“The murders have continued, who will stop the Black Aliens?” the news reporter’s voice blared through the speakers.
Dr. X smiled as the answer to the rhetorical question stared back at him in his laboratory.
On one of the beds lay a black figure that was carved and moulded to his taste.
Genetically altered to be a killing machine, check.
Technologically altered to be a self-made tracking device, check.
Scientifically altered to feel no pain, check.
Mr. President would be happy with his work, Mr. X was sure of that.
He brought up a remote and his hand hovered dangerously at the red power button. He could swear he heard the room breathe in anticipation of what was to be woken up.
And he pressed.
Two hours later, Mr. X was being served cocktail by his robot-servant when the news reporters voice came up at the speakers.
He couldn’t stop smiling as the report made sure of a detailed account of “The bane of the Black Aliens”.
Intermittently, all he could hear was, “snapped wires”, “melted metals”, “crunched Irons”, all that was left of the Black Aliens.
His creation did a wonderful, he laid to waste to the murderers.