After finishing the rough draft of the story I’ve set my sights on finalizing the campaign structure. Part of that is making choices when it comes to boss fights. What bosses are in the game, what style, when, etcetera.
I really liked the shmup style Thielenator fight that I made earlier, with some tweaks of course, and it fits quite well in the structure of the campaign to have a boss fight wrapping up the Fitness Dichotomy levels. However, I hadn’t originally written a corresponding visual novel chapter to justify the fight. Simply having it abruptly appear in game was sub-optimal, and I also wanted to take a few shots at the particularly annoying Thiel-right. So here’s the rough draft of that.
Chapter 6 – Venture Capital Nosferatu
It came to Sarah as if from a dream. Like the bibilical version of a halcyon Spanish villa. Statues of gods battling against lions, exotic plants, and marble steps lead to a palatial residence underneath a deep blue sky lit by a happy sun.
Only upon close inspection, and after her eyes had adjusted to the brightness, was the fraud unveiled. She was still inside the tower, trapped in a room adorned on all sides with LCD screens.
“What is this place,” she said under her breath.
“The luxury wellness retreat.”
The high pitched yet strong voice startled her. Looking around for its source her eyes settled upon a teenaged boy wearing only a toga, a wreath of flowers upon his fair head of long, well kept for locks. So soft and beautiful was he that he appeared almost as a girl.
“For whom,” she asked, “for what?”
He responded with nothing but an air of knowing superiority, looking upon her as if she were an unclean animal he was magnanimously tolerating. Then he walked in front of her to the base of the steps.
“Come,” he said, half-turning to her. “The master awaits.”
They stood there for a while, a simulated breeze waving their flowing hair, before Sarah nodded her head and followed up the steps. At last she arrived at the ornate doors, fifteen feet tall. As she slowly opened them she was hit first with the wall of noise, before her eyes adjusted to the cacophony inside.
A bevy of young men, each more impossibly handsome than the last, all shirtless, wearing only compression shorts, bodies beautiful, skin impossibly smooth. A half dozen were rubbing oil on a middle aged man’s back, moaning softly as they did it, as if their fingers were experiencing immense pleasure. Others were having blood extracted from their bodies, going into a tube connected to the same middle aged man. Others still were simply working out, helpfully spotting each other through soft touches, commenting upon each others physiques in adoring ways.
Sarah was immediately reminded of the Abercrombie and Fitch ads from her youth, which featured barely clothed beautiful young boys posing suggestively to each other. That was, she felt, far less homoerotic than the scene unveiled before her.
“We are winning the culture war,” exclaimed the oiled man on the table with cucumbers over his eyes, being injected with young blood. “The modern right is reclaiming art, and the liberals are mad about it.”
A murmur of agreement that sounded like a collective orgasm burbled throughout the room. “Yes, master,” they groaned. The soft rubbing intensified.
It was then that Sarah noticed the soft boy who had lead her standing beside the middle aged man. He leaned down to whisper something into his ear, but his eyes locked upon Sarah’s with an undeniable gleam of giddy malice.
The man rolled over onto his back and then sat up, the cucumbers falling from eyes that quickly met her own.
“You dare,” he rasped, and then again louder, “you dare bring a womb into this most sacred of right wing spaces?”
All the young men in the room had stopped. Two dozen angry glares fell upon her.
“Women,” said the man, “are born nation wreckers.” There was much nodding from the shirtless youths. “It is women, White women in particular, who are responsible for the migrant crisis and every other social malady that plagues us trad caths. They are also responsible for these foreign wars, which they shamelessly blame on Israel. This is, of course, why we need to reinstall a monarchy lead by homosexual tech oligarchs, such as myself. This is also why I need to reverse aging, but such matters are of course, self-evident.”
There was much nodding of heads.
“I have made this safe space for brave, physically attractive young men who wish to escape the gynocracatic matrix they suffer under. And yet, even in this holiest of places, we see in front of us a Karen of the highest order.”
He paused then, catching his laboured breathing.
“What is it that I always tell you, my lovely flock?”
“Christ is King,” the youths spoke as one. “And having sex with women is gay.”
The man nodded. “Yes,” he said, “this is true. White women such as the one you see before you have taken everything from you. In fact, they have destroyed our entire civilization because of their hypergamy. But look not at this wretched, filthy creature as a curse. Her presence here is a gift. She had delivered to you in the form of her body your revenge.
With that his massage bed began to rise, converting itself into a hovering technological marvel, propelled by an array of miniaturized jet turbines. Several enormous tubes of young blood automatically hooked themselves into his body.
“So go forth, my noble fitness influencers. And kill this breeder.”
