Unicorn Jizz & Battenberg

by AngusEcrivain

"I don't believe this shit," the man mumbled to his computer monitor. He took a sip of his extra-large Watty and grimaced in disgust. Picked a stray orange pube from his tongue. "They didn't even read my fuckin' story! The fuck is this comment supposed to mean, anyway!? 'Loved the way Pixy Dust rode Unicron LOL!' There wasn't any Pixy Dust or Unicron in my fucking story, nor was there anything remotely funny in it! What the hell are you LOLing at, you dumbass!?"

He rubbed his temples, leaving orange Cheetos dust behind. His head killed right now. Had been hurting a lot lately, but this took the cake. Nobody understood his beautiful writing. Their comments were irrelevant. It made him sick. Made him want to teach them all a lesson.

A grin worked its way across his pale face.

Yeah. Teach 'em all. A lesson.

The man brought up the profile of the latest imbecile to comment on his riveting story. Got a good look. Memorized the name and the face.

He went to his gun rack. Grabbed his finest and most powerful weapon. Locked it and loaded it.

The hunt was on.

Getting close enough to them to enact his plan was going to be a piece of cake; Battenberg, if he had anything to do with it.

He loved Battenberg. His favourite part was the goo, the sickly sweet and sticky glue that held the marzipan to the strips of pink and yellow sponge.

Sure he liked the marzipan, in fact he loved it, and he liked the spongy parts, too, though it has to be said that if he was forced to choose, at gunpoint, which part of a Battenberg cake was his least favourite then he would probably have said it was the yellow sponge.

And that was nothing against the yellow sponge, not really. In truth there was nothing wrong with it at all. It was sweet and for the most part succulent, everything a piece of cake that made up a larger cake ought to be.

There had to be a least favourite part though. There had to be a least favourite part to everything even if the sum of all parts, including the least favourite, amounted to something he truly loved.

Like Battenburg.

He'd said as much in a thread on one of Wattpad's Serial Killer forums, too, and whilst that might not have been the start of his troubles because as you, I and everyone knows, his troubles began long before the Almighty Wattpad Gods, in what was quite clearly their finite wisdom, had decided Serial Killers were the new rockstars, the new bestsellers and had invited a whole host of them to join the site.

Things got, as I'm sure you can imagine, pretty messy, but he had no intention of revisiting those dark times.

He had reached the top though. There was no doubt about that. He had reached the top of the Serial Killer Hotlist but still, still, he had one I-love-your-story-'specially-the-bit-about-unicorn-jizz-so-clearly-I-didn't-even-try-to-read-your-story-lolz inbreds to annihilate.

Whilst climbing the space elevator in a very 1960s Batman-esque fashion, because it was at the very top of said space elevator that he would find his target. She - because she was a she - was, after all, enjoying a tour of Wattpad's newest HQ; a reward for something, obviously, but he did not really care what that something was. No, all he cared about was that for the first time in a long time, he knew exactly whereabouts she was going to be.

That'd only happened once before. She was protected, the Wattpad Gods made sure of that, but on that one occasion someone had slipped up and he'd been on a plane to London within the hour.

Fucking extremists though. Motherfuckers had seen fit to attempt to hijack that flight. Of all the flights they could possibly have chosen, it was the fucking flight he was on, on his way to drill a hole - because every serial killer's gotta' have their own technique, right? - into her forehead.

At least they'd had Battenberg on the plane. Not quite the win he'd been hoping for but looking back, he realised it could have been much, much worse.

But no, it was whilst climbing the space elevator in a very 1960s Batman-esque fashion - you remember that bit, right? I don't need to go through all of that again - that he cast his mind back to one of the most hate-filled forum conversations he could recall, and it had all started because he had typed, 'There has to be a least favourite part though. There has to be a least favourite part to everything even if the sum of all parts, including the least favourite, amounted to something I truly love. Like Battenberg.' and then all Hell had broken loose and on that day he vowed he would never ever discuss cake, least of all in a forum filled with other serial killers, again.

Eventually he reached the top - or at least, he reached the highest point at which he could access the space elevator's interior - of the space elevator. The air was thin and he was glad of his protective suit complete with magnetic boots and gloves.

He'd memorised the access code he'd been given by his contact on the inside and within moments he was just that; inside, and having stashed the protective suit in a handy janitor's closet, he strode confidently along the corridor wearing Wattpad's mandatory bright orange tee, khaki boardshorts and near-luminescent crocs.

In truth it was not his normal killing attire, in fact it was a far cry from the tailored three-piece and loafers he preferred, but something probably irrelevant about ports and storms sprung to mind.

He was well aware the analogy was incorrect but it had been so long since he had written anything, such was his lust for the kill, that he didn't really give a crap.

It did not take him long to locate the tour group. They were mostly kids, after all, and thus were rather loud and excitable. He joined the back of the group, slipping into the mix of identical t-shirts, shorts and crocs with the greatest of ease.

And then he saw her.

Actually, he heard her first.

"ZOMG itz lyk unicorn jizz."

He cringed, unable to discern quite how any human could possibly vocalise anything in such an atrocious manner. It was like nails down a chalkboard, and set his teeth on edge.

Gritting his teeth he checked the pocket of his shorts. It was still there, the mini-drill with the bit and battery already attached. The latter, he knew, had plenty enough juice to get through the text-talking inbred's skull, and...

He inclined his head slightly to the left and sniffed the air, his eyes going wide as he did so, for he could smell... yes, there was no doubt about it; Battenberg!

He felt like a cartoon character, floating upon the drifting waves of food smells as he followed his nose and tastebuds.

Through room after room he walked, paying little heed to anyone who may or may not - like I say, he paid little heed - have been working, walking or wanking - well, he didn't know and neither do you, so... - within those rooms.

As I'm sure you can imagine, upon hearing raucous and excitable cheers, clapping hands and whoops of delight whilst he was in the process of salivating over a plate of Battenberg, his surprise was palpable.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Please allow me to introduce our guest of honour, the man who has topped our Serial Killer hotlists for, well, forever!"

With a mouthful of Battenberg he turned to see tens of happy, smiling faces, and those raucous, excitable cheers, clapping hands and whoops of delight continued until someone decided that shouting, "Speech! Speech!" was a good idea.

"Oh, I, erm..." he fumbled, and the crowd quieted a little. "I don't know, this is a little awkward... I wasn't expecting to have to make a speech."

It dawned upon him, at that very moment, that the whole unicorn jizz thing must have simply been nothing more than an elaborate plan to get him to Wattpad HQ for some reason. He found he could not think as clearly as he might have liked to, but he put that down to a combination of the surprise and the...

The Battenberg! It was poisoned!

He'd been poisoned!

Him! Of all people!

Wattpad's number one serial killer!

He'd been...

The bastards!

He dropped to his knees and retched, jamming his fingers down his throat but it was of no use, he simply could not make himself vomit.

He did excrete moments later, though it was not the vomit he had been hoping for. It was not whilst he was alive - which as I'm sure you can imagine he was also hoping for - either.

Suffice it to say, that was the end of Wattpad's serial killer experiment. Let's be honest though, they'll probably do something just as silly again, at some point in the future.