Tuesday, July 7, 2015

A revlation and a nightmare

Inside the Silio on Golding's pig farm 3:01Am

 It happened so fast: the sound of the couch smashing at the bottom of the 20 foot drop barely didn't even register but it did. It looked like it folded in half on impact, like a jobber taking a Misawa suplex.  Round Trip Jones, who was anything but a jobber, managed to land on his feet unharmed as he stood looking back up at me. Standing next to him was Ethan Magloofabits, who had jumped in after his buddy without even looking. Dumb? Crazy? Reckless? I prefer loyal! Fearless! Bad ass! But  if pressed I reckon I would not argue the validity of  the first three so much.

In a baffling display of energy conservation empathy, RTJ switched off the flat screen tv that was mounted on the back wall of the silo. Which obviously triggered the trap door to collapse. The entire floor dropped and in an instant the couch, the end tables, the lamp, the rug, and the luchadore were all gone.

I ran to where the makeshift living room now was. Ethan ran past me and was over the side before I could even consider telling him not to.  When I arrived at the perfect rectangle hole in the floor, my teammates were fine.

Wimpy clones.
Dumb traps.
Taking a vacation from terrorizing us.
Other than the dragon and the soldiers, it would seem our antagonist was more concerned with irritating us then actually hurting us.

That said my body has been out of whack ever since this thing started. The big brains I work with told me I was clear of the poison, but I've been getting worse and worse, further away from my optimum abilities every day since I woke up from my Alchemy induced slumber.

Or maybe 200 + (+ a lot) years of booze, drugs, and misadventures had caught up to me. I aged in increments pretty much every 60 years or so.  I looked 18 until the last change - then boom. Old. Grey hair. Shit metabolism. Old. My body took a step away from me, but skills, knowledge, and repetition made it easy to compensate.

I had maybe one more change, though legend has it some noble endeavor would keep me from slipping into elderly territory, but I haven't found it yet. Most folk get to rely on biology and hard science to help them chart the cause and effect Russian roulette that's their life span.  Good living + modern medical advancements - outside stimuli (things like out of control trucks or Falling safes) = a long healthy life. Me? Every thing I know about me came from an old guy in a cave. Finding out what I really was didn't help much; in fact it made shit more confusing. FUCK MY LIFE.

Not having a very good grasp on your own mortality or in my case quasi Immortality made stuff like this ten times more scary. I had no clue what was wrong with me or if I was getting better. But I suspected I may find some ANSWERS here, in what would appear to be the home of the person who was responsible for me getting poisoned in the first place. It was probably just another trap, but I was ok with that. If they had super cleverly planted the evidence that led us here, then we will get through.  I will dissect it and get one step closer. Every lil jab they make is another opening, and I'm famous for taking a punch to give a punch.

"You can't run forever, fucker," I said out loud.

"Dynamo," said two voices at once. I was closer to the hole so I walked over to where my comrades were still stuck.

"Yes?"

"Cerdo," said RTJ.

"What about em?" Holy crap, he was right! Where were the pigs??

When the pig farm closed ten or so years ago, the old man "just dispersed”. His kid owned the land, but no one could find him, so some genius town official just decided the best thing to do was to let the pigs free. But they didn't go any place. They just kinda overran the east side of the property. It was one of those classic small town fuck ups that contributes to the local idiosyncrasy that make these small towns awesome.

College kids would go there to steal pigs. Grade school bullies would threaten to drop kids off to be eaten by the pigs.  There is even a legend that the horney pigs would rape anyone unlucky enough end up in their territory. Ok... I started that legend, but it's really gaining steam! It was retold to me recently by a drunk kid who swore the pigs had mutated into pig men!

The problem is Tiny and I went right by the farm. No pigs. Before I could clue Tiny in, he motioned me over.

"Tiny, there's no pigs."

"Did you eat them all?" he said, not looking at me.

"Shut it."

"There can be only one," he said, with a grandiose flourish of his arms.

"Shut.  It."

"Look at this," Tiny said, crossing his arms.

Above the desk was a series of show posters. I recognized some of the bands and most of the clubs they were all in. Necronomicon, but the scene had definitely moved on without me.

One band was on it over and over again.

"Jason Vagmer and the Black Dragons."

Judging by the bands I did recognize, I'd guess he was in a similar genre to us - some sorta electronic band.

"Someone likes this Black Dragons band," I said, totally the transition to a pig revelation.

"Likes them or..." Tiny answered

"Orrrr likes them a lot?" I knew I was wrong but took a swing at it anyway.

"Orrrrrrrr" Tiny said, almost before I could finish my stupid answer.

"Orrrr they ARE THEM!! Holy Shit! I owe you, you were right!!!" I yelped.

"You owe me a coke!” Tiny said.

The attacks had started just before the show and stopped right after. Tiny had brought it up in one of the multiple war room meetings we had, but something about rock shows and vendettas didn't add up.

"But..." Tiny interrupted me, before I could ask why someone would go to all this trouble making clones to stop a Deadites show. His out stretched hand pointed to a flyer in the middle. The poster had a guy who at first glance I would have mistaken for Dave Navarro, but he was chubby and looked to have had one too many broken noses.  He was wrapped in a black cloak that was a bit too big.  The text under the band read:
"A Phantasmagorical Super Kick Right Through the Heart of Dance Culture"

"Well, that's looks a bit familiar," I chuckled.

Tiny was still pointing - he placed his finger on the the poster, and moved it down.

Down past the band name.
Down past the chubby Navarro.
Down past the plagiarism.
Down past club I had never heard of.
Down to a date:
"May 2nd"

Fuck, he was running opposite us.

Before I could protest out loud, the absurdity of a super villain local synth pop artist spending science fiction amounts of money to make science fiction to take us down so we would not be competition playing the same night as his show, a sound erupted from the trap door. Bad sounds. 





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