Everything seems to be coming up Gecko lately. In all the excitement of smacking down the Rangers and viciously murdering a plant, I noticed a loose thread I’ve worked on snipping off. And I had every intention of snipping Vercingetorix. I’m good with knives and other sharp objects.
Truth is, I expected him to be at the tree instead of the Dimension Rangers. Or I expected him to make a move at some time during my Dudebot’s arrival and coronation. A drunken orgy is a pretty good time to get some killing done. Some of them will even help you if they think someone’s into auto-erotic asphyxiation. Awful hard to scream for help around a ballgag.
But enough about drunken, murderous sex and debauchery; let’s return to talking about my life.
As I said, I expected to be ambushed sooner. It’s a good thing I was wrong, because fighting the barbarian warrior and the Dimension Rangers at once could have gone badly for me. For whatever reason, he held off. It’s not a matter of presence, either. The miniscule Riccan Navy found his boat, but with no signs of life. I suspect he rendezvoused with the Rangers again. They’re probably all buddy-buddy for some reason.
I didn’t stay paranoid over him, though. I’d had ideas stemming from a certain clarity related to my desires. They were a different sort of ambition. I’ve been looking over the tattered infrastructure of this island and getting ideas on how to improve it. A way to make this place a real gangster’s paradise in which someone could live all their life, even if the Directors think that my mind is gone.
I mean, I’ve got these miracle machines. They keep me alive, and others, but my antics have likely blinded most of the world to their true potential. That’s not entirely a bad thing. I’m not going to get all paternalistic and say I’ve kept anything from people for their own good. I’ve made it clear that I keep stuff from these people for my own good. Have fewer of these savage homo sapiens running around, able to heal in a fight or regenerate from the brink of death and losses of limb. I’d say something about imagining the possibilities, but I’m it. Who knows how many times I’d have died by now?
So I’ve started drawing up a plan. I got ideas about this place now. Ideas that’ll change the world. Move it into the future. And that means letting go of the past. That’s not a metaphor. The Bronze City is Bronze Age. I’m really not seeing the hype here. I think it’s because I’m sober. Well, technically, I’m represented by a robot, and those don’t get drunk off alcohol. Don’t get me wrong, some of them are nasty drunks. You don’t have to worry about fight bite, but they pull hair. You have to come at them waxed or oiled. Then digits go everywhere and things get kinda weird. I preferred being oiled.
You know, it’s more like Bronze City than I realized at first.
My Dudebot’s been touring the place, seeing the city from the ground with my own robot copy’s eyes via wireless connection. The lovely fighting pit. The bazaar and its wonderful cultural items, like big-donged fertility statues. The great library and its wonderful poetry, with such wonderful cultural works. Learned a new beer recipe.
The only thing of any value was the damn money. Electrum. But gold, silver, and copper are only so valuable. I think I really got screwed on this marriage. Speaking of Citra, she really didn’t take the fighting pit very well. They wanted to show us a fight, so they brought out a trio of prisoners, all oiled up and shaved. I asked the guide about it. His title translates to something like a consul, and he’s milking that job for all the beard oil he can get. Slick and curled like a mofo. I bring him up because I turned to ask him why they bothered with the oiling up. It was a weird coincidence, given my other thoughts on oil. It’s like when you hear a word for the first time and start noticing it everywhere.
“Your majesty,” he began. “The oil is very important. It beautifies the prisoners for our viewing. Just look at that man’s beautiful arms. Those are the arms of a smith who forged counterfeit coins. And that woman there needs all the oil she can get. Just look at those tiny breasts. She needed serious help.”
I looked down on high. The King’s platform was the highest along the oval rim of the pit. Everyone else had these wood benches around the lip that gave a limited view of anything too close. They were also at least thirty feet above the worn grass of the pit’s floor where the armed prisoners stood. “What did she do? Prostitution?”
He gasped. “We would never think of sentencing someone to the pit for prostitution. Whoring is not against the law. What kind of uncivilized brutes do you take us for?”
I pointed to the woman. “So what did she do?”
“She was discovered to be the infamous Fish Gutter. She tempted young boys away from virtuous love, but that’s not all. She would gut and clean the boys like fish. She is insane.”
I need to install penises on my Dudebots for times when I get so aroused I need more than one body to express it. I wish I could see her work, but I’ll settle for seeing her boobs. Petite, but rather nice and shapely, with such tiny, pink areolas. They’d shaved her head clean. For whatever reason, they didn’t bother with the armpits, pubes, and ass when it came time to make the prisoners look good for fighting. Such uncivilized brutes.
Still, the day looked pretty good with bloodsport on the menu. The crowd hushed around us all as they wheeled out a cage. Imagine my disappointment when I saw the big, bad beasty was a cuddly, if somewhat large, koala. The Consul spoke up. “Oh my, they sent no word this was the entertainment of the day.”
Just to be clear, koalas are Australian, which makes them both intrinsically cuter and incredibly deadly. The same can be said of their women and beer. If y’all are waiting for the word “respectively,” there than you’ve never seen a bottle of Aussie lager or risked the deadly embrace of a Tasmanian She-Devil.
Mmm. I should see what Tasmanian She-Devil’s up to these days. Things ended badly, but I grew those pieces back. I think she still has my copy of Iron Maiden’s The Best of the Beast.
Enough with the distractions. I must get back to the bread and circuses. A bunch of these tunic-loving guys rolled out the cage, then moved around behind it. With a tug, they used a rope to pull over a lever on the front that dropped the cage’s door open. They sprinted out of there as fast as they could run, while the koala just sat there. The crowd actually gasped when it began to crawl toward the prisoners. All three looked shaken and slippery.
The koala finally reached the edge of the cage, looked up, then opened its mouth to expose finger-thick fangs. It pounced from twenty feet away and began tearing out the throat of the forger smith. The screams were amazing. So was the gore. It had terrible table manners. I wondered how I could domesticate one. Not all animals will chew down through the throat into the chest cavity. “What is that thing? That’s no normal koala.”
Citra covered her face with her hands, getting a few looks. Elda, who she resembles, was better known as rebellious and trying real hard to be independent. The Consul glanced at her before focusing on me to answer. “That is a gravity bear. The beast from above. They can be found in the wilds of our lands, hidden in trees to drop on the unwary and unfortuante.”
It gutted the Fish Gutter. “A koala bear that drops down from trees and murders people?” I asked. “Sounds delightful. Does this one have a name?”
“Like a pet?” asked the Consul, eyes wide. A scream from the pit drew both of our attention back to it. The last prisoner tried to crawl away, one of his legs held in the mouth of the koala. He was still free to escape, though, as that leg was no longer attached to his body.
“A pet wouldn’t be a bad idea if it could be- fuck!” The platform under us groaned and tipped forward, spilling the consul, Citra, a couple of guards, and some sycophantic nobodies into the arena. I went to catch myself on a rail, but the wood gave way under the weight of my armor and I crashed down to.
The monstrous marsupial mauled a man. Could tell that from the screams, even with Citra yelling her head off. I looked up to see the thing chowing down on the consul. The beard will be missed.
Unlike the doppelganger of Vercingetorix, which was an upgraded humanoid drone, this one was built to this purpose. It wasn’t a problem to get it to its feet and grab the creature in mid-jump before it could spoil Citra’s face. It claws and bit at my armor, but couldn’t penetrate. Even if it did, there was no blood to be spilled. Instead, punched straight through its chest and tore out its heart, then dropped it on its ass. From that position, I punted its head off into the crowd, eliciting gasps and cheers.
Though they enjoyed the spectacle, and Citra was glad to be alive, I wasn’t celebrating just yet. I turned to see what had happened to our platform and found Vercingetorix looking out over the wall by the shattered wood supports that had held up the King’s box. He ululated and more people began crying in panic as doors around the edges of the fighting pit opened and animals flooded out. I grabbed Citra. “Time to go, dear.” I tossed her up into the wealthy part of the crowed, where all the fat people sat and were busy trying to get up and flee lions, wolves, and other things that had been meant to die for their entertainment.
It cost me a hit across my back by Vercingetorix, who had hurdled the wall and advanced with a spear in one hand, a woodchopping axe in the other. He’d tried to shishkebab me, but it didn’t penetrate. I turned and tore the spear’s point off, but he just raised the axe meant for splitting logs and tried to split my noggin. One swing and a miss. Two swings and a miss. I caught the third one on my gauntlet. Yeah, embedding it didn’t do shit except let me grab it and pull it straight out of his hands. I headbutted him to stumble him, but it did jack squat.
He headbutted me right back, which also did nothing. So I gave him one back next, and then he returned it. Instead of a third, I chopped his wood with the axe. Yep, I swung it low to high into his loincloth. He dropped to his knees. When I brought it down overhead, he grabbed my arm and, for a short time, strained enough to hold me at bay. He gritted his teeth and spoke to me then, his voice showing his exertion. “You are a fake. I will not be the last man you have to slay to secure your rule. You can not step over corpses forever.”
His eyes betrayed him, but too late. He glanced to the side. A bolt as thick as my unarmored arm shot into my side, cutting in and pushing me down. I dropped the axe from the blow. What I’d missed in all the distraction was his sidekick had wheeling in a smaller ballista, avoiding lions and all sorts of nasty predators that had since found their way to the crowd. They hadn’t bothered me for the same reason the giant bolt didn’t bother, I believe.
Vercingetorix grabbed the axe and raised it overhead for a killing strike. I raised the Dudebot’s right arm and fired the rocket on that arm. The forearm detached from the rest of the arm and latched onto Vercingetorix’s throat. He dropped the axe to struggle with the choking hand at his windpipe. I caught it with the Dudebot’s left and buried in the barbarian’s stomach. I chopped and chopped, but at a human body and spine instead of a tree. When he fell, the hand dropped away and the axe removed from him his now-purple head.
“I am the future,” I said, dropping the axe and reattaching the right arm. I didn’t have a crowd, as everyone else had fled. Even those guards. Oh wait, there they were, or at least their bodies. They got mauled by something. “And I am the death of the status quo. The apocalypse of the old ways has begun.”