The next bastard pig was a woman.
Santan entered the bedroom of twenty-year-old Cornelia, who was lying on the bed with her legs behind her head, pushing a wireless mini camera with LED lighting into her anus. Eight cameras on tripods filmed her from every conceivable angle, streaming live on the website Fuckshit.
On one of the many screens, Santan saw a feed from inside her gut. Several other cameras caught him, and eight hundred million users in the live chat:
“OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG!”
But Cornelia paid no attention to the chat. Squinting and drooling, her tongue lolled out of her mouth.
“You whore, your time is up,” Santan said.
She looked at him with an Ahegao face, moaning:
“Hm?”
“Your time has come. I’m here to free you – and the men – from all this madness.”
“Who are you?” she interrupted, shaking her head as her expression cleared. Her eyes fell on the cast-iron pan in his hand.
“Who are you?” she repeated, smearing spit across her pussy.
“That’s irrelevant,” Santan snapped.
“No, I want to know. I’m a woman.”
“Uh-huh. Well, since you interrupted me…” He gave her a gentle tap on the forehead with the pan.
“Ow!”
He smirked, already relishing the thought of smashing her underdeveloped prefrontal cortex.
“Before I kill you, I want you to tell the truth.”
“Get out! I’m doing a live show! What is this even about? Killing? Me?”
On a screen: the mini camera streamed her twitching bowel and its contents to the world. A fleeting moment of shit. Cornelia briefly turned back to the cameras, pulling the same exaggerated face – squinting, drooling, tongue out.
Santan sighed.
“I want you to admit that what you do here is pointless and utterly worthless. That you exploit men’s longing and loneliness, faking any real connection. You have no interest in them at all. This entire fuckshit has no substance.”
“Substance? But my gut – look, I haven’t pooped today!”
“Are you stupid?”
“I went to college. And why don’t you kill the men? They’re the ones paying. I only have male followers. And they pay well.”
“They bear most of the blame. But I can’t kill them all. There are only four Advent Sundays a year.”
“And you’re still going to kill me? You can’t! I’m a woman. And I have the most followers on Fuckshit.”
“Women like you are the root of this madness.”
Cornelia stared at him, her mouth agape.
“So…” Santan said, holding the pan toward the cameras, “what I’m about to do is a kind of instructional video – a critique of your consumer habits. For all of you out there, watching with your dicks in your hands behind your screens. When I’m done, I want you to reflect on yourselves. Your self-respect. Your dignity. Because if you pay for this kind of garbage, you’re no better than worthless scum.”
He carefully placed the cast-iron pan against Cornelia’s temple. The first blow had to count.
“Anything you want to say to your followers, bastard whore?”
Cornelia made a heart with her hands, squints, sticking out her tongue and drooling into the camera.
In the chat:
“OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG!”
“Fuck you,” Santan muttered, and struck her with the pan once, then two hundred and ninety-nine more times.