Chapter Seven: But You Must Call Me Papa!

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

“There’s a horse in the hospital!”

            --Dr. Octagon

            Miles frowned and leaned forward over his malt brew, chuff portion numb, but not nearly so numb as to dull the realization that he had just heard tell of Paul’s last few hours on Ekojni as a (somewhat) normal man before his clash with destiny transformed him into the strange being Miles had encountered in the brush off the path to Raccoon Village.  And the mention of the “He sees you” man had not gone unnoticed.  Miles sat in stunned silence for a time, waiting for the effect of the malt beverage to lighten the burden of revelation.  The gray-skinned man, who introduced himself as Kain, merely sipped at his drink, apparently having long reconciled whatever feelings he may have had concerning the incident of which he had spoken.

            “Okay, guys,” Bumpy was saying as he downed the last of his drink and braced himself against the back of his chair as if preparing to leap through the roof.  “Get ready forBumpy’s mighty belch.”

            Nasty Bitch sighed and rubbed her scaly forehead as the inebriated young man let out a sound roughly as impressive as a mosquito’s fart.  Miles would have hesitated, in truth, to term it a belch--perhaps a Becky, as his father had often referred to his younger sister’s frequent belching experiments at the dinner table.

            “Excuse me,” the troll-like bartender said, and it took a moment for Miles to realize that he was in fact addressing a confused Nasty, whose eyes widened like those of a fox spotted by hunting hounds.  Miles felt a brief spark of eifersucht, as the Rammstein Clan might have said, as the bartender deftly reached behind his prey and swept her easily from her chair before she could protest, although Miles had a distinct feeling it would have made little difference, if any.

            “What in the name of WENDT are you doing?” Nasty Bitch said.

            “Shit, baby. I can’t lose with what I use,” purred the bartender. “My shift’s about over, and I’m a hell of a lover, so what say we get under the covers?” Bumpy looked at Miles nervously.

            “Uh...Miles, maybe we should...uh...”

            “Guess what time it is.” Miles’ grin was evident through his scarf.

            “Uh...eleven fifty?”

            “ELEVUHN! Er...yeah. Guess what Nasty Bitch doesn’t have?”

            “Uh...meth?”

            Miles only nodded.

            “Kick back a drink and wait for the screams.”

            “But, um...” Bumpy’s cheeks had grown still rosier under the influence of BD’s malt brew.  He leaned over and whispered.  “What happens when she doesn’t get her meth, I mean, I grabbed a couple of crystals before she ate me last time, but...we haven’t got any left.  Shouldn’t we...?”

            “Yeah, I suppose we should grab a tank or two for the road,” Miles sighed, rising unsteadily to his feet.  Kain, obviously not a stupid man, had apparently overheard their conversation and had taken the liberty of ducking out in anticipation of the local holocaust which struck every night at twelve.

            Returning several hours later and having purchased two full tanks of meth from a short man wearing a chef’s hat and apron (and a voice which uncannily resembled the bartender’s), Miles and Bumpy found the scene much as they had expected, save one small detail.  The bar had been torn asunder, tables overturned and bitten in two by a set of teeth like rows of daggers, the chairs smashes to tinder, and patrons mangled in all manner of disgusting ways.  At the center of this disaster area sat the bartender, smiling like a wild hyena over a kill, Nasty Bitch lying half-unconscious in his arms.  Her breath was shallow and unsteady, and her skin had become more pallid than it ordinarily was, with the exception of her cheeks, which had grown rosier than Bumpy’s.  She had been loosely wrapped from head to toe in a bright purple clerical robe.

            “Hey, what’s the deal?” Bumpy piped.  “How’d she turn back without the meth?”

            “Y’all don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing,” the bartender cooed.  “She just all high on me.”

            “This what you meant when you said you’re better off not knowing what the hell happened sometimes, Miles?” Bumpy whispered.

            “Yes, Bumpy.”

            “When confronted with a demon beast,” the bartender said, “you just stand back and tell her how...red like blood her skin is, and how brilliant the light reflects off her pearly whites....  And when she calms down, you tell her how it’s...an honor for a man to stand back and watch his lady.  Admire her body.  The way the lamplight shines through her fins, and how her skin is like a cool sky over the ocean....” Nasty lurched forward weakly, a guttural and incoherent plea for help escaping her throat, and the bartender encircled her in his arms, stroking her hair gently.  “Damn, woman, where you goin’? I just gave you sweet lovin’ five minutes ago and you runnin’ out on me?”

            “Miles, that’s really fucked up,” Bumpy said.

            Miles, having pounded a fresh nail into Bizkicka beside the jagged stump of the one he’d broken fighting the Rammsteiners, lowered said weapon at the ugly bartender’s head, his eyes grim narrow.

            “Of course,” the bartender continued, “I’m not one to argue.  You just say the word, I’m stone gon’.”

            “I must admit,” Kain remarked, forming from the pall of smoke which hung over the bar and scratching his head in amusement, “these peasants are rather entertaining, if nothing else.  When we meet again, Miles, we shall have many words.”

            He dispersed into a cloud of large black bats as the bartender fled behind the counter, and a moment later Miles heard a back door swing shut.  Harnessing Bizkicka, he lifted Nasty under her back and legs and made his way through the demolished furniture and severed limbs.  BD had finished his repairs on the Gangsta Truck during the night, and it rested in full splendor alongside the road of purple brick which passed by the bar, Crackhorn washed and harnessed (his feathers were still a sickly shade of green, but he had been fluffed like a pillow and a pair of fuzzy dice hung from his neck).  A mechanical apparatus of some kind had been attached to the roof, and Miles felt a tightening in his bladder as he saw the two figures standing within the Truck’s shadow, one average in height, the other remarkably short.  BD himself stood beside the two shadowed figures, his cape rustling in the morning breeze.

            “Hello, what have we here?” he oozed, noticing the dazed Atlantean Miles held in his arms.  Quickly realizing that Miles had no particular desire to speak of such things, the sharply dressed pimp gestured to the roof attachment.  “Since you’ve such a lovely young woman in your company, we’ve given you only the best of service.  We’ve christened this fine Truck the Stun Zeed--” He nodded at the purple lettering on its side.  “--attached a catapult, and provided you with a little musical accompaniment for your journey, wherever that may take you.  Miles, meet your new midget sub-woofer and the legendary Mr. Jimmy Scott.”

            The two figures nodded amiably and the midget raised a bullhorn to his lips, producing a sound something like an approaching stampede of cattle.

            “Truly,” BD continued, now addressing Nasty, “you belong with us here among the clouds.  We’re very sorry to see you all go and hope you’ll see fit to return to us someday.”

            “No offense, BD,” Miles said quietly as he did his best to seat Nasty securely atop Crackhorn, who had been provided with a saddle of his own, “but back off, pimp.”

            “No offense taken, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” BD smiled, waving as the truck bumped along the road and vanished through the gates.

            Miles had been mistaken in assuming the encounter with the leering beast which had jumped from the foliage to be the most frightening experience of his life; a fat black man, apparently fleeing a situation of some complication (he wore nothing, save a light-blue showercap), leaped, mighty blobbers flapping like pancakes in the wind, from a cliff alongside the path and landed in the street in front of the Truck.  He quickly jumped to his feet, crammed his considerable girth into the seat beside Miles, and began slapping his back as though attempting to burp an obstinate baby.

            “Acelera, negro!” he insisted with growing intensity.  “Acelera! Acelera, negro!”

            Miles shrugged, lifted him by the collar, and tossed him into the road, where he rolled end over end toward Pimptown like a big fat log with a showercap.

            “Wow,” Bumpy laughed.  “I guess I am pretty fucked up, I mean I knew those Rammstein guys were a bad idea from the beginning, but that was just weird.”

            Miles was silent.

            “Oh, man,” Nasty groaned, and slumped limply against Miles.  Her breath spoke of liquor far stronger than malt brew.  “What the hell’d he do to me, feels like I got hit by a goddamn train.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Miles replied, scratching his head.

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Chapter Eight: Like Zeus In His Golden Shower--It’s Binaca!