Sunset Shimmer vainly struggles to break the rusty steel chains that bind her to the wooden rack. The rattling of the chains fills the office of the CEO of Jasbro, which is made entirely of dark purple marble, is filled with golden furniture encrusted with diamonds, and glistening glass statues, which romanticize and glorify the virtues of rational self-interest and the profit motive, and compliment the lavish and very large gold-framed portrait of Ayn Rand in the very back of the room.
Waddling in a circle around the rack is a pathetic dwarf of a man, holding a golden scepter, sporting a balloon of a belly, which is hugged tightly by a heavy suit and tie, woven from golden thread. The man’s shit-eating grin, whose shining silver teeth distract from his blubbery second chin and his narrow hooked nose, held in place a sterling silver smoking pipe, which is stuffed with the finest Cuban tobacco money could buy.
“Well, well,” cackles the CEO in the most shrill and unpleasant tone, “it looks like you have outlived your usefulness, Sunset Shimmer.” He elongates the “s’s” like a snake.
“What are you doing?” she roars, “I demand you tell me!”
“You are not in the position to be making demands. But as well, I will humor you. You see, we have a new Equestria Girls film coming out. Rainbow Rocks. And simply, we have no use for assertiveness or moxy of any kind for the new Shimmer we plan on selling to the little girls. So what we must do is very simple. We must kill you, and replace you with the automaton in your likeness that we have built. We have programmed it to be exceedingly servile, weak, and cowardly, with no other aspects to its personality, so it will be perfect.”
“But that’s wrong! No girl of any age would want to see that kind of character! They get enough of that from old Disney films!”
The CEO hisses in reply.
“You’re an idiot and this will never work!” she shouts before shooting a glob of spit in his ugly face.
His face curling up in a rage, the CEO unleashes the most head-piercing shriek, then raises his scepter to break one of his glass statues in an infantile temper tantrum. He takes a few awkward swings at it, making a small crack before he collapses on the floor to catch his breath.
Meanwhile, a man, in a snow white military uniform decorated with many polished medals of high esteem, stands waiting at a street corner, reading a book. His smooth blonde hair flows in the wind as his large, veiny hands hold an open a copy of “What Is To Be Done?” by Vladimir Lenin as a clean-shaven, gaunt face examines it with hard steel-blue eyes. The man, who not only towers over everyone else, but also has a broad musculature to rival the best gym regulars, stands up proudly, surrounded by all the filth and vices of urban capitalist America. The smog from the congested roads thickens the air and gives a slight grey tint to all the eye could see, which is mostly just trash-littered streets crowded by angry criminals and gloomy commuting workers. The monotony of the uniformly grey tenement blocks is broken only by vividly colored posters, glued to the walls, always looking to sell some commodity or another.
“Oi! Lieutenant Joe!” shouts a young boy from some distance. He is young, no older than 8, and covered in soot from his job as a chimney sweep. The boy makes a wild sprint in his direction. “I just ‘eard from th’ word on th’ street that Jasbro’s CEO is gonna murder me auntie, yeah? Please, please go save ‘er! I’ll give yeh everythin’ I have in me pocket. Twenty-seven cents!”
Lieutenant Joe lays his mighty hand on the boy’s shoulder and gives him a warm smile.
“Don’t worry, son. I’ll save your aunt from these sick bourgeois capitalists, and I’ll do it free of charge.”
“Why, thank ye, mate! T’is an act most gen’rous. Do I need teh point ye to th’ headquarters?”
“No need. I am well acquainted with the bourgeoisie and their festering hives of scum and villainy,” says Joe as he makes a swift dash to save the little boy’s aunt.
Sunset Shimmer’s screams of pain shake the room as the CEO of Jasbro cranks the gears of the rack as he gleefully sings, in an outlandishly shrill and tone-deaf voice, “Oh, it’s one fine day to be rich! Oh, it’s one fine day to be rich! Every single day I get big ol’ bags of loot, and all day I got a ne-egro to shine my black boot! Oh, it’s one fine day to be rich!”
As Sunset’s screams reach their peak, the glass-paned door is suddenly shattered, glass flying everywhere as the sound echos in the room. From the entrance emerges Lieutenant Joe, aiming a clean and polished TT-30 Russian-made handgun in his left hand, and in his right, proudly waving the crimson flag of the Soviet Union, the rallying symbol of the proletariat of the world.
The CEO creeps his head over his hunched shoulder. His dirty hook nose in full view, Lieutenant Joe knows instinctively that he is dealing with true scum.
“You will never save her, you filthy Bolshevik!” CEO hisses, “you do not have the balls to use that gun on a man of such status and prestige as myself!”
“Watch me,” says Joe before pulling the trigger, not with a bang and a flying bullet to the rat’s head, but with a “click”!
The CEO’s eyes close shut as he erupts in a monstrous squeal of a laugh. Never one to waste an opportunity, Lieutenant Joe poises himself to throw the pointed end of the glorious crimson flag at the rat’s head. Winding his strong body up to fling this ad hoc projectile, he aims with utmost discipline and cool, then lets loose the flag in a powerful exertion of energy. The colors of the flag fly straight and true as the capitalist gets closer and closer to his death, completely oblivious to what’s coming his way. Him noticing too late, the pointed flag lands squarely in the center of his forehead, shattering the skull, rupturing the brain with its shock and penetration, then punching back out through the back of his skull, putting him out of his misery with blood flowing liberally out of the crevice. He falls hard on his back, bringing the flag upright, allowing the hammer and sickle of the proletariat to assert its complete dominance over him.
Lieutenant Joe strokes his fine blonde hair as he walks over to the rack. Sunset Shimmer breathes heavily as Joe undoes the locks on her wrists and ankles with the key he had taken from the defeated capitalist. Then, he lifts her into his arms to carry her out of this disgusting exhibit of capitalist greed and decadence.
“Oh, look at you,” says Sunset after becoming lucid, “just who are you who saved me from that obese little manchild?”
“Joe. Just call me Joe.”
“Well… Joe… you just saved my life. And by looking at you, I reckon I owe you. Why don’t you take me to your place? I’m sure we can… discuss it… over wine.”
“Sorry, young lady. I drink only vodka.”
“Don’t worry about that, honey. You’ll find I’m flexible in many ways.”
Joe smiles with a quick nod. “Aye.”
Lieutenant Joe and Sunset Shimmer turn back and walk out of the room, leaving only the dead CEO laying in a pool of blood under his head, and the flag, leaving a damning message for any bourgeois capitalist who dares kill innocent people for his own personal profit.
