Munmun(91)

“BILLLLLLLLL,” hollered Mark but Bill was shaking his fist and excitedly yelling, “ALLEY, I GOT A HUNCH SOMEBODY’S ABOUT TO PADDLE YOU GOOD.”

“Alley you idiot,” yelled a third panelist, “privacylaws protect us from comyounism, spoileralert, they tried comyounism in like twenty countries and it never ever worked, so inotherwords you lose, I win,” airhorn screamed, broadways flashed, this third panelist got a Win The Argument Point, the anchor handed him a paddle.

Mark pounded on the window.

I thumped on the wall and knocked a hole in it.

The castle wasn’t made of stone afterall, kind of a thin flimsy wood, definitely not going to keep out any kingkongs today. This got Bill’s attention anyway, he stared at me through the hole.

Give the old guy credit, he knows a threat when he sees one.

“TRESPASSER,” he bellowed, grabbing a sword and running out the door.

I wrenched off a big jagged plate of his house and whipped it at him as he ran at me, clocked him under the chin, the old guy went down hard, sword clattered on the giant faketile.

I tossed the sword aside, reached down, slapped old Bill’s face, once, twice, threefour fivesix times, not so hard it broke the face or anything, just to show him, you have no control, I decide what happens to you, and right now what happens to you is, your face gets slapped while Mark eats your food.

MARK EATS YOUR FOOD NOW, I told Bill, aiming his face through the househole at ravenous guilty Mark rampaging in Bill’s kitchen.

“BILL I’M SORRY, THIS GUY IS A MANIAC, I LITERALLY FELT MYSELF DYING,” apologized Mark, stuffing his mouth with Bill’s smoked ostriches and guzzling a vat of cocoanut juice.

Bill gargled and fumed, trembled with rage, glared at his neighbor but couldn’t even speak, coughed a little on his blood.

OKAY, I THINK YOU GUYS CAN SORT THIS OUT, I told them.

I picked up the sword, this thing might come in handy, moved on to the next house.

? ? ?

Went to the plantation, dragged Tom out by the neck and into the ocean, spent a while dunking him, holding him under, learned my technique from a feisty fellow with heads on his shoulders.

Went to the shintoeshrine, kneecapped John with one of his golfclubs, his wife Jillion tried to sneak up on me from behind, kneecapped her too.

Bashed the glasscubes with the sword until timid pink Lee crept out, he was the tallest so far, almost my height but flabby, wobbly, I pulled up his robe and spanked his grapefruit butt.

The staffs were cowards prettymuch, no one did anything until Lee’s fourscale chief of staff freaked out and peppered me with bullets, fifteen beestings in my arm, hand, shoulder.

I picked him up, crumpled his hot little gun, softly tossed him into the trees but probably he died still.

STAFFS, I’M NOT HERE TO FIGHT YOU, JUST YOUR BIGBOSSES, I kept telling them. DON’T ATTACK ME UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE TONIGHT.

No one wanted to die, everyone was terrified of death, everyone was toosoft, everyone’s comfy life was toogood.

I jogged to the next inlet, another seven houses awaited me, I continued my journey of breaking, entering, pulping, eating people’s food and drinking their water.

Did I know this would doom me, sure, half of me did.

Half of me knew, I am one and they are a bunch.

Soonerorlater these riches will sit on each other’s shoulders, get taller and stronger, start pummeling me back.

Pour a trillion munmuns into the youngest and strongest of them, someone to stomp me to death, some new godsilla who loves the rich.

But the other half thought, they might not be able to fight back no matter how bad it gets, maybe they’re too dumb, too soft, too cowardly.

Too mistrustfull, too selfloving, they might just think, why would I ever donate muns to a Kill Warner account, why should I have to give up scale to stop the monster, someone else can deal with it.

Maybe I’ll get to do this for a long fun time, half of me thought.

Newscopters were allowed into Balustrade, I started watching myself on the screens of the homes I bashed.

“UNCERTAINTY IN BALUSTRADE AS BRASH NEW FIFTYBILLIONAIR UNSETTLES THE PECKING ORDER,” reported some screentext.

“Sources tell us that this new bigrich calls himself the Kingkong God,” babbled an anchor excitedly, “lots of people are saying he’s brought a refreshing earthy simplicity to a stagnant social scene.”

The sun dipped below the sea and I headed north in purpling darkness, in the next inlet four more floodlit houses waited for me, a couple were already being moved onto barges.

EVERYONE OUT OF THOSE BARGES PLEASE, YOU SHOULD GET TO SAFETY, I recommended.

The staffs swam, flew, motored away in panic as I waded into the ocean, laid my arms on the barges, slowly tipped them underwater, rested the houses on the sandy seafloor.

“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT, ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT, I MEAN AM I SERIOUSLY GOING TO HAVE TO SLEEP OUTSIDE TONIGHT,” screamed a bigrich who was hiding in the darkness of the forest.

“PEAT, SHUT UP, HE’S GOING TO FIND US,” hissed another one.

“I’M NOT GOING TO SHUT UP,” yelled the first one. “YOU, WITH THE RAGGY HAIR AND NO CLOTHES, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH FOODWASTE YOU JUST GENERATED, FOREXAMPLE, I MEAN DID YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT THAT.”

I GUESS I DIDN’T, I admitted, jogging toward the voices.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, PEAT,” said the second one. “HERE HE FUCKING COMES.”