Quentin Burkhardt was an ordinary man. A rational man.
His father had impressed this upon him from an early age with tales of his military experience. General Patton couldn't have wiped Hitlerism from the minds of the Germans and the rest of Europe if he'd let the immediate emotional reaction of killing people cloud his thinking; same with the people of Hiroshima. Emotion was mankind's greatest enemy; a mewling, pathetic whore that preyed upon people's baser instincts and had driven millions to horrible deaths in the past century. The Nazis and the Communists may have been each other's worst enemies in the Second World War, but at heart they were both driven by base emotion. Envy. The Nazis thought the Jews had too much money and political influence; the Communists thought the same of the capitalists. Hence there could be no reasoning with them. Only the cold, hard logic of bullets and bombs. Once someone was dead, there should be no existential argument. Dead was dead; that was that.
Logic was the torch that lit the dark, fetid corridors of emotion and base instincts. Quentin's father had never let this fact leave his mind as he bulldozed his way through a certain Vietnamese village called My Lai. And the United States of America's military had been carrying this torch since 1775, ever since Paul Revere had broken the bond of primordial obedience to a man who dared to call himself God's appointed ruler. That was why Quentin's first move after graduating from Connecticut's Winsted Regional High School was to enlist in the military.
Much as he would have liked to carry the torch of rationality against al-Qaida's suicide bombers in Afghanistan (and perhaps Iran), Quentin found himself stationed in the relatively rational setting of Japan, a nation which seemed to have largely learned its lesson in the previous war (despite some occasional complaining about the atomic bombings). There was basically no cause for worry at Yokota Air Force base in the peaceful Tokyo suburb of Mitakihara; no worry unless the envious North Koreans or Chinese ever decided to break the peace; no cause for Quentin and his fellow soldiers to remain in an ever-ready wartime state…at least not yet. A good soldier could not show emotion at any point.
Many of his compatriots, after visiting some of Mitakihara's many bars and done the honest thing by marrying them and settling down with the eventual kids, either "going native" in Japan or taking them back to the good ol' USA. But love was another emotion, Quentin reminded himself. Who knew if these otherwise pleasant people would rise up to avenge 1945 at some point, or worse, if they would join up with the emos of North Korea or China? He couldn't allow himself to become attracted to one of the natives' coquettish come-ons. He was there to serve as a guard of cold, hard reason against raw, foul emotion.
But were not those urges the reason he existed? He had paid attention in sex ed, of course. Emotion could be tricky like that (as his father had let him know with every blow of the belt to his head). Pornography was one thing (there was certainly more of it in this country than back home), but there were moments when he needed the feel of warm flesh upon his nether regions. Needed.
And a need was not an emotion, was it? One needed water and food. And had not some Freudian scientist or other declared that sexual satisfaction was as great a need to a person as food or water?
Of course. One needed an orgasm as much as one needed water and food.
Hence had Quentin Burkhardt (Q.B. to his Air Force buds) convinced hundreds of Tokyo Metro girls that they were helping play an important role in the eternal war of need versus primitive emotion. Of course, some hadn't realized that right yet. So he…set them right, just as his father had set the emotional Vietnamese Communists right in My Lai over four decades before.
Every month, he managed to "set them right" after getting what he needed from them, even if they wouldn't see it right then. Surely their parents and other surviving relatives would. He had needs. If they didn't want that, that was their problem. They were just being emotional. A man had needs.
Despite the fact that Q.B. had lost most of his hair by now, that usually didn't stop his advances. He had contacts for an ample supply of "juice" that made this much more easy. Just one sugar cube dipped in the stuff, and girls would become putty in his pale hands. Some thought he looked like a "familiar" cat or teddy bear character from one of those "magical girl" "anime" TV shows, whatever those were. Whatever. As long as he did what he told them, and submitted to his demands to never tell anyone about what he felt he had the God-given RIGHT to do to them, that was okay, right?
His latest quarry, a cute-little pink-haired girl, was talking with her slightly chunky green-haired friend in the mall food court (where did Japan get these weird-ass hair colors?) about some classmate of theirs of named Kamijou. Was he some emotional douchebag whom one of these girls was trying to bag? Whatever. Q.B. had needs.
When they both got up to go to the bathroom, Q.B. snuck up to their temporarily abandoned coffee cups, and dropped the tainted sugar cubes in.
Soon enough they would be able to supply his needs. Then Q.B . would be able to explain why emotion was nothing less than a mental illness.
Yeah, I wanted to write the most WRONG Madoka fanfic ever. I do have a pet fan theory that some pedophile slipped some drug into their drinks; hence all the weird visuals.
BTW, throughout writing this, I was drunk as a skunk on vodka, and listening to Doors songs. This is the end, my beautiful friend…..