hooklinebooks Chapter 11 You know part of you wants immortality
Chapter 11 You know part of you wants immortality
In the affluent northwest district of the county, Danja Kildy is watching her most hated musical note software.
Although she also disliked the platform from Seris, the fact that Milk Dragon successfully rose to power through it is noteworthy.
The algorithm recommended the most popular videos to her recently.
The headline reads: "Live Broadcast! Saints Execute Corrupt Sheriff!"
The image shows the lobby of the YMCA casino.
Her collateral grand-nephew, Calvin Kirdie, stood on the podium, his throat suddenly burst open, and he fell backward.
Then the redneck in the leather jacket walked onto the stage, made the sign of the cross, knelt down to pray, and then stood up to speak.
Finally, the back of his hand glowed, and the crowd chanted in unison, "May the Lord bless you."
The video ends.
Danjay Kildee placed his phone face down on the table.
"You troublemaker!"
She cursed.
She is 62 years old this year and is one of the most powerful figures in the current generation of the Gildier family.
He holds the title of project director for a million-dollar charitable foundation and the position of archbishop of the local Protestant diocese of Clavius.
After all, she also needs spiritual fulfillment.
To her, this obviously fake miracle was nothing short of blasphemy.
"But could it really be true?"
The thought flashed through her mind, then she shook her head.
"No, it must be fake."
She walked to the wine cabinet and poured herself a small half-glass of dark red liquid.
"The holy blood is very diluted today."
The liquid came from a boy who was under five years old, had grown up in the church, and had received a full baptism.
The blood of a virgin is the blood closest to the Lord.
He sat back down on the sofa with his wine glass in hand and picked up his phone again.
The video's comment section has exploded.
"The Lord has performed a miracle! Did you see that light?"
"Karl Jensen is a saint of our time! He is carrying out a divine judgment!"
"I've always said that the higher-ups are treating us like disposable materials, and nobody believed me! Now the evidence is here!"
"God is on our side! It's time to wage holy war!"
Danjie scrolled down the list, his fingers moving faster and faster.
These rude and incoherent remarks made her temples throb.
But it also made her somewhat uneasy.
"Why would God favor such a country bumpkin?"
She murmured to herself, a self-deceptive murmur.
"I have done more good deeds and given more indulgences."
She knew that capital was the original sin.
She knew very well that she was guilty.
Who doesn't have one?
As the Lamb of God, all beings are born with original sin.
But she has already atoned with money.
Donating money, building churches, funding church schools, and distributing charitable supplies to the poor.
Her checkbook was her confessional.
Shouldn't this be the right way to atone?
"no."
She put down her wine glass and stood up.
"I need to go to church to worship and repent."
At the same time, at the Kirdie family estate on the other side of the city, Jenny Kirdie sat on her bed.
She is 28 years old, Danjie's grandniece, and one of the powerful shareholders of the family's charitable foundation.
I had previously contracted a rare disease, but fortunately there is a new drug and a suitable data sample.
The new medicine is very effective, and the recovery is going very well.
It just means I'm carrying another medical bill every month.
She picked up her phone, and the same video was pushed to her by the social media app. After watching it, she frowned.
"Didn't I already pay?"
His tone was filled with confusion and annoyance.
"And isn't contributing to medicine a good thing? Why aren't you grateful to me?"
She couldn't understand the redneck's anger in the video at all.
Organ transplantation is a noble medical practice, and both the recipient and the donor contribute to human health.
As for how the donors were obtained...
that's not important.
They gave me money, but they didn't rob me.
"That's really bad."
She turned off the video and tossed her phone aside.
I walked to the window and looked out at the neatly manicured lawn and fountain outside the manor.
She was a noble white woman, with the blood of the Gilder family flowing through her veins.
Those rednecks, Hispanics, homeless people...
Being chosen as a donor is already an honor bestowed by fate.
After all, not everyone has the opportunity to use their body to prolong a nobler and more valuable life.
She rang the bell to summon the housekeeper.
"Please contact the foundation's legal counsel for me."
"Check if that video infringes on any copyrights. Also, investigate that low-level guy named Carl Jensen and have him taken care of."
A storm is brewing online.
The video was widely forwarded, edited, and used for derivative works.
Some people added rousing hymns, some added frame-by-frame analysis of the halo effect, and some spliced Jensen's face together with images of saints in oil paintings.
In a digital world teeming with fanatics, Puritans, people with low IQs, and those seeking entertainment, and filled with highly informational cocoons, this video perfectly hit all the right spots:
A typical veteran redneck, dressed in his signature leather jacket and jeans, publicly executes a corrupt official while armed with two guns.
A cross was carved on site, claiming it was "the Lord's guidance".
This exposes the conspiracy of the upper class to treat the lower class as organ harvesting materials.
Finally, a halo resembling a miracle appeared, accompanied by collective frenzy.
Coupled with the groundwork laid by previous analytical articles on "Saint Messiah," public opinion exploded instantly.
"These are God's agents! The Bible says that on the day of judgment, the righteous will come with the sword!"
"Karl Jensen is not a killer, he is a saint! He is purifying this corrupt nation!"
"Look into those people's eyes! That's true faith! The Lord is with them!"
"If this isn't a miracle, then what is? Do the statues in those churches glow? No! But this living person does!"
The algorithm is working its magic; clicks are doubling every hour.
Carl Jensen didn't have time to whistle.
He was driving that pickup truck, with the accelerator floored.
The engine was roaring, and the speedometer needle was hovering near the redline.
Less than fifteen minutes after leaving the YMCA, the first police helicopter appeared over the city.
Next, a convoy of National Guard Humvees blocked the main road.
The National Guard was deployed, which was expected.
But the cars following behind them.
A black Chevrolet Suburban with dark tinted windows; the person sitting inside wasn't a policeman.
Jason saw the driver of one of the cars in the rearview mirror.
He had a buzz cut, a cold gaze, and a Navy SEAL tattoo covering a scar on the left side of his neck.
He recognized that type of person; he had seen similar individuals on the battlefield.
They are true killing machines. After retiring from the military, they won't become security guards or police officers; they will only be employed by private security companies or large families.
They're not even allowed to do xd!
The Gildi family has made their move.
The pickup truck sped out of the city and onto the highway leading to the north of the state.
Ahead was an area marked as "uncontrolled zone".
That was a bankrupt mining area, now under the control of KKK, and the local government had given up on managing it.
Once you get in, there's room for maneuver.
The roar of engines came from behind.
Two Saabbans caught up and quickly closed the distance.
Jason gripped the steering wheel with one hand and pulled an AR rifle from under the seat with the other, placing it against the car window.
He doesn't need to aim; he has hunting dogs.
A red thread extends from the vehicle behind, connecting everyone inside.
He pulled the trigger.
Three bullets.
The first shot pierced the hood of the first Suburban, the second shattered the passenger window, and the third penetrated the driver's seat.
The vehicle instantly lost control and rolled off the road.
The second Suburban slowed down to avoid the wreckage, but the distance had already increased.
The pickup truck veered onto the railway embankment, bouncing violently on the sleepers and gravel.
They've temporarily shaken off the situation.
But something was blocking the railway ahead.
Jason's eyebrows twitched slightly.
It is a tank.
The M60A3, with its main gun pointed in the direction it came from, has its hull painted with mottled jungle camouflage.
Commissioner Smith's job is really technical!
The turret hatch opened, and a person leaned out halfway and waved his arm.
"Jansen! Over here!"
It's Stephen Taylor.
One of the leaders of the local KKK party.
His son, Steve Taylor, is the boy on the document who is described as having a "highly matched liver."
"Take the railway! There's a bridge ahead; once we cross it, we'll blow it up!"
The sound of an engine could be heard in the distance.
A convoy of National Guard Humvees appeared on the horizon; there were at least six of them.
Stephen retracted the turret and closed the hatch.
The tank engine roared to life, spewing black smoke from its exhaust.
The turret slowly rotated, and the main gun was aimed at the incoming line.
Jason did not hesitate.
With the accelerator floored, the pickup truck continued its journey along the railway track.
In the rearview mirror, flames spewed from the tank's main gun.
The sound of an explosion tore through the night sky.