1001 Monsters You Must Slay Before You Die

by Miles Hurt

  'Not the rest of them. You specifically. It's your fault,' he says, taking a step. 'Your fault I fell. That I had to get Herr Doktor Ernst Plab to repair me.'

  'Wait,' I say. 'I thought you went to him to get a cure for the fading.'

  'No,' says Poncho. 'Plab came to me in hospital, after the doctors gave up on me. He said he could make me whole again. But he didn't. He made me more.'

  I nod.

  'I didn't try to kill you,' I say. 'It was an accident. I moved that cactus so I'd have somewhere to sit.'

  'I don't believe you,' he says. 'It was attempted murder.'

  'With a cactus?'

  'You had it in for me from the start,' he says. 'Ever since I won the coin toss for that can of spam you had your eye on.'

  'That wasn't me,' I say. 'It was Pops Bowler Hat.'

  He makes a snuffling noise that I take to be a scoff.

  'I think I'd know if I lost a coin toss to a clone of myself with his todger stuffed into a sock.'

  'Are you sure?' I ask. 'My memory's not so great lately. Age is getting to me. I'm mixing things up. Maybe you're the same.'

  The gene splicing gave him strength, and he towers a clear three feet over me. But in that second of hesitation he looks old, confused. I can still see myself in that monstrous face, an aged and strange version of Pops Allsop.

  I pity him.

  I cast the gun aside. It hits the ground with a firm clank.

  'I'm sorry,' I say. 'That's why I lit the fire. I want to apologise to you. You have to believe me. After all...'

  I pause.

  'I'm you.'

  He looks long and hard at the rifle on the ground.

  'You're really sorry?'

  I nod.

  A kind of smile flicks over his face, a cynical twist of his mouthparts. The wind teases the edge of his tattered poncho.

  And I know he's going to kill me.

  Pops Poncho twitches his wings and rolls sideways, cartwheeling over the plasma rifle. He comes up with it pointed at my head.

  I stare into the barrel.

  'That won't work,' I say. 'You need to have my DNA for it to operate.'

  'Shouldn't be a problem,' says Poncho. 'After all... I'm you.'

  He lowers the gun.

  'I said that because it's what you said a moment ago,' says Poncho.

  'Yeah, I got it,' I say.

  'I'm throwing it back in your face,' he says. 'It's ironic. I think.'

  'I've never been solid on the definition,' I say.

  'No, neither have I,' says Poncho, lifting the gun up again. 'But you get what I was going for.'

  'Okay,' I say. 'Either way. Just be warned. Our DNA isn't exactly the same.'

  The giant moth-man before me tilts his head sideways.

  'What do you mean?' he asks. 'Are you saying I'm not human?'

  'Don't take offence,' I say. 'I'm just trying to say, it probably won't work.'

  'Yeah, well,' he says. 'Worst case scenario: the gun doesn't go off and I club you to death with it.'

  I shrug. At least I tried to warn him.

  He pulls the trigger. The DNA failsafe buzzes.

  The gun explodes, backfiring into Poncho's face.

  I turn, shielding my eyes from the red flash.

  A crispy meat smell hits my nostrils. I peer over my arm. Poncho's body is still standing somehow, a charred stump where his head had been. A little puff of smoke rises up from the stump.

  The plasma rifle falls from the dead hands, and the body topples to the concrete.

  I sigh.

  'Best case scenario,' I say. 'You leave me alone and we go our separate ways.'

  A light rain of cooked insect flesh falls across the dockyard. I brush the bits off my jacket. I pick up the box and the overheated gun, and look down at the body.

  'See you, Pops.'

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I'll say one thing about the Serpent Queen. She knows how to make an entrance. She took control of Rambunculous in record time, needing only thirty seconds to overthrow the previous regime.

  The group that was in charge prior to the Serpent Queen had at its centre a giant computer known as the Machine. It was run by a priest-caste of programmers. These Programmers created the Machine in the technology department of Rambunculous University as part of a computer club challenge. The Programmers realised that the computer they'd created was useful for far more than playing tic-tac-toe. They applied its processing power and predictive algorithms to the stock market, and by the end of the semester they owned a controlling share in all of the major companies in Rambunculous.

  Including the Rambunculan Military Apparatus.

  The Machine was set up on a dais in the biggest lecture hall of the technology department. It was a techno god worshipped by enslaved masses. The computer sat up there like the metal brother of Nog Shoth B'Zoth, a nest of data and power cables snaking around. The Programmers tended to it reverently, punch-cards and spools of magnetic tape offered up like sacred objects laid upon an altar. The lecture hall, formerly the haunt of bored undergraduates, became the nerve centre of the city.

  The Machine ran Rambunculous pretty well. Chance and fate were replaced by algorithms. All human behaviours became transactions of input and output, data storage and retrieval. The Machine performed a city-wide defrag, cleaning up the place and making it run at peak efficiency. Everyone had a job to do, and the economy was humming. Bureaucracies were dissolved, replaced by the crisp if/then/else instructions delivered daily to the homes of Rambunculans. The instructions generated by the machine, like a personal punch card program, gave everyone a clear function. Life had purpose. Crime, poverty and hunger were eliminated.

  The Machine also applied the workings of its vacuum tubes to the problems of romance and marriage. This computerised dating service streamlined the whole process, and for the most part people seemed happy with the results. But apparently there weren't any women on the market at that time that were a match for an eighty-one-year-old former jazz bar owner with minimal prospects.

  If anyone deviated from their instruction card, or tried to revolt in any way large or small, they would find that the Machine predicted that, too. Take a wrong turn down an alley on your way to your appointed job and you would run into a crew of Untouchables.

  Like many nerds, the Programmers had within their friendship group a collection of individuals who lacked the above-average intelligence necessary to master a STEM vocation, but who by dint of physical and social awkwardness could find admittance to no other social circle. Many of these gentlemen were, because of a sedentary lifestyle spent playing table-top roleplaying games and eating potato chips, somewhat corpulent. And once their mates set up shop, they did not mind throwing that weight around.

  So if anyone tried to swim against the flow of data in Machine-era Rambunculous, they would wind up on the receiving end of a gang of asthmatic, short-sighted Untouchables.

  The Untouchables didn't have a uniform as such. Rather they preferred to dress up as their favourite characters from their role-playing games and graphic novels. A posse of Untouchables on patrol looked like a group of geeks who didn't know if they were on their way to a comic book convention or a medieval fair. Nevertheless, the swords and guns they added to their cosplay outfits were quite real. And quite painful.

  And so, under the reign of the Machine, things were calm.

  Too calm.

  Rambunculans are used to a dash of adversity with their oppression. People started to get bored, listless. We lived in the perfect city, and it was a nightmare of predictability.

  So the Programmers built in another algorithm to spice things up a little. They introduced a random element into the functioning of the city, know as the Lottery.

  The contestants in the Lottery were selected at random, and given instructions to attend the monthly prize draw at the technology department at the university. Up for grabs were material benefits like cash prizes, white goods and restaurant vouchers. You could also win so
cial benefits such as a day off work or a wardrobe makeover. But of course there had to be an element of danger. For the Lottery to give Rambunculans the thrill they craved, the prizes needed to be balanced out with punishments.

  When you took your turn at the Lottery, you risked a cash fine. Or worse, getting a wedgie in front of a room full of school children. Or worse again, being dropped naked and hog-tied into a terrarium full of hungry turtles, your nipples basted with fish sauce.

  For an unfeeling computer, the Machine could be devilishly creative.

  The flipside of that, of course, was the Pleasure Dome.

  The grand prize of the Lottery, awarded to one lucky Rambunculan, was to spend a month in the fabled Pleasure Dome. Built on the top level of the Student Union building, the Dome was a shimmering glass palace wherein every earthly desire of the winner would be satisfied and serviced. Whatever it may be.

  Oh, how I craved winning the grand prize. After a lifetime of haggard misfortune, how pleasant it would be to be sequestered from the world for a whole month. How pleasant to have all of my urges satisfied, from base to noble and everything in between.

  But when I saw on my daily instruction card that I'd been summoned to the University, I felt nothing but dread. With my luck I was sure to catch a humiliating punishment. I'd be forced to parade down Eternity Avenue on a miniature pony or something. No way would I win the grand prize.

  There was a gameshow atmosphere in the lecture hall on the day. The warm-up Programmers whipped the crowd into a great mood with some light comedy and 'where are you from?' style banter. They urged us to 'really get behind' our fellow contestants when it was their turn. A couple of the prizes up for grabs, a juicer and a new motor scooter, were spun around on display platforms next to pretty girls. Soon the crowd were champing at the bit. The enormous edifice of the Machine sat dormant on the dais, its standby power light on.

  Then the lights went low and a drumroll started. One of the Untouchables at the front of the lecture hall stepped up to a microphone.

  'Alright, people, are we feeling lucky?'

  The crowd cheered. It was deafening. I sat there in a cold sweat, dreading my turn.

  'Then give it up for the nerd with the good word, the geek with the sleek technique, your Lead Programmer... Dexter Huxley!'

  The lecture hall erupted. Some women started screaming. Feeling anxious, I craned to see what was happening on the dais.

  A thin fellow wearing a tucked-in olive green shirt and too much gel in his hair emerged from a side door. Dexter Huxley, one of the original team of computer undergraduates that assembled the Machine. As the closest thing to a good looking guy they had on the team, he'd been elected their nominal leader. Dexter skipped past the front row, high fiving the Lottery winners and smiling his superwhite smile. Then with a wave to the people at the back of the room, he moved over to the Machine. His finger hovered over the 'power up' switch as he milked the drama. The room was roaring, and Huxley flipped the switch.

  The Machine lit up, its tubes and buttons surging with electricity. A bank of tape spools whirred to life. A display board made of yellow lightbulbs flared, flashing like a sign at a kebab shop. One word blinked on and off.

  Lottery.

  Dexter Huxley danced to the podium at the front of the hall. It was an old lecturer's desk that was fitted out with flashing lights and fake metal panels.

  'Okay! Welcome contestants!' More cheering. Huxley smiled, his grin the default setting for his face when he wasn't talking. 'This is it. Just making it into the hall is a win, so well done! Now, here are the rules. One contestant, one pull on the prize lever.'

  A spotlight hit a corner of the Machine, focusing on a small slot-machine style arm.

  'We've got a lot of prizes to hand out today!' said Huxley. He dropped his smile for a moment. 'And a couple of punishments too.' The audience booed on cue. 'But put that out of your minds, people! Remember, one lucky contestant will win the grand prize! Paul, tell us about it.'

  The Untouchable with the mike spoke in dulcet tones.

  'That's right, Dexter. One lucky Rambunculan sitting in our audience today will win our grand prize of one whole month in the fabled Pleasure Dome!' The light display above the machine showed a pixellated image of the Dome, the image rotating. 'All your desires met! All your dreams fulfilled!'

  I forgot my anxiety for a second, and began to fantasise about what my pleasures would be. I saw myself floating in a pool of steaming warm water on an inner tube, while listening to the back-catalogue of Blue Tone on the highest quality stereo headphones imaginable. Taking breaks long enough to be served humbug boiled sweets from a silver dish and handed fresh pipes of finest tobacco.

  Bliss.

  It occurred to me that I had not fantasised anything carnal. This bothered me a little. But then again, I was eighty-one at the time. Perhaps I'd just finally lost interest.

  That bothered me more.

  'It sounds too good to be true,' said Dexter. He picked up a deck of coloured index cards. 'Alright, let's get started, folks. May you be the recipient of a favourable random draw! Are we ready for our first contestant?'

  People started waving their arms around, trying to get Dexter's attention. He leaned into his mike, letting the room hit fever pitch.

  'Jack Carson, come on down!'

  Jack leapt up from the second back row, and ran down the aisle with his arms waving about like he was a rag doll being shaken by a dog. He ran straight to the Machine and pulled the lever.

  The lights flashed. The magnetic spools on the Machine span. There was a series of bleeps and bloops, and a small bell rang.

  Jack's prize was a week in a dungeon. He stood there, crestfallen. Then he made a break for the doors, his arms waving about again. A group of Untouchables crash tackled him, and carted him away. The audience booed him as though he'd been tried and convicted of a crime.

  'Wow,' said Dexter Huxley. 'Hard luck, Jack. A bit of a bummer right off the bat. But that's the Lottery for you, folks! Let's move on! Whose next?'

  The next guy won a backscratcher. Not much, but better than a week in a dungeon.

  The next person was a lady who won thirty-seven dollars in loose change.

  The next person won a bucket of shrimp.

  Things started to calm down a little after the initial excitement. I relaxed in my seat. It was going to be a while until my name was called.

  'Pops Allsop!' yelled Dexter Huxley. 'Come on down!'

  The audience applauded routinely. I tottered down the steps and made my way up to the dais. Dexter Huxley gave me his best fake encouraging smile as I approached the vast Machine.

  A strange calm came over me. I reached out for the ball on the end of the lever, bright white in the spotlight. And somehow I knew.

  The Pleasure Dome awaited, shimmering in the sunlight atop the Student Union building.

  I was going to win the grand prize.

  I pulled the lever. The Machine whirred, banks of lights flickering in patterns. Then it froze, its magnetic spools stopping. I thought it had malfunctioned.

  The screen lit up. A huge bitmap icon of the Pleasure Dome came into view, flashing, flashing. A triumphant 8-bit video game tune played through its speakers.

  'He's won it, folks!' shouted Dexter Huxley. 'Well done, Pops!' He dashed over and pumped my hand.

  I couldn't believe it. I'd finally caught a break.

  The crowd were kind enough to cheer for me, even though they would all miss out on a chance at the Pleasure Dome. Maybe they felt happy for the doddering old fool up on stage.

  I was surrounded by smiling Programmers, all reaching in to shake my hand. Some Untouchables slipped a lobster-coloured silk robe over my head, a marker of my exalted status. They took me down off the dais, and put me atop a litter of soft cushions trimmed with gold braid. The spotlight glowed around me like a halo. The Untouchables lifted me high, and in that moment I was the most important man in Rambunculous, about to be marched through the univ
ersity campus to the fabled Pleasure Dome.

  I could see why so many people were prepared to bust a gut to take over the city. The sudden rush of importance felt awesome.

  A shame, then, that it didn't last.

  The high wall at the back of the lecture theatre collapsed inwards, showering the audience with bits of debris. A large craft, like a flying saucer on a tank tread, pushed through the hole. The people at the back of the hall screamed, climbing and tumbling over the chairs and each other to get out of the way.

  I thought to myself, 'This can't be good'.

  The Untouchables carrying the litter paused, looking around at the Programmers.

  A hatch slammed open onto the lecture hall seats. A couple of dozen men wielding chunky guns poured out. They wore matching grey commando uniforms and snappy purple berets. These soldiers levelled their guns at the phalanx of Programmers and Untouchables beneath my litter, and opened fire.

  There was a blinding red light. The hall was filled with screams. The litter capsised beneath me. I tumbled off, and came to rest in a wisp of smoke, the men who surrounded me a moment ago having been blasted from existence.

  Dexter Huxley was pinned against the Machine by the spotlight. He scurried over to the prize dais and tried to hide behind the juicer. One of the commandos spotted him and opened fire. The juicer exploded, showering Huxley with orange juice. Then Huxley lunged for the motor scooter, pushing away a pair of terrified show girls as he clambered aboard. He started it up and roared off the platform, red bolts zapping all around him. For a second it looked as though Huxley's desperate escape bid might work as he raced for the door, but a plasma bolt took out his front wheel. The 'geek with the sleek technique' catapulted over the handlebars and hit the wall head first.

  The Machine on the dais made a pathetic little ba-bummm sound.

  I began to think I wouldn't get into the Pleasure Dome, after all.

  There was a hiss, as a cloud of crimson gas filled the air. I assume it was for dramatic effect. The Lottery audience were indeed awed. Or terrified. Probably both.

  Out of the belly of the craft, a woman's form emerged. She was encased in armour. Her face was half covered by a strange mask that extended above her head, radiating upwards like a huge crown.