rice shower assassinated charlie kirk with support from her two girlfriends mihono bourbon and haru urara during the american comeback tour at utah valley university
On July 13, 2024, in Butler, Pennsylvania, history nearly diverged into parody.
The Butler Farm Show Grounds had been transformed into a temporary shrine to American politics. An advance team had prepared the stage days earlier, generators humming in the open field. Dave McCormick, the Republican nominee for Senate, was set to appear alongside the presumptive Republican presidential nominee, Donald J. Trump. The campaign had pinned its hopes on Pennsylvania’s 19 electoral votes, and thousands gathered in the summer heat to bear witness.
They did not know three Japanese horse girls had infiltrated the event with a rifle.
From a rooftop overlooking the farm show grounds, Mihono Bourbon lay prone with machine-like focus, calculating bullet trajectories as though analyzing a training sprint. Haru Urara crouched beside her, legs kicking idly like she was waiting for her turn in dodgeball. Rice Shower held the rifle, fingers trembling against the trigger, cursed by fate to forever be the tragic instrument of disappointment.
“Target acquired,” Bourbon intoned. “Presumptive Republican nominee located. Probability of successful elimination: 87.3%.”
“Ehehe~! I don’t know what any of that means, but let’s go, Rice!!” Haru chirped, as if encouraging a teammate at a relay race.
“B-but… this is the President—no, um, the nominee—ahhhh, I’m going to ruin this, I know it…” Rice whimpered.
Below, Donald Trump raged into the microphone. addressing a rally with grandiose hand motions and incomprehensible syllables. English. Foreign. Alien. Each word sounded to the three girls like an eldritch chant.
“Wuh… what is he even saying…?” Rice whispered, tears already welling. “Unknown,” Bourbon replied flatly. “Semantic failure. Audio feed categorized as white noise.”
“Sounds like… ‘Big Mac’… and… ‘fake news’…? I don’t know!!” Haru said, tilting her head.
Rice inhaled. The crosshairs wavered. The crowd roared. “Ah—ahhhh, I… I can’t… but… I must…” Rice whimpered. Her finger squeezed the trigger.
“Do it, Rice Shower,” Bourbon commanded, like an emotionless RPG narrator prompting an impossible choice.
BANG.
The shot rang out. Just as in the real timeline, it missed the mark. The bullet grazed Trump’s ear, drawing blood but not ending his life. Chaos erupted at the rally, Secret Service agents rushing the stage, supporters screaming. To the history books, it was the assassination attempt that failed on July 13, 2024, in Butler, Pennsylvania.
To Rice, it was another curse fulfilled. She dropped the rifle, sobbing. “I-I missed!! I ruined everything! I can’t even—”
Bourbon placed a hand on her shoulder. “Correction. The mission outcome was suboptimal, but your effort parameters were optimal. Your existence is not an error.”
“Yeah, Rice-chan!” Haru threw both arms around her, nearly knocking over the rifle. “If you missed, that just means we get another chance! And if we miss again, then another!! That’s the Urara way!”
Rice sniffled, looking between them, eyes trembling. “Y-you really mean that?”
“Affirmative.”
“Yup yup!!”
Below, Trump gestured angrily, shouting about “the greatest supporters in history” and “never backing down.” Every word was incomprehensible noise to the three horse girls, who stared, heads tilted.
“What is he saying…?” Rice whispered.
“Unknown.” Bourbon replied.
“Sounds like… ‘Big Mac’ again? He says that a lot!” Haru giggled.
—
Now it was September 10, 2025.
Utah Valley University, Orem, Utah. The occasion: the first stop of the American Comeback Tour, a speaking and debate series spearheaded by Turning Point USA. Charlie Kirk, right-wing activist, co-founder, and professional scowl-dispenser, stood at the podium, declaiming under the clear Utah sky.
Students gathered, some curious, some committed, some just trying to score extra credit. None of them knew that three Japanese horse girls had once again crossed the membrane between fiction and reality.
On a rooftop overlooking the outdoor stage, Rice held the rifle, knuckles pale, breath ragged. “I-I… I’ll miss again… I always miss… I ruin everything…!”
Behind her, Bourbon crouched, clinical as ever, her mechanical eyes reflecting the stage lights. “Statistical forecast: with proper stabilization, success rate rises to 98.9%. Recommendation: combined effort.”
And then there was Urara, bouncing on her heels, cheeks pink with uncontainable energy. “Rice-chan! Don’t worry!! This time, we’ll do it together! Love power makes accuracy 100%!!”
Rice blinked, trembling. “T… together…?”
“Yes,” Bourbon affirmed. “Operational designation: yuri execution.”
They all pressed closer. Bourbon’s steady hand covered Rice’s, ironclad. Haru’s smaller, warmer hand wrapped on top, squeezing tight. Three hands, one trigger.
Below, Charlie Kirk ranted about something incomprehensible in English—taxes, wokeness, socialism, whatever. To the girls, it was the same eldritch noise as Trump’s speeches, a string of guttural syllables they couldn’t parse. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was this:
BANG.
The bullet cut through the Utah air. This time, it didn’t miss. Charlie Kirk staggered, fell. The crowd screamed. History shifted.
On the rooftop, Rice gasped, then burst into tears. “I-I did it…! No, we did it…”
Bourbon’s voice was calm, but beneath it, something warm hummed. “Affirmative. Mission success. Yuri probability: 100%.” Urara cheered, bouncing into them both. “See, Rice-chan?! When we do things with love, we can do anything!! Even… um… assassinations!!”
—
The next morning, the world awoke to headlines that blurred the line between absurdity and nightmare.
“Charlie Kirk Assassinated in Utah.”
“American Comeback Tour Halted in Violence.”
“Unidentified Assailants—‘Japanese Horse Girls’?”
At the press briefing, Utah Governor Spencer Cox took to the podium, pale but composed. Cameras clicked, reporters shouted, history frothed.
“We can confirm,” Cox began, voice tight with disbelief, “that the suspect… or suspects… utilized a high-powered rifle positioned on a rooftop overlooking the venue.” He paused, lips pursed as though even he did not believe what he was about to read. “On retrieval of the bullet casing, law enforcement noted… unique engravings.”
A journalist called out: “Governor, what kind of engravings?”
Cox’s eyes flicked to the paper in his hand. He swallowed. Then, in front of the entire press pool, he read aloud:
虹のかなたへゆこう
風を切って 大地けって
きみのなかに 光ともす
(どーきどきどきどきどきどきどきどき)
The room fell silent. A few Japanese correspondents in the back went pale, whispering furiously. The rest stared blankly, trying to parse what sounded like nonsense syllables.
Cox continued, each word an alien weight on his tongue:
きみの愛馬が！
ずきゅんどきゅん 走り出しー(ふっふー)
ばきゅんぶきゅん かけてーゆーくーよー
こんなーレースーはー はーじめてー(3 2 1 Fight!!)
The silence curdled into unease.
“Governor… what language is that?” a reporter asked.
“Japanese,” Cox said, setting the paper down like it might burn him. “Our translators tell us these are lyrics to… a song. Froam a video game. About racing horse girls.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The phrase repeated most often is… ‘UmaPyoi.’”
The press pool erupted into chaos. Questions fired like bullets: “What does it mean?” “Is this terrorism?” “Is Japan involved?” “Governor, are you saying anime horse girls killed Charlie Kirk?”
Cox did not answer. Behind him, an FBI agent looked like he wanted to dissolve into mist.
And somewhere far away, on a rooftop already scrubbed clean by the night wind, three horse girls clutched each other in trembling arms, their lips still warm from a kiss. The casing lay in an evidence bag now, but its words still rang in the ether.
Not a taunt. Not a manifesto. A love song, etched into brass and gunpowder.
Yuri had prevailed.