Cannibal Dwarf Detective: An Ephemeral Beardening

by Hunter Wiseman

“It is pronounced ‘Jeff’,” he says. “I presume you are the one they call Freak Jernando?”

  “It’s pronounced fake.”

  “…Are you saying you have a fake name?” asks the puzzled truck.

  “Ha! NO. It’s a joke. Forget about it.”

  Jeac reaches out as Jeff extends his glossy pearlescent car door arm and he shakes hands with his new mechanized partner.

  “Pleased to meet you, cog-head.”

  They start down the stairs, Jeac sprinting to keep ahead of the truck that careens sideways on two wheels down the stair case.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” says Jeac. “We’re partners. Not equals. I’m in charge and you’ll do what I say when I say it. Chief’s orders.”

  “I hate to burst your tiny bubble, organ-bearer. The boss told me just the opposite. He believes you to be a danger to this investigation. He also told me to-“

  Jeac swings his arms in a fanning motion toward the trucks sparkling face.

  “Never mind all that nonsense! I have a very important question to ask.”

  “Yeah? What do you want to know?”

  “Do I get to ride inside of you, Jeff?”

  The truck stands up, insulted.

  “You ill-mannered…!” Jeff grinds his gears together and through clenched bolt-teeth mutters, “Not even going to buy me dinner first?”

  Jeac smirks and offers Jeff an oil change if he agrees.

  “Of course you can ride, Feac,” Jeff sighs. “It only depends on how far we’re going.”

  “All the way, baby. All. The. Way.”

  “We have to check something out that I recently came across,” Jeac says as the two make their way out of the tower. Once they arrive outside Jeff lowers his hydraulic chassis and Jeac steps awkwardly into the back of the white leather, pistachio-scented low rider truck. He caresses the seat.

  “Damn. You comfy. Now, drive into the desert, my trusty steed!”

  Jeff and Jeac explode down the street and into the distance. A cloud of smoke is left in their wake and several elderly people choke on the exhaust and curl up on the ground with their limbs protruding into the air. Not unlike spiders when they die.

  As the low rider booms past ruins and stray animals, a lot of dust collects in the car and Jeac passes out. Hours go by and the sun, high in the sky, has managed to burn Jeac’s face. He dreams deep into the recesses of his mind. The places where his dark thoughts reside. Along with his fears, but also his hopes. It’s a place he rarely goes.

  In this dream he finds himself surrounded by figures who refuse to take form. They drift in and out of focus. Sometimes becoming one mass. Other times brushing against him and trying to get him to join. Eventually the forms sense his stubbornness and fade out forever, leaving him there to die.

  His face is itchy. Horribly itchy. Jeac can no longer contain himself and begins clawing at his face. Skin starts flaking off in small amounts and then in greater and larger chunks. He screams.

  “Ah! My face!” he yells. “Jeff-truck thing! Are you there?”

  Metal shards are scattered throughout the sands. Jeac’s vision is blurry from hitting his head. He kneels down and picks up a piece of metal. After flipping it over and wiping off the dirt, the metal shard clearly says, “A.M.M.D.”

  Like, in English. The metal warps and forms lips and mouths the letters because Jeac is hallucinating and why wouldn’t the metal do that?

  “Shit. What happened?”

  Jeac stands up and sees a hairy figure on the horizon. After rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision, he can see that the figure is some kind of goat-like animal. While walking up the sandy hill the glare from the building in the distance reflects back and burns Jeac’s retinas.

  “My eyeballs!” screams the horrified dwarf as he collapses and falls down the sand dune. Toppling head over stumps, he lands face first in the hard ground below and knocks himself unconscious.

  “Baaaaa.”

  “Why can’t I remember?” Jeac asks himself.

  “Baaa!”

  A sharp pain in Jeac’s shoulder rouses him. He cannot see and therefore cannot trust.

  “Reveal yourself at once, demon!”

  Jeac throws his fists into the air hoping for some hard truth. He hits nothing.

  “Baaaa.”

  The creature is dragging Jeac.

  “Where are you taking me, beast?” demands Jeac.

  “Maa.”

  “Maa?! This is no language I’ve heard of.”

  Jeac begins to flail his body around in an attempt to escape. He fears he may be eaten. He touches his face and pulls the bag he realizes he’s wearing from his head. He looks up and sees a large, hairy, goat-man.

  Jeac reaches down and unbuckles his stilts from his legs. He plants them in the ground and the goat stops in its tracks.

  “Baa!” It says in an angry tone.

  Jeac stands up in defiance of the goat. The goat bares its teeth and rises onto its hind legs. It lunges at Jeac and throws a right hook. Jeac takes it hard to the face but throws a jab at the goats’ neck and stuns it.

  “Ha-ha! Take that, chin hairs!”

  Jeac grabs the goat by the throat and slaps it around. “Who are you working for!?”

  The goat shoves its hoof into Jeac’s testicular area and lifts him into the air. He throws him in such a way that he lands on his back.

  “Maaa!” laughs the goat, taunting the courageous dwarf.

  Jeac stands and tears stream down his face. His carefully groomed loins now bruised more than the contents of a bowl of fruit left out at home during an extended family vacation. That is to say, his donger turned to mush and fell off.

  Jeac picks up the rope that previously bound him and proceeds to wrap it around the goats’ fat neck.

  “You son of a nanny-goat!” Jeac yells and tightens the rope around his own knuckles. He pulls hard. The two warriors fall over into the sand and the goat yelps and kicks in every direction. His kicks slow and finally he breathes his last.

  “Ba-aa-aaa…”

  Jeac sighs heavily.

  You were a worthy opponent, goat,” he says while patting the goat on the stomach. He pushes it off of himself and stands up. He sees a building in the near distance. An old shanty-shack.

  “Is that where you were taking me?” He looks down at the lifeless goat. “Well, don’t worry, goat. You will not have died in vain. Though, I may need a disguise.”

  Jeac cuts the rope from his body and strips naked. He examines where his parts used to be and crafts a replacement from extra rope. He is generous to himself.

  He then takes a large knife and cuts open the goats’ stomach, pouring out the entrails. He wraps the intestines up in his clothing and fits the goat skin onto himself almost perfectly.

  “Magnificent.”

  He re-ties the remainder of the rope around himself and drapes the intestines over his shoulders. Jeac grabs his gun and pokes out the dead beady eyes of his former adversary. He cuts the throat of the goat and hollows it so he can slide his head in and see out of the eyeholes. It is sticky and it reeks.

  “Good Lord! Why didn’t I sun dry this before putting it on!?”

  Jeac, disgusted by the smell and the blood on his face, vomits into the sand. He lays there soaking in his new identity and absorbing the wretched stink of it.

  After a time the suns set and a distant moon, probably some home to a person named Ralph or something, aligns with his eyelids.

  “Now. I am ready.”

  He makes his way to the shanty. Jeac approaches the front gate and sees two men guarding it.

  He does his best to mimic the goat warriors call, assuming it will function as some kind of password.

  “Ahem. BAAA!” He growls at the men.

  “What the dick is that!?” One of the men screams.

  “Holy freaking cheese cake!” The other follows.

  “Baa?” asks Jeac.

  The two men rush the dwarf-goat and proceed to beat
him down. Jeac tears off his disguise and shoots one of them in the head and the other in the leg. He unfastens the rope keeping the costume in place. Covered in blood, naked, and reeking of rotting goat, Jeac steps toward the man who is chirping in agonizing pain. He points his pistol at the man’s head. The man wets himself.

  “Where am I!?” growls Jeac, clearly in need of a lozenge.

  “R.B.G.O.A.T’s,” whimpers the man. “This is one of our outposts.”

  Jeac kneels down, pressing his gun into the goat-man’s face. “Where’s my automobile?”

  The man points toward the shanty and as Jeac looks up he sprays the man’s brains onto the ground.

  Jeac makes his way towards the front door, reloads his gun, and takes a deep breath.

  “I’m coming for you, mechano-bro.”

  Somewhere, off in the distance, a flock of waffles spirals through the air like a pack of angry rhinos.

  Chapter 8

  Jeac kicks in the door to the shanty and is promptly knocked backwards by a collapsing mountain of severed human toes. He finds himself waste deep once they’ve settled and wades his way back toward the doorway.

  In the center of the room, being illuminated by a dim source of light, sits Jeff. Two of his tires have been torn off and shards of metal body litter the room. His headlights flicker on and off repeatedly while he sputters exhaust fumes behind him.

  “Mini-meat. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he says as Jeac approaches. “Not that I cared.”

  “It’s not that I care about you either,” says Jeac, still kicking tiny bloody nubs away from himself. “You stupid metal grease bag. It’s that you provide fast transportation across the desert and that’s invaluable!”

  Two metal sliders begin to descend over Jeff’s headlights and a stream of thick black oil spurts out from underneath him and onto the dirt floor of the shanty. He coughs and says, “I’m sorry, Jeac. I can’t say that I’ll be of much use to you at this point. All my systems are shutting down. I can feel the long dark taking me. Just about the only thing I have left is a very convenient self-destruct feature. There’s a whole camp outside of this shanty. Let me take some of these tower-haters out before I go, meat-brother.”

  Jeac runs a hand over Jeff’s hood, pats it, and nods. He stands across from his not-friend and pulls the Sack o’ ‘Staches from between his tightly clenched buttocks before sitting down. Pulling the backs off all the fake mustaches and using the adhesive layers on their backsides, Jeac crafts for himself an epic beard, worthy of a dwarven king. Once the beard is finished, he slowly lifts it up over his face and presses it down.

  “I feel, suddenly, very whole,” he says to the dying A.M.M.D vehicle. “I’m running low on ammo, greaser. You got any artillery packed in under that hood?”

  Jeff blinks his metallic headlight eyes and his hood shoots open.

  “I can’t use it myself,” he says. “Like I said before, my systems are shutting down. That includes targeting and weapons. I’m essentially blind. If you can lift it, you can have it.”

  Sitting inside his hood sits the biggest handgun Jeac has ever seen. Easily as big as he is.

  “No chance in hell I can fire that on the move,” he thinks. “I’ll have to come up with something.”

  But as he unbolts it he finds it to be surprisingly light. He has to plant the base on the ground and use his entire arm as a finger to pull the trigger, but he can make it work.

  He fires a test shot. The echo reverberates out of the shack and across the wasteland.

  “That might not have been the best idea, fleshface,” Jeff says before ejecting exhaust out his rear end. “They’ll have heard that no doubt. I have an idea though. You see that grind stone across the room?”

  Jeac looks and sees a non-descript circular wheel in the far corner. “Yes. What about it?” he asks.

  “I want you to describe it to me.”

  Jeac tries for several minutes to come up with the words to describe the non-descript circular wheel in the far corner and finally manages to say, “it’s circular.”

  “Okay. Well, drag it over here and place it against my front-right tire. I’ll spin it for you. You can use the heat to craft the metal in here into body armor.”

  The dwarf, tired of being naked and cold, does as he is requested. It takes only a matter of minutes for the dwarf and truck to sauté the metal enough for it to be molded into anything resembling armor. Even so, sharp jagged edges jut up from all around and make equipping the suit difficult. The inside they pad with seat liner for warmth.

  “And now for something a little extra on the side,” Jeac says.

  He gathers up the sharpest pieces of scrap metal and melts them down. Then he pours the molten metal into a mold. He places it, cooling, onto Jeff’s hood and begins smiting the metal with his bare left hand.

  An axe head, glorious to behold and radiating godliness that even Zeusette would envy, lay before him.

  After finding a shaft of wood to attach it to, he grips it with both hands and began giving it several test swings.

  And then he practiced with his new axe. Hey-oh.

  Deep in the deadwood of the swampy desert, the waffles gently land. They bear witness to the consumption of a rabid wombat, by way of a solid chrome snake, gnashing it into a fine pulp with its metal-gear teeth.

  Meanwhile, Jeac is stripping Jeff of his seatbelts. One belt he uses to tether the comically large handgun to his back. The other he uses to create a sling for his great-axe. He stands before his mechanical partner and asks, “How do I look, bae?”

  “Like the end of the world, dwarf. Like the end of the world,” Jeff replies. “Now go. Lead as many of them back here as you can, but don’t come back into this toe hole. I mean to blow big.”

  He nods off and Jeac can’t help but feel sorry for him. He kisses him on his manufacturer’s logo.

  The afro’d dwarf with an adhesive beard steps outside of the shack and howls like a mongoose into the wind. A song that sounds like a sea of dying manatees echoes back in reply. This is the war cry of the R.B.G.O.A.T.s. Long has it terrified the few free people of the dunes.

  As their silhouettes rise up over the dunes in the distance, Jeac swings his pistol over his shoulder and digs back into the sand to compensate for recoil. He flexes and one of the shadows becomes mist. Again and again he fires and again and again his enemies cease to exist. But the clip only has six massive rounds and he soon finds himself pulling his axe into a ready position and charging with the speed of a narcoleptic dolphin.

  He is met with a foaming tide of obese men on muscular mountain goats that struggle under their weight. They are armed only with police batons and most of them hold a box of donuts in their non-favored hand.

  Jeac’s height does him great favors here.

  Unable to reach him with their batons, the R.B.G.O.A.T.s either miss or fall off from the momentum of their attempted attacks.

  “No time to strike back just yet,” Jeac thinks. “I need to lure them towards the shack!”

  His heart beats faster as fat men crash down around him. The roof of the shack appears in the distance.

  “I’m almost there,” he thinks. “I can make it!”

  He dives down the sandy hill and sprints as fast as his tiny legs will take him… Right past the shack. Once he’s a good twenty yards away, Jeac howls once again and the R.B.G.O.A.T.s who had fallen off their mounts make their way toward the shack and are consumed in a ball of fire. Shrapnel shreds their balloon bodies and sand is stained red in all directions.

  “Rest in peaches, Seth,” Jeac says, forgetting both a common phrase and the name of his friend. “I will never forget you.”

  He stands his ground as four incredibly angry fat men ride up on their goats and start throwing donuts at him. A largely ineffective, but certainly annoying tactic.

  Jeac hacks the legs out from underneath all of the goats. As the cops are rolling around in the pain they suffered from falling such a short distance,
Jeac cuts off their limbs and scalps them.

  He hangs the fleshy clumps of hair from his belt and looks out at the red mangled mass of destruction. Some still writhe in pain and soil and vomit on themselves. As he witnesses this, a pair of boxer briefs caught in the explosion drifts through the air and gently settles on his right shoulder.

  His eyes a cold glassy marble, he takes his time doubling back and finishing off his foes. All the while thinking, “Why waste a good meal?”

  Part IX: Remnants

  Chapter 9

  The waffles stare with wobbling cartoon eyes at the engorged metal snake and the corpse of the dead wombat. Its skeletal head still foams at the mouth. They emit a subsonic drone that only those born of a waffle iron and some guy named Steve from Kentucky can hear.

  “So, it is true my brothers. The prophecy is to be fulfilled,” rumbles one rather burnt looking waffle. “The small one has embraced his inner hunger and doomed the world.”

  “Doomed? Or saved? The fate of this world has long been sealed and the awakening of the last world-eater will not alter what has been done,” dub-steps another. “We can only hope he finds truth and the ability to control his urges.”

  A third waffle, the kind with syrup already inside, chimes in with a record scratching sound.

  “A trial!” he says. “A trial. He’ll need to be tested. We should summon our champion. The Sharkano must rise again!”

  “Agreed,” they speak in unison. Burnt waffle begins spinning to prepare himself for flight and as he lifts off he sings back to his fellows. “See you all at syrup lake!”

  It takes them all of forty minutes to cross the waste and not even the plume of orange on the horizon can deter them from what they must do. Each waffle lands on a toadstool in a swamp of rich brown syrup.

  They drone long and loud until the syrup starts to bubble and boil. Up it rises from the depths. The head of a massive beast appears, dripping syrup. It blinks its large, beady black eyes and opens and closes its maw. Many rows of razor sharp teeth line what the waffles refer to as the Hell-mouth.