Slyfox

Moving On or Let’s Get The Hell Outta Here

“Ooohhh man… I’m gonna kill that Elder… uhhn… medic!”

Dongo opened his eyes to see Harold scurrying over with the flask the Elder gave them. He could only guess at its contents.

“Ack! D’you want to poison me further?!” Dongo cried.

Harold thrust the flask under Dongo’s nose. “It’s only water, dillweed.”

Sipping the water, Dongo took stock of the situation. They were in a cave, with lots of Biological Goo™ splattered all over the cave walls. “Where’s that fat puking bastard?”

Mr Potato Man grumbled: “He up and left while we were all out. I know because he stepped on me…”

It was a time of planning. As anyone with eyes in their head could (hopefully) see, the trip to Klamath was pretty much wasted and, in general, not a lot of fun. It smelled of undigested drymeat, too. And the elusive plot was still missing. And the Bootyometer was way under normal levels.

Harold directed a stony glare at Dongo. “So where do we go now, oh omnipresent authority figure?”

Dongo matched the glare. The grinding of stone from when stony glares collide could be heard quite audibly. “When did your name change to Jaheira, omnipresent irritation figure?”

Mr Potato Man abruptly ended the discussion. “When did both of you turn into omnipresent ninnys?”.

And Dongo said: “Yeah, you’re right Spud. We should probably get moving again.”

And Harold seemed puzzled. “Who’s Spud, Dongo?”

To which Dongo replied: “Why, Spud here!”, and he gestured to Spud.

Harold looked at Spud, who was really Mr Potato Man, but wasn’t anymore, because Spud (or is that Mr Potato Man?) had reached into the space-time continuum and altered his name, because it’s a mouthful to say and a handful to type and an earful to listen to. Mr Potato Man, that is. Or Spud. Or something like that.

So they packed their bags (with what, drymeat? Har har har…), squared their shoulders and marched off into the distance. The distance being from their point of origin to where a very large and angry molerat was prowling. At that point, their vector of motion was rapidly reversed at an acceleration of approximately twice the speed they had entered at.

Stopping for breath in the cave with lots of Biological Goo (patent pending), Dongo wheezed between gasping for breath: “Well, that was close!” And they packed their bags, squared their shoulders and marched off into the distance again. The other distance this time — they’re not that retarded.

Meanwhile, a few seconds later in exactly the same galaxy (the same planet, too!), some kind of Anime movie with big stompy bots and funny-looking people was being shot some unknown distance from Dongo. (Hell, I’m an omniscient narrator and I don’t even know!) A fine Anime movie it was, with lots of the usual slightly tasteless adult material, as well as seizure-inducing flashing bits. Either that, or a big mutant in power armor was standing around looking threatening (and managing quite nicely, too) whilst being surrounded by scientists. And the occasional nude (or nearly there) lady, hence the slightly tasteless adult material. Hey, even geeks need to have some fun every now and then! As for the flashy bits, well, those neon lights never did sit very well with having bombs thrown at them, did they?

Apparently, the big mutant had a voice, since a sound akin to speech came from somewhere in his general direction, saying the following: “This isn’t fun! I want to go home! I want a friend!”

One of the scientists seemed quite stunned by the fact that it spoke. Either that or he didn’t like what he was hearing. “No no no! Hank, it shouldn’t be fun, you don’t have a home, and you don’t want a friend — you want to kill everybody!”

Well, the mutant just wanted to make friends, so he thought that if he did as the nice scientists said, they’d all be friends. Oh boy, did that scientist ever have it coming. In fact, any living organism in the room was pretty much endangered. Hell, the walls, ceiling and floor too. Having the sound of miniguns spinning up just before you get riddled by about 100 5mm bullets per second isn’t a really fun way to go out, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Sometimes, non-beggars also can’t be choosers. Tough shit, eh?

“Hank, why are you pointing those miniguns at us? Hank, put that thing away! Hank!!!”