BAD NEWS IN TWIN SNAKE BURL

PART ONE: FORGET THE THREAT

1

KEITH Cunningham didn't want to lose his memory.

Not again.

Those bastards thought they could just make everything go away, didn't they? Each and every time a terrorist attack struck Peburia, they thought a little pill would solve the problem. Make people forget anything had happened so they could go on with their lives, oblivious and unaware. No worries, people, just forget the threat. But Keith was tired of that song and dance.

And he didn't know why, but the damn pills didn't seem to work for him like they did for other people, anyway. Because he'd caught on, you see. It seemed like each time he took their pill—and, fuck, it seemed he'd taken hundreds of them—a ghost of a memory lingered, haunting his mind in his dreams and beyond. He'd get flashes. Visions. Usually while taking a dump, or something equally as contemplative. Keith would relive each attack with such nauseating clarity, whether it'd been seen via his box or the few he'd witnessed in person.

And this latest act of terrorism he'd seen in person.

Keith squeezed his fists until his knuckles cracked. His mind replayed what he'd just seen, trying to make sense of it as the shock cleared from his system.

He'd been grabbing a hotdog from the cart outside the building where he worked—ElektriCorp—when some scumbags from DiesoMax blew up the whole bloody block. Body parts went flying. So did his hotdog. He saw the vendor go from smiling, to spraying blood from every orifice he had (and even some he didn't), to a vaporized pile of ash in seconds. Keith'd been lucky to've survived. The concrete around him was ripped up. Cars—most of them electric—lay upside-down, violently contorted. And the stench of diesel, mixed with scorched flesh and twisted metal, filled the air. That's how he knew it had been DiesoMax: the diesel-made bombs, which they called bioblasts.

The other few survivors picked their stunned, bloodied asses up from the street. One man had had his arm heat-sutured to the concrete—he'd left behind a wet red patch of skin.

It was then that Keith became aware of the screaming. And the anti-terror bots—still running on steam—telling everyone to stay calm and eat a Happy Pill, shooting those forget-me-now tablets into the mouths of any and all law-abiding citizens.

But not Keith.

No, sir. Not this time. I've had enough. Can't take this shit anymore.

He snapped back to reality and started running from the site, jumping over trash barrels and heading for home. Leaving behind the chaos of today and tomorrow. Those DiesoMax cunts. Not to say ElektriCorp was entirely innocent in the whole shitfest—he distinctly remembered seeing them launching terrorist attacks on DiesoMax, too. But as to the question of who started the whole corporate rivalry to begin with? Fuck if he knew.

Keith's house was near the base of Mount Pebusa. Though he owned a company car, he lived near enough to his workplace that he didn't drive to work. The modest white bungalow was up ahead, his sporty electric car in the driveway. He raced by the neighbours who'd come out of their homes, obviously drawn out by the blast, and flung open the front door to his place. Immediately, his ElektriCorp-manufactured appliances urged him to take a pill.

"Oops! That was a bad thing to see, wasn't it?" his box told him from the living-room. "Here, take a Happy Pill and stay happy!"

Then his stove: "Oops! That was a bad thing to see, wasn't it? Here, take a Happy Pill and stay happy!"

And his alarm clock in the bedroom: "Oops! That was a bad thing to see, wasn't it? Here, take a Happy Pill and stay happy!"

Each device or appliance released a tray holding a pill. And they'd keep hounding him about it 'til he finally gave in and took one. Like everything made by ElektriCorp, they were all synchronized to a central server via wireless electromagnetic energy, so there was no worry about taking too many—not that that would've been a problem, anyhow. You couldn't overdose on an amnesiac drug—it only cleared the last ten, fifteen minutes from your brain.

But Keith ignored that crap. He had to get out of here. For good. He was tired of the city life. He needed to get away from civilization and the madness it wrought. The fear. The forceful forgetting. He packed a bag with clothes and other essentials, then shoved in some non-perishables from the cupboards downstairs. Still the voices were ordering him to take a damn pill. He was tempted to smash them all to pieces and end the chorus of chaos, but he couldn't be bothered.

He just had to get out.

So he left the house and hopped into his ElektriCorp Volt 240, heard the buzzing whine of the electric-powered engine and reversed out of the driveway.

Ignoring his car's constant pleas that he "take a Happy Pill and stay happy!" Keith headed north along the western coast—leaving behind the office buildings and crowded streets—and then west across the bridge to Twin Snake Burl: the last bastion of individuality and isolationism to be found in all of Peburia.

2

HIS car broke down three quarters of the way across the bridge—a busted conversion rod; just his fucking luck—so Keith grabbed his shit and started walking the rest of the way to Twin Snake Burl.

The beef jerky was tasty, but he'd grossly overestimated its longevity; he'd already eaten the entire three sticks he'd brought along with him. But at least now he no longer had to suffer through the Happy Pill bullshit. Goddamnit, he was free! Finally! Off to live a life on the frontier. Be his own man. No one to answer to except himself and... and God? No, he didn't believe in Glasomil, nor His banished brother Pebusa. Hadn't since he was a little kid and Mom couldn't explain why Glasomil would allow such evil to exist in the world. Keith was his own man. No magical guy in the sky. Just the corporeal. Something he could squeeze and smell. This tangible, physical reality. The world and himself.

But he didn't know the first thing about living off the land, did he? He didn't even think to bring a knife.

Stupid, stupid.

Keith stopped walking, faced with the ramifications of what lay before him. The bridge was basically walked—he was now closer to Twin Snake Burl than he was to his car, let alone to the Peburian mainland; to go back now would be a longer journey than the bridge alone. He turned around, saw his dead Volt 240 sitting under the Sun, blinding him with its shiny silver finish.

Wouldn't it be great if that damn thing could recharge itself with sunlight?

Further off in the distance: Mount Pebusa, jutting out of the surrounding, blossoming concrete jungle like a rotting tooth. Or maybe it was the other way around?

And the city. Home. Work. The old life. The risk of terror each day. More bad memories to fail at forgetting. Too far to walk. He'd have to take breaks along the way so he could eat—else he'd get a serious stitch in his side—and sleeping would be dangerous and leave him overly exposed to the elements. Tantamount to suicide, more than likely. Not like he wanted to go back there, anyway.

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He turned back towards Twin Snake Burl, adjusted his backpack and walked onward.

3

THE bag came off Rylan's head and immediately he was blinded by the Sun. Closing his eyes, sweat and tears came together as they rolled down his face. Roasting. Felt like he was being baked. Hot sand burned his knees. He'd been taken by his captors outside the plant—a smack to the head had taken him by surprise, then the bag. Then... blackness. And finally here he was. Didn't know why they even wanted him. He was a nobody: an unpaid intern, a runner of notes and messages. The guy who mopped the floors and scrubbed the toilets had more pull than he, Rylan, did.

He dared to open his eyes, just a little crack. A teensy, slightest peek, to see how many there were and maybe identify one of them...

Five of them. Damn. Didn't know a single one. Four guys—one of them black—and one girl. And as many horses.

"Looks like sleeping beauty is awake!" shouted one of the guys—the one with a gap between his two front teeth and a long blond ponytail, which he lovingly stroked. He chuckled long and hard at his own joke, making his ponytail bounce left and right, curling around his biceps.

The tall, slim, stubbled one, wearing a cowboy hat, clenched his jaw and drawled: "He wudn't sleepin', Ponytail."

"It was a joke, Badass."

"Wudn't a goodun'."

"I think that's a matter of opinion."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Ah dun't thank so."

"Well, I do."

The woman rolled her eyes, snapped her revolver at the ready and fired a shot at Ponytail's feet. Dust kicked up. He danced around, squealing like a little girl who'd seen a disgusting spider. "Shut the hell up, Ponytail. Your joke sucked harder than I did last night." She winked at Badass, blew him a kiss.

"What happened last night?" the other white guy asked. Lower jaw jutting forward, he had a severe underbite, which made him appear both stupid and funny-looking. He quickly wiped a stringlet of drool that'd just started falling from his lower lip, then jammed one finger in his ear and the other up his nose, digging. He sucked both fingers after.

The black guy, who stood closest to Rylan, gave his head a shake. "Would all ya'll dumbshits shut yer fuckin' holes?" He only had two fingers on his right hand. "Our boy here is sittin' here laughin' at us." He got down on his knees and stared into Rylan's eyes. "Ain't you, Mister Mystery?"

Rylan jerked his head from side to side, trying to deny the accusation as well as avoid the man's fearsome, bloodshot stare. Thankfully, the guy stood up and walked off. "I-I dunno who you guys are or why I'm here. Please, please, please. I just want to go home! I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Ya ain't goin' home," the man named Badass said, stepping over with his thumbs hooked through the loops of his old, worn-out-at-the-knees blue jeans. He had two customized revolvers on each side, tucked into holsters. He hawked a tar-black loogie and fired it to his left. Rylan got the impression the man was showing off his aim, seeing as how the loogie hit a nearby lizard, knocking it off the rock it'd been sunbathing on. It instantly turned pitch-white, shrivelled up and died. "Yer stayin' here wit' us," the man continued. "'Til w'know all w'need t'know."

"B-But I don't know what you want to know!"

Badass turned to the woman. "Betty, could ya give Ronwald a nibble o' this dummy's toes?"

Betty smirked. "Certainly, Henry." She waltzed over, moving her hips in a seductive way that made the others lick their lips and stare at her behind, fantasizing about doing things to it. She whipped out her revolver and shot Rylan's fingers off.

He screamed and held his bleeding— Hey, wait a second! His stumps weren't even bleeding! Matter of fact, they didn't even hurt. Not even the littlest stinging sensation, either. "What the heck?"

"Ah said his toes, Betty."

Picking up Rylan's fingers from the sand, Betty blew some grains off the digits. "Fingers, toes. Same shit, different pile, babe." She puckered her lips and made an exaggerated kissing noise. One of the horses trotted over. Reddish-brown like mahogany. It was smoking a cigarette. "Good, Ronwald," she cooed to the horse.

Rylan swore he saw Ronwald the horse grin its yellow, nicotine-stained teeth at him before it happily munched on his amputated fingers. He shuddered.

"Ya mahght b'wonderin' whah yer hand dun't hurt, eh?" Henry said as he rolled up a cigarette of his own. "Go on 'n' tell 'im, Betty."

She rolled her eyes. "Fiiine. Though I don't see why we need to tell him anything." She showed Rylan her revolver, pointed out the name branded into the barrel's metal. "The rounds in this ElektriCorp pistol cauterize wounds. The electricity also inhibits the pain response, but that's only temporary. So expect it to sting like a real motherfuck later."

"That's m'gal, that Betty. Her 'n' 'er purdy words she uses. Use t'be one o' dem scahence-ists, she did."

The black guy came back. "Would ya'll stop givin' 'way our fuckin' trade secrets? Listen, Mysterio, whoever you are: We picked yer ass up outside of that newfangled buildin' that cropped up all the sudden like a goddamn iron phantom. Now why don't you be a good ol' boy and tell us just what the fuck that place is."

"I-It's a power plant," Rylan stammered, looking from face to face, relieved he had something worthwhile to tell these vulgar roughnecks. He saw the black one make eye contact with Badass, or Henry, or whatever he was called.

"ElektriCorp? Er DiesoMax?" asked Badass.

"Neither. It's NukeMore."

More looks being exchanged.

"NukeMore? Never heard o' it."

"You wouldn't have. It's a very new company."

"Th'hell kahnda power plant're they?"

But Rylan never got the chance to answer Badass' question. As he opened his mouth to reply, a bullet was fired into his forehead.

Badass looked at the smoking, diesel-leaking hole. He turned to see a grinning Two-Finger Tyrell, his black partner-in-crime, and the co-leader of his gang of outlaws. "Wha' th'hell, Tahrell? He wud gonna tell us s'more shit."

"He didn't have nothin' more to say, Henry. He was a small fry there. 'Sides, we got bigger fish to fry." Tyrell nodded to the small black shape up on the hill.

A man, standing on the horizon.

4

THEY killed him! They actually fucking killed him, Keith repeated to himself, hyperventilating as the shock punched him in the chest over and over again. Though he'd seen numerous explosive-caused deaths over the years, it felt different to see cold-blooded murder with guns. This felt more... personal. So unexpected, too.

He'd been making his way over a sandy dune cradled left and right by two mountain ridges. Peculiarly, there'd been a group of six down at the bottom of the mound. Five horses. Naturally, Keith'd stopped to watch, curiosity overcoming him; surprised by such an immediate sign of human activity in an area supposed to be barren. He'd watched in horror as the sole woman shot one of the men, but the man for whatever reason had appeared nonplussed with his injuries. Things progressed as though no grudges were held—then, so suddenly he likely would've missed it if he'd blinked at the wrong moment, the man was shot in the head. Dead.

Keith blinked a few times, processing the events. First a terror attack, now this. He'd fled the city to try and get away from this stuff. What a crazy-ass day. He kinda wished he had a Happy Pill right about now. Then he realized the remaining people down below all had their heads tilted up his way. Looking.

Oh, shit! They see me! Get the hell down, fuckwad!

He dropped to the ground. Backed away 'til he wasn't able to see the small figures down there. Then, thinking better of it—fuck, it might make things worse hiding up here—he got up and stepped forward again.

Yup, still down there, still staring up at me.

Keith decided it'd be better to continue on his journey as though nothing had happened. No quarrels. Just one man on his lone quest. No worries about what other people are doing out here in the wild, wild west. Not his battle.

Oh, you killed a man? So what? And? As long as it wasn't me, right? Good day to you, too.

Careful not to lose his footing on the ever-shifting sands, Keith descended the golden dune one step at a time. When he reached the bottom, he tried to keep his face cold and grim. Mouth a tight line. Eyes an icy stare. He gripped the straps of his backpack and continued walking. The direction he took didn't cross their paths. Instead, it led him around the perimeter of the gang and their horses. And the corpse. Keith watched them from the corner of his eye. Watched the corpse. Staring at him. Dead eyes accusing him of being a bad guy.

Keith nearly made it, too.

But then the black man spoke: "Stop, bud." His voice was deep, frightening. The hint of a lazy-sounding drawl. No, not lazy. Relaxed. At peace. With murder. "I said stop."

Of course Keith obeyed. He had no urge to fucking die. He risked a look, turning to the group. Some of the others didn't look too menacing, maybe even a little friendly. The lady, for instance.

"Name's Two-Finger Tyrell, bud," the black guy was saying, stepping closer to him, "and we know you saw what happened here." Tyrell was near enough now for Keith to smell his earthy, been-a-year-since-I-bathed stink. The man had a look in his bloodshot eyes that suggested some degree of insanity. Flared nostrils. Curly tufts of hair growing from his sideburns, down along the jawline to his chin. Two fingers on his right hand: the thumb and the ring finger. He held them out to Keith.

Keith was too baffled not to accept the bizarre handshake. Social cues embedded in his brain compelled him to take the two fingers. "Keith Cunningham. I didn't see anything." Kept his voice firm.

"Nothin', eh?" Tyrell grinned shiny white teeth. He turned to the rest of them. "Eh, ya'll! His name's Keith Cunningham, and he didn't see nothin'!"

The others laughed. So did Tyrell. So did Keith—awkwardly, nervously.

"We didn't see nothin' neither. Follow me, Keith."

He followed Tyrell over to the others. The black man stepped over the corpse like it was any other obstacle—a puddle or a dog turd—whereas Keith passed around it. He saw it was a diesel-made bullet that'd killed the man. Saw the lemon-yellow liquid belching out of the guy's forehead, thinly flecked red with blood. Shiny, ravaged brain matter tried to force its way out of the cranium the way bread being baked rises from a pan.

"Got a problem with that, pretty boy?" the woman asked him, her eyes darting to the body and back to him. She was quite sexy, with big tits and wide hips on an otherwise small frame. Red hair and red lips. Eyebrows arched. Gun near her waist. She kissed the air as she stared at him.

Keith shook his head. Thought about what it would be like to do her. Probably leave them both sore and raw for weeks.

"That bitch is Betty Bazongas," Tyrell told him. "You don't wanna cross her fine ass, lemme tell you, bud." He pointed out the others and told Keith their names.

"That dude suckin' on his own greasy-ass blond ponytail—he's Ponytail.

"That guy who's droolin' and starin' off into space, grinnin' like a champ, wit' his thumb jammed way up his smelly brown asshole—that's Dumbass.

"And that rugged, ugly mofucka wit' the cowboy hat is Badass." 

"Call m'Henry, kid," Badass—Henry—said, tipping his hat to him.

"So, Keith," Tyrell continued, hand lowering to his holstered revolver, "you got a reason why we shouldn't waste yer scrawny, white, witnessin'-a-murder ass?"

"Now, listen here, Tahrell." Henry stood, reaching for his own pair of heavily tricked-out revolvers. "There ain't no need fer that kahnda bloodshed."

The black man turned and glared at Henry. "He's a witness to our crimes, you soft motherfucker. What if he heads off to civ-town and rats on us?"

"He wud jus' wanderin' 'round at th'wrong tahme."

"Guys," Keith said, taking off his backpack and opening it. He pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a can of baked beans. Offered them as a sign of good faith, something Mom taught him when he was a kid and the other boys would make fun of him for being small. "I've got some munchies I can share with you. In exchange for not killing me, and, y'know, as a sign of good faith."

"Is that... refined peanut butter?" Betty asked, coming over to take a look.

"Sure is."

She grabbed the jar and twisted open the lid. "Kicks the shit out of the unprocessed crap that squirts out of the ground." With her finger, she spooned out a dollop of creamy brown peanut butter. Stuck it slowly in her mouth, sucking up and down on the finger, staring into Keith's eyes while she did it. "Mmmmm..."

He got hard just watching her. Fucking hell, she was hot.

When she pulled her finger out, it was clean as a whistle.

"Betty could suck th'tin offa whistle," Henry said, reading Keith's mind.

"Forgot how good that shit tastes. I vote he stays." She went and sat beside Badass. Rubbed against him. "And I know Henry votes my way, don't you, Henry?"

"Ah sure do, Betty-babe."

"And Dumbass and Ponytail best vote my way, too... if they know what's good for them." She squeezed her tits together and jiggled them up and down, making Dumbass and Ponytail's eyes bulge from their skulls.

"Oh, I think we do!" Ponytail shouted, hand patting the long lump snaking down his upper thigh. "Don't we, Dumbass?"

"We sure do, Ponytail," Dumbass agreed, hand in his pants, jerking fast and freely.

"Alright, then," Tyrell growled. He snatched the peanut butter jar from Betty. "Gimme that mothafuckin' jar, you goddamn harlot. Can't get nothin' done 'round here wit'out you whorin' the place up and turnin' heads left 'n' right wit' yo fine ass."

Keith smiled to himself. He found a spot on a rock near Dumbass, turned his face upwards to feel the kiss of the Sun. Maybe living in a gang of outlaws wouldn't be so bad. It certainly beat going the distance by himself. Groups are stronger. Strength in numbers. All that. And anything would be better than living life in fear, wondering when a terrorist attack would finally take you out.

"Hey, Keith," Ponytail said to him, "you need a name." He then asked the others: "Doesn't he need a name?"

"Carrier," Henry said, meeting Keith's eyes with his own too-blue ones. Keith saw the man had a long, ugly scar across his left eye. "'Cause he gonna carry us t'salvation." He looked away, stared at the dusty, dry, cracked earth beneath his boots. "Ah kin see it wit' mah good ah."

PART TWO: BAD NEWS IN TWIN SNAKE BURL

5

THEY were all gearing themselves up and getting ready to set out. To where, Keith wasn't entirely sure, although he had heard whispers of a "power plant," or some shit like that. Considering he worked—scratch that; used to work—for a power company, he felt he was fairly knowledgeable of his former employer and all their rivals, and Keith hadn't caught wind of any power plant in Twin Snake Burl, rival or otherwise. SteamPlus had gone the way of the dinosaurs long ago, so it was highly unlikely to be them; DiesoMax was a candidate, considering the vast amounts of siphonable raw peanut butter available in the desert to convert to biodiesel. Hard to say.

He was stowing into his bag all the items he'd taken out for the others—food and water—when Tyrell came over to him, carrying a metal box emblazoned with two smiling, anthropomorphic peanuts, behind them a golden Sun. DiesoMax's logo.

"Yo, Carrier," Tyrell said, adding sarcastic emphasis. He shoved the box into Keith's arms. Thing weighed nearly forty pounds and he felt his knees pop. "You carry stuff, right? Carry that, bud." He walked off to where his horse was kicking around sand, laughing all the way.

Keith heaved the rattling box over to Henry, who was hunched over and talking to his own horse, Ronwald.

Hearing Keith's heavy approach, the man turned and tipped his hat. "Ya kin rahde wit' me 'n' Ronwald, Keith."

"Thanks, Henry. Tyrell doesn't seem to like me too much, huh?"

Henry waved it away. "Naw, he dun't lahke much people'n gen'ral. Got nothin' t'do wit' ya'n partic'lar. Hell, me 'n' him, w'both run this here gang 'n' he dun't even lahke me much. Tahrell had a bad chahldhood, Ah guess. Prob'ly had a daddy who hahded 'im good. Maybe a momma who beat 'im, too."

"Yeah, I guess." Keith rocked the box a little, listening to what sounded like metal rolling back and forth inside. "Say, Henry, what's in this fucking thing, anyway? It's got the DiesoMax logo. Doesn't sound like jugs of diesel sloshing around, though."

"Ah see Tahrell dun has ya carryin' his ammo now," Henry said, chuckling.

Keith suddenly stopped his rocking. "Ammo?"

"Heheh. No worries, pardner. It's lahve but it wun't do nothin'. If ya ask me, that DiesoMax shit ain't good fer nothin' but shootin' holes'n soup cans. 'N' that's stretchin' it, if ya ask me."

"So you're an ElektriCorp man? You know, I used to work for ElektriCorp. Quit today, though they don't know yet."

"Nah, Ah ain't that neither, but Betty—she swears by 'em, she does. Say, Keith, come on over here fer a sec."

Keith gently dropped the box of ammo beside Ronwald. He followed Henry away from the horse and the others, over to a tall slab of rock which seemed the closest thing to a table one could find out there in the frontier. Henry was unloading one of his revolvers of its bullets and taking the gun apart.

"Made this fucker mahself," Badass said proudly. "'N' Ah'm sure ya'll b'hearin' it from Betty er th'others soon 'nuff, but Ah gotta special, uh... 'finity wit' peanut butter, Keith. Ah'll tell ya 'bout it later. This baby fahres special peanut-butter bullets. Th'gun itself kin go fully aut'matic if Ah flick this here switch. Got laser sahght if Ah wanna. Scope fer snahpin' fuckers from 'far." He quickly pieced the revolver together, popped the peanut-butter bullets into the circular chamber, clicked the chamber into place and gave it a spin. "See that there cactus, way over yonder?"

Before Keith could even find the cactus Henry was referring to, Badass aimed and fired six times in rapid succession with just one squeeze of the trigger. Automatic. Sounded like blasts of thunder. Smelled like roasted peanuts with a whiff of gunpowder. The cactus had two of its opposing arms amputated, and four holes going up from the centre of its spear to the top, oozing peanut butter.

Keith clapped a few times, impressed by the display. But he had to ask: "So, Henry... Why peanut butter?"

Henry looked at him blankly for a second. Then his dark forest of stubble shifted on his cheeks: a grin, revealing a crooked mess of black-yellow-brown teeth. "Whah not?"

And who could argue with that?

They went back over to Ronwald, and Henry helped secure Tyrell's box of ammo. Then he helped Keith climb aboard the horse by cooing softly to Ronwald, so Keith could use the stirrups to get on.

"Jus' need t'get mah pardner here his fix," Henry said, expertly rolling a pair of cigarettes. One was smeared yellow with peanut-butter oil before being sprinkled liberally with brown tobacco. The other, given to Ronwald, was purely tobacco. He put the cigarette into the horse's mouth, said calmly, "Mahnd th'noise, Ronny," and then held his own joint in front of him. He took out his revolver, pointed it up, and, with the end of the joint in the gun's line of fire, shot a bullet into the air. The heat of the shot got the joint burning.

Ronwald whinnied a little. Shook his head as if shaking the startling noise from his ears.

Henry took a hit off his joint to make sure it was burning properly, then he held the burning end to the tip of Ronwald's cigarette and set it alight.

The horse immediately started puffing. Twin streams of smoke jetting out of his nostrils, tail flapping left and right. A nicotine-addicted equine.

"You don't give Ronwald peanut-butter oil?" Keith asked as Henry climbed aboard and sat in front.

"Nah, it ain't good fer a horse's heart. Makes't beat too quick. Prone t'heart 'tacks." Henry offered the joint to him as they turned around and regrouped with the others—Tyrell on his horse and in the lead, of course. "Ya ever smoke it, Keith?" he asked as Keith accepted.

"Yeah, my last time was back in college. I never made it a habit, but I do enjoy it." Keith held in his hits and passed it back. Tasted like roasted peanuts and something mildly sweet.

"Some potent shit, s'watch out. Th'baccy mellows't a li'l."

"So where we headed?"

"NukeMore."

"What's that?"

"New power plant."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, Ah know. W'learned it from that corpse 'fore w'killed 'im. New buildin's a power plant. S'that's where w're goin'. Checkin' shit out. Makes sense, since there's bin some strange shit goin' on 'round here, as o' late. Now, ya better hold on tahght, 'cause that there oil's gonna kick'n rahght quick."

Keith did as he'd been suggested and held his arms firmly around Henry's abdomen. The five horses picked up speed once they cleared the pitlike basin area at the bottom of the surrounding dunes. Moving at a gallop, he really felt the ride on his ass, banging it as he bumped up and down.

Vultures circling above, waiting for the pesky humans to leave, finally descended to feast on the carcass.

Far off in the distance was a large, grey, towerlike structure, concave-shaped on both sides, spewing white smoke from the top. Had to be the power plant.

NukeMore. He didn't like that name. It sounded dangerous.

6

ALMOST as dangerous as the family of mutated creatures that attacked them on their way to the power plant.

To Keith's eyes, that lucky bastard Tyrell had been far enough ahead he'd avoided the encounter altogether. But the rest of them hadn't been so lucky.

Going one after the other, they were crossing an uneven, raised path of rock—almost a sort of bridge with dried-out ditches on each side—when the ground trembled. Slimy-looking, bony fists punched out of the ditches, causing hot peanut butter to spray from the ground like geysers. Throaty growls. The monsters pulled themselves from their underground homes—nine feet tall, looking like the skeletons of massive gorillas, sweating viscous mucous from their pores. The creatures shrieked in a high-enough pitch to shatter glass. Foamy green spittle flew from their mouths.

The horses voiced their fright and attempted to divert course, but that would mean falling into the very ditches the monsters had emerged from. So they stayed the course.

The gang—minus Tyrell, who was nowhere in sight—screamed in terror and tried to maintain command over their steeds.

One of the things swiped at them with its long arm, claws sharp and serrated. Ronwald reared up out of Henry's control, and Keith was thrown backwards, narrowly avoiding a defensive kick as he hit the bottom of a ditch. He felt the warm spray of peanut butter showering his body, his face, getting into his mouth. Spitting out the thick, nutty paste, he picked himself up.

Shots were being fired. The stench of horseshit and gunsmoke filled the air. The monsters let out raspy roars, temporarily deafening the ears. Men yelled. A woman—Betty—yelled, too.

Grabbing a branch jutting from the wall, Keith clambered out of the ditch, back up to the raised path. The action was happening on the relatively flat terrain beyond the bridge. The horses panicked, trotting around in circles, whining.

He saw Dumbass, tongue pushed between his teeth and drool hanging from his lower lip, going back to back with Betty and blasting the creatures. Their bullets seemed to bounce off the monsters' yellow-white skeletons, producing sparks that became short-lived flames.

Ponytail was being flailed left and right by his ponytail, his yells getting louder and quieter as he flew back and forth.

And he saw Badass quickly popping a fresh cigarette into Ronwald's yap, shooting it alight and, with that same shot, hitting one of the creatures in the eye socket. The darkness of the creature's eye socket exploded, spewing electric-blue blood that painted its skull and skeletal body. The other creatures took notice of the blood, cried out, and swarmed the wounded member, lapping up the blood with long, spoonlike white tongues, which extended from fresh openings in their necks.

When all the blue had been wiped away, the mutants let out an ear-piercing, harmonized wail which sent chills up Keith's arms. They grabbed the wounded creature, lifted it, and dove into the solid ground. A hole formed in an instant, sucked them away. A trail of pale, mulched dirt appeared for a few moments, leading away from the fresh hole, but after a few metres it stopped.

And then: silence.

Peace.

Betty flicked her hair back and checked her revolver. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Jerkin' a circumcised cock takes more elbow grease."

Henry chuckled. He reloaded his two guns and gave Ronwald a kiss on the nose. "Eh, Ponytail, ya should really thank 'bout givin' them girly locks a trim, ya thank?"

"At least I did something!" Ponytail shouted, scowling. "Carrier just watched. We carried him. Useless!"

Keith was about to say something in his own defence, but Henry did it for him: "Keith dun't have no fuckin' gun. 'N any case, made none th'diff'rence. Ya saw them fuckin' monstros'ties. Ya saw what our bullets did—er didn't, rather. Only got 'em t'fuck off af'er Ah blasted one'n th'ah."

Ponytail shrugged. He pretended something needed doing and turned his back on Henry.

"What the hell were those things?" Keith asked, climbing aboard the now-calm Ronwald.

"Mutants," Dumbass said, picking plaque from between his teeth and eating it.

"Dumbass' rahght," Henry said, jumping up in front of Keith. "W'bin seein' downrahght weird creatures as o' late. Think it's got somethin' t'do wit' th'NukeMore place."

Keith nodded. It gave him something to ponder as they set off on their journey once more. A new power plant—one he'd never heard of, didn't even know what kind of energy they were producing. And strange animals coming alive in the same region. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. Certainly mysterious.

When they finally caught up with Tyrell, he shouted over the thunderous sound of the stampeding horses: "What the fuck took all ya'll so long!?"

7

i

THAT night, the gang stopped in a clearing to make camp. They checked for snake holes, hitched the horses to a boulder, and got a fire going, using whatever dry branches they could find for kindling and topped it with the diesel from some of Tyrell's bullets. Keith cracked open six cans of beans and they took turns cooking them, using two branches like tongs to hold the cans over the fire. Tasted okay—not quite as bad as shit, but it filled the hole. Soon their bellies were all warm and content, and they were tired.

The sky was black—more like a deep blue, actually, thanks to all the lights littering the sky. The stars were out, blinking and glowing, and it seemed to Keith's eyes there were far more of them up there than he'd ever seen back on the Peburian mainland, where the light pollution created a starless yellow-orange skyglow. He lay beside Henry, who pointed out the different constellations to him, all of them totally foreign to Keith's virgin city eyes. Meteors shot by, sometimes making long streaks across the sky, most of the time only there for a split second. Long enough to wonder if there were any others in the universe, out there in outer-space, looking up at the same sky, seeing those same meteors blitz past their own planet.

One constant, which reminded him of home, was the strange ship sitting in space. Just like back home, it was visible and huge, probably longer than any of the tallest buildings in Peburia City, if you were to somehow lay them out horizontally. Was hard to say from way down there on the ground. Maybe when you went up there, you found the ship was actually bigger than the entire mainland altogether.

Keith felt his eyelids get heavy as he watched the flickering, strobing green-blue-yellow lights along the ship's hull, and listened to the hissing, chirping crickets. He fell asleep with the others.

ii

IT was only ten minutes later when he was awakened by a noise. He looked to his left and saw Betty holding her long red hair back with one hand while she gagged and choked on Tyrell's dick, bobbing her head up and down, making fart noises with her mouth. Her other hand was stuffed down the back of her shorts, working away at her backside.

Keith looked to his right to see if Henry was awake. Henry, totally out cold with his hat beside, mumbled something about Pebusa—the mythical Shadow God-Thing—and being the saviour of mankind. Keith gave him a tap, then a prod, then a shake. The man stirred awake, opening one groggy eye. Keith whispered, "Henry, aren't you with Betty?"

"Hmm? Whah?"

Keith casually pointed a finger at Betty and Tyrell.

Henry chuckled. "Naw, that's jus' Betty bein' Betty. W'ain't none o' us got no claim on her. She dun blow all o' us at some poin' er 'nother. Hell, maybe she'll b'blowin' ya yerself, if yer lucky." He yawned and twisted his spine a little. Grabbed his cowboy hat and covered up his heavily receded hairline. "If yer up 'n' ya can't sleep, Keith, Ah got somethin' t'show ya. Ya mahght fahnd't in'erestin'."

Keith followed him away from camp.

"There b'a cactus'n these here deserts that no man kin eat from 'n' live t'tell 'bout. However, as yer well-'ware, us humans're remark'bly good at fahndin' a way 'round th'rules. At some poin' 'n our hist'ry, w'discovered ya kin eat th'bugs that feed on th'cactus. Ask Betty if yer curious. Ah dunno th'technical d'tails, but it's some fancy scahence word. Bah-oh-dahlate, er somethin'. Anyway, here 'tis." Henry gestured toward a cactus, visible under the innumerable stars. On each spiny arm, a number of—what looked like—glowing, see-through beetles crawled, consuming the succulent's flesh.

"It's beautiful," Keith said. He crouched down low to get a better look. The bugs, glowing a vibrant green, were translucent. He could see their tiny organs working away as they continued to munch at the cactus. Could see the little bits of cactus moving through their long stomachs.

"Ah remember mah dad took m'out here when Ah wud jus' a kid. Showed me these things. Ol' Dad. Brilliant man, he were. Could make a mean peanut-butter san'wich, too."

"What was your dad's name?" Keith was picturing a rough-looking cowboy like Henry, maybe with more scars on his face than he had fingers on his hands.

"Sherlock Milton."

"Wait— Not the Sherlock Milton? The famous detective, inventor and scientist?"

"Th'very one, yup."

"So your name's Henry Milton. Your dad is famous. What made you want to come out here and live like an outlaw?"

"Could ask ya th'same question, city boy. Felt lahke makin' m'own name. Get outta Daddy's shadow, y'know? Ah loved 'im, but it wudn't easy bein' his son, Ah'll tell ya that. Yerself?"

Keith nodded. "I was tired of the city. The terrorism. The pills they make you take to forget the near-daily dose of fear."

"That b'a bullshit war, Keith. Ah kin tell ya that much. Two sahdes o' th'same coin."

"I figured as much. Seemed awfully convenient that neither side ever actually conquers the other. Like a never-ending game of tug-o'-war. Breeding partisanship among the people. Making us choose sides, because you're not a true, patriotic Peburian if you don't drive DiesoMax... Or you can't live if all your gadgets don't sync-up, thanks to ElektriCorp. I remember in school, kids would get beat up for being on the 'wrong' side. All because their parents bought them a DiesoMax squirtgun, when the cool kids were gushing over ElektriCorp's latest version of the Taser, Jr."

"Absotutely, Keith. It b'one fucked-up world over there, back'n civ'lahzation. Ah ain't want nothin' t'do wit' it. Though, Ah gotta say, mah secret dream is t'open up a peanut-butter san'wich shop. Make 'em lahke m'daddy did."

"Maybe you will, then, Henry. If you set your mind to it. You've managed to survive out here, right? So why can't you open up Henry's Peanut Butter Sandwich Shop? We can call it Henry's, for short."

They both laughed about that.

"'T'would b'nahce. Yer a good gah, Keith. Ah figured ya was. Anywho, ya want t'trah this here cactus? It mahght jus' make yer own dreams come true."

Keith shrugged. "Why not? You only live twice. What's life without dreams?"

He watched Henry pluck a few bugs from the cactus. They found a nice flat rock and sat down around it. Henry squished the luminous bugs on the rock, smeared their glowing guts across it, working the juice with his hands. Around and around. Eventually the guts formed long, thin rolls, like when you have dirt on your palms and rub them together. The rolls became balls, and Henry grabbed the balls and rolled them around in his hands, making one larger ball. It still glowed green, albeit opaque.

"Ah'll break y'offa nibble, 'n' save th'res' fer later. Ronnie lahkes this stuff, too. Keeps 'im regular when he needs t'be." True to his word, Henry pulled off enough to fit between his thumb and forefinger. He gave it to Keith. "W'call it qoheto. Chew it, let it sit, swallow it rahght 'way—makes no diff'rence." He looked around, seemed to study the world. "Bit a wind blowin'. T'wards th'NukeMore place." The power plant was off in the distance, closer than before, still spewing white-grey smoke.

Keith popped the piece into his mouth. He made a face, because it tasted god-awful. Like what he imagined poison must taste like. Henry laughed. Keith's tongue started going numb, so he chewed quickly and swallowed, gagging as it went down. "So... how long does this stuff TAKE TO HIT!!!!!!"

The desert fizzled away at the edges of his vision as sound waves rippled out from his mouth. He was digging through the sky, watching peanut butter bubble where the clouds should have been. Numerous Bettys danced all around him, shaking their tits and asses, jiggling the fat, baring the holes. Causing ripples to form in his consciousness. Suddenly he found himself in many places at once. Up on the mountain. Over in the city. Drowning in the ocean. Everywhere yet nowhere. Living many lives. Simultaneous lives. Feeling people walk over the streets that were his body. Feeling fires burning through his forests. Drinking pollutants dumped into his waters. Everything bubbled to a booming climax: He, Keith Cunningham, laying on a bed of light. A mass of black shadow spiraling out from his nostrils. The shadow came together and formed a vaguely human shape. It spoke: TRUST NOT THE BETRAYER. TRUST NOT THE BETRAYER. KEITH. KEITH. WAKE UP, BUDDY.

"Keith! Wake th'fuck up!"

8

HE realized Henry was shaking him and shouting in his face.

"Good! Yer back 'mong th'livin'! C'mon, bud, w'gotta get movin'!"

"Wha—?" Keith looked around and saw a massive fireball rising up in the distance, brightening the sky so much it almost felt like dawn had already come. He felt sluggish and out of it, but tried his best to keep up with Henry, who seemed to be in quite the panic. "What the hell's going on?"

"Not sure, bu' w'gotta roll. There were some huge... boom, then that big ol' ball o' fahre."

They found the others awake and anxious. The horses were spooked, whining and trying to escape from their boulder hitch. They obviously sensed the hysteria in the air. Henry shouted at the others to get moving and then started freeing the horses.

The fireball had an enormous mushroom cloud forming below it, blooming bigger as the seconds ticked by, rising up to displace the inferno.

"The fuck was that sound? An explosion, but what kind?" Betty asked, but no one answered. "The fuck is that thing?"

They didn't bother to put out the fire. Something told Keith it wouldn't be necessary.

"Something's coming," he told the others as they all climbed aboard their horses. "We better move. Now."

Something definitely was coming, but what was a mystery. Whatever it was, only a thin line of it—pale yellow—was visible on the horizon, below the fire and the cloud.

The horses galloped quickly, evidently eager to get away from danger as fast as possible. Riding towards the NukeMore place. Away from the fiery cloud.

Keith couldn't help but sneak glances backwards as they rode. Saw the thin line looking larger.

Minutes passed. Horse hooves thundered the ground, raising dust into the air, drawing bugs from their hideaway holes. Other creatures emerged from their dens and ran with them—some overtaking them, some falling behind.

Keith looked back. The fireball was gone, now it was just the cloud of smoke. The pale-yellow band was bigger than ever before, two inches if he put his fingers up and measured it that way. He felt a breeze on his face. Light as a feather's touch. The smell of... ozone, like after a storm. The pale-yellow band continued to swell in size. Bigger by the second. Three inches, four inches, five inches. He could see swirling winds inside it. Dust clouds, or something. Rushing forwards. In their direction.

"Uh, you guys!" he shouted to the others. "Look behind us!"

They did. And they, too, saw the rolling band of cloud. Coming for them. Propelling itself forward.

"Looks like some kind of shockwave!" Betty shouted while her breasts bounced up and down, thumping her in the chin. "Best move fast, numbnuts!" She gave her horse a kiss, then a little kick. It sprinted faster, putting her ahead of the others.

The other horses followed suit. But it didn't seem to make a difference. No matter how fast they ran, the shockwave—as Betty called it—only grew larger and appeared closer than ever. Gaining on them. Now the breeze on Keith's neck wasn't like a feather, now it was more like someone with their lips pooched out, blowing on him.

"Ronnie's gettin' tahred!" Henry roared to the others.

"They all are!" Ponytail roared back.

It was true. Keith could hear the horses' panting, even with all the other noise going on around them, even with the chaotic winds storming after them—ripping up trees and cacti, killing exhausted animals. He looked back and saw the shockwave hot on their heels, for lack of a better phrase. "It's gonna get us soon!"

"Fuck it! W'ain't gonna make it! W'gotta fahnd cover!"

"Valley to our left!" Dumbass pointed.

They banked left, and the only way down into the valley was to jump down five feet. So most of them jumped, landing roughly but safely. Tyrell's horse got cold feet at the last second and skidded to a stop. The momentum sent him flying off its back, over its head and down into the cool, dark depression below. He did a couple front-flips and landed with a thud.

"Get down here, Julius!" Tyrell screamed as he stared at his scared horse, who looked left at the nearing shockwave and down at the valley, back and forth, as if urging himself to find the courage, take the plunge and jump.

Julius snorted, shook his head, whinnied, and bolted to his right, attempting to evade the inevitable.

"Julius!"

"Get yer heads down!" Henry ordered, then buried his face in the dirt.

Keith did the same. He couldn't help but keep one eye open. He saw the shockwave blast whipping overhead, the winds dipping downward into the valley over their heads, whistling and howling, before jumping back up and continuing onward.

He heard a sudden, high-pitched neigh of pain which was quickly cut short. Silence.

"Julius!" Tyrell started sobbing. "Julius..."

"Ah'm sorry." Henry thumped him on the back and pulled him into a hug. Muffled the man's sobs with his embrace. He looked at the others with red, teary eyes.

9

JÜRGEN Frauenhöschen—CEO of NukeMore—stared at the computer screen with one eyebrow raised and his fingers arched, flexing and unflexing. Waiting for the test results to be phoned-in to the servers and displayed on the screen. He maneuvered in his seat, squirming around to better appreciate what was going on below the belt, so to speak.

He wore women's panties. His mother's, to be precise. She was dead. But he hadn't been the one who'd killed her. Oh no! He'd only hired a guy who knew a guy that hired another guy to kill her. No sticky mess, no direct ties back to him. And then he'd taken all her panties. Lace panties. Silk panties. Elastic panties. Spandex panties. Panties that hadn't been washed before she'd died. The same panties she'd been wearing when she'd died.

Nothing better than wearing them.

Except one thing.

And if there was one thing he enjoyed more than wearing women's panties—especially his own mother's panties—it was bending his willy backwards and tucking it into his own anus.

His willy was bent backwards and tucked into his own anus, which was an underrated pleasure that topped the list of underrated pleasures, as far as Jürgen was concerned. He always read about people who said the greatest lesser-known pleasure was a good smoke after bad sex, but that was too... too horse-and-buggy, too passé. And if Jürgen was anything, he was hip and with-it—and was there anything more with-it than a pleasure as forbidden as tucking your willy into your anus?

His assistant Angel—an emaciated waif of a woman—knocked on the door, startling him from his fantasies.

"Willy!" Jürgen cried out, then slapped his hand over his open mouth. "I mean— WHAT, ANGEL!? I'm in the middle of something!"

"Mister Frauenhöschen, sir?" Angel said dreamily. She stumbled into the room, swaying with starvation and severe dehydration. Her hands hung limp at her wrists. Her eyes rolled back like she was about ready to keel over from the simple exhaustion that comes with depriving oneself of any and all basic essentials.

"Yes!?"

"The test was a success, sir."

Jürgen stared at his screen, willing it to change, then when it didn't he shot her a look of loathing and intense distrust. His eyes were slits. "How do you know..."

"The scientists, sir. They told me directly."

"Stupid thing!" Jürgen punched his computer screen. Immediately, he pulled back his hand, scowling in pain, kissing the injured appendage with a love he rarely if ever showed his children. Yes, he had children. "Ow! Stupid technology! It never works!" He stood up, walked around behind the desk and kicked his six-foot-long, twelve-foot-high computer. It glowed bright blue inside. He pummelled it some more, which made it glow even brighter. It started screeching.

"Sir! You could cause a meltdown!"

He stopped kicking. "Oh. Right. Sorry. I hate this ultramodern nuclear technology. So dangerous and fragile." Back at his desk, Jürgen saw the results had come in. "Aha! Success! I love this nuclear technology! Look at those numbers! Mass destruction! Energy out the ass! ElektriCorp and DiesoMax don't stand a chance. But we need to prove these numbers are real. We must replicate them. Angel, I want three more nukes dropped today. Go."

"Sir, that would be very unwise. The scientists warn that each time a bomb is dropped—"

"Shut up! I don't pay you to think, you imbecile! You can't even think to eat a sandwich! I pay you to do what I say! And what I say is this: We have a perfectly good barren patch of land out there, and we're damn well going to use it as a test site! Now, go!"

Tears pooling in her eyes, Angel nodded and quickly left, nearly missing the door and almost running into the wall on her way out.

Jürgen took a deep breath and thought of the panties he'd wear when he got home. Rawhide. Imported from Wannatuk'luk. Pure animal skin. Against his own skin. Mmm. Much better. Things were going according to plan. Now he only needed his double agent to arrive.

Then things could really go according to plan.

10

THEY waited a few hours before cautiously leaving the valley's safety. What they saw was rather unsettling. And disheartening. Bad news in Twin Snake Burl, to say the least. The place was more of a wasteland than ever before. Keith had always known the deserts of Twin Snake Burl were never thought of as majestic or pretty—or even handsome in a rugged, mannish way; like when you try to compliment a rather ugly woman—but this was something else. Something worse. The landscape was scorched. Charred. Blackened. Golden sand was now dark, and in some areas had been vitrified to yellow-green glass. Trees and cacti were nowhere to be found except in pieces, shrunken leaves lying dead here and there. The dirt appeared dry and cracked. The grass was grey, wasted and withered.

Keith had the feeling a rainstorm wouldn't wash away this mess.

And then there was Tyrell's horse, Julius. The man, who had only recently stopped crying, wept a fresh downpour of tears when he saw the partially vaporized remains of his horse. What wasn't outright gone was eradicated, mutilated, mutated. Big, bulbous tumours had popped up all over the horse's body. The sole remaining eye was swollen to such unreal proportions it would have been comical if it hadn't been so sick. The other eye was painting the ground, dried to a crisp like old yellow yolk from a split egg.

Tyrell picked himself up, wiped his eyes, then spun around with his revolver drawn. He swung it at each of the others, perhaps daring them to try and fight back. As if testing them. "Now listen up, fucktards. I'm gonna take one o' yer horses, seein' as how my best bud here's soon to be vulture dessert. We can do this the hard way or the easy way, and I'm really itchin' fer this to be the hard way." He pulled back the hammer. "Go on, gimme a reason to blow yer brains out."

"Easy there, Tahrell," Henry said with his hands raised. "Y'kin take mah horse, if ya promise t'take real good care o' 'im."

Tyrell grinned, though it looked more evil than good-natured. There was no friendship left between the two. "Fuckin' bingo, Henry. Was gonna take Ronwald, anyway. Was hopin' to blast yer ass to the past, though, oldtimer." He gestured with the gun for everyone to step away from the horses. He watched them comply, then jumped aboard Ronwald, who kicked at the ground and snorted. "Any o' ya'll asshats wanna come with? Betty? Ponytail? Dumbass? Ain't gonna ask you, Carrier, as yer less than useless."

Keith looked down at his feet, hurt. He saw Ponytail and Dumbass step forward. Both gave Henry and Betty apologetic looks: downcast eyes and sorry-looking eyebrows. Then they grinned and high-fived, hopped aboard their own horses.

"Suit yerself, Betty," Tyrell said, sneering. "I bet you'll be itchin' fer a footlong soon enough."

With a whistle and a kick, the three took off for NukeMore. The power plant still spewed out that thick white smoke. Life went on.

Henry shouted quickly: "Eh, Tahrell! Make sure t'give Ronnie a smoke!"

Tyrell turned his head and shouted back: "Fuck off!"

With the horses to drive them, the three riders were soon little black shapes in the distance.

"Took fuckin' Ronwald. Ah'll get 'im." Henry scowled. He traded looks with Keith and Betty.

One horse for the three of them.

"Who wants to walk?" Betty asked, pulling herself up and swinging a leg over her horse.

"Ah will. Ya'll hop on Shirley, Keith."

"You sure, Henry? I don't mind walking."

"Shit naw. Yer still a virgin t'these parts."

Betty made Keith sit in front, as she said she didn't trust him behind her. Why she was taking the moral high ground with him, Keith didn't know, but he did as she'd told him. Then her hand came around and patted his crotch. They set off for NukeMore, Henry jogging beside, hat hanging low over his eyes.

"Gonna git mah goddamn Ronnie back," he muttered. His fists hovered near his twin guns.

11

i

THERE were guards positioned inside the high-fenced perimeter of the NukeMore facility, roaming the grounds on their patrols. Tyrell told Dumbass and Ponytail to stay hidden. He didn't want nobody getting in the way of his revenge. He rode up to the gate, legs hanging off the left side of Ronwald's sleek but sturdy frame. A damn good horse. But Tyrell would kill to have Julius back. And that's exactly what he planned on doing.

Killing. For Julius.

As he neared the gate, a guard came out of the booth. Armed. He dropped down from the horse, hiding his hand as it inched toward his revolver.

"Can I help you?" the guard asked him, looking Tyrell up and down. Eyeing his skin perhaps a little too much.

"You sure can, bud," Tyrell said, noticing the gate had a yellow-and-black sign with a strange symbol that brought to mind a three-leaf clover. He nodded to the sign. "What's that mean?"

The guard snorted. "If you don't know, nigger, then you're not supposed to be here." He started to turn around.

Tyrell drew his gun and blew the guard's head to pieces. Hairy chunks of flaming skull rattled on the floor of the booth, spinning in circles, quickly burning through the diesel in the bullet. He whistled for Ponytail and Dumbass to approach, then entered the booth. There was a big red button on the control desk, said OPEN just above it. He pushed it. Naturally, the gate rolled open. He holstered his revolver and stole the guard's rifle. Bastard wouldn't be needing it. The gun was unlike any he'd seen before. Neither a DiesoMax- nor an ElektriCorp-manufactured weapon. This one said NukeMore on the side.

He stepped out of the booth as the other two arrived.

Ponytail ogled the gun. "Cool hardware, Ty."

They left the horses near the well-manicured garden and the lush trees, then headed through the gate. By this point in time, the other guards had taken up defensive positions—up on catwalks, behind military-grade NukeMore vehicles, setting up left and right flanks.

Tyrell grinned. "Looks like we get to test it out."

ii

ANGEL rushed into Jürgen's office and broke her leg while doing so. She hit the floor with a thud and slid forwards, howling in pain as her thin, weak, protein-deprived skin tore like tissue paper. She would've bled out, but she was so lacking in iron and vitamin B12 that she simply lost consciousness and oozed a pale, runny discharge from her many fatal wounds. Her intestines hung out of her in ice-cold coils, having not received blood in quite some time.

"Mister... Frauenhöschen... sir..." she choked out with her dying breaths.

Jürgen spun around from his spot at the window, where he'd been watching the violence unfolding down at the gate. "WHAT!? AND WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DYING ON MY HARDWOOD FLOORS!? I JUST HAD THOSE WASHED AND THERE YOU ARE, MAKING A MESS OF THEM!"

"In... trude... ers..." Angel died. Her tongue flopped out and immediately broke off from the rest of her body, too dry and deficient to stay connected to the rest of her mouth.

"Intruders!? I KNOW THAT! Idiot woman!" Jürgen booted Angel's corpse around the office. "Don't! ... Tell! ... Me! ... What! ... I! ... Already! ... Know!" He wiped his nose and straightened up his hair. Reinserted his willy into his anus. Thought of wearing see-through panties. He went over to his desk and hit the red button underneath. PANIC. Looked like it was time to skedaddle.

iii

THE battle was nearly won by the time Keith, Henry and Betty finally showed up. Numerous guards lay dead with the white bone of their skulls showing. Tyrell had been solely scoring headshots, and neither Dumbass nor Ponytail had been hit, so he had no idea if hits to the body were fatal. Best to assume yes.

Keith and Betty hopped off Shirley and dove for cover in the guard booth.

Henry wiped the sweat off his brow, scratched his cheek, pulled out his pair of automatic revolvers and joined the party. Blasting bastards left and right with peanut-butter bullets. Twenty guys dropped dead at the same time, all with holes in their foreheads leaking blood-tinged peanut butter.

The NukeMore guards—and Tyrell—fired green blasts of energy from their guns. A shot hit the booth and had no effect.

"Fuckers got some firepower," Betty said to Keith. "But I got some, too." She knocked out the window with the barrel of her ElektriCorp pistol and shot a self-cauterizing hole through one guard's chest. "Take that, shithead!"

Dumbass and Ponytail traded fire with a small group of guards camping out behind a tank. Dumbass whispered to Ponytail: "You go one way. I'll go the other."

"Good idea," Ponytail whispered back.

Dumbass' eyes shifted left and right, suspiciously. He picked his nose and then rubbed it into his eye for good measure.

The pair of them turned the remaining guards into a short-lived bonfire.

The gang met up at the front doors to the NukeMore building. Nodded to each other. Went in.

iv

IT was dead inside. Seemed all the guards were stinking out front, and all the other employees were gone.

Keith checked the directory behind the vacated front desk. "CEO is on the top floor. Suite 301."

They took the elevator up. Stood in silence until the doors opened, then headed straight to the CEO's office. It was empty, aside from a nasty-looking female corpse near the door, which occupied a seven-square-foot area when factoring in the scattered entrails.

"I'm a computer guy," Keith said, immediately going for what he assumed was the computer. It was massive and loud, as computers were. "Never used a NukeMore computer, of course, but I can't imagine it being any more difficult than ElektriCorp." He 'hacked' past the log-in screen by using the Password-Hint feature and typing in 'panties'. (Hint: 'panties'.) Then he scoured through data programs, e-mails and text documents.

"What's it say?" Tyrell asked. "Who and what killed my Julius?"

A voice answered from a speaker: "I can tell you that."

v

"WHO'S that?"

A panel along the ceiling slid open, revealing a sheet of glass that also served as the floor of the building's roof. A smirking man in a suit stared down at them. "Me," he said through the speaker. "Jürgen Frauenhöschen. Welcome to NukeMore, the creator of nuclear technology."

"Nuclear? What was that goddamn explosion earlier? You killed my horse, asshole!"

Jürgen squirmed and wiggled. "Mhm, I did! Nuclear technology is the latest and greatest form of harnessing energy. Say goodbye to your electric and diesel cars, friends! Because NukeMore vehicles are the future!"

"Bullshit," Keith said. "ElektriCorp and DiesoMax are both running strong as ever, not like SteamPlus."

Jürgen laughed.

"Hate this asshole," Betty said.

"My friends, how behind the times you all are! ElektriCorp and DiesoMax are already dead. NukeMore is the victor. We've already won this war."

"But people will remember," Keith said. "The buildings will still stand and the memories will live on."

"Keith Cunningham, is it?"

"How do you know..."

"Well, Keith, you don't seem to realize we decide what you forget. Sure, we've used the Happy Pills to keep this phony corporate war going and to test our medicine, but we can just as easily erase one's memory of ElektriCorp or DiesoMax."

"Bullshit. I'll still remember."

Jürgen laughed again. "Keith, I'm referring to people who matter. Not you. You'll just be a crazy person."

"Y'can't win," Henry said.

Rolling his eyes, Jürgen said, "Did you miss the part where I said we already won? Yes, clearly. Pity. The glory of Glasomil is on NukeMore's side, gang. By the way, what's your name? Buttkick Squad?"

"W'never made no name."

Ponytail chimed in: "We were gonna make it The Badass Band of Brothers & Sister."

"No, I'm telling you your name is Buttkick Squad. Enjoy it. Be sure to watch the news... if you can find a box. Now, I really have places to be." A helicopter descended onto the roof, making Jürgen's suit flap every which way. "And if the Buttkick Squad was smart, they would get moving fast, because I've got three nukes about to go up and one of them is headed this way. Would be a shame if you died. Ta-ta, morons!" He raced away to his helicopter, laughing.

"Ah guess it's tahme t'move," Henry said to the others.

vi

ON the way out, Betty stole an expensive-looking NukeMore vehicle. They rode away from the facility—the horses and the car. They saw the bomb fire out of a hole in the ground, they saw it drop onto the power plant, they saw the fireball, the mushroom cloud, the shockwave.

But they were far enough away, so no other horses died.

vii

TYRELL couldn't be convinced to stay. Naturally, Dumbass and Ponytail wanted to tag along with him. Knowing Henry's relationship with Ronwald, Betty volunteered that Tyrell take her horse, which he was all too happy to do.

Sitting on his new horse, Tyrell said, "Well, Henry, I guess this is goodbye."

"It ain't over, Tahrell."

"I know it ain't. And one day we'll finish this."

"Bu' not t'day."

"No. But some day." Tyrell started riding off, Ponytail and Dumbass following. He slowed and turned. "Be seein' you, Henry."

Henry nodded, tipped his cowboy hat. "Stay safe, Tahrell."

Just Betty, Henry and Keith once more. At least they had Ronwald, though. And a NukeMore vehicle.

"So where we headed?" Keith asked as the three started to move.

Henry fired up a joint. "Ah gotta dream t'follow. Ah keep dreamin' o' Pebusa." He passed the joint back. "Ya believe'n Pebusa, Keith?"

Keith took a hit and remembered the vision he'd seen while under the influence of qoheto. The shadow. "Y'know what, Henry? I think I do. And I think I better ride with Betty."

She winked at him from the car and jerked her hand up and down.

Twin Snake Burl was said to be the last bastion of individuality and isolationism to be found in all of Peburia. Keith thought he'd found three things there already: Faith, friendship and freedom.

And that... he'd never forget.