The Rabid Priests: Livestream Massacre

I sat in my cubbyhole apartment, thirty-seven stories up in the Neo-Tokyo sprawl, watching my wallscreen through the haze of cheap synthtobacco.

“—this exclusive FeedNet broadcast, we bring you inside what authorities are already calling ‘The Livestream Massacre’—”

The chirpy synthvoice of the AI news anchor Mizuki-7 carried all the appropriate emotional inflections, programmed down to the micro-decibel. Her pixelated eyes widened with artificial concern as footage rolled of The Rabid Priests’ most recent catastrophe.

I cranked the volume. The band had been teetering on the edge of legal oblivion for months. Their frontman, Viktor Scowl, possessed the charm of a rusted chainsaw and twice the destructive potential. The remaining three—Neurovore on electron-guitar, CyberSin on percussion arrays, and the enigmatic Blank on neuro-bass—merely amplified his particular brand of societal loathing. I vaguely remembered their first single, “Altar boy bit my ballsack”, hilarious.

“—graphic content warning as we show you scenes from last night’s performance at the Bleeding Edge club in the undercity—”

The footage cut to the packed club, throngs of body-modded fans, their augmented limbs and glowing implants creating a sea of twitching, writhing flesh. Laser lights sliced through artificial fog as The Rabid Priests took the stage.

Viktor Scowl appeared, a cadaverous nightmare of a man. His face was half metal, half scar tissue, with pupils dilated to pinpricks by whatever designer narcotics coursed through his system. Behind him, Neurovore’s six-fingered hands danced across the electron-guitar, coaxing sounds that should never exist in nature.

“You pathetic zombies!” Scowl screamed into the mic, his voice distorted by the vocal modulator implanted in his larynx. “You pay to watch us throw shit at you! How goddamn stupid are you?”

The crowd roared in approval. This was their ritual, their sacrament.

“Tonight’s special! Tonight we escalate!” His metal jaw clicked and whirred as he laughed. “CyberSin, show them the new toys!”

The drummer, a mass of tattooed muscle with drum-trigger implants fused directly into her nervous system, kicked over a container. It spilled onto the stage: rotten fruit, moldy bread, half-eaten synthetic burgers—all collected from restaurant dumpsters.

It was their trademark, their claim to infamy. While most bands threw water or cheap beer, The Rabid Priests had pioneered what they called “alimentary assault.” Food and drink, usually spoiled, hurled with precision at their paying customers.

“We’re playing ‘Neural Rupture’ first!” Scowl announced, referencing their hit single that had somehow, against all logic and decency, topped the underground charts for seventeen straight weeks.

The monitors cut to commercial—a sleek advertisement for BrainSync™, the latest neural interface promising “emotions you’ve never felt before.”

When the broadcast returned, all hell had broken loose.

The stage was chaos. Scowl stood center, his tattooed torso glistening with sweat as he grabbed handfuls of rotting fruit and flung them with surgical precision at fans in the front row. One particularly putrid melon struck a corporate-looking man square in the face, exploding on impact. The crowd went wild, begging for more.

Neurovore was dual-wielding condiment bottles, spraying alternating jets of ancient ketchup and mustard into the pit. CyberSin had upgraded to a pneumatic cannon, firing globs of synthetic yogurt that splattered across the ceiling and rained down on the audience below.

“We are The Rabid Priests!” Scowl howled between verses, his voice a modulated nightmare. “And you are our congregation!”

The camera operator zoomed in on audience members, their faces masks of ecstasy as they were baptized in food waste, drinks, and God knows what else. Some had their mouths open, catching whatever projectiles came their way. Bio-monitors on their wrists displayed heart rates, endorphin levels, arousal stats—all redlining.

“But wait,” the AI anchor Mizuki-7 interjected over the footage, her voice dropping to the precise frequency of manufactured concern. “What happens next exceeds even The Rabid Priests’ notorious boundaries.”

The footage shifted. Someone had smuggled in something beyond the usual garbage. A gleaming metal canister rolled onto the stage.

“What’s this?” Scowl picked it up, examining it with bloodshot eyes. “A gift from a fan? How touching.”

He twisted the top.

The camera feed distorted briefly—static, then recalibration.

When it cleared, Scowl was laughing maniacally as he sprayed the contents toward the crowd. But this wasn’t food. This wasn’t drink.

It was industrial-grade BioFoam—the kind used for emergency wound sealing in combat zones.

“Breathe deep, you corporate puppets!” Scowl screamed as the aerosol cloud enveloped the front rows. The BioFoam expanded on contact with moisture—eyes, mouths, nostrils. People began to panic, clawing at their faces as the substance hardened instantly, sealing airways, blinding eyes.

The other band members stopped playing, even they shocked by this turn of events. Blank, the ever-silent bassist, dropped his instrument and vaulted from the stage, disappearing into the chaos.

“Emergency services arrived sixteen minutes later,” Mizuki-7 intoned, her face a perfect simulation of regret. “By then, twenty-seven attendees had suffered respiratory failure. Sixteen remain in critical condition.”

The feed cut to Viktor Scowl being led away in magnacuffs, his metal face contorted in a rictus grin.

“I only gave them what they wanted!” he shouted toward the cameras. “The ultimate experience! The final performance art! Their suffering is the only authentic thing in this plastic world!”

Behind him, CyberSin and Neurovore were pinned against a wall by security drones, their implants temporarily disabled by EMP restraints.

Mizuki-7 reappeared, her expression now calibrated to solemn judgment. “Authorities have charged Viktor Scowl with multiple counts of aggravated assault and reckless endangerment. Corporate lawyers from MegaMedia, the parent company behind The Rabid Priests’ recording contract, have already issued a statement distancing themselves from what they call ‘an unfortunate but unforeseeable tragedy.’”

The screen split to show a corporate spokesperson, her face an emotionless mask of surgical perfection.

“The Rabid Priests operated independently during live performances,” she stated. “Their stage antics, while provocative, were understood to be harmless entertainment. MegaMedia condemns in the strongest possible terms the actions taken by Mr. Scowl and announces the immediate termination of all contracts with the band.”

I snorted and lit another synthtobacco stick. Corporate hypocrisy at its finest. They’d marketed The Rabid Priests specifically for their dangerous, edgy performances. Their promotional materials had literally said: “Come for the music, stay for the assault.”

Now they were washing their hands clean while calculating how to monetize the tragedy.

The screen shifted again to show hordes of fans gathered outside the detention center where Scowl was being held. They carried signs: “FREE VIKTOR” and “THE ULTIMATE SHOW.”

“In a disturbing development,” Mizuki-7 continued, “underground clinics report a surge in elective facial scarification procedures mimicking Viktor Scowl’s distinctive appearance. Black market dealers report BioFoam canisters selling for ten times their normal price as collectors’ items.”

I flicked ash into an overflowing tray and wondered if I should feel something more than weary disgust. In this neon hellscape we called civilization, even atrocity had become entertainment, just another product to consume.

The segment ended with grainy security footage from inside the detention center. Viktor Scowl sat in his cell, staring directly at the camera. Somehow aware he was being watched by millions, he slowly raised his hand, fingers formed into the Priests’ signature gesture—a mock blessing.

Then he mouthed four words that didn’t need audio to understand:

“See you next tour.”

Mizuki-7’s face filled the screen one final time, her expression now perfectly calibrated to thoughtful analysis. “This has been FeedNet’s special report on The Rabid Priests incident. Download our premium package for exclusive interviews with survivors and a deep-dive analysis of the cultural phenomenon of performance violence. Remember: your engagement determines our content. Like, share, and subscribe to shape tomorrow’s news.”

I shut off the feed and stared at my reflection in the blank screen. In the warped glass, I could almost make out Viktor Scowl’s twisted grin superimposed over my own tired face.

We weren’t so different, he and I. Both of us hated this world.

The only difference was: he had found a way to make it pay.