Kidpinoy's Aftermath 13

 

From the Perspective of El Jefe

I watched the final act of degradation unfold with a sense of profound, almost academic satisfaction. It was not the base, slobbering glee of my underlings, like Diablo, who found pleasure in the mere physicality of the act—the tearing of flesh, the slick sound of violation. My pleasure was more refined. It was the pleasure of a master strategist seeing a complex, multi-layered plan come to its perfect, brutal conclusion.

Bien Regalado, their "Kidpinoy," was an equation I had long sought to solve. His invulnerability was not absolute; it was a function of his spirit. His stamina was not endless; it was fueled by a wellspring of hope, a sacred essence the old gods had foolishly bestowed upon a mortal boy. To defeat him, one couldn't simply batter the body. One had to dismantle the very idea of him, both in his own mind and in the minds of the pathetic masses who looked to him as a savior.

The serpentine creature, Xylos, had performed its task admirably, plunging its tendril deep into Bien's core and siphoning the chi. I watched as my lieutenants gorged themselves on the stolen essence. Their forms swelled, their eyes glowing with borrowed divinity. They were becoming stronger, yes, but more importantly, they were participating in the sacrilege. They were now complicit in the ultimate blasphemy, forever bound to my cause by this shared sin.

Diablo, ever the brute, prepared the final instrument. A grotesque mockery of virility, barbed and obscene. It was a tool of psychological warfare more than physical torture. We had already broken Bien's body. Now, we would shatter the symbol.

"This should do the trick," Diablo had sneered. And he was right, though he likely didn't grasp the full nuance.

As they forced the monstrous phallus into the boy's slack mouth and ravaged orifice, I observed the final, flickering resistance in his sinewy frame. His muscles, once taut bands of heroic power, now convulsed in a pathetic, involuntary rhythm. The sun-kissed skin, a canvas of his Filipino heritage, was now a roadmap of our cruelty—bruised, stretched, and torn. The implement sawed through him, a hideous parody of intercourse, designed not for pleasure or procreation but for utter annihilation. It was the ultimate statement of dominance: to take the very form of life-giving and twist it into an engine of death and despair.

With a final, violent thrust, a shudder wracked his frame. It was a different kind of shudder than before. Not of pain, but of finality. A gush of fluid, thin and pale, seeped from him—the last dregs of his virility, his sacred essence now utterly spent. He was an empty vessel.

"Enough," I commanded, my voice cutting through the grunts and growls of my minions. "He's had his fill. Now, the final act."

My order was not born of mercy, but of theatrical necessity. The private degradation was complete. It was time for the public lesson.

From the Perspective of Diablo

The feel of it was glorious. Power. Raw, absolute power. Every time I drove the barbed head of the Violator deeper into the hero's guts, I felt his brokenness transfer to me as strength. I could feel his body giving way, the taut muscle turning to pulp under the relentless pressure. His silent screaming, his mouth stretched wide around the other end, was the sweetest music I had ever heard.

For years, this little bastos had been a thorn in my side. His righteous smirk, his unbreakable body bouncing my best blows back at me. He’d stand there, lean and tough, that brown skin gleaming with sweat, and defy me. Defy us. Now, that defiance was a forgotten memory.

When Xylos sucked out his chi, I was first in line. The taste was electric, like drinking lightning and sunshine. It burned down my throat and settled in my gut, a boiling core of stolen valor. I felt my own muscles swell, my horns sharpen. It was better than any power I had ever seized on my own.

El Jefe called a halt, and I pulled the Violator out with a wet, sucking sound that made the other monsters moan in appreciation. The boy’s body was a ruin. His belly was distended and bruised, his insides surely torn to ribbons. He was still breathing, but it was shallow, like a dying fish on a dock.

We hauled him upright, the chains clanking. The weight of him was pathetic. He was just a sack of meat and bones now. We forced him to his knees, his arms pulled high, the Violator still jutting from between his legs like a grotesque trophy. My blade to his throat was just for show, a final little flourish before the main event.

We dragged him out of the dungeon, into the grey, dust-choked light of the plaza. The air stank of fear. We had herded the city’s remaining sheep into this pen, and they stared at us, at him, with wide, hollow eyes. Good. Let them watch. Let them see what happens to heroes. Let them smell the stink of his humiliation, the blood and waste and sweat that caked his once-proud body.

This was my moment of triumph. I was the one who would deliver the final blow. I was the one who would stand over his corpse, the conqueror.

From the Perspective of El Jefe

I ascended the dais, a makeshift stage of rubble before the desecrated facade of what was once their national cathedral. The crowd, a thousand-strong collection of broken spirits, watched me in terrified silence. Behind me, Diablo and the others held the limp form of Bien Regalado, forcing him to kneel as if in prayer to his new gods. To us.

I let the silence hang, a heavy shroud over the plaza. Then, I began.

"People of this fallen city!" my voice boomed, amplified by the stolen magic crackling in the air. "You look upon this… thing… and you see a failure. You see a broken toy. But you are wrong. This is not a failure. This is an education."

I gestured to Bien. "Behold Kidpinoy! Your champion! Blessed by your forgotten gods, gifted with their sacred essence. Look at his skin, once the color of rich earth, now a canvas of purple and black. Look at his muscles, once sinewy and strong, now slack and torn. Where are his gods now? Where is their blessing?"

I paused, letting the question sink in. I saw a flicker of something in the crowd—not defiance, but the last ember of grief. I would extinguish that too.

"His divine essence?" I chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "We took it. We drank it. It now fuels us. His invulnerability is ours. His stamina is ours. Everything he was, now serves the new order."

I walked over to the kneeling boy. His eyes were unfocused, staring into the abyss of his own shattered soul. I grabbed his hair, forcing his head up so the crowd could see the vacant despair in his gaze.

"This is not just a body we have broken," I continued, my voice low and intimate, yet carrying to every corner of the plaza. "We have unmade his spirit. We found the core of his will, that indomitable Filipino resolve you praise in your myths, and we hollowed it out. We filled him with our filth, our cruelty, our power."

I nodded to Diablo. "Show them the final lesson. The lesson of submission."

Diablo grinned, his scarred face a mask of sadistic joy. He and two other hulking brutes grabbed the base of the giant phallus still lodged deep within Bien’s body.

"He thought his body was a temple," I narrated, my voice rising to a crescendo. "We have shown him it is nothing but a hole to be filled. He thought his seed was sacred, the essence of his lineage. We will now wring it from him like water from a rag, a final, pathetic offering to his conquerors!"

With a collective, monstrous heave, they began to work the device. They twisted and thrust, the cruel barbs doing their final, grisly work inside him. Bien’s body convulsed violently. It was no longer a human reaction; it was the twitching of a biological machine being pushed past its breaking point. A thin, guttural sound escaped his throat, the first noise he had made in hours. It was a sound of pure, mechanical agony.

His back arched impossibly, his spine threatening to snap. Every remaining fiber of his being was focused on this singular, all-consuming violation.

"Watch, you cowards!" I roared at the crowd. "Watch as we milk your hero dry! This is the fate of all who resist! Emptiness! Humiliation! Annihilation!"

With one final, brutal shove, something inside him gave way with a sickening, wet tear. His body went rigid, every muscle locked in a terminal spasm. A torrent of milky fluid, mixed with blood and bile, spewed from both ends of the obscene device, drenching the stone beneath him. His body convulsed one last time, a grotesque, puppets-dance of death, and then… he was still.

The light in his eyes, already so dim, winked out entirely. Bien Regalado was dead.

Diablo let go, and the body slumped forward, a heap of ravaged flesh impaled on our monument to his failure. A collective gasp, a sob, rippled through the crowd. It was the sound of hope dying.

"Let this image be burned into your minds," I proclaimed into the sudden, dreadful quiet. "The age of heroes is over. The age of gods is over."

I gestured to my minions. "Hoist him up. Parade him through every street. Let every man, woman, and child see the true face of their savior."

The monsters, roaring in triumph, lifted the makeshift crucifix with his body still upon it, and began their slow, celebratory march through the ruins. They were no longer just monsters. They were gods now, fed on the essence of a hero. And I, El Jefe, was their architect. I had not merely conquered a city. I had murdered its soul.