The Stench of Purexo
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The Stench of Purexo Lasse Öörni 1 2 Foreword To some, war is hell. To others, it’s the best thing ever. And yet to some it's both. Contains strong perverse horror and violence, strong concentration of bad language, bogus medicine / science / car maintenance / occultism, some crude sexuality and references to bodily functions. Be aware that this is a crossover with Agents of Metal Pt. 1-3, but Purexo stories contain far less sanity. Read at own risk. All vehicles, objects and characters in the last part are fictional, but may be inspired by real life counterparts. Author's thanks for inspiration: Amistech Games, Fastloaders (Ninja Musicology I-III), Ford Motor Company, General Motors Company, Muusikoiden.net, Tomi Thurlin (440), Toyota Motor Corporation + black, death and doom metal. 3 4 Part One – Onset of Putrefaction 5 6 At some point the rotting had started. Kim was not sure when was the exact moment, but now that she thought back, there was a definite smell of rotting emanating from somewhere that couldn’t be explained away easily. It was not the smell of rotting fruit in the trash bin, or other remains of crude microwave food. No. It was the smell of rotting flesh. Her own flesh. That was unmistakeable. She thought back to when she had first encountered it. The smallest whiff. A single word came to her mind, and there was no doubt any more. Purexo. It was the stench of Purexo. That horrible day, the dimensional incident. The appearance of Tacgnol, and its just as incredulous destruction. Somehow that day had tainted her permanently, and would lead the way to her eventual complete putrefaction. What was absurd, was the she had actually dreamed of it. Wished it. To putrefy away as a protest to mankind, a final monument and epitaph to her continuing and growing misanthropy. To putrefy into a black disgusting liquid during the climax of a doom metal set. What was even more absurd, was that she had taken steps to steer her life to fulfill that precise goal. She had 7 bought a bass guitar, and after enough confidence, had replied to a message posted on a local musicians’ web site, which solicited for bassists to join into an all- female doom metal band. Fuck. That was the path to her undoing, what she had not realized up until now. But it was best to start from the beginning. 8 Kim was surprised at the weight of the bass guitar. It was a black Squier clone of a Fender Precision, with a single P-microphone. That was something the sales clerk had explained, which Kim had not known beforehand. She had also bought plectrums of several gauges, to get to know what would best fit her playing style. She knew she would start from almost zero. She only knew she wanted to play the most evil and depressing doom metal, that would inspire anyone who heard it to commit suicide. For now she did not have an actual amplifier yet. She had bought a ProCo Rat distortion pedal, which she fed straight to a set of cheap headphones. That was enough until she actually learned to play. If she ever did, that was. The weight of the bass guitar rather made her think how it would be a suitable instrument to kill a human being. To bludgeon their head in. Somewhat perversely, Kim thought she was much more adept at killing than playing. But everyone had to start from somewhere. Thinking of killing made her think of something else. Or rather, someone. Erik. That son of a bitch, whom she could never fully figure out. At least with Viktor it had been clear. He had been 9 an anti-cosmic Satanist (or pretender) through and through, whose only goal had been to conquer the eleven planes of Azerate, and amass the knowledge contained within. As well as to fuck their brains out, when both of them agreed that was the definite course of action. But now Viktor was no more. As far as Kim knew, he had been reduced to a puddle of black goo. That left Erik, who was a much harder case. Fuck! Kim had already failed her internal Bechdel test. Only a few minutes with the bass, and she was already thinking about men. But what then? She could think of what the hell she pleased. So, Erik. He had boasted of actually being in possession of an identified alien craft (IAC). He played drums in the genres of thrash, speed, black and death metal, just as the situation demanded. He had performed missions for the benefit of mankind, firing a sniper rifle while wearing a black leather Agent coat. Or at least that was what he had told. Kim was not sure of what exactly to believe. But in any case, compared to Viktor Kim observed a far larger friction with Erik whenever they met, which was not even that often. But to his credit, Erik had given Kim further courage to pursue the goal of becoming a musician. That was something. So, Kim plugged the ProCo Rat into the transformer, which she had left plugged into a wall socket. She observed it to be rather warm, which could actually lead into a fire hazard. She put the cheap headphones over her head and plucked the low E-string with a medium gauge plectrum. The sound was pure noise, not at all satisfying. Kim realized she had also let the A-string ring open, leading to an unintended power chord. She tried again, making sure to mute the other 10 strings with her left hand this time. This time, the low note of the E-string was satisfactory. It was pure fucking doom. She started to hum to herself, at the lowest note her voice could muster. ”Doooomm… Satann…” She began to chuckle. That was not exactly the pinnacle and essence of doom, but she would learn. She would force herself to learn, just as she had learned the art of security and violence. 11 Erik woke up in the middle of a disgusting nightmare. It was still completely dark. He had dreamed of being submerged somewhere in the SCEPTRE Black Ops’ endless mazes, trying to align the sights of his M4 carbine or the scope of his sniper rifle, but never managing in time before the enemies acquired him. Then they would kill him, over and over. Fuck them! In his dreams, it seemed he could not call upon the instincts of the over-man that he had long ago mastered, but was not prepared to divulge to others in case they would get unnecessarily offended. And because Erik was not sure if sleep would come again, he submerged to the internet. He had been studying the darkest reaches of Reddit for some time. He knew he was only in agreement of maybe 50% of their tenets. Maybe even less. But he certainly considered himself a shitlord. That was something to definitely hide from most people. After the significant Agent missions in 2012-2013, which had seen Erik traveling to Area 51, and taking part in possibly saving the future of all mankind, Erik did not exactly know who to trust, or what to tell to most. Now the IAC was safely stashed away at the forest compound of the mostly disbanded Shadow Unit, or what remained of them. 12 So, Erik drifted in a kind of limbo, not knowing what his life would entail to a great degree in the future. He had possibly done something astounding, but it would never matter to most people. He was drifting in a void. He knew one possible purpose would be to form a true Agent Metal band. To let the truth of their expeditions out with raw speed metal energy. If anyone would listen, that is. But to be sure, Erik was not sure where the other remaining and serious musician Agents, Ian and Jo, even were at this point. In summer, Erik had joined them in the south of Europe, where they had performed the ritual burning of a Ford Ka that had been just as instrumental in saving Earth as their guns and electro- magnetic armor coats had been. But that was all in the past. What would the future be, if anything? Fuck! Erik just did not know. There simply was no proper guarantee of anything. Browsing the worst shitlord and edgelord pages on Reddit simply did not fit the daily routine of a goddamn ex-Agent and hero, but what else there was? Fuck! Erik was seriously out of ideas. Erik thought of Kim, whom he saw occasionally. If Kim dared to follow her dreams, she was now following the path of becoming a doom metal bassist. Which actually made sense. Doom or especially occult doom rock was much more commercially favorable than old- fashioned speed and thrash metal. Especially if the thrash metal would be concerned with conspiracies of and out of this world, like Agent Steel had done. They were mostly out of action by now, even if their past vocalist had actually believed in Reptilians and other serious transgressions of the ruling elite. They had briefly rejoined with their original vocalist John Cyriis, which then just fizzled out. So… 13 Maybe that actually left a window of opportunity. For a true Agent Metal trio that could even reach some degree of success. To tell things exactly how they had been. Each burst from an MP5 submachine gun or M4 or G36 rifle. Each fallen enemy.