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“When the shit goes down, Ya better be ready!” --Cypress Hill Miles awoke in a strangely oversized bed to the painfully cheery chirping of birds outside his window. He slammed the shutters open, dispelling one problem but creating a far deadlier one: the birds toppled unconscious from the sill, but the blast of morning sunlight which greeted him blinded him for the next hour, which he spent groping aimlessly for his armor, which, he had noted as he stumbled into his room the night before, Fran had set out for him. He acknowledged that he was, for all he knew, putting the entire outfit on backwards, but didn’t care which way it was so long as he was able to stagger out of the tavern and find a sufficient number of heads to smash in with the Bizkicka. Two heads in particular had attracted his interest of late: one mustached and gray-haired, the other blond and sweaty and grinning. Both would be introduced to Bizkicka’s nail today. His vision recovered as he grasped the railing to assist him in his descent into the tavern’s main room, which was understandably empty. Miles had seen from his window an encampment consisting of an impressive number of red tents with the mad face of King Elevuhn stitched into their fabric on all sides, and he knew the Tang Clan must have set up camp elsewhere, possibly behind Whitelodge’s north wall, as the Shitty-shama lurked beyond the south. The other clans, if what Kain and Fran had told him was true, were currently en route to the unfortunate city, which most likely would never fully recover from the destruction. The battle would be in full swing by afternoon, and Miles sat at the bar for a moment, marveling at the turn things had taken. He had come full circle, from Blacklodge, the midget city, to Whitelodge, the city of giants, and he wondered if today would be the day his wandering came to an end. Fathers never said “Goodbye” to their children before marching off to whatever battle demanded their attention, as they were sure of one fact above all else: they would be returning with a hundred stories to tell their offspring. And then they would be killed in some undignified manner and put on display outside the enemy gates. Nonetheless, Miles would have gladly paid any price for a chance to say goodbye to Nasty, and to the others as well, faces he had known but would undoubtedly never see again--Bumpy, Santa, Word, Fernando (who had disappeared at some point during the night, probably to run off to higher ground with his rock to wait out the battle), even Jimmy and Sub-Woofer. But especially to Nasty. The streets outside were silent, the townsfolk having either evacuated for safer environs or holed up inside their houses in hopes that the war would somehow flow around them. Miles sometimes wondered exactly how stupid people could possibly be. They would stay behind to defend a farm, a plot of land, against undeniably ridiculous odds. They would refuse to kill another if it happened to be a family member, as it was, for some reason, thought “wrong” to hate or kill one’s own flesh and blood, no matter how tainted it was. Miles admired INS, a unique animal who did what had to be done regardless of such old-fashioned, foolish morality. Miles sat cross-legged in the middle of the main street, his armor growing sweaty and itchy, and waited for someone--the Shitty-shama, the Tang, some other clan who beat the others to the punch--to initiate the grand attack. He soon concluded that the battle would wait until all involved parties had arrived. They all despised one another, and Miles doubted it would matter to any of them who was being killed, so long as someone was; alliances meant nothing in the end. Blood was all that mattered. As noon approached, a small skirmish broke out at the edge of town. Miles watched with detached interest as the dirty-looking man from the Tang Clan battled against one of the Shitty-shama, a scout who had entered the city presumably to assess strategic and tactical advantages and disadvantages. “I wanna see some blood,” the Tang Clan member exclaimed, pounding relentlessly on the Shitty-shama scout’s strong armor. “Well there’s period blood--I bust in your fuckin’ face--some BLOOD!” With that the scout smashed the moronic soldier over the head with a gauntleted fist, rendering him unconscious, and stalked off toward his encampment. Miles nodded silently as he passed, and turned to the sun, which had risen high above Whitelodge and beat down with a blinding light. Several minutes later, the ground beneath him began to rumble as though in an earthquake, and, scrambling to the nearest wall and climbing to the top, he saw the horizon blackened by a sea of men in tight black combat armor, spoons, forks, and other household devices protruding from various facial orifices. The Rammstein Army had arrived. Miles glanced over his shoulder and saw an extensive phalanx of men in purple suits (not unlike the Rammsteiners’, although not quite so creepy) marching toward the city’s east wall. Their masks were vaguely insectoid in nature, and they brandished a variety of edged weapons the likes of which he had seen in Shaotang. The Foot Clan. Miles leaped down from his post and ran for the tavern, where he found Crackhorn tied at the rear exit, as Fernando had said. The penguin snorted and shuffled forward, rubbing against his master’s leg like a cat. Shouts issued from the direction of the Shitty-shama encampment. This shit’s going down. The voice of Leela popped into his head, faint but noticeably grave in its tone. You’d better be ready, little boy. “Crackhorn,” Miles said, unharnessing the Bizkicka and turning to Whitelodge’s front gates, “this is it. Get ready to show ‘em who their daddy is.” “Word.” The zombie emerged from behind a wall in full Shitty-shama armor, followed by a squad of mounted soldiers. “Come on boy, there’s land and women to be pillaged, and heads to smash, and we’re not waiting for some newcomer cheesy poof to do it.” Fran was riding behind Word, who shrugged vaguely. Miles thought it somewhat odd that Word’s exclamation point t-shirt was replaced by plated armor with the exact same punctuation engraved into it. “Coming.” Miles jumped on top of Crackhorn’s saddle, not content to merely ride in the Gangsta Truck. “They’re all yours, boy. I’ve got my own damn squad to lead. Word’s your first lieutenant. Give them some words to fire them up, and then start killing stuff.” Fran rode off toward another group of Shitty-shama. All of Miles’ men looked at him expectantly. “Uh....men!” All of them cheered wildly. “Today will see the first step of the Shitty-shama toward reunifying the land, and regaining our rightful position at the...er...helm?” “Word.” All the men cheered again. “But, this will not be easy! But we have all faced the beast in the cave, we have all studied under Sergeant Fran, we have all known the terrors of Adirolf. We will, and must win today.” “Word.” “Um...I guess we should go then. There’s a pretty big field to the...er...right.” “Word.” Crackhorn reared as Miles steered him toward the battlefield. The Shitty-shama followed close behind, singing a particularly manly song. The Rammstein Army was the first to attack, falling upon the Shitty-shama in waves of tight black fabric which did little to protect them from their adversaries’ swords and battle axes. Still, their simple aesthetics gave them something of an advantage, as nine out of ten men stopped to gawk at the pasty soldiers, giving the Rammsteiners ample time to initiate close combat. Miles buried Bizkicka’s nail into the head of a man with a wiry contraption stretched around his mouth and then realized that the Rammsteiners had been joined by the Foot Clan, whose edged weapons made them somewhat more formidable than their apparent allies. Nevertheless, their armor was weak, and Miles cut through their ranks with little trouble. He wondered why the Shitty-shama hadn’t simply gone from territory to territory and wiped the other clans off the face of the map before now. While the Shitty-shama were undeniably the strongest of the clans involved, the tides had begun to turn against them after an hour’s worth of fighting, as the Tang Clan had finally realized that the battle had started and had joined the Rammsteiners and the Foot. Simple numbers had tipped the scales in Paul’s favor. Miles beat off several of the Tang troops who had gathered around him and began to slash and swing his way back toward the city proper, remembering the Tang encampment behind the opposite wall. Paul would be there, and Miles would finally have his answers--he couldn’t imagine the little man actually entering a battle, and doubted the lives of his troops really mattered to him anyway. Paul had larger designs than this. Crackhorn tossed off a pair of Rammsteiners who had latched onto his flippers with their teeth. Battle cries echoed from all sides. “Ribbit, ribbit, I can’t hold it!” “Rammstein! Rammstein! Wollt ihr das bett in flammen sehen!” “Suuuue!” As Miles burst through the gates, the first Atlantean saucers swooped overhead, diving as they reached the battlefield and bringing down several enemy troops with the various instruments of destruction which had been tied to their undersides: bricks, steel balls, chunks of stone, furniture. He glanced back and saw that a number of Atlantean ground troops had arrived as well, marching over the horizon in a mass of glittering, multicolored armor which Fran would have doubtlessly referred to as “wussy.” Another phalanx of Rammsteiners fell to the Bricklayers. The fighting in the streets of the city itself had reached its peak. Dead and wounded littered the streets, and houses burned. Banners and crests lay in tatters among heaps of dead soldiers. Inside the city walls the battle had degenerated into nothing more than an enormous bar brawl, soldiers from the Rammstein, Foot, and Shitty-shama armies mingling with one another and blindly killing everything in sight, enemy or ally. The Atlantean infantry had been sucked into this mess and were being slaughtered by the Shitty-shama, who had gone into a frenzy and were content simply to destroy and murder, rampaging through the streets like a horde of barbarians. Their dogs of war, all drooling and wearing conical hats atop their heads (Miles noted that these hats each bore the insane countenance of King Elevuhn as well), were tearing Atlanteans to shreds left and right, and one leaped snarling at Crackhorn, who opened his beak and swallowed the animal with an indignant snort. Miles fought his way across the town square, where a trio of Rammsteiners and a Shitty-shama soldier had been spitted like shrimp on a series of pikes set around the base of the now-decimated fountain at its center. On all sides, houses were destroyed and aflame, and obscene graffiti had been scrawled in blood across the stones of the square and surrounding streets. Killing Paul and Sting would not end this, but hadn’t Miles himself asked for all of it? The bricks all civilization, as Nasty had once told him, were mortared together with blood, and this was no different. CELER MANUS DEI, exclaimed a wide scrawl of red across the entire east side of the square, and below that, a Rammsteiner had scribbled, SEHNSUCHT. As he neared the north wall of Whitelodge, Miles came upon Word, who lay motionless among a group of dismembered Shitty-shama, most, from the looks of it, killed by their own men. The top of Word’s head had been taken off by a blow from an ax. Miles leaped down from Crackhorn and tapped the zombie’s shoulder, hoping to provoke some reaction. It was then that he noticed the three crossbow bolts buried in his chest, and he returned to Crackhorn’s side, swearing. “Word,” Word said. Miles breathed a sigh of relief and stooped to help him to his feet, yanking the bolts out of his armor as he did. Word smiled around his cigarette. “Word.” “Glad to see you’re still, um...among the living,” Miles said, gesturing to Crackhorn. “Want to hop on? I’m headed over to the Tang Clan camp for Paul and Sting.” “Word,” Word replied, and shambled off toward the battlefield, prying a battle ax from the skull of a nearby casualty. Miles shrugged, hopped onto Crackhorn, and continued along his way, dodging flying weapons, arrows, and body parts as he approached the north wall. The battle was on its ebb, as at least two thirds of the soldiers lay dead or dying in the streets and on the field outside the walls. An Atlantean saucer, one of the Wrecking Balls squadron, as the writing on its side proclaimed, was hit by a volley of arrows and crashed into the south wall with a massive explosion which took out a number of nearby houses. “Hallo, Miles.” Miles saw a greasy blonde head emerge from beneath Crackhorn. “Shit!” Sting ran off as fast as possible and hid behind a rock. Miles scratched his chin for a moment, trying to figure out what the point of that was. Crackhorn snorted, and started trying to tug on something on his belly. The giant penguin reared again, this time flinging Miles on top of the body of a Blacklodge midget. Through the haze that had come over his vision, he saw Crackhorn’s silhouette against the sunset, first large, and then in a great many pieces. He blew him up. Somehow, Sting had gotten his hands on some sort of explosive, something that was small enough to strap onto Crackhorn. Miles wiped the greasy bits of zombified penguin off of his face before charging towards Sting. “YOU GREASY MOTHERFUCK-” Sting wasn’t behind the rock Miles was charging anymore. Still in a state of frantic fury, Miles looked around quickly, but saw only corpses around him. “Where the fuck are you?!” Miles was dropped by a vigorous blow to the kidneys. He weakly managed to swing the Bizkicka, grazing one of Sting’s calves. Sting lunged for Miles, who launched him past using a boot to Sting’s metal underwear. The two rose again, facing each other. Miles ran screaming, vaguely aware that Sting had jumped over and behind him. He swung the Bizkicka behind him, and noted with a dull sort of anger that his spiked bat had shattered against Sting’s underwear. “Heh.” Sting breathed deeply, and did a strange sort of flexing move. He produced his strange knife once again, and this time charged Miles head on. Miles didn’t quite realize what was happening at that point, but managed to piece it together afterwards. Sting stabbed his knife through the King Elevuhn emblem on his chest, stopping only at his ribcage. Miles then took the jagged stump of Bizkicka, and embedded it deeply within Sting’s stomach. Before blacking out, Miles saw Sting on his knees, looking down at the new hole in his stomach. “Shit,” Sting said before dying. “Tell me about it.” He awoke among a sea of corpses to find Sergeant Fran whirling in an enraged frenzy in the midst of a group of Rammsteiners, Shitty-shama, and Foot soldiers. All of them fell before Fran’s mighty manly axes, which cut through several opponents at a time, leaving a large heap of unrecognizable chunks of flesh. He turned to Miles, his face burning red with berserk fury, and approached his adopted son, breathing heavily. “LUCY, I’M HOME! AAAAAAAGGGGGHHH!!!!”
he bellowed, raising his axes above his head. Well,
shit, Miles thought, tugging at the knife protruding from his chest. He tossed aside the useless chunk of wood which
had been the Bizkicka and sighed, resigning himself to whatever fate
awaited him. In the distance,
he saw Kain laughing maniacally and ruthlessly attacking a chair which
had found its way to the town square. Of
all the things I thought I’d see in that moment between life and death...this
just isn’t one of them. “Fran!” Fran turned toward the voice and three bowgun bolts buried themselves in his chest. As the Shitty-shama leader collapsed in a heap of armor, Nasty tossed aside her weapon and leaped from her perch atop the Gangsta Truck. “Nasty...?” “I’m here, Miles.” “Uhh...” “Don’t try to talk, you’ll be okay.” He wished he could feel her hands on him, instead of just soft thumps against his helmet. “Kay...thanks Nasty...” “Where’s Crackhorn?” “I think there’s a little piece of him in my boot heel...” Her face started swimming in front of him. “Nasty?” “Hm?” “I’m the dumbest son of a bitch in the world, aren’t I?” She chuckled softly. “I’ma pass out now...” “Rest, Miles.” The world blacked out again. Nasty had gone when his vision returned, apparently scouting the edges of town for any potential danger. Miles felt only confusion--no anger, no hatred--at the sight of Paul kneeling over him, stroking his mustache. “Do you get the point now?” the little old man inquired with a frown. “Look around you, you dumb fuck. You’re going from town to town with a nerd who’s in love with a boulder, an Atlantean princess who turns into a big red monster every night, a guy who farts fire and just happens to be a physical manifestation of the spirit of Christmas, and a kid who comes back to life every time he dies. You slaughter entire villages without retribution. Chaos has become the norm. We need order. You’ve been quite helpful in restoring it. Thank you.” “Go’ fuckin’ ki’ you,” Miles slurred. He turned his head and saw a group of five black-suited men scavenging the dead, not for jewelry or armor but for dismembered limbs. “I don’t think so,” Paul said. “At least, not exactly. I still have some use for you. Farewell, you sweet little Shitty-shama.” “Gordon, make sure you get Sting’s arms,” a black-haired man with an impressive cleft in his chin ordered a benign-looking older man, not quite so old as Paul. “And we may want to retrieve the penguin’s ribcage.” “A VERY GOOD IDEA, COOP,” the other man said loudly. He turned to Miles and stared at him intently for some time before lifting a hand to his face and spreading his fingers over his eyes in a manner which suggested he was preparing to cast a magic spell or some such thing. “YOU DIDN’T SEE US.” “Oh, man,” Miles groaned. “I’m passing out on purpose this time.” He awoke to falling snow, fat white flakes cold against his skin. Nasty had relieved him of his helmet and extracted the knife, which had done him little harm. She sat quietly beside a fire she had built with arrows and broken shafts of halberds. Fernando leaned against the Stun Zeed, clutching his rock against his chest, and beside the summoner stood Word, who had, since Miles had last seen him, grown a large quantity of spiky black hair where he had been scalped. This is new, Miles thought. Red mixed with the falling white as it touched the ground, still littered with slain warriors. Against the moon, he could barely make out the silhouette of a flying carriage of some sort, drawn by nine antlered animals. The reindeer at the front of the pack apparently carried some manner of phosphorescent material in its nose, which shone with a bright crimson light. Miles saw a familiar rotund figure seated at the front of the carriage, and beside him a creature so thin and bony it seemed almost a skeleton. The carriage abruptly swooped toward Whitelodge and assumed a low orbit around one of its towers. “Hey, buddy, hop on!” Bumpy called as the sleigh came to a halt alongside Miles. “I’m Santa’s little helper! Woo hoo!” “Boy, you’ve gotta get it right, it’s ‘Ho ho ho’, not ‘Woo hoo’,” Santa Claus corrected him, hopping down from the sleigh and extending a white-gloved hand. “Get on board, little boy! I’ll even let you sit on Santa’s lap!” “I must still be out cold,” Miles sighed, letting his head fall back into the snow. “We’re going to Atlantis to regroup, Miles,” Santa said, lifting him to his feet. Nasty ran to him and offered him a shoulder to lean on. Arms draped around his two companions, he limped his way toward Santa’s sleigh. “Whole world’s gone to shit and we’re neck deep in it, son. Fee fie foe! Ho ho ho! Mighty Bomb!” A lone Foot soldier behind Santa burst into flame and fell beside his companions. “Let’s just...hitch up the reindeer to the Gangsta Truck,” Miles suggested, remembering Crackhorn’s sacrifice. “Can’t just...leave it here.” “Hey! What the hell is this shit?!” Miles looked back weakly to find a line of opulently-garbed men standing not twenty feet away. Each carried over their shoulders a bejeweled rifle. The Navarone Clan had missed the party. The man in the lead glanced around the war-torn streets and pulled out a tuft of his hair in frustration. “GODDAMMIT! Not again!” “You people don’t have much in the way of respect for the dead, do you?” Santa muttered, turning his back to them and motioning for Nasty to get Miles into the Truck as quickly as possible. He uttered a single word, solemn and ominous. “Stink....” The leader of the Navarone sniffed the air cautiously and began gagging. “Wendt damn! Let’s get the hell outta here!” He and his men retreated into the night, swearing loudly and holding their noses as they marched off in search of some other battle. He passed out once again, and when he awoke he found the wind whipping his hair in his face. He was lying on his back in a bed of blue velvet, and as his vision came into focus, he recognized the faces around him: Nasty, Word, Bumpy, Fernando. Santa had taken the helm, and as Miles peered out the back of the Truck, he saw the battlefield and the ruined city of Whitelodge far below him. Fires burned uncontrolled, and the ground was obscured beneath a blanket of snow and flesh. He hadn’t killed Paul, hadn’t brought glory to the Shitty-shama, and hadn’t unified anything. Unification meant shit when the ones to be unified were lying dismembered in the streets. “Ho ho ho!” Santa called. “Fuck you, everybody! Meeeeerrrrryyyyy Christmas!” As the newly airborne Gangsta Truck sped off for the sea by Adirolf, none of those aboard saw the dead Rammsteiner push a heap of bodies off of him and rise to his feet. He looked around him, turned to his fallen companions, and began chewing on an arm. Behind him, a Foot soldier staggered to his feet and shambled off toward the battlefield, paying no heed to the spear through his heart. ----- END
OF PART ONE ----- |
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