I could write a novelist’s intro to my story — a little sci fi vignette about the annihilation and wipe-out of future Hamilton, Ontario (SpiderwebX), which I call, um, “Sabotaging SpiderwebX” . . . but I’d rather just urge you to click on the cool song above. And mention: It’s weird how dinkshit outfits can often produce better-made and -produced songs than a lot of pros. Epic Rap Battles/History is another example from the Grid. ANYWAYS! Here’s the story . . . and if you have something to say, add your comments to the bottom of the post; just click the box and type. And remember . . . IT’S NOT THE FUTURE . . .

“Sabotaging SpiderwebX”

by Xwarper UtopiaX DystopiaX

  •       King Street. The year 2027.
  •       This was the year Hamilton and Burlington, Ontario, Canada were amalgamated into one municipal entity: SpiderwebX. A part of the larger MegaToronto urban Alpha World City, SpiderwebX soon drew a series of strange, inexplicable terrorist bombings. This mid-April night, the air was cool and slow crowds drifted along to the sounds of Xwarper music. More buildings had popped up since 2017, but it was still recognizably the same city: the same lame crowds, the same rampant poverty, the same base need to emulate and catch up to “Toronto Proper,” 45 minutes to the north, which would not happen for some time to come . . .
  •       Bitter Hamilton boys, feeling shoved out of their own city by rising property values, responded to a call on the Internet. FUK THE BURJOIUS, FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHTS!! Plus a convenient e-mail address to respond to.
  •       Three low IQ, Barton Street-type thugs got one of their friends to type out a coherent email, volunteering their efforts. They were met at a warehouse in North Hamilton, not far from the two big steel mills. The man who met them was covered in shadows and smoking a cigar.
  •       “Thanks for showing up,” he said in an educated voice, stubbing out the cigar on the head of a black plaster panther. In fact, the three thugs noted now, in some surprise, there were porcelain, metal and plastic and plaster statues of great cats scattered throughout the North Hamilton warehouse: panthers, cheetahs, lynxes, more. All were snarling their hate. The shadowed man in the brown fedora and darker trenchcoat was chuckling. The three thugs looked at each other in confusion.
  •       “We thought . . .” they began, tripping over each other.
  •       Two nearly naked bitches wrapped in red puffy giant scarves that covered their naked pudendas, slinked out.
  •       “I won’t bother trying to recruit you,” the dark man said. “But if you do as I say, I’ll give you these cunts.”
  •       “Really? Right now?” the brightest most aggressive thug volleyed.
  •       “Ahh . . . howzabout we say ‘no’ to that query. But soon after you set some explosives, we can get this sex reward show on the road.”
  •       “Bombs? Yeah, cool!”
  •       “Excellent, my peripatetic friend, or shall I say friends? Friends, why not. The explosives are contained in those crates over there. They aren’t very big . . . I’m sure the resultant detonations won’t be that damaging . . . simple, dramatic fireworks, really . . .”
  •       The two nude chicks stroked the boxes like Price Is Right model-whores in Bob Barker’s day. Lookee at my boobs and nipples and at the marvelous $599 prize you may have just won . . .
  •       Looking at the bare tits bouncing around, the thugs licked their lips and nodded. Didn’t even have to pay them. Good. Hate to waste good money in advance on superfluosities.
  •       Two nights later, the three thugs were driving around a Ford Econoline loaned them by the mysterious man in the fedora. The naked bitches were nowhere to be seen. Who, if anyone, was fucking them at the present moment was, sad to say, a mystery. The three thugs swerved back and fun across their laneway, drawing the unwanted expectation of a SpiderwebX police car, now headquartered in the “Burlington” zone of the city (the ex-Hamilton headquarters had become an indoor garden for faggy plant-lovers and interior decorators). “Oh, shit!” the lead thug cried out. “Knew we shoulda taken it easy!”
  •       They attempted to out-race the SpiderwebX cops. They had laid 80% of the explosives and set the timer (“2 days”) but they were supposed to lay the remainder at McMaster University in the west end of the city, still called Westdale.
  •       The sirens and flashing lights came on.
  •       “Fuck me!” a secondary thug cried.
  •       They turned left on Locke Street (kinda hard to turn right). Zipping past the broken-glass ruins of a shitty chick-run bookstore called Epic Books, the black van slid left and right. Another cop, unfortunately answering a domestic violence call on a Locke side street near the big park, joined in. Two sets of screaming sirens, now.
  •       “Fuck fuck fuck!” lead thug shouted angrily. “Who’s got the gun? If I go to jail I ain’t gonna get those sugar walls and I ain’t been laid in 2 years!”
  •       “Quality pussy, that,” the secondary thug, slightly smarter, wisely observed.
  •       The two cop cars boxed in the van and drove it into the side of the main church on the west side of Locke. Small crates of explosives spilled in the back.
  •       The three thugs spilled out, raising their guns. The almost tiny, firecracker-sound of real firearms came POP-POP-POPPING with a CRASH! as the police front glass spiderwebbed. Two policemen ducked out, Beretta in their hands. They fired back. One thug was hit and spun back. The other two men screamed like little girls and raised their hands. They were shot dead and the cops traded high-fives and laughed, ruefully stroking their chins as they surveyed the damage to their vehicles.
  •       The man in the fedora, the master planner, watched through a web cam installed in the back of the van. Hmm, he thought. Too bad about those 20% uninstalled boomy-boom boxes. Good thing I overstocked, just in case of such an eventuality.
  •       He pressed a big red button on a walkie-talkie looking device in his hand. The two “ladies” looked at it each and smirked.
  •       A fireball blossomed orange from the van, rippling in a shockwave from the van, shattering and burning through the standing, laughing cops, dissolving them down to their bones, spreading out for 750 meters and finally fading at 1.5 kilometers. The other 17 fireballs, strategically placed around the city, including Flat Hamilton and the Mountain — lovely little techno-tronics — were simultaneously released in a hellacious, heartfelt, harridan-esque assault on the city formerly known as Hamilton. In a helicopter now, the mysterious man watched the single joining super-fireball rising off from the shores of Lake Ontario. The last human being to die in Hamilton was a small girl and her father fishing off the shorelines of Cootes Paradise, their hair setting on fire and hugging each other in despair and panic.
  •       Two weeks later, after the city-wide destruction made headlines around the world, the man of mystery wrote a sympathetic letter to the New York Times:
  •       Dear Editors, what has our world come to? What, indeed . . .

The End: X.