Chapter 1 - The vulture lands

Even now, after centuries of killing and conquering, the insatiable spectre of imperialism creeps across the nation, the manifestation of the American mantra, “More! More! More!” A hollow promise of ever expanding wealth fuels this sick fantasy, urges man to raze the land, choke out Mother Nature, and smother all life under a tidal wave of bubbling tarmac.

Bigger! Better! Faster! Richer!

Onwards and upwards, stepping on every innocent to achieve the dream that YOU deserve!

This land, once an Eden, now more machine than anything — designed to chew up all good people and puke out cold, hard cash. Yet, even as the smog settles and the waters run red, the question the world hears, resounding, is:

What comes next?

It was the prestigious Chapman family who rose to answer the call. Prestige, for some, came with talent or determination or, at least, a slight spark of innovation. The Chapmans, however, were infamous only for the simple act of owning things. Universities, politicians, media outlets, farms, factories, real estate, and any aspect of life one could name, the Chapmans had dug their claws into and depreciated until each were thinly veiled schemes to enrich themselves and feed their own insatiable egos. It was these ghouls who paved the way to the next, new manifest destiny. And it was their family name that came to fully embody the ideal of American expansion...

...as well as the fallout that inevitably follows.

The explorers and conquistadors of old were as bumbling as they were bloodthirsty, so, consequently, much of the ocean islands across the world had spent centuries undiscovered, unexploited. The Chapmans often boasted that their lineage traced back to Pizarro or Columbus or any such so-called visionary, although the specifics seemed to shift at every other ball and gala, distorting more extremely as the Chapman patriarch became progressively intoxicated by booze and pride (and possibly a dash of coke). Unable to admit the shortcomings of their presumed ancestors, the Chapman family deluded themselves with the notion that these hypothetical, unseen islands had been left purposefully untouched as a kind of birthright.

It was impossible to tell, on any given day, how much of this belief was a product of shallow theatrics or a genuine, drug-fueled mania in which the family collectively indulged.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, the Chapman family would find all their wild desires fully realized. After years of scouring every inch of the sea, they finally stumbled across an island that had not yet been charted by any satellite or sailor.

The patriarch was alerted posthaste, of course, and it took him but scant hours to whip up his armada and fully mobilize. His people had spotted the island initially, sure, but he would be damned if anyone else set foot in his sanctuary before him.

And damned he was.

Now, none of his loyalists dared cross that line, as they knew deference to their megalomaniacal master was rewarded handsomely. The hapless people indiginous to the island, unfortunately, could make no such considerations. Even if they had known of the Chapmans, where were they to go? Their only viable option would be to walk directly into the sea, which was probably favorable in light of the horrors the American invaders had in store. Many of them may very well have, if they wielded prescience in any capacity. As alien as Chapman’s impressive fleet of ships and his armed and armored forces had been, the islanders were no fools; they recognized the sickening wave of futility that enveloped them as they witnessed such an ostentatious show of might.

They were primitive to Chapman, but primitive by no means at all. While the natives made no use of oil or electricity or many of the trappings of modernity, their society was rich and robust. They had lived harmoniously with the land, taking only what they needed from nature. The closest they had come to any kind of industrialization was their development of aqueducts and use of hydropower, focusing on honing their agricultural prowess rather than aspire to cities of steel and smoke. Intelligent, certainly, but Chapman figured that they were less developed than the least of the animal kingdom. They had the potential to achieve the next step toward civilization, and had chosen willingly to forgo it. Even insects were, at least, not beholden to baseless, useless superstition.

All the easier to conquer, he reasoned. Chapman was none too pleased by their presence, but the situation could be easily rectified. At least now he did not have to import his own labor force; the island had come with one built in! If Nestle could be pardoned by the Supreme Court for overseas child slavery, then these chumps were fair game! Once you found yourself far enough from US jurisdiction, were you really even a person? Chapman didn’t think so.

The invasion, as he predicted, did not take long at all. Granted, Chapman would not sully his tongue with a word so dirty, as he knew in his heart that this was, indeed, his own birthright. In reality, his reality, he thought that, if anything, the island had already been bequeathed to him by one of his many imaginary ancestors. The natives were the real trespassers. Chapman was the true victim here!

Despite his pathological disgust towards nature and the tree-hugging BS beliefs that had hypnotized the islanders, Chapman had genuinely become enraptured by his self-proclaimed discovery. Not out of an appreciation for the lush foliage or sprawling, diverse forests that dominated the land, no, Chapman was entranced by the ever apparent prospects of becoming even more redundantly wealthy. He only really ever saw one type of green, it seemed.

Surely, this new, strange land had a name, but that scarcely mattered now. The Chapman patriarch did not care to learn it. The island came to be known to its conquerors only as Bacchanalia, a world of wealth and wonder to some, but a nightmare to the natives who found themselves trapped within Chapman’s iron fist.

Strangers in their own home now, the natives were dragged from their proud and peaceful communities and herded into a far corner of the island as Chapman’s forces began to dig and develop and pervert the once immaculate environment.

Chapman scurried back to the comfort of his mansion while his private military held down Bacchanalia in tandem with a team of contractors to beat the land into something he could consider inhabitable. He locked every whisper of his emerging kingdom under a flood of NDAs, threats of legal action, and a few quick, clean hits on those he deemed the loosest ends. The last thing Chapman wanted was Uncle Sam taking a slice of the pie that he had snatched from the mouths of his indigenous victims. It was his island, his paradise, his empire. With a little work and a lot violence, it might become prudent to move there permanently, away from all the bleeding hearts crying about healthcare and police brutality and his own “alleged” greed.

It was a few weeks into development when Chapman received the call.

“Mister Chapman, sir! You’re gonna want to hear this. Hell, if you can, taste it, too! Dunno what these fuckers are feeding their crops, or what half the shit I’m chewing on is even called, but it tastes like nothing I’ve ever eaten! Their production is pretty pitiful, but after all is said and done, we can convert acres of the island to make more. You’ll make a fortune! It’s unbelievable!”

And thus, it was put into motion.