It had went for Max’s whole family, right? Had to be some sort of high-tech assassination tool. Could these things be built?
He took in the clown in its entirety.
It looked just like a real person. The skin was pliable – what was left of it.
What was this thing made of?
It looked like real flesh stretched over a metallic frame. Only the blinding beams of light burning from its eyes and the strange transformations and disfigurements on its body gave away the game.
Otherwise, it was a goddam guy in a clown suit. Right down to a painted-over sprinkling of stubble.
It’s some sort of cyborg.
He’d seen plenty of weird crap the last ten years on the news about advancements in bio-science, and the Chinese could make fuck-dolls that would have you’re dick dribbling for days, but this....
This was incredible. No wonder it had fooled everyone at the party.
Who could have built this? We’d know about this technology, surely.
And then it hit him...
This fucking thing is from OUTER GODDAM SPACE!
Alien technology.
Or maybe some hybrid being! Yeah!
Hell, either way he’d helped it do its job.
Blown his best friend’s head into kibbles.
Surely this thing could see he was an agreeable sort of guy.
The clown stood stock still while it scanned his face.
A slight heat tickled his flesh as the warm light ran up and down his handsome features.
Dom dropped the shotgun by his feet in a sign of supplication, and lifted his right hand high.
Aliens...
Jesus…
He cleared his throat.
“Welcome to Earth. I mean you no ha—”
Dom never got to finish his sentence. The foot-long drill that was rammed down his throat - mincing his tongue, obliterating his teeth, and pulverizing the lower half of his skull, made damn sure of that.
***
Val was laughing his ass off. It grated on Gyro, seeing his colleague act so damned unprofessional, but he had to admit, it was pretty funny.
“Did you hear what that last guy said!?” Val blurted out, tears streaming down his face. “He said, ‘Welcome to Earth!’ The guy thought we were fucking aliens, man… aliens! ”
With that, Gyro’s control-room engineer burst into another fit of spastic laughter. His chair rocked on its sides as he hunched over, clutching his gut.
Gyro allowed himself a smile, too.
“We...come...in...peace!” Val said, in a mocking, pseudo-serious voice.
The engineer cut loose with more braying laughter. Gyro found himself joining in.
“You’d think these fuck-heads would realize that technology has progressed a little bit past Robbie the fucking Robot. They killed the world...I guess they figure they killed the human spirit, too,” he mocked.
“Guess so!” Val laughed. “Too busy shitting from their golden balconies onto the rest of us to feel the winds of change, man. You know, I'm starting to think these high-flying kingpin douche bags ain’t got too much going on upstairs.”
“Other than greed,” Gyro replied, reaching for his coffee.
Val pulled himself together as best he could. “Yeah.”
“Three less fucks in the world.”
“Four less,” Val corrected.
“Oh yeah...four...”
It had been a shame to have to kill the kid, but the more Gyro thought about the little brat swaggering around like the Prince of Egypt, the more he came to peace with the kid’s fate. The mission was to wipe out the entire Bishop bloodline, and in times of war, conscience held no quarter.
One less elitist family, dragging the half-dead world deeper into its grave.
Fuck it, the kid had it coming.
And a mission was a mission was a mission.
Val was still grinning like an idiot, his eyes fixed before him on the plasma screens surrounding the two men. A bank of high-definition displays monitored the scene taking place on the Bishop property. Most of the party guests had fled now, and that was a good sign. There had been minimum collateral damage, other than Max’s human shield, though some of the bastards probably deserved it every bit as much as Max had.
Not all, but certainly some.
Even among the plentiful, and within the new communities, there were good people. Society continued on, in a fashion, with its own hierarchy of slaves, paid workers, and oligarchs.
The oligarchs would all suffer.
Maybe see some of you during the next operation, Gyro thought to himself, smiling.
“I can’t believe that shit actually worked,” he mused.
That brought a fresh snort of laughter from Val. “I know! A clown-bot! Whoever rustled up that particular gem deserves a week off, with full pay.”
“Welcome to the future, Val. These bastards want a war, then we’ll give ‘em one they won’t forget. Took out a whole damn clan in one swoop. Better contact the boss and let her know the good news.”
Deborah was gonna love this.
A king, and his next in line, had been scrubbed from the world with the same merciless efficiency deserving of any parasite that fed from a starving host. The revolution had struck its first blow for mankind, and the glory bell would echo around the world on every underground news feed, from the USA to New-Russia. After a steady decline for over fifty years, the downtrodden had risen up with a furious, righteous wrath and crushed a key enemy in the fight against the 1%. The fat cats would cower in their coffers. The forgotten survivors of the world’s final war, left to wither and starve amidst the ruins while the harbingers of the chaos flourished, would rise.
And win the world.
What was left of it...
With this new biomechanical technology, developed over long decades and perfected in secret labs dotted all over the globe, the resistance had finally crafted a tool that the elites would come to fear.
Gyro thought of his father, forced to fight and die in a war of aggression on some foreign, desolate land, cannon fodder to fuel the ever-growing military industrial complex of his generation. He thought of his younger brother, dead of radiation poisoning at age ten, one of millions of casualties of the great nuclear cataclysm, his young, scorched body shipped off to the mass dumping ground that was Old-Seattle. Left to decay and congeal in a fetid, maggot-ridden soup of the slum-city.
Out of sight and out of mind. Never more to trouble the 1%, high up in their ivory towers, built on the bones of the dead.
The tide had turned, today.
The cybernetic clown had been the first.
There would be more.
Maids, gardeners, pilots, doctors, guards…biomechanical assassins with no remorse nor mercy.
The elites may have accumulated all of the world’s wealth, and destroyed most of the planet by the halfway mark of the century, but the human spirit lived on, as did its unending will to be free.
Scientists, mechanics, biochemical engineers, the finest intellects left on the battle-scarred Earth, had worked diligently, day and night, to achieve this goal, and now the fight would be taken to the enemy.
Gyro took a sup on his coffee. It tasted like shit. He had a feeling that soon, he’d be drinking the finest Jamaican blends from the hollowed-out skulls of royalty.
“Hit the button, Val.”
Val grinned as he leaned over the console, and pushed the dark black button with a sigh.
“Mission accomplished.”
From deep under the Mexican foothills, Val and Gyro watched the monitors as the biomechanical clown self-destructed in a brilliant white flash, leaving a small crater on the blood-soaked lawn of one of the USA’s most corrupt and vicious tyrants.
Gyro took another sup of his coffee, and cringed.
Jamaican blend, he thought, smiling through a bitter taste that had nothing to do with his beverage, how I miss that shit.
“We come in peace...” he said to him
self, laughing.
DEDICATION
Your name’s not down, you’re not getting in – Some asshole
Here comes another one.
Just look at the state of this clown, Andy thought to himself, as the tall figure staggered its way up the side-alley.
He took a second or two to study the character, and sighed.
The loping, shuffling mess was heading their way.
He’d be on them in under a minute.
As Andy watched, the figure passed under a flickering streetlight. Well, not so much ‘passed under’, as ‘walked straight into the pole beneath’ the sickly orange glow.
The guy bounced backwards in a manner that would have – should have – been comical in its cartoonish absurdity. The poor, clearly inebriated bastard stared at the inanimate metal streetlight as though it had just spit in his drink. He took an unsteady step forward and, to Andy’s surprise, actually swung a punch towards his metal tormentor.
Suffice to say, the drunken fool missed. He must have put a fair deal of what power he had into the ridiculous assault, as his body seemed to follow his fist’s trajectory, and he spun on his heels like an addled ballerina, only to halt facing the entirely opposite direction.
Yep, should have been funny.
Should have been a laugh and a half.
Had Andy seen this moron from across the street while he himself and his gaggle of friends made their way to their own drunken destination of a night, he would have laughed his ass off.
Jeered and whooped and pointed.
He felt vaguely like a coward.
Standing there, under the dimly lit doorway that marked the entrance to Nice N Sleazy’s nightclub, he felt only dismay. A fluttering, sickly sensation twisted his stomach in tiny little knots, as once more, then drunken buffoon found his footing, spun around, set his eyes on the nightclub’s gauzy blue lights and steered whatever passed for his thoughts back to his original plan.
He was heading Andy’s way.
The drunken bastard.
Goddamit!
Not for the first time on this long, cold, November evening, Andy asked himself just what the hell he was doing out here.
Numerous voices, sides of his psyche, and assholes one and all, fought for supremacy at the forefront of his consciousness.
You’re no doorman.
This is insane.
Yeah, but the college bills won’t pay themselves.
You need this job.
Fuck this job.
And fuck that drunk guy.
He’s almost here!
Yeah, fuck that drunk guy. Let’s get you home and get cuddled up with the cat.
Pussy!
Fuck you!
Andy pushed aside the intrusive thoughts and focused on the drunk.
He was only around ten feet away now and closing fast. He wore a denim jacket that had seen far better days, and a fading T-Shirt that read ‘The Who’ in bold letters. Long brown hair hung in wet strands on his cheeks and over his shoulders, where in the soft light of the alley it seemed to merge with his beard.
He looked less like a drunk about town, and more like a hobo.
There was no way this guy was getting in.
No way in hell.
Time to step up, Andy, a small voice teased in his mind. Time to earn your dead presidents.
Andy knew this particular voice was right.
He had no choice.
Nice N Sleazy’s, despite its name, had a rather strict dress code. It was hardly regimental, but the club did adhere to a standard that the sign by the door to his left read as ‘Smart Attire Only’. It seemed a little vague at best, as smartness was surely open to the perception of the individual, but there was no way that this guy was getting in, no matter how loosely the club rules may be perceived.
The stink of piss that clung to the man’s clothing as he drew closer made damn sure of that.
This guy was a disgrace.
Andy wondered momentarily if he’d have to actually fight this goon.
He was ashamed to find that the concept terrified him.
He was even more ashamed when he realized that the lush had been unable to punch a fucking pole, and therefore even Andy should be able to take him down.
He really was a coward.
This job was a poor choice, man. A very poor choice.
Desperation was desperation, but when your asshole puckered up at the sight of an individual who you’d only just witnessed losing a boxing match with a metal pole, you probably shouldn’t be working in security.
And you definitely shouldn’t be working the doors of one of the most notorious clubs in town, in a city that’s reputation for violence and chaos was renowned across the land.
His size had landed him the job, he knew that. He was a big fella. More than big, he was enormous. Six-foot-two feet tall, shoulders like a gorilla’s and arms that looked like they could dig for gold and come up shining.
But for all that, Andy was a pussy.
He’d never been in a fight in his life.
And were it not for his fucking education fees, he’d surely have gone through his whole life without ever having to partake in such unpleasantness.
Ifs and buts and whats…it all amounted to sweet, sweet nothing.
Here he was, dressed like a gangster in full bouncer regalia, suited and booted and looking mean as hell, and his hands were shaking like a virgin touching a titty for the first time.
Fuck this.
I’m not doing this.
I’ll go speak to Gemmel and tell him I –
And then the drunk was upon him.
He wavered before Andy like a puppet on invisible strings, swaying to a phantom breeze and stinking of urine.
Too late.
Too damn late.
Andy backed up involuntarily as the vile smelling youth approached. His heart hammered in his chest like a bass drum. Fighting his failing nerves, he attempted to project an air of authority. It felt to him as ridiculous as it must have looked to the piss-stained drunk. The man met Andy’s mute glare with a lopsided grin. A fine coat of drool bubbled over his bottom lip, threatening to spill down his chin.
Disgust and apprehension welled in Andy’s gut.
“Hey buddy,” the drunk slurred. “How’s about you let me the fuck in, huh?”
Andy retained the little stoicism he could muster, even as his hands visibly shook and sweat began its slow betrayal of his fear.
He felt close to fainting.
In his deepest, most gruff voice, he answered, “Sorry, sir…there’s a dress code in here. See?” He pointed to the sign above the entrance and immediately regretted it as the drunk’s eyes honed in on his shaking hands.
The lopsided smile stretched wide across the young man’s face. Finally, the drool spilled over – a slow-moving waterfall that stank of stale beer, cheap wine and weed. His eyes narrowed, confidence and an acute awareness of his alpha-male status instantly overriding the drunken, half-hearted attempt at friendly platitudes the youth had only seconds ago displayed.
He sees right through me.
Fuck.
This was it.
He was about to get in his first fight.
He wondered momentarily what it would feel like to be punched.
Would his nose break like glass?
Would his jaw shatter?
The drunken bastard had missed the damn streetlight pole, but the new found light of awareness in his eyes told Andy that he would not be so unlucky with his next swing.
Andy took a step back, raised his hands in a ridiculous boxer’s stance, and prepared to meet the young lunatic head on.
The drunk took a step forward.
Without giving his body permission, Andy once more stepped back.
“Let me in, man. It’s fucking freezing out here. Come on, be a pal…” There was no pretence of friendliness in the man’s tone. Malice welled up in his eyes like cold fire.
“Sorry, sir. I can’t let
you in,” Andy muttered.
“Look...I’m getting in, one way or the other, dickhead,” the drunk slurred, pulling his dank hair back from his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not properly dressed, sir. Why don’t you just head on home? You’re drunk.”
The man laughed. Small pellets of spit shot out from his mouth, spraying Andy’s face. He reeled as the man took another step closer.
“Don’t play the tough cunt with me, you fat fuck. I’ll break your fucking jaw right here and now. Let me in!”
Without warning, the drunk lurched forward with his hands outstretched and pushed Andy hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards a few steps, his back hitting the wall of the venue. He felt something sharp jag, painfully into his back. The door-handle.
Fuck. Here goes.
Andy pushed back.
Mild shock registered on the drunk’s face as he stumbled back a few steps. A new fire lit in his eyes.
Andy had seen that very same look in the schoolyard as a kid.
The fight or flight response.
The steady grin on the drunk’s face told him there would be no flight.
This asshole was looking for trouble.
He must have been…even in his mangled mental condition, he must have known there was no way he was getting let inside.
What Andy was dealing with here, was a mean drunk. A hooligan with a thirst for fisticuffs.
Andy gulped, “Look, I…”
The youth sprang forward with alarming speed. Andy let out a shrill, pathetic yelp as the moment slowed to a crawl.
The kid’s hands were up again.
He held a knife.
In the stillness of his fear, Andy wondered where the maniac had pulled it from. He hadn’t seen his hands reach into his pockets, but then, he hadn’t been looking.
Spatial awareness – the first rule of security work.
Good going, Andy, you’re in the real shit now.
Jesus, I’m gonna die!
Somebody help.
Maybe God only answered the prayers of his most feeble children, because at just that very instant, a fist – big as a mutton chop and with knuckles white and hard as winter ice, seemed to soar in from the drunken man’s right side. It collided with his face with such force that the man’s face seemed to momentarily crumble. Andy heard something break. Blood sprayed from the man’s mouth. The malefic light in his eyes went out like a bulb blowing, and the drunk hit the cold, wet pavement like a ton of bricks.
Consumed- The Complete Works Page 24