NachoMan, Chwoka's loyal secretary.
"Are you lying?" Chwoka asked. This was usually his follow-up question.
"... Maybe." NachoMan said.
Chwoka groaned.
"Look, it's about the snack situation down in the lobby," NachoMan said, quickly. "We're out of Sun Chips-"
Chwoka pushed a button. Suddenly, faceless guards rushed into the room, all at attention. "Sir, what seems to be the problem?"
"Just escort Mr. NachoMan out of here, please," said Chwoka. "He's wasting my time."
"Not a problem." The guards took NachoMan by the arms and walked him out. NachoMan did nothing to resist; this was the third time this week it had happened, and he was used to it.
Finally alone again, Chwoka put a copy of Remain in Light in a nearby CD player and turned it on. He tipped back in his chair, put his feet on his desk, and sat there, listening to it for hours.
