Kidpinoy gets Slaughtered #4

 

The rain over Manila did not wash away the heat; it only made the air thick, smelling of ozone, exhaust, and impending ruin. For ten years, the city had slept under a blanket of unyielding peace. The criminals had whispered his name in the dark like a curse; the demons had crawled back into the fissures of the earth; the alien armadas had bypassed the archipelago entirely, warned away by the legend of the sun-kissed protector.

KidPinoy.

At only five-foot-five, with a body of hard, taut sinew and an armor-like ten-pack of abdominal muscles that had deflected tank shells, he was the undisputed, unbeatable champion of the Philippines. None knew his origin, only his deeds. None knew his name, only his absolute, stoic silence in the face of evil.

Until today.

In the center of the ruined Quirino Grandstand, under the glare of hovering television drones and the terrified eyes of thousands of hostages corralled in the plaza, the hero stood. His humble black compression pants and shirt were already torn, showing the glistening, golden-tan skin beneath. His black eye mask remained intact, but his breath was heavy.

Across from him stood the architect of his downfall.

Trump Albright, the billionaire criminal whose empire KidPinoy had dismantled piece by piece, adjusted his pristine white suit. Behind him, the monstrous shadows of KidPinoy’s worst nightmares loomed: Jackhammer, the towering, nine-foot-tall android brute whose chassis rumbled with hydraulic malice; Lord Maal, the fiendish, red-skinned demon prince of darkness; and Oboye, the multi-eyed, tentacled alien conqueror whose flesh pulsed with bioluminescent hunger.

And hanging from a rusted iron cage suspended above the stage was Rose. Her eyes were red, her lips parted in a silent scream behind her gag.

"Look at him," Trump Albright sneered, his voice carrying through a high-powered megaphone that echoed across the entire bay. "The great savior. The invincible boy from the slums. Did you really think you could keep us in the dark forever, Bien?"

KidPinoy’s stoic expression cracked. A tremor went through his jaw. He did not speak, but his eyes darted to Rose, then back to Trump.

"Oh, yes. We know," Trump laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Five years, Bien. Five years of sharing data, of digging through the trash of the docks, of translating ancient texts recovered from the deep trenches where Oboye’s people first landed. We found the Book of the First Dawn. We found the legend of the Sacred Virgin Vessel."

Jackhammer took a step forward, his metallic joints hissing. From his pelvic region, a massive, mechanically enhanced, drill-like cylinder of spiked steel and throbbing energy conduits slid outward, whirring with high-frequency vibrations.

"Ten years of fighting, and you never let a single soul touch you," Lord Maal hissed, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "We thought it was your training. We thought it was your indomitable will. But it was simpler. Pure, unadulterated abstinence. Twenty-five years of untouched, untainted youth. The sacred chi of the ancient heroes remains locked in your blood only as long as your body remains a temple, unviolated and unshared."

"And today," Oboye bubbled, his wet, raspy voice translating through a collar around his central mass, "we break the temple. We drink the gods dry."

"No..." KidPinoy’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp. It was the first time the public had heard him speak in three years. "Let her go, Albright. This is between us. Take me. Let her go."

"Oh, we will take you, boy," Trump chuckled, gesturing to the sky. "The cameras are rolling. The whole country is watching. They get to watch their champion get milked like a prize beast. If you fight back—if you use even a single ounce of your chi to resist—Jackhammer’s automated turrets will turn your pretty little Rose into a red mist. Do we understand each other?"

Bien looked up at Rose. She shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face, spraying against the bars of her cage. He looked at his hands—hands that had shattered mountains, hands that had brought peace.

Slowly, his knees buckled. He dropped to his knees on the concrete, his head bowed.

"Good boy," Trump mocked, walking over to stand directly in front of him. "The proud Filipino champion, kneeling in the dirt. Strip him!"

Before Bien could react, Jackhammer and Maal lunged forward. With a sickening crunch of displacement, Maal’s heavy, clawed hands pinned Bien’s shoulders to the ground, while Oboye’s thick, slimy tentacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles, pulling his limbs taut, stretching him out like a piece of raw meat prepared for the butcher.

"Let's see that famous armor," Jackhammer grunted, his synthetic voice box buzzing. With a brutal yank, they tore the remaining fabric of his compression gear away, exposing Bien’s completely naked, sun-kissed body. His legendary ten-pack abs rippled in the rain, a perfect, symmetrical shield of muscle.

"So firm," Trump whispered, stepping close to touch the rigid muscle with his leather shoe, grinding his heel into Bien’s stomach. "But not for long. Jackhammer, break the seal."

"With pleasure," the android boomed.

Jackhammer positioned himself behind the pinned hero. The massive, vibrating mechanical rod—pulsing with high-voltage electrical currents and designed specifically to target the prostate with absolute physical force—drove downward.

With a sickening, wet impact, the mechanical shaft impaled Bien’s virgin body, bypassing his external invincibility by attacking him from the inside.

"AAAAAHHH—!"

A scream of sheer, unadulterated agony ripped from Bien’s throat—a sound so raw and broken that the crowd in the plaza wailed in terror. The legendary armor of his abs suddenly spasmed, the muscles bulging unnaturally outward as the massive mechanical shaft drove deep into his core, the high-frequency vibrations drilling directly into his highly sensitive, untouched prostate.

"Look at that!" Trump yelled into the microphone, his eyes wide with sadistic glee. "The steel boy has a soft center! Look how those perfect abs stretch from the inside! Is the mechanical cock too big for you, Bien? Is it tearing up your little sacred garden?"

"It is... so tight," Jackhammer rumbled, his pelvic pistons driving forward with rhythmic, crushing violence. Each thrust sent a wave of blue electricity directly through Bien’s nervous system, forcing his pelvic muscles to contract violently around the invading steel. "The resistance is incredible. It is like drilling into solid gold. But gold bends!"

"Please... stop..." Bien gasped, his vision blurring. His head thrashed from side to side, his forehead pressed against the wet concrete as liquid rain and sweat poured down his face. "Rose... don't look... don't..."

"Oh, she’s looking, Bien! She’s got the best seat in the house!" Lord Maal laughed, leaning down to bite hard into Bien’s left nipple. His razor-sharp fangs tore the flesh, tasting the first drops of the hero’s blood. "Mmm... taste that purity! It burns like liquid starlight!"

"The chi is shifting," Oboye reported, his tentacles tightening around Bien’s ankles, pulling his legs wider, display-style, for the cameras. "The energy flow is destabilizing. The barrier is cracking!"

With every brutal, crushing thrust of the mechanical rod, Bien felt his very soul being scraped. The invincibility he had relied on for a decade was a physical pressure within his chest, and now, that pressure was leaking out. A powerful, dark aphrodisiac—specifically formulated by Albright’s scientists to bypass his immune system—flowed from the tip of Jackhammer's device, flooding Bien’s bloodstream.

His body, which had known only disciplined, stoic abstinence for twenty-five years, was suddenly hit with a tsunami of unnatural, chemically induced arousal. His own member grew violently, painfully erect, throbbing with a desperate, heavy heat.

"No... no, I can't... I won't..." Bien groaned, his teeth grinding so hard they threatened to shatter.

"You don't have a choice, pier boy," Trump sneered, crouching down in front of Bien’s face, grabbing a handful of his thick black hair and pulling his head back. "Your body wants to release. It’s been waiting twenty-five years. And when you do, all that lovely, concentrated life force comes pouring out. We’ve got the collection vats ready. Do you know how much a single drop of a demi-god’s virgin semen sells for on the black market? It’s the ultimate elixir of youth. And I’m going to milk you until you’re nothing but a hollow husk."

Jackhammer’s thrusting speed doubled. The mechanical hum grew into a deafening roar. The electrical currents surged through Bien’s lower back, triggering his prostate repeatedly, forcing his body toward an inevitable, shattering climax.

"He's reaching the threshold!" Jackhammer shouted. "The pressure is maximum!"

"Suck him, Maal! Don't let a single drop hit the floor!" Trump ordered.

Lord Maal released Bien’s bleeding chest and lunged down, wrapping his massive, fanged maw around Bien’s throbbing, sun-kissed cock.

Bien’s eyes rolled back into his head. His entire body went rigid, his legs shaking violently in Oboye’s grasp. His legendary ten-pack abs convulsed one last time before his body surrendered.

A thick, creamy torrent of highly potent, golden-white semen erupted from his body, pouring directly down the demon’s throat. It was unlike any normal fluid—it was thick, like warm, glowing jelly, vibrating with the residual spiritual power of his ten-year vigil.

Maal swallowed greedily, his throat bulging as he drank down the raw essence of the hero’s power.

"Ahhhh! Yes! The light!" Maal roared, his red skin glowing with a temporary golden aura. "It is magnificent! It is like drinking the sun!"

As the first forced orgasm subsided, Bien felt a terrifying emptiness expand in his chest. His skin, once hard as diamonds, felt suddenly soft to the touch. The golden hue of his complexion dimmed, turning pale and bruised.

"Look at that," Trump laughed, stepping forward and planting his heavy boot directly onto Bien’s stomach. The boot sank into the flesh, the rigid armor of his abs now yielding like soft clay. "The steel is gone. You’re just a weak, pathetic little boy from Tondo now, Bien. Just a cheap laborer who got lucky."

"Let's do it again," Jackhammer rumbled, not stopping his relentless, rhythmic drilling. With Bien’s body perpetually stimulated by the synthetic aphrodisiacs, his member quickly stiffened again, throbbing with a forced, painful erection. "He has plenty of reserves. Lift him!"

Oboye’s tentacles wrapped around Bien’s waist, brutally lifting his pliant, exhausted body into the air, only to slam him back down onto Jackhammer’s engorged, vibrating mechanical shaft.

Slam!

"AAAGHH!" Bien gasped, his legs twitching in mid-air.

Slam!

"Please... Rose..." Bien’s voice was fading, his mind fracturing under the sensory overload.

"He’s begging for his girl!" Trump mocked, leaning toward the camera. "Did you hear that, people of the Philippines? Your great champion is begging! He’s nothing but our little Filipino milk bull now! We’re going to empty him, and then we’re going to discard him like the trash he is!"

"I hate you," Oboye hissed, a tentacle wrapping around Bien’s neck, squeezing just enough to cut off his air. "Ten years of hiding in the dark because of your fists. Ten years of listening to you being praised as a god. Today, we show everyone how fragile a god really is."

"He is about to cum again!" Jackhammer warned.

This time, Trump himself stepped forward, holding a silver chalice beneath Bien’s throbbing tip. "Let me taste the legend."

As Bien’s body convulsed under the relentless internal stimulation, a second massive wave of thick, golden fluid erupted from him. Trump caught it in the chalice, laughing as the warm, glowing cream filled the cup to the brim. He raised it to his lips, drinking it down in one long, greedy gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as some of the thick fluid ran down his chin.

"Incredible," Trump whispered, his eyes bloodshot with sudden, artificial vigor. "The potency is unmatched. My heart is racing like a young man's. More! Keep milking him!"

"But the human brain cannot withstand such continuous stimulation," Oboye bubbled. "If we do not control his mind, his heart will fail before we are finished."

"Then use the neural invasive probes, Oboye," Trump ordered, turning back to the camera. "Show them what happens to heroes who stand in our way."

Oboye’s main body hovered closer. Several thin, translucent tentacles, dripping with a glowing blue neurotoxin, slid toward Bien’s face.

"No... get away..." Bien whined, his arms thrashing weakly against his restraints. His broken hands could barely form fists now.

Without mercy, Oboye jammed the thin tentacles directly into Bien’s ears, his nostrils, and deep down his throat.

Bien’s eyes widened in sheer, silent horror as the alien probes invaded his cranium. The neurotoxin flooded his brain, overriding his thoughts, replacing his stoic resolve with a drug-induced, perpetual state of agonizing ecstasy and terror. He could no longer think; he could only feel the relentless, crushing impact of Jackhammer’s mechanical rod, the cold air on his bare, bleeding skin, and the terrifying warmth of the alien poisons rewriting his mind.

"He is ours now," Oboye declared, his tentacles pulsing as they pumped more chemicals into the hero’s brain. "The champion is completely broken."

"Now, let's have some real fun," Trump said, his voice dripping with malice. "He's lost his invincibility. Let’s see how much damage his mortal body can take before we put him on the grill."

Maal stepped forward, his heavy, hoofed foot hovering over Bien’s face. "Your face was always too handsome for a peasant."

STOMP.

The heavy hoof crashed down on Bien’s face, shattering his nose and splitting his lip. Blood splattered across the concrete.

STOMP.

"Where is your strength now, hero?" Maal roared, grinding his heel into Bien’s cheek, crushing his cheekbone. "Where is the god of the Philippines?"

Jackhammer continued to pump into Bien’s rear, the friction and electrical currents now causing smoke to rise from the raw, torn flesh of the hero's backside. Bien’s abdomen was visibly bloated now—filled with the dirty, synthetic fluids and lubricants from the android’s machinery, mixed with his own internal bleeding.

"He’s full of our grease and his own blood," Jackhammer laughed. "Watch this!"

Jackhammer raised his massive, iron-alloy fist and slammed it directly into Bien’s bloated ten-pack abs.

CRUNCH.

The impact was devastating. The air was violently forced from Bien’s lungs, and with it, a torrent of blood, gastric juices, and swallowed semen erupted from his mouth, spraying across the stage and onto the camera lens of the hovering drone.

"Oh, look at him throw up!" Trump laughed hysterically, pointing at the shivering, broken young man. "The clean, pure hero is spitting up our filth! Show his face, zoom in!"

The camera hovered inches from Bien’s battered face. His black eye mask was torn away, revealing his swollen, blood-shot eyes and his true identity to the millions watching.

"Bien Regalado," Trump announced, reading from a tablet. "A twenty-five-year-old pier worker from Manila. He carried boxes for ten pesos a hour. He lived in a shack made of rusted iron sheets. And you all worshipped him! You thought he was a savior! He’s nothing but a dirty, poor boy who didn't know his place!"

Trump walked over to Bien’s pinned hands. "These hands... these are the hands that broke my factories."

Trump raised his heavy silver cane and brought it down with full force on Bien’s right hand.

CRACK.

Bien’s fingers snapped like dry twigs. He couldn't even scream anymore; the tentacles in his throat muffled his cries into a wet, pathetic gurgle.

CRACK. CRACK.

One by one, Trump crushed every single bone in Bien’s hands, reducing his legendary fists to a pulp of shattered bone and torn flesh.

"Now, stand him up," Trump ordered. "Let’s see him fight."

Oboye and Maal released their grip, letting Bien’s broken body slump to the wet concrete. He lay there for a moment, shivering, his body leaking blood, grease, and his own golden life force from every orifice.

"Get up, champion," Maal taunted, kicking him in the ribs. "Show the crowd your unmatched kung fu!"

With a superhuman effort of sheer, dying will, Bien struggled to his knees. He looked up at Rose. She was unconscious now, her head hanging limply against the bars of her cage. He looked at the city he had protected—the distant skyline of Manila, dark and silent under the rain.

He forced his broken, shattered hands to rise, trying to form a guard stance. His legs shook like wet paper.

"Pathetic," Trump whispered.

Maal stepped forward and delivered a casual, backhanded slap to Bien’s face. The force of the blow sent Bien spinning through the air, crashing hard against the concrete, rolling several times before stopping at the edge of the stage.

"Is that it?" Maal laughed, walking over and lifting Bien by his hair. "The great KidPinoy... defeated by a slap."

"The crowd is losing hope," Oboye said, his eyes glowing. "It is time for the execution. Let us begin the harvest."

"Yes," Trump agreed, his face twisting into a demonic grin. "We must dismantle the legend entirely. Maal, take what you want."

Lord Maal smiled, his long, black tongue sliding over his sharp fangs. He positioned his claws over Bien’s face. "I always wanted to see through the eyes of a hero."

With a sickening squelch, Maal’s long index claw plunged into Bien’s left eye socket.

Bien’s body convulsed violently, a muffled, high-pitched scream tearing through his blocked throat. Maal twisted his claw, popping the eyeball out of its socket, severing the optic nerve with a wet snap. He held the bloody, golden-glowing sphere up to the light of the camera.

"A beautiful eye," Maal whispered, before tossing it into his mouth and chewing loudly, the golden fluids of the hero’s sight bursting between his teeth. "Mmm... delicious. The taste of a fallen angel."

"My turn," Oboye bubbled. His sharp, razor-tipped tentacle shot into Bien’s open mouth, wrapping around his tongue. With a brutal, sudden yank, the tentacle ripped Bien’s tongue straight out of his throat, spraying a fountain of dark red blood across the stage. Oboye withdrew the tongue, sliding it into his central beak-like mouth, swallowing it whole with a wet groan of satisfaction.

"He cannot speak, he cannot see, he cannot fight," Trump declared, gesturing to a massive metal apparatus that had been rolled onto the stage behind them. It was a giant, rusted iron grill, heated from below by roaring, blue-white plasma burners that hissed with terrifying heat. "But his healing factor is still trying to save him. Isn't that right, Bien? Your sacred chi is still fighting. Let's see how long it lasts against the fires of hell."

Maal and Jackhammer picked up Bien’s limp, bleeding body and threw him face-down onto the searing iron grill.

The moment his flesh touched the metal, a horrific, loud hissing sound filled the air, followed by the pungent smell of burning skin and fat.

"AAAAAHHHH!"

Even without a tongue, the sound of Bien’s raw, vibrating vocal cords screaming through his blood-filled throat was deafening. His flesh melted and fused with the red-hot iron, but his remaining, desperate healing factor kept trying to regenerate the tissue, causing him to remain conscious and feeling every single second of the agonizing torment.

"He’s cooking beautifully!" Trump laughed, taking a pair of shears from a tray. "But first, we need some souvenirs. The hair of the chosen one is said to ward off demons. Let’s shave him clean!"

While Bien lay screaming on the burning grill, his body twitching in agonizing spasms, Trump and Maal brutally shaved his head, his armpits, and his pubic hair, ripping the skin away in patches as they did, leaving his head a bloody, hairless mess of raw flesh.

"A token of our victory!" Trump shouted, holding up the blood-soaked clumps of black hair to the cheering, terrified criminal syndicates watching the stream.

"The core is still active," Jackhammer warned, pointing to Bien’s groin area, which was still dripping with the residue of his power. "The remaining chi is concentrated in his testicles. If we do not extract it completely, his body might still recover in a few decades."

"Bring out the heavy machinery," Trump commanded.

A sleek, black medical unit was wheeled forward. From its side, a long, thick metal catheter, lined with sharp, outward-facing micro-spikes and pulsing vacuum tubes, hissed into life.

"This is the Albright Bio-Extractor," Trump explained, leaning over Bien’s scorched, shivering face. "Usually used for extracting marrow from living donors. But today, it’s going straight into your sacred vessel, Bien. No need for orgasms this time. We’re going to vacuum your very soul out of your balls."

Jackhammer pinned Bien’s lower back to the burning grill, while Trump himself grabbed Bien’s limp, blistered member. With a brutal, physical shove, he forced the spiky, whirring metal catheter directly down Bien’s urethra, forcing it past his prostate and directly into his left testicle.

Bien’s remaining eye rolled back so far only the white was visible. His body went absolutely rigid, his spine arching off the grill as the micro-spikes inside his groin expanded, shredding the delicate internal tissues of his male anatomy, while the vacuum pump began to roar.

A thick, dark, golden-red slurry of pure, concentrated life-force and blood was sucked through the clear plastic tubes of the machine, filling a large glass canister on the cart.

"It works!" Trump cried, his face lit by the golden glow of the siphoned essence. "Look at it! It’s like liquid gold!"

"I want the other one," Oboye hissed.

Before Bien could recover from the shock, one of Oboye’s thinnest, sharpest tentacles, tipped with a hollow, bone-like needle, drove directly through Bien’s scrotum, piercing his right testicle from the outside. The alien began to suck, his body pulsing with bioluminescent light as he drained the remaining reservoir of Bien’s virility directly into his own alien system.

Bien’s scream was no longer human. It was a high-pitched, rattling whistle of pure, unadulterated torment—the sound of a soul being physically torn apart from the inside out.

His once-glorious body began to shrivel. The remaining muscle definition in his abs collapsed, turning into a flabby, bruised, and weeping mess of scorched flesh. His skin turned an ashen, deathly gray.

"He’s empty," Jackhammer announced, withdrawing the spiky catheter with a wet, tearing sound that brought away pieces of Bien's internal anatomy. "The sacred chi is fully depleted. He is nothing but meat now."

"Then let’s finish the display," Trump said, his voice cold and victorious. "The teeth first. I want a necklace."

Maal stepped forward with a pair of rusty pliers. He forced Bien’s shattered jaw open, ignored the bubbling blood, and began to pull his teeth out, one by one.

SNAP. CRUNCH.

With each tooth pulled, Maal laughed, tossing them into a silver bowl. Bien’s head thrashed weakly, his body completely spent, unable to offer even a whisper of resistance. He was a hollow shell, his mind completely broken by the neurotoxins and the absolute violation of his body and soul.

"And now, the limbs," Trump decreed. "A champion should not have arms to fight, or legs to run."

Oboye and Maal each took an arm. Jackhammer grabbed both of Bien's legs.

"On three," Trump smiled. "One... two... three!"

With a sickening, wet chorus of tearing muscle, snapping tendons, and cracking bone, they pulled. Bien’s arms and legs were violently ripped from his torso, sending fountains of dark, depleted blood spraying across the red-hot grill.

Bien didn't even scream. His remaining eye fluttered, staring blankly at the sky as his life force ebbed away to a faint flicker.

Maal leaned down, his massive jaws opening wide. He bit hard into the back of Bien’s neck, his fangs crushing the cervical vertebrae, lifting the limbless, bleeding torso into the air like a prize catch, presenting him to the silent, petrified crowd in the plaza and the millions watching at home.

"The prey is slain!" Maal roared.

Another beast-like demon leaped onto the stage, its jaw unhinging as it bit hard into Bien’s groin, ripping away his remaining, mutilated male organs with a single, wet snap, swallowing them whole to gain the last residual traces of his power.

Trump Albright stepped up to the main flagpole of the grandstand, where the red, white, and blue flag of the Philippines had been torn down, replaced by a black banner bearing Albright’s corporate crest.

"Bring him here," Trump ordered.

He took two long, heavy iron chains, tipped with thick, rusted meat hooks. With a brutal grunt, Trump drove a hook through each of Bien’s burnt, bleeding nipples, the metal tearing through his chest wall, securing his limp, armless, and legless torso to the chains.

They hoisted the broken, faceless, and mutilated remains of KidPinoy up the flagpole, raising him high above the city he had protected for ten years.

The rain poured down on the lifeless, hollow shell of Bien Regalado. The golden light that had once defined him was gone, replaced by the dark, cold shadow of the new rulers of the archipelago.

Trump Albright stood below the flagpole, his suit stained with the blood of the savior, looking out over the silent, weeping city.

"Your champion is dead," Trump’s voice echoed across the bay, final and absolute. "The night has officially begun."