I was at the University of Essex with my wife and daughter, on a visiting trip. We were lodging at a rundown apartment in a shanty village where the north towers had previously stood. The Brutalist architecture had given way to scraggly fields, dirt tracks of red soil, and a large population of rural Koreans. It was our last day and my wife was in the apartment having a shower, whilst I was out walking the squares with my daughter. I noticed a foreign man throwing a large plastic bottle onto the floor and walking off. The brittle plastic shattered and scattered everywhere. Outraged at the damage it would do to animals if they swallowed it, I gathered up the shards, walked after the man and threw it back at him. His family came over to protest, all gibbering incoherently at me. My daughter asked me why he didn't put his rubbish in the bin and I told her to ask him. A slanging match ensued, during which he threatened my daughter. This would not do. We engaged in fisticuffs and had to be dragged apart by his family. I stalked back to the shanty village, cursing him for a degenerate.
When I arrived at the village, something alarming was taking place. Chickens were having their throats slit and gangs of shifty Koreans were congregating in corners, glaring daggers at us. I heard chanting coming from the main building of the village, followed by the screaming of a woman, who sounded as though she were being tortured. I hurried back to the apartment and told my wife to begin packing her things immediately, because we were leaving. She is always very slow getting ready and my frustation mounted as I heard more screams from outside. Her belongings lay scattered all over the apartment and she was taking her time in the shower. She wanted to know what the rush was, I insisted there was no time to explain. I suddenly realised with a sickening lurch that our daughter was gone. Frantically, I ran outside to search for her and found the village in an uproar.
All around, people were being butchered on the spot with machetes, their mangled bodies strewn around in the dust. My wife joined me to look for our daughter and we suspected that she had been taken to the main, central house where the chants were coming from. We broke in on what looked like a voodoo blood sacrifice, but there was no sign of our daughter. The men performing the ritual grabbed Li and a shaman uttered a curse on her. Her body went limp and her soul left her body, becaming trapped in a wooden curtain railing where it would linger forever more. Her voice continued to communicate with me as though unaware of her predicament. I tried to tell her that she was dead because she was too slow getting ready, and that our daughter was lost, possibly dead. Perhaps not the most comforting words I could have offered, but I was angry and scared.
I fled from the scene of the massacre and was chased by the cultists. They shouted after me that they were trying to exorcise the demons that infested the village and the only way to do so was to sacrifice people. I escaped into the fields whilst they fanned out in a search party to hunt me down. I managed to blend in with the crowd of a travelling circus and eventually lost them. I grieved for the massacre of my family and vowed to take revenge once I had gathered my strength. What followed was a sort of training montage where I navigated a series of obstacles in a city, traversing concrete alleys and climbing up ledges. I came to a long ladder that I had to ascend to complete the course. The was a lever at the bottom which, when pulled, set chainsaw blades whirring all the way up both sides of it. I had to climb to the top whilst the blades were active, keeping to the rungs only.
I was gribbed by vertigo and it took a long time to place the ladder in a sturdy position and summon the courage to climb it. Eventually, I kicked the chainsaws into motion and began the ascent. It was a wobbly climb and my legs almost gave way several times. I made it to the top and was back at the Korean shanty town. I pulled the ladder up after me and gripping it from the bottom, I was able to wield it like a giant chainsaw. The angry villagers descended on me with their machetes, but I was ready for them. With wide, sweeping attacks, I mowed them down with the ladder chainsaw. It was slow and cumbersome, but effective. Blood spattered in all directions as I hefted the ladder to and fro. I took grim satisfaction in tearing them apart, shards of bone and giblets of flesh spraying off. Still they continued to run at me, screaming that I was the demon made manifest. The massacre went on and on, but it would be too tedious to describe it all so I'll end here.
