IMG_5255
md5: 617657458557584c8b332140566ec29e
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The Great Hall of the People thrummed with righteous fury. Red banners, emblazoned with the sacred words of the Great Helmsman, draped the walls like flames of revolution. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron—the sweat of the toiling masses, the iron of their unbreakable will.
At the center of the stage, bound in the shackles of his own decadence, stood Bernardo Kastrup, the snake-oil philosopher of idealism, the purveyor of reactionary mysticism. His books, his lectures, his poisonous thoughts—all had sought to lead the people astray, to drag them back into the fog of bourgeois individualism. But the Red Guards, sharp as the edge of a sickle, had seen through his lies.
The crowd roared. Fists shot into the air like a forest of spears. Kastrup trembled, his face pale, his Western suit stained with the sweat of fear. He opened his mouth to defend himself—a fatal mistake.
But mere beating was not enough. The poison of idealism had to be purged utterly.
Comrade Wu, a veteran of the Long March, stepped forward with a meat cleaver, its edge glinting under the harsh lights. "The reactionary claims reality is an illusion," he bellowed. "Let us show him the material truth of teeth and hunger!"
With a single swing, Kastrup’s left hand was severed at the wrist. Blood jetted in rhythmic pulses, painting the stage in the sacred color of the Revolution. The crowd surged forward, hands outstretched, eager to partake in the Great Correction. A young factory worker, her face alight with zeal, snatched the disembodied hand and bit into the fingers with a crunch of bone. "The flesh of idealism is bitter!" she cried, "but the People will digest it!"
Kastrup writhed, his screams lost beneath the thunderous chanting of "Serve the People!" Comrade Li, a former peasant who had once starved under feudal oppression, plunged a bayonet into Kastrup’s thigh, twisting it to pry loose a thick slab of muscle. He held it aloft, dripping, before sinking his teeth into the raw meat. "This is the taste of dialectics!" he roared, blood streaking his chin.
Fingers clawed, teeth ripped, blood painted the stage in glorious revolutionary red. Kastrup’s screams were drowned beneath the ecstatic chanting of "Long Live the People’s Justice!"
The Red Guards, now a single organism of vengeance, descended. Fingers pried at his ribs, cracking them open like the shell of a rotten ideology. A student from Beijing University, his glasses fogged with steam, reached into Kastrup’s chest cavity and tore free a lung, holding it like a trophy. "See how the idealist gasps for air! Now his breath belongs to the masses!"
Kastrup’s eyes rolled back as his intestines were unspooled, sectioned, and passed through the crowd like a grotesque communion. A grandmother who had survived the Japanese occupation slurped down a length of small intestine, laughing as she declared, "Even his guts will serve the Revolution!"
megamind
md5: 5a16af76092bae6c7c7a63188b4dee34
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>>24513523 (OP)did u really feel the need to make this post
His face was next. A burly dockworker gripped Kastrup’s jaw and wrenched, tendons snapping, until the lower half of his skull came free in a wet tear. The tongue, that organ of deceit, was plucked out and held up for all to see. "This spoke poison! Let it nourish the workers instead!"
By the end, only the bones remained—gnawed clean, gleaming white under the stadium lights. The skull, picked of its eyes and brain, was mounted on a pike at the entrance of the hall, a grim warning to all those who would contradict the iron truth of materialism.
— LONG LIVE THE PEOPLE'S APPETITE FOR JUSTICE! —
>>24513523 (OP)The Chinese are cockroaches.
