Chapter Five: Not Only Am I The President Of The Saxon Chain-Mail Hair Club For Men...

Real MFG's original story by Max Gardner and Travis Taylor

“Burn, buh-buh-burn, buh-burn the fuckin’ flag!”

           --The Goats

            “Next town we come across we’re gonna have to repair the Gangsta Truck,” Miles remarked.  Bumpy nodded in cheerful agreement, sifting through the bucket of cats to make sure none of them had fallen victim to the Rammstein chemical.  “We’ll have to pick up more meth, that was the last of it, also some more clothes for Nasty ‘cause she goes through ‘em like a muthafucker, maybe another nail for ol’ Bizkicka too.  Hope we don’t end up having to wash somebody’s dishes for the money.”

            “We steal in the name of the Lord,” Nasty smiled.  She licked a thin, webbed finger and tested the wind.  “If I remember correctly there’s a town about a mile down the road, we should be able to reach it by evening.”

            It was halfway through this short journey that perhaps the most frightening and unforeseen encounter of Miles’ life took place.  The man leaped abruptly from the bushes and stood his ground in front of the truck, and Miles, Nasty, and Bumpy screamed in unison as they saw his face: easily five times as ugly as any Rammsteiner’s, it was a blobbish construction, the mouth little more than a horizontal crescent with teeth, the nose upturned like a sow’s, and the eyes were small, black, and beady.  A perpetual leer twisted his features into a hideous mask of hatred.  Surely, this was some tasteless practical joke by the Great Wendt.  The beast leered at Nasty.

            “Been a while since I had a woman....”

            Miles took a half-hearted swing at this abomination with his bat and the creature turned and threw itself into the high reeds along the opposite side of the dirt path.

            “God, what a loser,” Nasty breathed, her hands still shaking from the experience.

            “Indeed,” Miles nodded, wiping a cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

            Sometime in the evening, Miles started to notice a glow emanating from the horizon.

            “Whoa. The sun’s up again,” whispered Bumpy in an awestruck manner.

            “No, Numpy, that ‘s Pimptown.” Miles said, vaguely annoyed.

            “That’s Bumpy.”

            “Whatever.”

            The closer they got, the brighter the lights in the sky became. Miles had been to Pimptown at least once, and knew that all of them would enjoy themselves greatly: this was a town dedicated to mellow pursuits of pleasure, where all the music was low and bassy, and the women-

            “Hey Miles! Miles! Look!” Bumpy started pointing excitedly to a figure shambling alongside the road. “One of them’s escaped!”

            Miles recognized the heart patterned boxer shorts from behind. It was Word, alright, but this time with a broad brimmed black hat with an exotic feather rakishly protruding from it.  Miles briefly considered stopping the Gangsta Truck and offering it a ride before a smaller, bright pink carriage driven by four women in their twenties stopped for it. Word shrugged and climbed inside before the carriage sped off toward Pimptown.

            The gates to Pimptown were a deep purple hue, with an iron arch overhead that someone had hung a massive pair of fuzzy dice from. Even Crackhorn took pause before entering the town. Once they got inside, Miles could hear the trademark music emanating from the many buildings lining the main street.

            Strange, Miles thought. Even though it’s nighttime, none of the lights in these houses and apartments seem to be on.

            “Where do we go first?” Inquired Nasty.

            “We should find someone here who can fix the Gansta Truck.” Miles said, looking around for a likely place.

            “Why would anyone here be able to fix this thing? I’ve never seen any carriage quite like it, and I don’t think any smithy would be able to repair it.”

            “The original founders of Pimptown were Shitty-shama engineers and entertainers. The descendants of the Gangsta Truck’s designers could very well have their own business here. Besides,” he said, watching a bright green carriage with a peculiar feature that made its front two wheels bounce up and down, “anyone with money can get just about anything here.”

            The Gangsta Truck limped up the street, amidst offers from prostitutes and the occasional constable doing his damndest not to be noticed. Eventually, they came to a massive building with a sign above proclaiming “BD’S REPAIR SHIT.” they all got off of the Truck, where they found themselves greeted by a dark skinned man of moderate height and build. He was sharply dressed, with a dark blue cape and trousers and an immaculately pressed sky blue shirt. He had wavy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache.

            “Greetings, I’m the owner of this facility. How may I satisfy your needs?” Miles noted that he was addressing Nasty with this last bit.

            “We need to repair the Truck,” Miles said, somewhat menacingly. The man looked it up and down for a minute.

            “I’ll get my people working on it immediately.” The man looked over his shoulder at Nasty. “That’s one fine piece of machinery you’ve got there, sir. A fine piece.”       

            “Excuse me?” Nasty Bitch said, somewhat taken aback.

            “Your...Truck. It’s a Gansta Truck, one of the fastest and toughest pieces of junk in the world. How did you come by it, if I may ask?”

            “Someone was hitting on Nasty here, and I killed him and took his Truck.” Miles said, eyes narrowed. The man laughed at this.

            “Calm down, buddy. No need to worry. In fact, seeing as how I’m a gentleman, I’ll offer you all a complimentary beverage at my drinking and gaming establishment next door.” 

            “Alright. We’ll need to corral our penguin first.” Miles said, gesturing toward Crackhorn.

            “My people will take care of it. Now please, enter here. We have fine food and drink, including my own fine recipe malt beverage.”

            “Beer?” Bumpy asked, somewhat excited.

            “No, not actually. It’s stronger, smoother.” They walked next door together and entered into a building. All of the torches in the room had been placed behind light blue glass, giving the entire place a serene glow. “Now enjoy yourselves,” the host said. “I see a noble pursuit ahead of me.” Their host departed. Miles scanned the room, and saw that it was a bar like any other, except that its patrons were fairly well-dressed, and that there were about as many women as men. He saw a table with a few midgets chatting merrily.

            “I’ll be back in a minute, guys.” He said to Nasty and Bumpy. “Bathroom break. Find yourselves a seat, and I’ll catch up with you later.”

            Ten minutes later, after convincing a bouncer not to kick him out of the establishment,  Miles walked to the bar. An overweight and particularly ugly dark skinned man was serving a drink to a tall grey skinned man in red and black armor.

            “What can I help you with?” The bartender had the deepest voice Miles had ever heard.

            “Uh...the owner of the establishment told me that I could get a complimentary malt beverage.” The barkeeper nodded, and gave him a tall mug of said drink. It looked like beer, Miles thought, but it had a far more potent effect.

            “If you insist on milling about with your handout beverage, I’m afraid we’ll have words.” The grey skinned man said, while sipping from a glass of what Miles supposed was a dark red wine.

            “Oh?”

            “Bah! I can’t be bothered with you on my quest for vengeance.”

            “Yeah, I’m one of those too. I’m looking for a small grey haired man with a mustache who speaks in an emphatic manner. I owe him dearly.” The grey skinned man looked at him levelly.

            “In that case, I have a tale which may interest you. I saw this man some time back, in an incident I now refer to as...

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Chapter Six: Celebrating The American Mustache