Matthew Newton faced every single person in the world and instinctively caressed his custom bronze knuckledusters. He sized them up. They stood on the misty plain in the cool dawn, all 7.009 billion of them, squinting as the sun crept through the trees. Some of them squinted. Not all of them could squint, obviously, because they were too busy crying, or sleeping, or eating, or thinking about Nickelodeon’s “Rocko’s Modern Life”, or doing any of the infinite variations on human behaviour that were possible. Matthew Newton took a final swig from his flask of Jack and threw it on the ground. He glared in the direction of all of the people who co-inhabited this planet with him; all of the hotel managers and racist-against-Australians cops and lippy girlfriends with whom he’d had no choice but to whirl through the blackness of space with for all of his 35 years. It was time.
"I’m ready," Matthew Newton said, and beckoned to the crowd.
An elderly man staggered forward. Matthew Newton punched him in the face, hard, breaking his nose instantly. The man fell to the ground. Matthew Newton kicked him in the ribs until he stopped twitching. “Next,” he said. A tiny girl advanced from the crowd. He disemboweled her in one fluid motion and addressed the crowd: “If I could have your attention,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d step forward when you see me finish with person before you, you fucking animals.” They mumbled their assent.
The next person was a tough-looking New York cop. “C’mere, you shithead,” the cop said as he ran toward Matthew Newton, who neatly sidestepped him. The cop stumbled and hit the ground hard. Matthew Newton climbed on top of him and dug his knee into the cop’s kidney. The cop thrashed around. The pain was excruciating. Matthew Newton snapped his neck.
"I could do this all afternoon," he said, and he did it. He did it all afternoon. He did it for years and years until everyone was dead except for Bert and Patti and his sister, whatever her name even is.
"Are you alright, Matthew?" Patti asked. She looked at his handsome face, if you equated round with handsome, which she did, apparently, and her brow furrowed with concern. "You look tired, love," she said. "Maybe you should take a holiday. Get away from it all. It’s all this media scrutiny that’s making you this way."
"Yeah, I guess you’re right, mum," he sighed. It was definitely very tough being the privileged son of wealthy parents who had failed to imbue him with any sense of consequence when the media insisted on focusing on his shortcomings.