Neo Chronicles: Black Void
Episode 4: The Bar Fight
Table of Contents
It's so grimy in here. Everything's outta place, outta order.
The place smells—good God—it stinks. The fumes assault you as soon as you walk in. Some odd mixture of a sweet, juicy fart; sour, rancid must; and vile, rotting breath. It's the worst thing I've ever smelled in my life.
And the food? Don't even play, dawg. This food ain't no food. Sitting down at this table, looking down at the slop in this bowl, watching these tiny—what are those, flies?—mutated gnats orbiting around this lumpy, soupy—the spoon that came with it is almost insulting. You're supposed to get spoons with something edible, not with something so—slop.
The drinks—whatever sticky, mucousy liquid they put in this cup—is hardly worth anything. I try to sip it, but I just can't bring myself to it. Ain't no tellin' what sorta diseases I'd be ingesting if I did.
So this is what a bar is like? The place stinks, the lights are dim, it's loud and noisy, the food sucks, the drinks are snot, and the people aren't far from it. All that said, though—aliens aside—this's exactly how I imagined it be. Matta fact, I can even picture a bar fight carrying on just like this back home, too.
Not that I have much experience with bars and the fights that carry on in them. I mean, I'm jus' fifteen. It's not like I spend my nights out partyin' an' clubbin' an' junk. Not tryna knock the folks that do, but I jus' happen to find better uses for my time.
Like sleeping.
I'd be asleep right now if it wasn't for the craziness that led me here. After gettin' abducted by Ri'lar—by an alien named Ri'lar—sleep's sorta been the last thing on my mind, but if I was back home—back on Earth—I can guarantee you, it'd be the first. Way past my bedtime, homie.
But that's neither here nor there. I'm here and not there. Here, sitting at a table, in a bar, on a moon—a moon named DaaSong—looking down at this bowl of sickness and disease ridden oatmeal, as all Hell breaks loose behind me. I look across the table in front of me to see Ri'lar has no trouble devouring the food in his bowl. Just watching him go at it almost makes me think I'm making it out worse than it is. Like maybe I'm imagining the worst possible thing in the world, and because that's what I think it is, that's what it ends up bein'. Mind over matta. So maybe if I imagine it as—I don't know—fried chicken, it'll be worth somethin'.
So that's what I do. I betray every single sense I have, and dive right in. I do it quick, I do it fast, I don't give my nose a chance to smell, my tongue a chance to taste. I take this spoon-like thing, scoop out the biggest portion, shove it down my throat, and pretend this is the best tasting slop in the world.
I've made a huge mistake.
I'm ready to throw up. I'm ready to release all the contents of my stomach and my mouth to the world. I can't take this. I spit out the slop, wipe my mouth with my hand, stand up, and walk away.
I don't know where I think I'm going. It's not like I can escape the smell or anything else in this place. It's all around me. I'm within it. I end up heading to the bar part up front, where they take the orders. The bartender, using some rag to shine some glass, sees me coming. He says something, but I'm so distracted by his eight octopus tentacle things for hair—like dreadlocks—and his huge forehead that I don't catch what it is. He catches me lookin' dumbfounded, so he repeats again. This time—this time—I still don't catch it. Mostly because I don't know what the world he's sayin'.
His voice is gurgly, bass-driven, and—ooh, I know the word—indiscernible. This stupid translator of Ri'lar's ain't workin'. I look down at my wrist and see that the watch seems to still be functioning properly. The green light by the face of what would be clock hands if it were a normal watch is still on. Not sure what's going on here. Then I remember something the whale-face said.
We have to be talking to each other.
Does that mean it only works when I'm talking to him? I can't understand octo-dreads here because he's not wearing one. These things are like two-way radios? That's stupid.
Octo-dreads repeats himself once more, fishing for a response or at least some sort of acknowledgment. I throw my hand up and shake my head no. He says something that, honest to God, sounds like a sneeze. Then moves on to another alien customer at the bar's countertop. At least some languages are universal.
So I'm salty right now. Not only can I not eat or drink anything in here, I can't even ask for a cup of water to get the cruddy taste outta my mouth. Oh, and I'm, like, a thousand lightyears from home. That sucks, too. Yep, and this day was off to such a good start. I hate my life. Nah, take that back. I love my life. I'm thankful I'm still alive, still breathing, but—and surely you feel where I'm comin' from—this situation I'm in is absolutely horrible.
CRASH
Well, at least my situation's better than his.
Like I said before, there's a bar fight goin' on. Drunken fists're flyin' every which way. People—alien people—are bein' thrown around like ragdolls in a video game. It's a really horrible thing to watch. Really and truly horrible. These people are getting hurt. But some of it—and I do mean some of it—is kinda funny. From a spectator's standpoint, one can find amusement in the happening events.
Ah, who'm I kiddin'? This junk's betta than TV.
Dang, that dude just knocked that other dude through a wall. A wall. Musta owed him money or somethin'. Uhp, hol' up. Yep. He's gettin' up. Ha ha, he mad now. Bluish blood streaking down from his orange toned, bald, tatted up hairless forehead. He yelps out some sorta battlecry as he tears the remaining remnants of his tattered shirt from his skinny ol' lookin' body. Then he runs right back into the mayhem.
Oooh, this other dude right here—this other dude right here—just got his head slammed through a table. He is out cold. All you see is this dog-faced lookin' man sleepin' on the shattered pieces of what used to be there. Homie's lyin' in a mixture of dat lumpy food, dat terrible drink they've been serving, and his blood. I guess that green stuff oozin' from his flappy, long ears is his blood.
Gruesome. Totally gruesome and wicked. But still kinda awesome.
Alright, I need to stop.
I take a slow, easygoin' walk—almost a stroll—back to the table me an' Ri'lar were sittin' at. I'm jus' sorta takin' it all in. Like I said, this is my first time in a bar. First time in a bar fight. I hate it, but I kinda enjoy it. I see bodies pile up all around me, passed out from drunkenness, exhaustion, or both. Some slump over countertops. Some over tables. Kinda strange ain't nobody here tryna break it up. The bartenders are carryin' on like it ain't even happenin'. They know it's happenin', doe. One's actually watchin' as he shines a glass pitcher.
There's Ri'lar now. Halfway between me and the table, I notice he's gotten up and headed for the door. Is he leavin'? He throws a glance my way. It's a familiar glance, the same glance moms used t'give when she was tired of waitin' for me at the arcade. Haven't gotten that look in years. Haven't been to the arcade in years, but you know. I still know that look.
It's time to go. Suppose it's for the best.
I do my best to maneuver my way through the crowd. As I pass 'em by, I continue to observe. They're wild, rampant, and unhinged. All of 'em make a strong case for why I have no interest in drinking down the line. Alcohol makes people go crazy. That seems to be a universal trait. Don't matter how many appendages or heads you have, once you get goin' like this, it's like you a whole 'notha person altogether. It's jus' how people are. Aliens included.
I mean, sho, none of 'em look like people people—some of 'em got two arms, two legs, an' a head, but their facial features, muscle build, skin texture an' all is completely alien—but the way they actin'—like I can't make out the words, but they body language is jus'—it's as plain as day.
I see a group of three-headed, bug-eyed, monkey bats ganging up around a pool table shoutin' at the top of they lungs at some weirdo who looks like a pile of mud. There's another dude, tall, langy, seaweed lookin' hair coverin' his frail, green frame—shoot, it could be a girl 'sfar as I know. Not like they got any discernible features pointing one way or the otha—shovin' this boulder man to the other side of the room, tryna egg him on. I hear a glass bottle break. Can't have a bar fight without that. Someone's always gotta smash a bottle. That's how it is on TV.
Manage to catch up with Ri'lar, an' we head towards the door. As much fun as it's been watchin' these lames throw their lives away, think I've had my fill. I'm completely cool with leavin' this moon behind me. At least I would be, but somethin' happens. Somethin' happens at this precise moment in time that makes the thought of leavin' an impossible possibility.
SMACK is what I hear. It's what I feel. I reel forward to try an' regain my senses. It came hard. It hit hard. Think it shattered on impact. Somethin' got thrown my way. Somethin'—no, no, no—someone decided it'd be a pretty fun idea to punch me in the back a' my head. It wasn't like it was a mishap or nothin'. No, I was targeted. Someone doesn't like me. Dang, that felt like a brick. Felt like someone picked up a cruddy brick an' chugged it as hard as they could. That kinda stuff don't fly. I'm not cool. I'm not alright. Can't let the dude get away with that. Oh, no sir. Sorry Ri'lar, but I gotta take this.
It happens in an instant. In something as brief as a moment, I'm already on it. As soon as my gaze makes contact with the saber toothed, lizard bodied, noseless, snoutless lame, I'm already on him. Already on toppa the dude wailin'. My fists an' his face become fast friends. Beatin' this dude senseless. After two strikes, I feel his jaw break. Then I catch myself. I catch myself in the act, right before I knock him out cold. I'm not a fighter. I'm not supposed to be a fighter. I got the strength to punch people through walls, throw cars like Frisbees. I can't be in a fight. As soon as my ST developed, I learned that real quick. My moms was always on me about that, and for good reason. I don't know my own strength. I can't control it. I haven't grown into it, yet.
So I stop. I step off the punk. Rise to my feet, an' calm down. Dude ain't e'en worth it. I'm cool. Breathe in, an' exhale. I'm cool now, I swear, but before I can get to doin' anything else, I'm jumped by like five other dudes. They punch me, hit me with tables an' chairs an' – ouch, did someone bite me? So I'm stuck in this. I done started it, guess it's only right I suffer for it. They can punch, slap, hammer, scratch, bite an' do whatever. Yeah it hurts, but as long as I ain't strikin' back, we all good. I can take the pain. Take the punishment.
But dang, yo. That ain't to say it ain't annoyin'. Every blow, every strike, every shattered piece of glass broken over my back, I feel it. It hurts—not like I'm dyin' or nothin' but—like have you ever been ganged up by a buncha kindergärtners before. Jus' cuz you's taller than 'em, they think they got the right to jump you an' hit you as hard as they can til they get tired. An' it's not like you can strike back cuz they kindergärtners, they kids.
But these dudes ain't no kids. Ain't like they can't defend 'emselves. So why should I stand here an' take this? Know what? I won't. But before I can really get into it, I'm in the air. I feel lifted. Somethin's pickin' me up. What just happened?
“We don't have time for this,” I hear.
Ri'lar? Dang, dude grabbed the back of my shirt an' lifted me up with one hand. I'm suddenly reminded of how tall the guy is. So are all the others around me. They sorta back off from us. They still fightin'. Still fightin' each otha, but they give us out space. Good thing, too, cuz I was about ta go HAM.
Ri'lar drags my tail over to that rusty, metalic door before settin' me back on my feet. The creak it makes as it opens grates against my skull. It hit me on our way in, too, but for some reason, it seems even more bothersome now. In any case, we're outside now.
Yeah... outside...
“Staak,” I hear the whale-face utter. Takes a quick second for me to register the scenery, but once I do – “They followed us,” he goes on.
And there they are. Right out in the open. All in their fancy space cruisers. Some parked and landed on the moon's surface, others orbiting above. I count about ten ships altogether, an' about fifty or so men and/or women out an' about, jus' waitin' on us. We thought we left them lightyears away, but those dang gangbangers done managed to follow us all the way from Earth.
I hear one of 'em shout somethin'. Don't understand a single word of it. What kinda translator doesn't work on everything? Such bull. Well, based on what I know about the situation, I can still imagine what's bein' said. Dude wants Ri'lar t'come back into the mob. I hear Ri'lar respond with a “No way,” kinda answer. He uses a few more choice words that I don't know of or understand, but that's about the gist of it. The others say somethin' else, probably like "that's a shame." This is all playin' out like some crazy mafia movie or somethin'. Then the dudes pull out guns and open fire.
The dusty, crater filled, landscape lights up with the amount of lasers and plasma bolts firing from the gangsters' firearms. Instinctively, Ri'lar and I duck back inside the bar. Out of the pot an' into the flame. You know how it is. Adrenaline rushin atcha from every which way. We both kneel to the ground, our backs against the side of the wall. Each on either side of the door.
Ri'lar looks at me with those dark, coal lookin' eyes. Then peers between the crack of the almost closed, but still open door back to the outside. The bar fight's startin' to die down inside here. The booze, liquor, an' snot finally got most of these meatheads to hit their limit. Most're layin' out in some typa liquid—either blood, barf, or both—others're still tryna drink whatever sorrows they have left away. It's a real depressin' scene, an' if I wasn't about to die, I'd really take pause to pray over 'em or somethin'. Lawd help 'em all.
I make my way over to Ri'lar's side an' take a look at what he sees out there.
“If we make a run for it, I bet we could make it,” I say.
“You're not serious,” he replies.
“Of course I'm not serious! You see 'dem lights out there? Those lights are lights of death! Ain't no way we makin' it through this alive, runnin' out there is suicide!”
“We might not have a choice.”
“Are you serious?”
He looks at me. Stone face. Mad grimace. All business.
“Well, alright then,” I say, “let's go.” I mean, yeah, that's what I say, but best believe, I'm lettin' Ri'lar step through that door first.
Next thing I know, we're both burstin' through. I'm runnin' as fast as I can, faster even. I see the people, the ships, the guns, the lasers, an' I'mma huffin' an' puffin', straight bookin' it. Don't think I've ever run this fast before. Leapin' over giant space rocks in a single bound. Tankin' these lasers like they's mosquito bites.
Aight, some of this may be exaggerated for effect. I'm fast, but not Chris Walker fast. I'm jumpin', but that might have somethin' to do with the low gravity this moon has. And these lasers sting a lil' bit harder than bug bites. In fact, they pack a huge punch, an' I feel every bit of it. They sting. They bruise. They cut, graze, an' burn. When I started this run, my shirt could almost pass off as bein' clean an' crisp. Maybe in need of some ironing, but still. Now, it looks like it went through a cheese grater. Practically torn cloth.
It's all good though. As I make my final leap towards the ship, I exhale a deep sigh of relief. In spite of those harrowing odds, I made it through. Thank you, lawd. I rush towards the back hatch, pound on that hidden opening button like mechanism and dip in like ain't nobody's business. Nah'msayin? I made it. And I'm alive.
Come to find out that there might be a reason for that.
See, as I turn to look over at where Ri'lar is, I discover that most of—nah, who'm I kiddin—all of the attention's directed towards him. They didn't pay me no kinda mind. Whale-face's always been their target, an' he's sorely payin' for it.
Dude's puttin' up a fight though. He's outnumbered, outgunned, and overpowered. The ships hovering overhead bring the hail and rain down hard. The plumes of debris and dust erupt around him with each massive, threatening impact. I can feel the quakes all the way over here. The sound is booming, like thunder.
But there he is. In the thick of it. He charges onward, stopping only to reassess the direction he needs to take. As the villains draw in closer to him, and he closer to them, he goes all kinds a' savage. The first in his way hits him dead on with at least ten rounds of plasma—all direct hits, no doubt—before realizing it is he who may be outmatched. Ri'lar's gargantuan hand reaches out towards the dude and grabs the blaster by the barrel. Within seconds, the dude is disarmed, and lain out.
Now that Ri'lar's got a gun of his own, he can start fighting back. He aims with deadly precision, shooting right between the cracks in two of his pursuers' armors. But as good as this looks for him now, ain't no way he gonna make it outta this alive without help. See if it was just the people on the ground, he'd take the W, free. But it's not. There's still ships firin' things over head. He needs help. But what can I do?
Inside the ship, I search around for anything that looks like anything. I head to the main controls for something that looks like a weapon. All I see are controls around the cockpit. I don't know how to turn the ship on or how to aim anything at anything. I don't even know if the ship has any weapons of its own. Doesn't help that I can't read anything around here. For all I know, these carvings and engravings around the dashboard are just really cool lookin' designs. Whatever though.
I head to the back for somethin' more personal. If I can't get the ship to shoot these freaks outta the sky, maybe I can find handheld somethin' or notha to do the trick. The back looks like the trunk of a car for the most part. I see what I can only guess are tools. There're some boxes, too. Crates that're locked and can't be opened without some sorta key. Whether the key is a password or somethin' physical is beyond me.
After rummaging around for a few seconds, I virtually come up empty. No bombs, no guns, no cannons. I'm jus' about to give up an' rush out there on my own. I'm jus' as durable an' as strong as Ri'lar. It is my ST, after all. But I've never taken on an army before.
Jus' as I make up my mind, my eye catches the glimmer of something silver. I move some junk out of its way an' see that it's a sword. Kinda retro. Definitely ol' school. But I can get down with it. Me an' Chris use ta play around with toy swords an' sticks growin' up, so there's a sense of nostalgia that hits me. I pick it up, examine it for a quick sec. It's big, definitely a two hander, especially if I didn't have the super strength. Wide hilt, large, long, fat blade.
This'll do.
Next thing I know, I'm out there. That adrenaline high never did die down. I'm swingin' this sword one handed, jus' like I did with Chris. No rhyme. No reason. I see a body. And I strike it down. It's clear I don't have a clue. The people take note of me, and start bringin' some of that fire my way. It's all good. Sword's almost big enough that I can use it as a shield. Best believe I do. And I have it cover me until I make my way, in a mad dash, towards Ri'lar.
On my way, I see this one dude about face me with the quickness. Like he waited his whole life to stop, stand, an' get up in my way. No sir. Not today. You see this big ol' flat piece a metal I'm holdin'? I swing at him. I swing at him, hard. But this swing was a lil' bit different than the other ones. See, with the others, I swing, knock the dudes over, an' they out. Right on contact, but this dude right here? He think he ballin' or somethin'. Tries to get over on me with the quick dodge an' roll, an' normally that woulda been that. He'da been out—prolly still shootin—but he'da been outta my way, an I woulda kept on runnin'.
But this particular swing? It wasn't no normal, everyday typa swing. Somethin' different happens. Somethin' really different. With this swing, it's like a wave, a wave of somethin', shoots out. I don't know what to make of it, but it blasts that dude, an' everyone an' everything behind him. It blasts through them like a gust of wind. A concussive force of bluish, white light flashes out with a slashing motion. Somethin' ripped straight outta yo favorite anime.
I'm stricken with awe, an' so're most the others on the ground. It plowed straight through 'em. Ri'lar seizes the opportunity an' makes a dash for it. Straight through the gap I jus' made, he books it. Soon as he passes me, I follow on behind, an' before you know it, we're back in his ship. The blast gave us the clear path we needed.
There's still a good bit a' posers out there shootin', but it doesn't matter. We made it. Ri'lar closes the hatch an' takes to the driver's seat. We are so outta here, it ain't even funny. We leave them in the dust – cosmic space dust, my dawg. Man, they didn't stand a chance. We are so far gone, it's like we weren't even there. Ri'lar opens up a warp gate, an' we out! Man, it feels good to win. Usually, I'll settle for a compromise, or a stalemate, double KO, but this is a win. We definitely won. They are nowhere in sight, and suddenly, a massive sigh of relief fills the air… soon followed by me upchucking that alien crap I ate.
Episode 4: The Bar Fight
Table of Contents
It's so grimy in here. Everything's outta place, outta order.
The place smells—good God—it stinks. The fumes assault you as soon as you walk in. Some odd mixture of a sweet, juicy fart; sour, rancid must; and vile, rotting breath. It's the worst thing I've ever smelled in my life.
And the food? Don't even play, dawg. This food ain't no food. Sitting down at this table, looking down at the slop in this bowl, watching these tiny—what are those, flies?—mutated gnats orbiting around this lumpy, soupy—the spoon that came with it is almost insulting. You're supposed to get spoons with something edible, not with something so—slop.
The drinks—whatever sticky, mucousy liquid they put in this cup—is hardly worth anything. I try to sip it, but I just can't bring myself to it. Ain't no tellin' what sorta diseases I'd be ingesting if I did.
So this is what a bar is like? The place stinks, the lights are dim, it's loud and noisy, the food sucks, the drinks are snot, and the people aren't far from it. All that said, though—aliens aside—this's exactly how I imagined it be. Matta fact, I can even picture a bar fight carrying on just like this back home, too.
Not that I have much experience with bars and the fights that carry on in them. I mean, I'm jus' fifteen. It's not like I spend my nights out partyin' an' clubbin' an' junk. Not tryna knock the folks that do, but I jus' happen to find better uses for my time.
Like sleeping.
I'd be asleep right now if it wasn't for the craziness that led me here. After gettin' abducted by Ri'lar—by an alien named Ri'lar—sleep's sorta been the last thing on my mind, but if I was back home—back on Earth—I can guarantee you, it'd be the first. Way past my bedtime, homie.
But that's neither here nor there. I'm here and not there. Here, sitting at a table, in a bar, on a moon—a moon named DaaSong—looking down at this bowl of sickness and disease ridden oatmeal, as all Hell breaks loose behind me. I look across the table in front of me to see Ri'lar has no trouble devouring the food in his bowl. Just watching him go at it almost makes me think I'm making it out worse than it is. Like maybe I'm imagining the worst possible thing in the world, and because that's what I think it is, that's what it ends up bein'. Mind over matta. So maybe if I imagine it as—I don't know—fried chicken, it'll be worth somethin'.
So that's what I do. I betray every single sense I have, and dive right in. I do it quick, I do it fast, I don't give my nose a chance to smell, my tongue a chance to taste. I take this spoon-like thing, scoop out the biggest portion, shove it down my throat, and pretend this is the best tasting slop in the world.
I've made a huge mistake.
I'm ready to throw up. I'm ready to release all the contents of my stomach and my mouth to the world. I can't take this. I spit out the slop, wipe my mouth with my hand, stand up, and walk away.
I don't know where I think I'm going. It's not like I can escape the smell or anything else in this place. It's all around me. I'm within it. I end up heading to the bar part up front, where they take the orders. The bartender, using some rag to shine some glass, sees me coming. He says something, but I'm so distracted by his eight octopus tentacle things for hair—like dreadlocks—and his huge forehead that I don't catch what it is. He catches me lookin' dumbfounded, so he repeats again. This time—this time—I still don't catch it. Mostly because I don't know what the world he's sayin'.
His voice is gurgly, bass-driven, and—ooh, I know the word—indiscernible. This stupid translator of Ri'lar's ain't workin'. I look down at my wrist and see that the watch seems to still be functioning properly. The green light by the face of what would be clock hands if it were a normal watch is still on. Not sure what's going on here. Then I remember something the whale-face said.
We have to be talking to each other.
Does that mean it only works when I'm talking to him? I can't understand octo-dreads here because he's not wearing one. These things are like two-way radios? That's stupid.
Octo-dreads repeats himself once more, fishing for a response or at least some sort of acknowledgment. I throw my hand up and shake my head no. He says something that, honest to God, sounds like a sneeze. Then moves on to another alien customer at the bar's countertop. At least some languages are universal.
So I'm salty right now. Not only can I not eat or drink anything in here, I can't even ask for a cup of water to get the cruddy taste outta my mouth. Oh, and I'm, like, a thousand lightyears from home. That sucks, too. Yep, and this day was off to such a good start. I hate my life. Nah, take that back. I love my life. I'm thankful I'm still alive, still breathing, but—and surely you feel where I'm comin' from—this situation I'm in is absolutely horrible.
CRASH
Well, at least my situation's better than his.
Like I said before, there's a bar fight goin' on. Drunken fists're flyin' every which way. People—alien people—are bein' thrown around like ragdolls in a video game. It's a really horrible thing to watch. Really and truly horrible. These people are getting hurt. But some of it—and I do mean some of it—is kinda funny. From a spectator's standpoint, one can find amusement in the happening events.
Ah, who'm I kiddin'? This junk's betta than TV.
Dang, that dude just knocked that other dude through a wall. A wall. Musta owed him money or somethin'. Uhp, hol' up. Yep. He's gettin' up. Ha ha, he mad now. Bluish blood streaking down from his orange toned, bald, tatted up hairless forehead. He yelps out some sorta battlecry as he tears the remaining remnants of his tattered shirt from his skinny ol' lookin' body. Then he runs right back into the mayhem.
Oooh, this other dude right here—this other dude right here—just got his head slammed through a table. He is out cold. All you see is this dog-faced lookin' man sleepin' on the shattered pieces of what used to be there. Homie's lyin' in a mixture of dat lumpy food, dat terrible drink they've been serving, and his blood. I guess that green stuff oozin' from his flappy, long ears is his blood.
Gruesome. Totally gruesome and wicked. But still kinda awesome.
Alright, I need to stop.
I take a slow, easygoin' walk—almost a stroll—back to the table me an' Ri'lar were sittin' at. I'm jus' sorta takin' it all in. Like I said, this is my first time in a bar. First time in a bar fight. I hate it, but I kinda enjoy it. I see bodies pile up all around me, passed out from drunkenness, exhaustion, or both. Some slump over countertops. Some over tables. Kinda strange ain't nobody here tryna break it up. The bartenders are carryin' on like it ain't even happenin'. They know it's happenin', doe. One's actually watchin' as he shines a glass pitcher.
There's Ri'lar now. Halfway between me and the table, I notice he's gotten up and headed for the door. Is he leavin'? He throws a glance my way. It's a familiar glance, the same glance moms used t'give when she was tired of waitin' for me at the arcade. Haven't gotten that look in years. Haven't been to the arcade in years, but you know. I still know that look.
It's time to go. Suppose it's for the best.
I do my best to maneuver my way through the crowd. As I pass 'em by, I continue to observe. They're wild, rampant, and unhinged. All of 'em make a strong case for why I have no interest in drinking down the line. Alcohol makes people go crazy. That seems to be a universal trait. Don't matter how many appendages or heads you have, once you get goin' like this, it's like you a whole 'notha person altogether. It's jus' how people are. Aliens included.
I mean, sho, none of 'em look like people people—some of 'em got two arms, two legs, an' a head, but their facial features, muscle build, skin texture an' all is completely alien—but the way they actin'—like I can't make out the words, but they body language is jus'—it's as plain as day.
I see a group of three-headed, bug-eyed, monkey bats ganging up around a pool table shoutin' at the top of they lungs at some weirdo who looks like a pile of mud. There's another dude, tall, langy, seaweed lookin' hair coverin' his frail, green frame—shoot, it could be a girl 'sfar as I know. Not like they got any discernible features pointing one way or the otha—shovin' this boulder man to the other side of the room, tryna egg him on. I hear a glass bottle break. Can't have a bar fight without that. Someone's always gotta smash a bottle. That's how it is on TV.
Manage to catch up with Ri'lar, an' we head towards the door. As much fun as it's been watchin' these lames throw their lives away, think I've had my fill. I'm completely cool with leavin' this moon behind me. At least I would be, but somethin' happens. Somethin' happens at this precise moment in time that makes the thought of leavin' an impossible possibility.
SMACK is what I hear. It's what I feel. I reel forward to try an' regain my senses. It came hard. It hit hard. Think it shattered on impact. Somethin' got thrown my way. Somethin'—no, no, no—someone decided it'd be a pretty fun idea to punch me in the back a' my head. It wasn't like it was a mishap or nothin'. No, I was targeted. Someone doesn't like me. Dang, that felt like a brick. Felt like someone picked up a cruddy brick an' chugged it as hard as they could. That kinda stuff don't fly. I'm not cool. I'm not alright. Can't let the dude get away with that. Oh, no sir. Sorry Ri'lar, but I gotta take this.
It happens in an instant. In something as brief as a moment, I'm already on it. As soon as my gaze makes contact with the saber toothed, lizard bodied, noseless, snoutless lame, I'm already on him. Already on toppa the dude wailin'. My fists an' his face become fast friends. Beatin' this dude senseless. After two strikes, I feel his jaw break. Then I catch myself. I catch myself in the act, right before I knock him out cold. I'm not a fighter. I'm not supposed to be a fighter. I got the strength to punch people through walls, throw cars like Frisbees. I can't be in a fight. As soon as my ST developed, I learned that real quick. My moms was always on me about that, and for good reason. I don't know my own strength. I can't control it. I haven't grown into it, yet.
So I stop. I step off the punk. Rise to my feet, an' calm down. Dude ain't e'en worth it. I'm cool. Breathe in, an' exhale. I'm cool now, I swear, but before I can get to doin' anything else, I'm jumped by like five other dudes. They punch me, hit me with tables an' chairs an' – ouch, did someone bite me? So I'm stuck in this. I done started it, guess it's only right I suffer for it. They can punch, slap, hammer, scratch, bite an' do whatever. Yeah it hurts, but as long as I ain't strikin' back, we all good. I can take the pain. Take the punishment.
But dang, yo. That ain't to say it ain't annoyin'. Every blow, every strike, every shattered piece of glass broken over my back, I feel it. It hurts—not like I'm dyin' or nothin' but—like have you ever been ganged up by a buncha kindergärtners before. Jus' cuz you's taller than 'em, they think they got the right to jump you an' hit you as hard as they can til they get tired. An' it's not like you can strike back cuz they kindergärtners, they kids.
But these dudes ain't no kids. Ain't like they can't defend 'emselves. So why should I stand here an' take this? Know what? I won't. But before I can really get into it, I'm in the air. I feel lifted. Somethin's pickin' me up. What just happened?
“We don't have time for this,” I hear.
Ri'lar? Dang, dude grabbed the back of my shirt an' lifted me up with one hand. I'm suddenly reminded of how tall the guy is. So are all the others around me. They sorta back off from us. They still fightin'. Still fightin' each otha, but they give us out space. Good thing, too, cuz I was about ta go HAM.
Ri'lar drags my tail over to that rusty, metalic door before settin' me back on my feet. The creak it makes as it opens grates against my skull. It hit me on our way in, too, but for some reason, it seems even more bothersome now. In any case, we're outside now.
Yeah... outside...
“Staak,” I hear the whale-face utter. Takes a quick second for me to register the scenery, but once I do – “They followed us,” he goes on.
And there they are. Right out in the open. All in their fancy space cruisers. Some parked and landed on the moon's surface, others orbiting above. I count about ten ships altogether, an' about fifty or so men and/or women out an' about, jus' waitin' on us. We thought we left them lightyears away, but those dang gangbangers done managed to follow us all the way from Earth.
I hear one of 'em shout somethin'. Don't understand a single word of it. What kinda translator doesn't work on everything? Such bull. Well, based on what I know about the situation, I can still imagine what's bein' said. Dude wants Ri'lar t'come back into the mob. I hear Ri'lar respond with a “No way,” kinda answer. He uses a few more choice words that I don't know of or understand, but that's about the gist of it. The others say somethin' else, probably like "that's a shame." This is all playin' out like some crazy mafia movie or somethin'. Then the dudes pull out guns and open fire.
The dusty, crater filled, landscape lights up with the amount of lasers and plasma bolts firing from the gangsters' firearms. Instinctively, Ri'lar and I duck back inside the bar. Out of the pot an' into the flame. You know how it is. Adrenaline rushin atcha from every which way. We both kneel to the ground, our backs against the side of the wall. Each on either side of the door.
Ri'lar looks at me with those dark, coal lookin' eyes. Then peers between the crack of the almost closed, but still open door back to the outside. The bar fight's startin' to die down inside here. The booze, liquor, an' snot finally got most of these meatheads to hit their limit. Most're layin' out in some typa liquid—either blood, barf, or both—others're still tryna drink whatever sorrows they have left away. It's a real depressin' scene, an' if I wasn't about to die, I'd really take pause to pray over 'em or somethin'. Lawd help 'em all.
I make my way over to Ri'lar's side an' take a look at what he sees out there.
“If we make a run for it, I bet we could make it,” I say.
“You're not serious,” he replies.
“Of course I'm not serious! You see 'dem lights out there? Those lights are lights of death! Ain't no way we makin' it through this alive, runnin' out there is suicide!”
“We might not have a choice.”
“Are you serious?”
He looks at me. Stone face. Mad grimace. All business.
“Well, alright then,” I say, “let's go.” I mean, yeah, that's what I say, but best believe, I'm lettin' Ri'lar step through that door first.
Next thing I know, we're both burstin' through. I'm runnin' as fast as I can, faster even. I see the people, the ships, the guns, the lasers, an' I'mma huffin' an' puffin', straight bookin' it. Don't think I've ever run this fast before. Leapin' over giant space rocks in a single bound. Tankin' these lasers like they's mosquito bites.
Aight, some of this may be exaggerated for effect. I'm fast, but not Chris Walker fast. I'm jumpin', but that might have somethin' to do with the low gravity this moon has. And these lasers sting a lil' bit harder than bug bites. In fact, they pack a huge punch, an' I feel every bit of it. They sting. They bruise. They cut, graze, an' burn. When I started this run, my shirt could almost pass off as bein' clean an' crisp. Maybe in need of some ironing, but still. Now, it looks like it went through a cheese grater. Practically torn cloth.
It's all good though. As I make my final leap towards the ship, I exhale a deep sigh of relief. In spite of those harrowing odds, I made it through. Thank you, lawd. I rush towards the back hatch, pound on that hidden opening button like mechanism and dip in like ain't nobody's business. Nah'msayin? I made it. And I'm alive.
Come to find out that there might be a reason for that.
See, as I turn to look over at where Ri'lar is, I discover that most of—nah, who'm I kiddin—all of the attention's directed towards him. They didn't pay me no kinda mind. Whale-face's always been their target, an' he's sorely payin' for it.
Dude's puttin' up a fight though. He's outnumbered, outgunned, and overpowered. The ships hovering overhead bring the hail and rain down hard. The plumes of debris and dust erupt around him with each massive, threatening impact. I can feel the quakes all the way over here. The sound is booming, like thunder.
But there he is. In the thick of it. He charges onward, stopping only to reassess the direction he needs to take. As the villains draw in closer to him, and he closer to them, he goes all kinds a' savage. The first in his way hits him dead on with at least ten rounds of plasma—all direct hits, no doubt—before realizing it is he who may be outmatched. Ri'lar's gargantuan hand reaches out towards the dude and grabs the blaster by the barrel. Within seconds, the dude is disarmed, and lain out.
Now that Ri'lar's got a gun of his own, he can start fighting back. He aims with deadly precision, shooting right between the cracks in two of his pursuers' armors. But as good as this looks for him now, ain't no way he gonna make it outta this alive without help. See if it was just the people on the ground, he'd take the W, free. But it's not. There's still ships firin' things over head. He needs help. But what can I do?
Inside the ship, I search around for anything that looks like anything. I head to the main controls for something that looks like a weapon. All I see are controls around the cockpit. I don't know how to turn the ship on or how to aim anything at anything. I don't even know if the ship has any weapons of its own. Doesn't help that I can't read anything around here. For all I know, these carvings and engravings around the dashboard are just really cool lookin' designs. Whatever though.
I head to the back for somethin' more personal. If I can't get the ship to shoot these freaks outta the sky, maybe I can find handheld somethin' or notha to do the trick. The back looks like the trunk of a car for the most part. I see what I can only guess are tools. There're some boxes, too. Crates that're locked and can't be opened without some sorta key. Whether the key is a password or somethin' physical is beyond me.
After rummaging around for a few seconds, I virtually come up empty. No bombs, no guns, no cannons. I'm jus' about to give up an' rush out there on my own. I'm jus' as durable an' as strong as Ri'lar. It is my ST, after all. But I've never taken on an army before.
Jus' as I make up my mind, my eye catches the glimmer of something silver. I move some junk out of its way an' see that it's a sword. Kinda retro. Definitely ol' school. But I can get down with it. Me an' Chris use ta play around with toy swords an' sticks growin' up, so there's a sense of nostalgia that hits me. I pick it up, examine it for a quick sec. It's big, definitely a two hander, especially if I didn't have the super strength. Wide hilt, large, long, fat blade.
This'll do.
Next thing I know, I'm out there. That adrenaline high never did die down. I'm swingin' this sword one handed, jus' like I did with Chris. No rhyme. No reason. I see a body. And I strike it down. It's clear I don't have a clue. The people take note of me, and start bringin' some of that fire my way. It's all good. Sword's almost big enough that I can use it as a shield. Best believe I do. And I have it cover me until I make my way, in a mad dash, towards Ri'lar.
On my way, I see this one dude about face me with the quickness. Like he waited his whole life to stop, stand, an' get up in my way. No sir. Not today. You see this big ol' flat piece a metal I'm holdin'? I swing at him. I swing at him, hard. But this swing was a lil' bit different than the other ones. See, with the others, I swing, knock the dudes over, an' they out. Right on contact, but this dude right here? He think he ballin' or somethin'. Tries to get over on me with the quick dodge an' roll, an' normally that woulda been that. He'da been out—prolly still shootin—but he'da been outta my way, an I woulda kept on runnin'.
But this particular swing? It wasn't no normal, everyday typa swing. Somethin' different happens. Somethin' really different. With this swing, it's like a wave, a wave of somethin', shoots out. I don't know what to make of it, but it blasts that dude, an' everyone an' everything behind him. It blasts through them like a gust of wind. A concussive force of bluish, white light flashes out with a slashing motion. Somethin' ripped straight outta yo favorite anime.
I'm stricken with awe, an' so're most the others on the ground. It plowed straight through 'em. Ri'lar seizes the opportunity an' makes a dash for it. Straight through the gap I jus' made, he books it. Soon as he passes me, I follow on behind, an' before you know it, we're back in his ship. The blast gave us the clear path we needed.
There's still a good bit a' posers out there shootin', but it doesn't matter. We made it. Ri'lar closes the hatch an' takes to the driver's seat. We are so outta here, it ain't even funny. We leave them in the dust – cosmic space dust, my dawg. Man, they didn't stand a chance. We are so far gone, it's like we weren't even there. Ri'lar opens up a warp gate, an' we out! Man, it feels good to win. Usually, I'll settle for a compromise, or a stalemate, double KO, but this is a win. We definitely won. They are nowhere in sight, and suddenly, a massive sigh of relief fills the air… soon followed by me upchucking that alien crap I ate.
