Day 5 #SeptWritingChallenge

Day 5! 

He throttled the custom bike to full speed for the last lap, he weaved in between the 599 wrecked and mangled bikers. Two hundred thousand screamed their delight, it had taken 9 hours to complete. Every face in the crowd was intoxicated, red faced and absurdly friendly with one another as drunks are. The alcohol always flowed freely during the Culling, Substances of every ilk were imbibed for the entertainment. The lone biker began to slow down as he approached the last straight away. He did it,  he won. The Culling was finished, the prisoner of war camps were sufficiently emptied and the neighboring nations were mortified. The whole planet watched the organized massacre, some out of morbid curiosity but most knew somebody who knew some one down on the field. The riders were given their fat tire bikes, every one plastered in this years hottest brands and advertisements. Every rider had the chance to customize his or her bike using the money garnered from their social media pages. Some already accepted their fate and spent the money on a last month of lavish living. Others set about with grim determination, adding weapons and chains to their bike to take out the other riders. The donations and social media integration were one man’s ideas. He sat high up in the press box breathing wine over his steepled fingers. Foracis Kaen was a very rich man, he was very rich before his involvement with the culling but now, he couldn’t even fathom it himself. There was nothing left to conquer. 

The winning rider came to a stop and jumped off his rumbling bike, he approached the small congratulatory committee. Their effete platitudes were lost in the roar of the crowd, even with their hunger for death sated they screamed for more. A small microphone bead floated down in front of the rider and every camera in the stadium focused in on his grizzled tear streaked face.
The group in front of him beckoned him to speak, as klaxons went off demanding silence. It took almost thirty minutes for everyone in the crowd to get the idea. When the rider had everyone’s attention he cleared his throat hesitantly and spoke up. 

“I was taken from my nation during the Great Mesa war. I was a mechanic for our medic unit.” His eyes grew steely and he continued on.
“For three years I have toiled in your work camps and for three years I have worked towards my goal.”

The audience erupted in cheers for the winner, taking another 15 minutes to calm down.
“The world is beyond arguing with your practices, for decades we’ve accepted your cruel nature. There are no words for what you have done.”
His mic was cut and the announcers voice interrupted him with a boistrous,
“Lets give it up for our winner and culling organizer Foracis Kaen!” The sound was deafening, the rider calmly walked towards his bike and sat back in the saddle. Every screen display moved to him, the mic floating in front of his face dinged on again and the announcer said in mocking tone. “Aww now, you know the race is completed you will be returned to whereever you came from.” The rider smiled, and leaned into the microphone, “That’s where you’re wrong, you, all of you in the stands will no return to the hell you came from.”  Armed guard began streaming out of the stands towards him. “I too would like to applaud Foracis Kaen, we did business many years ago. This is what he sold me.” he held  up a small device, and the crowd panicked recognizing the detonator. Foracis Kaen recognized the rider as the nuclear explosion rushed up to greet him.


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