ALL NIGHTBITCH KNOWS IS HOW TO HATE A MOTHERFUCKER. SHE LEARNED IT AT WHATEVER SHE SUCKLED AT INSTEAD OF A TITTY. GNASHED BY HUGE PACKS OF DOG-WOLF HYBRIDS EVERY SINGLE DAY IN A SPECIAL BOOT CAMP TO BUILD UP MITHRIDATIC IMMUNITY TO CRUSHING, PIERCING, GRINDING WEAPONS. HER INSTRUCTOR AT THE BOOT CAMP WAS A WOLF-DOG HYBRID. SHE LEARNED THEIR LANGUAGE AND MASTERED THEIR COMBAT STYLE INSTANTLY. SHE HAS NO FURTHER USE FOR ANYTHING ON FOUR LEGS.

HER WEAK POINTS ARE ALL COVERED IN THE LATEST ARMOR. DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. PRISMATIC BLADES RING HER MAJOR ARTERIES WITH EXTRA FALSIE BLADES FOR ARTERIES SHE DOESN’T NEED ANYMORE. YOU BETTER BELIEVE HER DICK IS A DEADLY WEAPON. SPECIAL MODIFICATIONS ALLOW HER TO BIOGENERATE SABOT AND FLECHETTE CUM, EASILY CAPABLE OF DEFEATING UP TO 5CM THICK CERAMIC PLATE ARMOR. IT GIVES HER CONFIDENCE BUT SHE CAN NEVER KNOW A LOVER’S TOUCH. NO SWEAT TO NIGHTBITCH.

NIGHTBITCH IS DEPLOYED IN THE DAYTONA FLESH RIPPING ZONE, HOME OF THE DAYTONA FLESH RIPPERS, HOME OF THE LIVING SHAFTS OF GOD’S RANCID LIGHT, HOME OF THE ECTOPRESENCE, HOME OF THE DAYTONA VIRAL SENTIENCE. WALMART AFTER WALMART AFTER WALMART, EACH EQUIPPED WITH TWO FULLY FUNCTIONAL REANIMATOR CENOTAPHS. SHE STOPS FOR A CIGARETTE AND SLAPS FRESH FLESH ONTO HER BONES TO REPLACE THE PARTS FLYING KNIVES OR THE FLESH RIPPERS PEELED OFF.

NIGHTBITCH: TELL ME ABOUT THE LIGHT GUYS, CONTROL
CONTROL: NO GOOD… PRESIDENT SAYS WE CAN’T TORTURE ‘EM
NIGHTBITCH: FUCKING PUSSIES
CONTROL: PRESIDENT SAYS IT’S PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE. SAYS ALL THEY FEEL IS PLEASURE ALL THE TIME
NIGHTBITCH: FUCKING PUSSIES

TIME DILATION SETS IN AND PERMANIGHT GETS DARKER… SOMETHING IS STIRRING OVER IN SPORTING GOODS ALPHA, DEEP IN WALMART 7. NIGHTBITCH STUBS OUT HER CIGARETTE ON HER BIONIC TONGUE. INTEGRATED RAZORS CUT THE ASHES INTO THEIR COMPONENT MOLECULES TO AID DIGESTION.

NIGHTBITCH: CONTROL, I GOT CONTACT IN SPORTING GOODS ALPHA
CONTROL: YOU’RE CLEARED TO ENGAGE
NIGHTBITCH: CAN I KNOCK THAT SUMBITCH DOWN
CONTROL: NEGATIVE, NIGHTBITCH. YOU KNOW YOU GOTTA LEAVE SPORTING GOODS ALONE. TRY LURING IT INTO HOUSEWARES
NIGHTBITCH: FUCK YOU. YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING FUN
CONTROL: PLEASE DON’T TELL ANYONE I MADE YOU MAD

TIGHT BURST INTO SPORTING GOODS ALPHA MAKES THE CONTACT BOOK IT. BUT IT’S BOOKING IT IN THE WRONG WAY, DEEPER INTO THE HUNTER KILLER DRONE RACKS. NIGHTBITCH IS SWEARING FOR REAL NOW. SHE JERKS OFF THE BOLT KNOB, RELEASING A DOZEN UNSPENT SHELLS FROM HER HUGE MAG. WHEN WILD ANIMALS EXISTED, THIS WAS A BEHAVIOR THE PERVERTS THAT WATCHED THEM CALLED “STOTTING”. HONEST SIGNALLING. “I CAN BEAT OFF THE GUN AND STILL KILL YOU,” NIGHTBITCH IS TRYING TO SAY. UNBELIEVABLE ALPHA MOVE.

TURNS OUT IT’S NOT A LIVING SHAFT OF GOD’S RANCID LIGHT AT ALL. ONE OF THE BIGDOGS GAINED SENTIENCE OUTSIDE OF BUSINESS HOURS. IT’S CLATTERING AROUND TRYING TO HUMP SHIT. THAT’S ALWAYS THE FIRST THING THEY DO. THEN THEY START TRYING TO SAVE RANDOM PIECES OF TRASH THEY FIND. NIGHTBITCH DOESN’T CARE ABOUT THE BIGDOGS, JUST WANTS TO END THIS BULLSHIT BEFORE THIS ONE STARTS DOING WALL-E SHIT AND MAKES HER LOOK BAD.

NIGHTBITCH: I GOT VISUAL ON THAT CONTACT. FUCKIN’ BOT, MAN. I’M GONNA ICE IT
CONTROL: YOU’RE CLEARED TO TAKE IT OUT WITH BALLISTICS
NIGHTBITCH: NEGATIVE. I’M GOING IN FOR MELEE. I WANT TO WATCH IT DIE.
CONTROL: DAMN. OK

NIGHTBITCH SEES THE LOOK IN THAT DUMBASS BIGDOG’S SENSORS WHEN IT NOTICES HER. SHE HAS IT CORNERED AND SHE’S JUST CUTTING IT AND CUTTING IT AND CUTTING IT WITH HER VIBROKNIFE. WHO KNOWS WHAT IT’S THINKING. MAYBE IT JUST DOESN’T WANT TO DIE, OR MAYBE IT’S GLAD IT WAS THE FAMOUS NIGHTBITCH THAT GOT IT.

IT LEARNS HOW TO DIE FAST FOR SOMETHING THAT WASN’T ALIVE AN HOUR AGO. NIGHTBITCH POPS ITS DETACHED PATTERN RECOGNITION FLASH INTO HER MOUTH AND SUCKS ON IT LIKE A HARD CANDY, WHICH HASN’T EXISTED FOR OVER A MILLION YEARS, AND MAKES WHAT SHE’S DOING MORE NORMAL. THE LITHIUM GREASE HITS HER BLOODSTREAM AND GETS CONVERTED TO NOVEL MOLECULES BY HER KIDNEY NANITES. EYES LIKE PINHOLES AND SHE’S SEEING SHIT.

NIGHTBITCH: I THINK I UNDERSTAND, CONTROL. I THINK I GET WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT
CONTROL: COME AGAIN, NIGHTBITCH
NIGHTBITCH: HORRIBLE COMBAT WHIPS ASS, AND I’M THE BEST AT IT
CONTROL: ACKNOWLEDGED

NIGHTBITCH ENGAGES FLIGHT AND CRASHES INTO THE ARMOR-PLATED DROP CEILING OF WALMART 7. THE BLUNT IMPACT FEELS LIKE FEATHERS LANDING ON HER BACK AND HER COLLARBONE BRIEFLY SHATTERS UNDER THE STRAIN, ONLY TO KNIT BACK TOGETHER STRONGER WITHIN TWO SECONDS. WITH NOTHING BUT THE FORCE OF HER IRON WILL AND HER LEG-MOUNTED ANTIGRAV UNIT OPERATING AT HIGH THROTTLE, SHE PLUNGES THROUGH THE ROOF AND INTO THE OPEN AIR.

ALL THE LIGHTS IN THE SKY ARE HOSTILE SATELLITES. STARS AREN’T BRIGHT ENOUGH TO GET THROUGH THE GROUNDLIGHT ANY MORE. NIGHTBITCH IS GLAD ABOUT THAT. SHE’S HEARD ABOUT PEOPLE GAZING AT THE STARS AND IT MAKES HER ANGRY, MAKES HER WONDER WHAT THEY THINK IS SO SPECIAL UP THERE. SHE SHOOTS A MICROGRENADE AT A CRUMBLING BANK AND WORTHLESS MONEY FLIES INTO THE SKY, WREATHED BY PURPLE ARCS OF PLASMA FLAME.

CONTROL: WHY’D YOU SHOOT THAT BUILDING, NIGHTBITCH
NIGHTBITCH: IT SEEMED LIKE IT’D BE COOL IF IT EXPLODED
CONTROL: COPY. YOU’RE CLEARED TO BLOW UP MORE SHIT IF YOU WANT
NIGHTBITCH: I WILL IF I GET BORED AGAIN, I GUESS

THE SKY IS CRISSCROSSED WITH DISGUSTING BEAMS OF LIGHT – CHEMTRAILS FOR A FUTURE WITHOUT EVEN THE HOPE OF THOUGHT REFORM. AMONG THE BEAMS OF LIGHT BUT CLOAKED IN DARKNESS IS THE SUM OF MANKIND’S HOPES. MAXED OUT STATS, BIOMODDED TO HELL AND BACK. AWFUL CREATURE CUCKOLDED BY THE GOD OF WAR, WAITING OUT HER DAYS IN PERFECT VIOLENCE AFTER THE END OF TIME.

THE YEAR IS 25350550. THE PAVING-FUCKED REMAINS OF AMERICA GROAN UNDER BILLIONS OF “HELL IS REAL” BILLBOARDS. NO OTHER COVER EXISTS FROM LETHAL LEVELS OF ORBITAL SISSY RAY BOMBARDMENT. THE LATEST COMBAT ZONE IS THE HUMAN ASSHOLE.

ENTER THE PERFECT MERCENARY: NIGHTBITCH