Xmas Hit: Part 1

Part 1 - Christmas Purge

Part 1 - Christmas Purge

"Quick—paint the kids white! They’re coming!” The plea tore through the room. “Dad, hurry! Don’t forget behind their ears—” Silence, shattered by gunfire. The children fell, toe tags marking them as “wrong pixelation.” MAGA’s army had no mercy.

It was just before the jingle of Christmas when MAGA struck—hard, fast, brutal. Parents whose skin didn’t match that of MAGA’s minions painted their children white, desperate to shield them from the horror. "Purge, purge, purge—and Merry Christmas!" the President-King proclaimed, his laughter echoing coldly.

The purge was sanctioned at every level: decreed by the President-King, notarized by his Attorney Junta, and stamped by his Supreme Ayatollah Justices. Leading the charge were the Border Czar and his defense secretary, each vying to outdo the other in cruelty, egged on by the Ka-Chinglianaire-X.

They gathered timber and nails to crucify those who defied them, hanging children on trees as a grim testament to the President-King’s will. "Let them see. Let them smell," he commanded coldly. "Our god’s word is final—created in the image of our President-King."

The regime’s enforcers moved swiftly, targeting families who dared to look, speak, or even think against him, sealing their fates under the regime’s unchecked, absolute power.

A lone star wept beside him, a silent witness to the devastation. The holiday bells, once symbols of peace and joy, now rang in the shadow of tyranny. As families were torn apart and lives erased in the name of power, the spirit of Christmas—once a beacon of hope—was drowned in a flood of blood and fear. The President-King’s grip was unrelenting, and there was no escape from the hell his rule had created.

J’s voice, shaking with disbelief, echoed the thought on all their minds: "I sacrificed my life... crucified for this?"

J’s voice quivered, each word a shard of disbelief, as the nails—11 inches long, 1 inch thick—slammed and pierced deep, embedding him in a world that had lost all sense of humanity. He didn’t believe evil was anyone’s default setting, but this... this was beyond comprehension. Was it all in vain? Did it even matter that the "evil-angelicals" reveled as 8,000 innocent children were blown to bits and pieces—and they kept giving, soaking the sands, fathom deep in blood? Was it all a waste of time?

"They gave them more 2,000-pound bombs to shred more children into minced meat. Yes, the terrorists hid among and under them, but a child’s life is never collateral damage. That is evil... and they blessed it," J said.

“Well, J, maybe your sacrifice was for nothing but to generate profit,” he whispered. “Or maybe your sacrifice is eternal, as is their endless hunger for hatred.”

J paused, staring into the abyss. “I believe the Word of Common Good and Kindness will prevail. It’s just a matter of getting the word out—X has stolen it. Should I go back down, Lone Star?”

“If you do, faith says you’ll suffer like never before,” Lone Star replied, his voice heavy with gravity. “Just listen to their podcasts—millions of people basking in the hatred. Millions. And he, the President-King, rejoices in it. It feeds him. And they’re planning a hit... on the big, cheerful guy from the HoHoHo clan—the one who spreads joy, the one who dares to bring cheer to a world drowning in darkness.”

The air felt thick, the weight of Lone Star’s words hanging in the space between them.

“What if I go in, set it up, and take the hit? S can go about his thing while they think they’ve gotten to me,” the suggestion slipped out, more an instinct than a plan.

Lone Star’s gaze hardened. “As I said, faith says the pain will be beyond anything you’ve endured. You’re not talking about a mere hit... it’s a torment. A crucible. You might not make it back. And if you do, you won’t be the same. You’ll carry that weight with you, in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Suddenly, thunder rumbled, and lightning slashed across the sky, breaking the fragile peace of the day. The air crackled with tension as if the very heavens were protesting. The ground trembled, and the distant roar of a storm filled the silence. Then, as if on cue, the voice of the President-King echoed through the cold, oppressive air of the bunker. His words were like the storm itself—violent, commanding, unstoppable:

“Lock the kids in cages. Make them disappear. God is made in the President-King’s image; therefore, it is set in stone—now the 13th commandment, law, fate.”

"Listen up," the President-King’s voice echoed, venomous and resolute. "Put a hit out on Envoy-J. 30 pieces of silver—make sure he’s crucified for everyone to see. Make it go viral. I want to see the posts, the retweets, the hashtags, and the likes.

Did the voters want blood? —give them blood. Hunt him down, place it on X and all my networks. Have the cross of crucifixion ready, the nails forged—one foot long, one inch thick to display him on. Get the gamma-ray sabers ready to cut deep. This will be their Christmas gift from me… their President, their King, and their God."

Ka-Chinglianaire-X knew exactly what to say to the masses, turning it all into a sick game. One million pieces of silver here, thirty pieces of silver there—buying votes like they were nothing more than commodities, like buying human lives. The anthem of hatred played on an endless loop, a constant command to obliterate. Every word crafted to fuel the fire of destruction, every message twisted into an unholy decree. The world was his playground, controlled by the currency of fear and greed.

“They are scum, enemies within, traitors”—the words too vile to fully speak, but every syllable soaked in venom. And with an Attorney junta who sold young girls for profit, and a Congress-Thingy who trolled and stalked vulnerable teens, no one in his MAGA empire dared to stop him.

It was the gladiators who thrived, the blood of humans about to spill—and they reveled in it.

The President-King’s reign was one of violence, manipulation, and depravity. No one dared question the system, as it fed on its own twisted pleasures. The people obeyed, numbed by the relentless drumbeat of terror. The President-King now claimed divinity; his words were law, and those who dared oppose him were marked for death. The world was his to shape, and nothing would stand in his way.

The podcast blasted from the speakers, the President-King’s voice cold and smug. “I have the mandate to do as I please. Every vote gives me the power to take any measure I see fit. My deals with both allies and enemies are my prerogative.”

The podcaster's voice cut in, dripping with amusement. “People need to pick their buddies better, not those who oppose our god, don’t you think? Seek, and all hail the President-King, our god. Ka-Ching!” The sound of cash registers rang out, mocking the hollow promises of democracy.

And Christmas? A distant memory, a relic of rebellion. The Gift-Bringers—Envoy-J, Emissary-M—were the last hope. If they didn’t act now, the nation would be lost forever, trapped in a kingdom of fear, where even hope was a crime.

The streets were unnervingly quiet, save for the low hum of drones hovering high above. The city, once adorned with vibrant lights and festive decorations, now stood cold and lifeless. Christmas had been outlawed, and in its place, the citizens walked with their heads bowed, weary and defeated, under the iron grip of the President-King.

But that wasn't the end of the purge.

Another message from the President-King flashed across every screen, his face twisted in that mocking, god-like grin, as the words echoed through every device: Envoy-J's blood ran cold as the gamma sabers hummed closer, their electric charge filling the air with a crackling tension. The disciples stood ready, hidden in the shadows, while the old lady clutched her coat tightly around her, but there was no mistaking the betrayal in her voice.

"I’ll sell him to the highest bidder," she sneered, her words a cold knife. "I’ve already made the call. Pay me my 30 pieces of silver in crypto."

Envoy-J's gut twisted. The grim truth hit him—she was one of them, one of the disciples who had been hunting him all along. His heart pounded, but before he could react, the footsteps grew louder, nearing the entrance. The trap was closing in.

Suddenly, in a blur of movement, the old woman revealed her phone, the text already sent to the agents lying in wait. Her cruel smile cut through the air like a dagger, and Envoy-J felt the sharp sting of betrayal—a wound he had once known too well. And there, in front of him, the barrels of gamma guns glinted menacingly, aimed and ready to take him down.

Something snapped inside him. A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins, clearing his mind. "No!" he roared, his voice a primal battle cry, as he surged forward.

He threw himself at the line of MAGA minions, moving with reckless abandon. Their sabers hummed, eager for blood. In a desperate, fleeting moment, Envoy-J kicked up a cloud of dirt and sand, sending it into their faces. The agents staggered, blinded by the sudden storm.

Seizing the opportunity, Envoy-J pushed forward, taking brutal blows to his side. His blood stained the ground, but he didn’t falter. He fought through the pain, his body screaming, but his will unbroken. His disciples, shadowing him in the chaos, hesitated for just a moment—then, seeing the old woman struck, J screamed out, "rescue her!" His strength waning, but his resolve as sharp as ever. "Get her out of here!" His vision blurred, and his body trembled from the effort, but he refused to stop. The old woman had betrayed him, yet in that moment, she was still his only hope—his only chance at survival.

The disciples moved in swiftly, pulling her away just as the sabers crackled in the air, their sharp edges slicing through the night. But the old lady didn’t scream. Instead, she laughed, that cruel, knowing laugh, as she was whisked away, leaving Envoy-J to face the hell he’d unleashed.

His heart raced, blood staining the ground in his wake. The agents surged toward him, but Envoy-J had already made his choice. He couldn’t save her. Not anymore. He had to live, to fight another day. And so, as the disciples made their move to extract the old lady, Envoy-J staggered to his feet, barely able to stand.

With a scream of pain and defiance, Envoy-J broke through the line, pushing past his attackers and running into the night, the sound of footsteps pounding behind him, growing fainter as he fled. But as he ran, his blood spilled freely, a trail marking his desperate escape.

Each drop was like a ticking clock, the MAGA agents closing in, the distant sound of their pursuit echoing louder with each passing second. His breath was ragged, the world around him fading, but his resolve was ironclad. He would not fall here. Not yet.

The agents, fueled by fury and the smell of blood, could almost taste his end. They moved swiftly, their mission clear: to capture or kill. Envoy-J's vision blurred, but he pushed on, desperate to outrun the inevitable.

As he plunged deeper into the night, the world felt like it was closing in. His blood, dark against the cold earth, was the only sign of his passage. The tension was unbearable. Would they catch him before he reached safety? Would this trail of blood lead to his death?

The agents were relentless. He could hear them gaining ground, their footsteps pounding the earth like a drumbeat of doom.

His blood mixed with the sands, fathoms deep, swallowed by the earth as it joined the crimson tide of 8,000 innocent children slaughtered by egos from all sides too large to see the truth. Those who hid behind and tunneled deep beneath the children—the ones who believed they were untouchable—were the ones who lived. And the children? The children had died, their lives snuffed out in an instant, sacrificed on the altar of a ruthless regime.

Envoy-J’s blood was now part of that unforgiving landscape, his life intertwined with the countless others lost in the wake of this purging madness. Their souls, silent witnesses to the carnage, cried out for justice in a world where it seemed impossible to hear.

But then, the silence grew heavier. The agents, relentless in their pursuit, had lost his trail. His blood had dried on the sands, leaving behind only faint traces, barely visible in the shifting night. The glow of their lights scanned the darkened landscape, but there was no sign of him, no final drop of blood to lead them forward. For a moment, the hunters had become the hunted.

Envoy-J had slipped through their fingers. For now.