PeeDee3, Intergalactic Insectiod Assassin in: In Sheep's Clothing (Season 1, Episode 2)
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its way forever. She’s gonna be having little PeeDee3s for a long, long time.
Anyway, this particular Moth-Daddy happened to be the police commissioner for the district. In fact, I was spending a little time in his holding cell when I first got acquainted with his hairy little daughter. Picturing him bouncing a crusty little me on his hairy moth knee makes me feel warm inside.
Benny stopped at an old warehouse and pulled the door open. He held it and let me enter first. As I slipped past him I slid off the tuba-blaster’s safety. I tipped my hat forward and cracked open the rear eye. Benny followed, but looked nervous, too nervous. This was a trap for sure, but what the hell; it was Tuesday.
I walked to the end of a nondescript hall and entered a large, empty room. A few lights glowed dimly; the place was a bevy of shadows. I concentrated on every working retina I had. As Benny slid in behind me I saw him draw a weapon. Bug, this was gonna be fun.
I took my time and walked to the center of the room. Benny slid along, but was moving slower, creating some distance. I wasn’t worried. Even if the twerp managed to hit me I’d blast him to pieces before I leaked a drop. But why wait?
As I spun around the upper arms threw my coat back and my lower limbs drew and fired. Benny froze. I could have taken him apart, I should have, but I wanted to know what this was all about.
The Tuba-blaster sung its trademark sub-contra E flat wail. The focused sonic wave cut a trench though the concrete floor and tore the tip of the eel’s tail off. With a little crack of thunder and forming a tiny storm cloud above the nozzle, the toad sticker let loose a twenty-thousand giga-volt, artificially generated lightning bolt. It ripped across the warehouse and struck one of his mechanical appendages, welding his quasi-melted gun to the arm’s metal sub-frame. The ricochet arc blasted a smoking hole though the building’s back wall that you could fly a dirigiballoon through.
The whole place was full of smoke and stank of burnt rubber. Benny screamed like a banshee caught in a combine.
The upper arms drew. I had the shotgun and my favorite, the Orik 3000 Whispersonic Bowling Ball Cannon, aimed straight at his ugly mug. The lower claws were already cocking their weapons for a second volley. It took all my will to keep the top claws from firing. See, a bug’s limbs are linked directly to our central complex nerve cluster, sorta giving them a mind of their own. I can’t always keep them in check. But this time I did.
Benny bounced up and down on what was left of his tail. He was shouting and crying and waving his burning right arm, trying to fan the flame out. I’ll bet that arm had been expensive.
I was pleased, and over confidant, and acting like an amateur. I should have known the slimy little eel was too much a coward to act alone.
One of my antennae swung around. I tried to respond but was way too late. I heard the unmistakable wine of an SST Gun winding up, then I heard the trigger smacked down. A knievel rocket hit me square on the back of the head and exploded. I reeled with the scorching heat. The concussion left me blind, but I could feel myself flying, which is a strange sensation; my species lost their wings a hundred-thousand years ago.
I tumbled to the floor in a heap; sounding like someone dropped their change jar from a balcony.
My whole body felt fused, and for a moment I was stuck. Slowly my arms started to heave me up onto my foot-claws. The rear eye was cooked and useless, and both antennae were gone, but my complex eyes were clearing. I couldn’t straighten myself up fully and I smelled burnt hair. Bug, I hate that smell. I could hear the crank on the gun turning, the gyros winding. The worst part though was the laughter, the gurglily eel laughter.
I turned around as fast as I could and aimed the Bowling Ball cannon, but way too slowly. Someone smacked the SST trigger down and another rocket launched. It hissed toward me at mach four. I dodged left but it still took off both my right arms and slammed me into the wall.
What was left of the coat was on fire so I tore it off. My guns were scattered all around. My exoskeleton was covered with fissures leaking black blood; it would never hold through another hit. Then I spotted her, the armadillo. She had me square in the SST’s sights, a hand winding crank.
I laughed.
“What’s so funny PeeDee3? Do you find death amusing?” she asked, her sultry voice almost made me forget I was scattered about in pieces.
“Nah, it’s just a Tuesday thing.” With grunt, a great deal of effort, and a loud crack of fused exoskeleton, I got myself standing up straight. “So how much is the Moth paying you, darling?”
The eel laughed louder. He dragged his nub over to her, leaving a trail of gooey ooze behind him.
“Here,” he said, reaching up to her. “Give me that, I want to do it myself.”
If I had any antennae left they’d be standing straight up. “You?” I croaked; smoke still rising from my armor joints. “You hired her, whatever she is?”
“Yes, yes, it was me, you filthy bug you.” Clumsily Benny started turning the crank. He’d obviously never fired an SST Gun before; he was in for a surprise. But I was paying more attention to the dame.
“When did you know?” she asked.
“That you aren’t a ‘Dillo, pretty much right away. First, you entered the Decapitator’s museum willingly; I doubt any real ‘Dillo could do that. Then you looked me straight in the eyes, well, that was enough for me. The real question is, are you even a dame?”
“You’ll never know, you, you, bug you,” Benny shouted, let go of the spinning crank and slapped down the trigger. The centrifugal force of the spinning gyros kicked the gun hard to the left. The rocket fired and sailed straight for the wall. The fail-safe activated, a little parachute ejected, and the rocket slowed, stopped, and then settled harmlessly to the floor.
Benny threw the launcher down and began stomping about, cursing. He started for the next, closest weapon, my shotgun. I was still focused on the dame. She reached to the bottom of the long scar running down her body. She kept her half-lidded eyes on me as she pulled her hand up along the scar, a scar that was concealing a long zipper. The armadillo costume fell away and a sphynx stepped out, aiming a poison-infused scratchier dart launcher at my thorax.
A sphynx, yuck; I never liked those hairless felines. Some guys go for that stuff, but frankly they creeped me out. They’re all soft, and wrinkled, and gross; they don’t look finished yet, like a pupa out for a stroll.
“I never heard of a sphynx assassin, I thought all of you were in the adult entertainment industry?”
“Forget it, bug,” Benny shouted, aiming the shotgun. “You’re done once and for all.”
He pulled both shotgun triggers. With a thunderous blast and discharge of black smoke the gun set him on his back. “Ooooo!”
Normally the pellets wouldn’t be able to penetrate my natural armor, but the plating had been compromised. The shot passed straight through, though the holes it left were too small for me to even notice.
Still brandishing the scratchier, the sphynx drew a Deep Flash Fryer grenade out of a thigh high boot, and boots were all that she was wearing. “So, PeeDee3, I guess it’s up to me to finish you after all,” she said in a purring voice. She tossed the grenade up a couple of times and caught it: she was taking her time, taunting me with eyes that had somehow gone from bedroom to boredom.
“Hoping to make a name, kitty?”
“I have a name, bug, not that you’ll ever hear it. But this will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not just another bimbo. Today I am a professional.”
“You may have overlooked one thing, darling” I said holding up the credit stick in the remaining upper claw.
“Ouh, oogh,” Benny groaned and strained, trying to heave the Oric 3000 off the floor. I’m pretty sure it outweighed him.
“Your credit stick,” she mewed, lowering the blaster. “I can pick that up after I’ve fried you to a crispy, golden brown.” Her whiskers were twitching like Dronian quiver melons.
I walked a little closer, making sure she co
uld see. “Actually, this is your stick babe.” In the lower claw I was holding a frequency transmitter.
When her vertical-slit pupils opened wide, they were filled with an equal mixture of realization and panic. She dropped the scratchier dart launcher and, in a frantic rush, started digging in her boot for the stick, the one I’d passed her in the alley.
Damn, I’m good. I sighed, and, despite all the searing pain, my body relaxed with that euphoric wave of a job well done. I pushed the emitter button.
The resulting explosion sprayed pieces of sphynx all over the room. At least there wasn’t any burnt hair smell. Benny was on his back, covering what I assume were his ears. “I’m deaf! I’m deaf and I’m covered in icky-icky goo! Oh God, I’m deaf,” he shouted through his sobs.
Apparently he was mistaken because he clearly heard me start the bowling ball cannon’s vacuum generator, which I had aimed at his head.
“No! No…please PeeDee3, Please, it’s not my fault!”
I allowed him to beg a while, then I let him plant his gross face on the floor and have a good cry, and then I asked, “Why Benny?”
It took him a moment to stop hyperventilating. He blew his nose on his singed faux-skin before answering. “You ruined my life. After the Richardcraniums paid me all I could think about was you coming after me. You haunted me, I saw you in every shadow, I saw you in every nightmare, I constantly heard you