The Suicide By Army Initiative.

The Church  was almost about to fold, but there was no way Q was going to let those pigs take them alive. Q gave the order; “Prepare the suicide machines!”

Agents began feverishly and ecstatically beginning the final preparations. To have a successful cult, the first step is to acknowledge that all religion is a cult. Or began as a cult. Even the sternest of Catholics will begrudgingly acknowledge that their faith is peopled with all manner of fanatical cults. All shisming and praying and being crazy in their own particular way. Once you realize that belief in the insane is not only a constant of society, but a pillar, it is then a simple matter of finding your niche. Knowing your cultists. Understanding that people desperately want to believe that they are more than self-replicating DNA shitting and breeding their days away for no greater purpose than just that.

Once you have these things locked down, it is all just a matter of creating a following. Convincing people that you have a line to the top. A bead on the cosmos. Q-Lord Q had studied a great deal of lesser cults in his pursuit of something both unique and grand. In particular he had to pay attention to the failures. What constitutes a failure? It is not everyone dying. That is something that several cults had pulled off to varying degrees of success. Judaism had a long history of everyone killing themselves to avoid capture, rape, and slavery. These suicide cults were heroes. Defiant to the end. Did they go to “heaven”? Who knows. What Q wanted to avoid was comedy. Comedy was the ultimate failure of a good cult.

When he was just a boy, Heaven’s Gate caught their comet. Who was to say that their castration and mass suicide was not successful? Can anyone say they were on Halle-Bop over those few days? But what had struck Q was not the attempt at evacuation before the great Earth “recycling”, but how only a few days later the 39 members of the group had drugged and suicide bagged their cares away, Saturday Night Live was making fun of them. Poor Applewhite. He had such vision for a lunatic. Only to be satirized. David Koresh? Not made as much fun of. Perhaps it was the child rape. Perhaps it was the black and burning fire that came to us in near real time. Too close to ignore. But there were still the comedians who made him the butt. The world can not tolerate vision that operates counter to the population. But nothing was as bad as the Kool-Aid.

The crisis point and critical mass came early in the 21st, when vernacular adopted the clever phrase “They really drank the Kool-Aid.” In reference to the Jonestown massacre. That to say you are “Drinking the Kool-Aid” is to submit without question to authority. As if everyone everywhere does not do that every day. But what REALLY irked Q was that it was not, by the strictest definitions, a mass suicide, as portrayed by the media and history at large. Really it was a massacre, because everyone was not drinking the Kool-Aid {Actually Flavor-Aid if you bothered to check}, but some people were being FED the Kool-Aid. 200 children were not given a choice in the matter. And they are also the butt of the joke. Stupid fucking children! Why do you have to be such damned Sheeple! The Tea Party had won, and Q would have no part of it.

“Gods damn it, we are way out of our time frame. Why do we even bother suicide drills if everyone is going to slack!?” asked Q, more excited than irritated.

Slack was, unfortunately, a chief tenant in The Church, and so he could not reasonably expect the Agents or Sub-Cultists to weaponize themselves with any due speed. It was at this point that Agent Dr. Mad approached and gave an early-suicide brief.

“Well, Agent 00, Q-Lord Q DDS, are you prepared for our early-suicide brief?” a simple nod got Dr. Mad into his monologue, “Phases 1-7 are a go and the further phases will require your direct approval, as you know. Phase 1, The Press Release, has been initiated.. Everyone has uploaded their death poems, updated their FBs, and Youtubes eagerly awaits our capture. Phase 2, The Ice 9 Solution has been released. Within hours our Agents will have released their caches of liturgic acid into the water supply, and everyone will be in an acid frenzy within the day. Phase 3, The Pizza Sandwich deployment has begun and you can probably actually smell those delicious sandwiches baking now.  Phase 4, Dinner, will be within half an hour. Phase 5; World War; Q a brand new novel has been released to Amazon, and we are going to get so many clicks. Phase 6; Orgy Factor Infinite is underway below decks, and Phase 7; The Plague Guns are being distributed now. All hail Q.”

At this Dr. Mad made the Q with his fleur fingers and both men held one another in deep embrace.

“This is going to be the best mass suicide ever.” Said Q, and Dr. Mad knew it to be true.

“Can I get you anything? What else can I do?” asked Dr. Mad.

“Bring me a pizza sandwich when they are done. Get one for yourself. Call Bachman. Let her know we are coming for her.” Said Q, and sat back in his command pod.

Agent Dr. Mad left him and Q looked out over the bridge. Best suicide ever. The Victorious cleaved through the clouds as she ramped up to full speed, ascending to where the air would offer the least resistance. The scrams cut in at the troposphere and Q could see the stars as the gently broke Mach. The Plague Guns were a mean invention. Q wished that he had not seen the design through to completion. Da Vinchi designed tanks and people wondered if he felt guilty about it, but it was a really shitty tank. No one made that tank, except the Sci-Fi channel once, and maybe those Mythbuster dudes, but that was it. The Plague Gun was not like that. The concept had originally been simply The AIDS Gun, which in comparative standards was infinitely more reasonable. Simply put it was a gun that was really more of a glove, and this glove/gun would penetrate your veins and give you AIDS, and it would fire darts. Little darts that came in a barrel around the entire works, with a standard compliment of 2,000. The idea was that if you shoot enough people with AIDS, medicine would create a cure by necessity. Is the idea. Which was probably a bad idea, in the first place, but then when Q patented it he made so very much money, and could afford a real engineering team, and thus The Plague Gun.

The Plague Gun was not so much a gun, or a glove, but an implant. You would feed it blood {For The Blood God} and it would give you The Purple Plague. The Purple Plague is an elegant and sinister retrovirus that creates several conditions and genetic modifiers that, when combined, leave the strongest and most resistant among us sterile, and insane, and this is all that it needs to do. A spongiform encephalitis that dissolves the brain down to a stem burned like a match head. The Purple Plague leaves AIDS to the Kleenex and casket people, and creates for itself a new global impetus to cure humanity. The Agents of The Church had inoculated themselves to the virus wholly and completely, through the rigorous and regular drinking of experimental blood. And isn’t it all?
Christianity bases itself in drinking the blood of Jesus. And this is far more crazy than riding a scram jet propelled dirigible carrying the End of Times to the Tea Party and their party members. While the parties partied the world burned, and now, in the remains, Q could not help but wonder if he had simply run for political office out of the womb? Presidency by 35. UN General Assembly Dictator for Life by 43. Earth King Q I by 50. And MAYBE… just MAYBE the Earth would have been able to reach escape velocity. But what is a cult leader to do these days? In these dark days when the craziest among us lead by example? There is not a world left. Q reached for the tape and hit play. Q-042 opened. And Jim Jones was there.

What a sweaty bag of dicks that Jim Jones fuck was. Q hated him so terribly. For the terrible things he had done. There are many occasions through history that had exceeded him in evil. Perhaps, in the end, it was best for them all to die. Maybe it was best to live to by a child and then get poisoned to death because someone things you are going to get tortured to death. Maybe you were going to get tortured to death? Thanks, Obama. For not taking out Bachman when you had the chance. Then she became president. Why not torture her for information? Surely she had something in there worth putting on tape no one will ever hear? Except perhaps interweb users? It is better, however, to listen to the truly insane, than to ignore them. To ignore them is to give their insanity power.

Ventola walked into the bridge, and he had with him a massive pizza sandwich, which he offered to Q, and which Q broke and gave half to V, and lo they both did dine on pizza sandwich as the Victorious began atmospheric re-entry. V had his massive Zweihänder strapped to his back, and was smiling at Washington over the con.

“So, this isn’t a drill then?” asked V, “This is the Suicide By Army attempt?”        

Q nodded, his mouth far to full of delicious pizza sandwich to speak. V ate.

“Who is this?” asked V, “This person sounds crazy.”

“It’s Jim Jones convincing the members of his cult to drink the Flavor-Aid.” Said Q.
V frowned, “Don’t you mean Kool-Aid?”

Q didn’t need to explain to V. He had bigger fish to fry. The interweb was ablaze with the klaxons of apocalypse. Rather than lock up as failingly foretold by the great Y2K                                      , it became a fluid and blossoming organism. Mans hubris and terror unified into a singular solidarity of thought and vision. Agent Unfiltered watched the feed while smoking a massive hand rolled American Spirit, shaking his head at the tomfoolery. People trying to finish their novels, or tell their kids they loved them, or get porked, or twisted, and more than that, the large majority who was attempting to do it all at once, and succeeding in nothing. Q had always lived under the shadows of the atom bombs. He had never learned to love them. He had always tried to create new and inventive ways of killing everyone. Instead of explode burning them with fission by the billions. But here he was. Just adding to the problem. The Agents universally understood that it was not a drill. That the suicide revolution was on like Donkey Kong. That there was no going back. And that Bachman would answer for all those poor people she killed because they didn’t speak American.

“Take us down, Agent Swordfish. Steady as she goes…” said Q, rising and heading towards the armory, “I see a White House, and I want to paint it red...”

Jesus was by far the best cult leader ever. 12 fishermen, carpenters, tax collectors, and winos turned into billions of people drinking your body and blood every weekend. It was a tough act to follow, but Q was going to give it his best shot. As he put on his jetpack and the hangar bay doors were opened the SS heavy machine gun fire coursed up at him like angry fireflies. Coursing over the Agents in waves of fire and rattling around the cabin like lead reverse-hail. They all laughed at the audacity, and because the first waves of lunacy were pressing against their brain bags. The Purple Plague was inside of them, and part of them, and their arm guns and swords were ready and able. They fall unto the White House and the command team quickly finds Bachman’s Vergineran Guard bearing her standard, Stars, Stripes, Babies, and Crossed Gun-crosses.

“Agents. It has been the greatest honor of my life leading you to this moment.” Said Q, smiling behind his visor and throttling up his jet pack into a laser beam of death, “Follow me, and die.”
To this the Agents cried out in one voice; “Live by the sword, die by the sword!”

And they fell unto the ranks spewing steel and tainted blood. Bachman herself stood 10 feet tall, bolstered by cyborg weaponry most classified. She spit fire from her mouth, and acid from her groin. Her limbs were all blades and ordinance, rotating and firing at anything moving, alive or dead. The SS bolstered her on every side, but their weapons were useless, and in short order they were all of them gripped in the throes of The Purple Plague. Q knew that his Suicide By Army plan would succeed. No one would survive this glorious apocalypse. No fun would be made of him, for only The Cockroach People would remain to speak his name with fear and respect. 


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