The green Ford Explorer in front of him found a way to both drive too slow and stop too quickly. His eyes were level with the back of her SUV’s bumper and he took his sweet, endless time to view every sticker. Don’t Tread On Me. Dole/Kemp ’96. Calvin peeing on the homeless. And, to him, the most offensive sticker of all said “Pro-Life.”
Darkseid gripped his steering wheel with his bulky fingers, leaving an imprint on the rental car that he knew would get him into hot water with the dealership back on Apokolips. But he didn’t care about that in the moment. He was fixated on “Pro-Life” because the idea of his work being flushed down the toilet, blown to smithereens, tied to the Source Wall shook him. Millennia of self-funded research would mean nothing if the human public couldn’t settle their petty differences and appreciate his work. The Anti-Life Equation, Darkseid’s ultimate goal since locking his bedroom door and discovering his own Omega Force, would never be fully discovered and implemented if Southern Baptist women were so strongly against abortion.
This folly, this silliness of mankind that thought pro-choice meant anti-life would only delay the actual altruistic Anti-Life right around the corner. Hip girls with star tattoos and protest signs weren’t truly anti-life, and Darkseid let out a large sigh and began mumbling to himself due to his irritation. The politics weren’t focused correctly. His advisors were useless. No matter how many times he had to invade Earth or kill a superhero or alter reality, nothing stuck with these dimwitted rednecks. And the new god thought to himself, “How on old God’s green earth can I ever be the villain? I want to erase life, to anti its ever being. Is there nothing more dastardly? Are self-sufficient women so frightening?”
The light turned green, and Darkseid drove down the road, and he never ended up being the common enemy for the world to unite against. South Carolina was just too busy hating itself.