Fiction: The Evil Possum vs. Baldy!

 So I quit a decade-long career this week, after spending two weeks looking at a doodle of a cartoon mouse. And this is the scene that started it, from the same storyline as the battle demo. Yeah, these characters were always like this.

It was a low, wide compound, which seemed to slouch across the ground. Its outer layers were razor wire, its middle tiers were brick and barred gates, and its heart was a concrete block with grudging entry points and vision blocks. All were now in flames, in a scene like the Hell of the elder gods of a forgotten race. From the midst came shots and screams, not the cries of men but the skirling squeals of rats in a trap.

In the midst of it, ten creatures darted inward. They ran on two legs, yet their gait was the skulking of creatures whose instinct was to crawl. They bore tails that swished behind them, just above the ground. What could be seen of their faces were shining eyes, gleaming teeth, and whiskers that glimmered in the flames. Two more figures approached. One was like themselves, the other was much shorter and very fat, wearing a squashed fur cap. The smaller creature moved with a loping gait, halfway between running and jumping. When it gave a skirling squeal, the others turned attentively, if only out of curiosity. Then they followed a pointing finger. As smoke cleared, they beheld the likeness of a VW Beetle without a rear windshield, next to a breached door. The rats squealed and scurried after the shorter figure as he bounded into battle.

Up close, the rotund creature was nearly hairless and exceptionally ugly, despite large eyes and rounded ears that vaguely suggested cuteness. They did not make up for his mottled, vein-streaked pink skin and wrinkled folds of fat, nor for his perpetually shifting eyes. “There’s his frinkin’ car!” he squealed in a high-pitched, whistling voice. “That means he’s already inside or he’s comin’ back! You three frinkers, come with me! The rest of you, hold the rear an’ don’t frinkin’ die!” He unlimbered the wire stock of a scaled Skorpion machine pistol. It was clear from his bare arms that what the insulating fat covered was solid muscle. Three of the rats lined up to follow. His tufted tail stuck out nearly rigid behind him. He made as if to leap, but tumbled and rolled through the door instead. The chattering of his gun rang out. The followers rushed in with a chorus of squeals, leaving their companions chittering outside. A moment later, a volley of automatic fire rang out.

The small creature peered out a vision block. The rats who had remained outside lay dead or dying. One who started to lift a weapon abruptly twitched and lay still. A huge silhouette loomed over it, a third again the height of the tallest of the rodents and far more massive. “Frink of a frinkin’ frink,” he said.

“Altimus and his son are dead, as are his Second and his chief guards,” the figure outside called out in a nasal but commanding voice. “I breached his bunker with Panzerfaust and collapsed the escape tunnel with multiple timed demolition charges. The Revenants are no more.”

“Yeah?” the much smaller creature called out. “Why are you frinkin’ telling us?”

“I am giving you an opportunity to consider your position,” the giant said patiently. “You know who you face: No-Hands, El Diablo Sin Mano Derecho, Archididelphis invicta, the Unconquered King. 100 of the slaves and debtors of Altimus pooled their wealth for 10,000 dinars to free themselves from his bondage. Because the Revenants were pledged to avenge anyone who took the life of one of their own, it was necessary to strike while you were together. If you renounce your pledge, I may consider allowing you to leave.”

“Well, frink you, Iron Nuts!” the hairless creature called out.

Saucer-like ears rose, and a mane bristled upon a high brow. “Baldur Thorndyke?” No-Hands called out.

“Yeah,” the one unavoidably known as Baldy answered. “Small frinking world.”

“Yes,” No-Hands said. His lips curled, revealing the saw-edged teeth of a possum. “This is the second time we have met since we parted ways. Surely you have considered, there are ways to stay out of each other’s way.” Two of the rats abruptly rose up, straight into three blasts of a shotgun.

“I was the frinkin’ chief guard,” Baldy said. “Altimus pulled me off duty when I told him what his frinkin’ chances were.”

“Unfortunate for him; less so for you,” No-Hands said. “You are quite good at what you do. A creature of your talents should have no trouble finding another line of work, or an employer who would not come to my attention.”

“I’m the frinkin’ top-dollar talent,” Baldy answered. “I go where the frinkin’ money is. People who don’t worry about you don’t pay my frinkin’ going rates.”

“But you have nothing to spend your money on,” the possum said in irritation. “You have no family, no lovers, and no vices to speak of. Neither do I, of course, but all know that money is not the reason I do what I do. So why do you insist on risking your life for wretched beings you would kill for free if they did not pay you?”

“Because I’m the frinking best!” Baldy shrieked. He fired a full magazine at No-Hands, then rolled for the door. No-Hands switched his shotgun for a freshly loaded PPSh-41. He fired short bursts at a target that came bouncing like a lone photon in a hall of mirrors. Baldy answered with a semi-random volley that seemed to propel his globular body one way and then the other. Several times, his shots struck the chest of his foe, only to ricochet off what appeared to be a vest of rattlesnake skin inside No-Hands’ mink coat. Finally, Baldy launched himself straight at the possum, twice his height and nearly 10 times his mass. At the last moment, No-Hands swung his head forward, and Baldy bounced right off his skull. The mouse tumbled into the dark with a squeal of pain, and the possum staggered back against his car with a rumbling call of displeasure. He refocused his crossed eyes as the final rat reared up. He stepped forward and took aim, only to topple as a shotgun blast caught him in the chest.

“Not so tough, are you?” the rat said. He pumped the shotgun as he advanced. “You’re bigger than us. They say you’re smarter than us. But you go down the same as us.”

Then both barrels of a shotgun fired from inside a boot that had replaced No-Hands’ right foot.

“Yes,” No-Hands said as he sat up. “I do.”

Fiction: The Evil Possum/ Beer War Battle Demo!

 I've ended up on a break from this blog that I was going to let go a bit longer, but I decided to come back with a repost of something I already tried and hilariously failed to plug on my beautiful, useless Wattpad page, a battle demo for a new adventure of the Evil Possum! This is, in fact, for the Beer War story line I already posted one demo for. If you read it, this might make slightly more sense. Maybe. And yeah, this is what No-Hands' enemies were always like...

The machine gun emplacement looked like an exploded egg. Its concrete shell was caved in and bowed out. Within was carnage, so blackened and charred that the organic could not be distinguished from the inorganic. The most misshapen form of all was what finally sat up. It was a possum, species Didelphis sapiens, by name Heinrich Hilfiger, 40 centimeters tall. Bloodshot eyes came wide open as he sat up and hissed. He shook off the soot and dust that covered him, revealing a gray and black pelt only somewhat charred. In a moment, his eyes fixed on a machine gun, miraculously intact. He looked at the end of a belt still in his hand, then he began to wind it around himself. Momentarily, he had a doubled bandoleer over his chest, a belt wrapped twice around his waist and a loose end thrown over his shoulder. He threw three drums into a shoulder bag, one as large as the other two together, and slammed another large drum into the gun. It was a total of 600 rounds, enough for 30 whole seconds of fire. For good measure, he stowed two spare barrels. He examined the gun, and found half the bipod missing. He hissed and knocked the remainder off with a sharp blow. Only then did he emerge, the gun at his hip. He saw a figure even taller than himself, already receding. He all but strangled his own words as he snarled, “Nicht est Konig!!!” Then he opened fire.

No-Hands turned his head before he heard the cry. There was just time enough to choose whether to run left or right. For better or worse, he ran right, toward a basement loading dock for the warehouse. He stayed just ahead as the adversary behind him fired a barely controlled stream of fire. A final volley knocked his prosthetic leg out from under him, and he tumbled and rolled where the ramp dropped below the level of the pavement. Hilfiger loaded and emptied another drum blindly, while No-Hands slid down the ramp toward the open loading door. Directly behind him, a half-second volley disintegrated one of the barrels lined up just inside, spilling beer across the floor. Hilfiger loaded a second drum. He finally leaned into view, peering over the rail. No-Hands returned fire with a rifle longer than he was tall. With both eyes, he might have felled his foe then and there, but his snapped shot merely tore through the railing. Heinrich dropped out of sight, while No-Hands retreated to what cover there was among the barrels.

At least two more gunmen added their own fire, driving him further down the ramp. However, only Hilfiger ventured to approach, firing a score of bullets at a time. He gave a snarl as he paused to replace not only the drum but the visibly glowing barrel. The latter ejected from an opening in the side of the perforated housing with a hard metallic clang. He allowed it to clatter to the pavement. Already, he had the replacement in hand and sliding in. No-Hands fired his revolver twice as the foe once again revealed himself. This time, Hilfiger confidently let fly, without slowing or hastening his descent down the ramp. Three more barrels burst apart on the loading dock floor. Behind them, two whole stacks came tumbling down as another volley cut through the middle tiers.  No-Hands retreated from the cascade, into a warehouse floor lined with racks of beer barrels three and four high.

An appreciable fraction of a centimeter of beer splashed underfoot as Heinrich Hilfiger stepped onto the warehouse floor. A leaking keg came rolling toward him, spilling beer behind it. He stopped it with his foot. Another came flying from the right. He blew it apart in mid-air. He leaned around the nearest rack of barrels and emptied the rest of his final drum in the direction from which the barrel had come. A dozen barrels and more trickled and poured, adding to the fluid. Hilfiger calmly pressed his back against the rack. He played out one end of the belt that wrapped his body before he loaded it into the machine gun with an audible “chunk” of the cocking handle. His ear twitched at a second metallic sound. He dropped to the floor just as No-Hands fired his rifle point-blank into the other end of the line of barrels behind him.

The first barrel burst in the center and at both ends, rupturing another barrel in the other half of the rack beside it. No-Hands gagged and coughed at the resulting spray of suds and splinters, so he could not have seen if there had been time the resulting trail of destruction. Another ruptured catastrophically. A third had one or both ends blown out. A fourth was left intact by a fluke as the bullet dropped below it and ricocheted off the metal frame of the rack. The projectile went on through three more barrels before it burst out the far end, straight over the foe’s head. Hilfiger spat out beer as he rose up on hands and knees, then squalled as more poured down on his head. He whirled and fired around the rack. Another barrel disintegrated on the far end of the next rack. Over his head, the leaking barrel burst, spilling what remained of its contents on Hilfiger’s head.

Hilfiger held his fire. The sound of leaking barrels and sloshing beer came from all around. Then there was a louder splash as No-Hands loped deeper into the warehouse, past one line of racks to a third and final one. Hilfiger ran after him, through beer that had reached his ankles. No-Hands’ own saucer-like ears swiveled, triangulating the path of his pursuer. For a moment, he leaned around the rack he had just reached, his rifle at ready. Then he hissed and retreated yet again, just before two scores of bullets chewed into the rack. Hilfiger continued firing as he made his way down the line. No-Hands managed to fire one shot. The barrel it struck burst. Hilfiger jerked his head back just as the far end of the one beside it blew out still intact. Yet again, he took a spray of suds to the face. The bullet ricocheted off the next rack. Hilfiger dropped to a crouch as the unseen projectile went winging through the warehouse, finally bursting a keg on the far side of the floor.

Heinrich Hilfiger reached the far end of the floor, wading through beer halfway to his knees. By then, half the belt at his waist and the bandoleer over his left shoulder had disappeared. His tail swished behind him, stirring up a trail of ripples. He squalled in triumph at the sight of the door to a loading dock, closed and securely locked. He took a position directly in front of the door, next to a column of stacked barrels. He looked one way and then the other, but there was no sight nor sound of his opponent. He hissed and gripped the shroud of the gun. He squalled and drew back his hand. He cursed as he hastily ejected the overheated barrel, tossing it behind him. He turned, befuddled, at a splash and simultaneous metallic clang. No-Hands stood at point-blank range, holding the barrel in the pincer that served as his right hand.

Both possums dropped their jaws as they roared. No-Hands swung the glowing barrel. Hilfiger staggered from the blow, his face scalded by the heat. He countered with the replacement barrel in his hand, catching No-Hands on the tufted flanges of his chin. The only known specimen of Archididelphis invicta took a step back as he raised the revolver already in his hand. Hilfiger’s tail wrapped around his massive wrist like a whip, deflecting two shots into a barrel. Hilfiger slammed the barrel into his gun as No-Hands rushed to close the distance, with a third again the mass of his wiry frame. Another round from the revolver destroyed the padlock on the loading gate. Hilfiger’s tail lashed for No-Hands’ throat. Then Hilfiger screeched in triumph as the barrel went home with a ching. He promptly fired a volley into a barrel behind him. Three more came tumbling down. No-Hands’ raised arm somewhat reduced the force of a barrel that bounced off his high brow. With his pincer, he flung open the gate… revealing a trailer full of barrels backed up to the gate. That was when Hilfiger opened fire.

A veritable avalanche of barrels rained down on both combatants. No-Hands managed to retreat while Hilfiger took the brunt of the downpour. He paused to open his revolver for reloading. A wild volley blew the weapon out of his mechanical hand. He turned to see Hilfiger scramble out from under the barrels, even as more came tumbling down. He ran once more, and Hilfiger finally held his fire as he pursued, instead playing out more of the belt. The pursuer fired a short volley before No-Hands disappeared between two racks. He zagged left and then right, just ahead of a score and half a score of bullets. Directly ahead lay a third gate, a counterpart to the one through which he had entered. A volley from behind was cut short. A single shot from the rifle blew it halfway open. A swing of the rifle butt backed by No-Hands’ momentum knocked the left door off its hinges. “Linkshander!” Hilfiger called out. No-Hands turned back, to see his foe load the other end of a broken belt into his weapon. Simultaneously, he loaded another round into his rifle and fired.

It was an incendiary round.

No-Hands grabbed the bottom rung of a guard rail to haul himself up, ahead of the wall of blue flame that erupted through the loading gate. He vaulted over and dropped to the pavement as the barrels that had not been destroyed burst or burned, prolonging what would otherwise have been a short and relatively cool blaze. Only then did something else rush up the loading dock. It was a nearly unrecognizable form awash in flame, racing blindly forward. As it ran, it cast aside a weapon and a belt of ammo that already popped like a chain of fire crackers. No-Hands only shook his head as he tracked the figure toward its clear objective, a polluted sluice pond. It became all too clear how ill-considered it was when Heinrich Hilfiger dived straight into the deepest part. The surface of the pond itself lit up in a sheet of admittedly short-lived flame.

“You were never my equal, Hilfiger,” No-Hands said, “only my opposite. You still came closer than most.” Then he picked up the machine gun and slung it over his back.