Wastoid

[Eddie]

This is a little fiction I wrote a while back, inspired by a mix of Dark Tower, Wasteland, and Fallout:


The drunkard flew through the old batwing doors and landed like a sack of flour against the ground. His robotic assailant alighted from the bar’s entryway as he attempted to recover – no avail. A well-used mechanical arm, dully shining against the westering sun, reached out and lifted him up by his stained undershirt. He kicked out frantically, but the tips of his snakeskin boots merely tapped harmlessly against the automaton’s steel chassis.

“Get yer hand off me!” he screamed in a tone decidedly southern and certainly angry. The man wildly jerked about, threatening the rip away from the machine’s grasp. He proceeded in this way for five mouth-drooling seconds before receiving a blow to the head hard enough to momentarily deafen his right ear. The blond-haired fellow kicked both legs on reflex, trembled a moment, then grew still. A tendril of saliva hung to his quivering lip, refusing to join the dry earth below.

The robo’ narrowed its one green eye. “Are you calm, sir? Are you willing to play nice-nice, sir?” it asked in a crisp, digital voice.

“F-fuh….”

“If you use another obscenity, I will be forced to strike you again. I do not wish to do so. Let me rephrase: I do wish to do so, but my combat inhibitor prevents me from brutalizing you… sufficiently.”

Blondie flinched and hushed up.

“Would not want two rejections in one evening, after all. Correct, sir?” the machine said.

When the robot saw the man’s leathery complexion redden, it tightened its grip about his throat. Blondie noised a half-gurgle, half-whine. He started to flail around violently as his face shifted from crimson to purple. Before the man became too rambunctious, the machine tossed him onto the sand-strewn ground unceremoniously. He lay there wheezing and coughing, his watery gaze never erring from the robot’s lone, glass-domed eye.

“I’ll kill you,” he finally managed.

“Of course you will,” replied the machine. “In the meantime, your saloon membership is revoked. That should give you plenty of time to contemplate your ignorance.” Without another word, it turned and re-entered the bar.

Blondie watched the swaying of the batwing doors unblinkingly, unaware that the clenched sand around his fingertips was soaked with his own blood.

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Smoke greeted the wide machine’s return. The banter of patrons had returned to its usual volume: raucous. Maven, the sizable owner and bartender, waved the machine over to her counter.

“So?” she asked, loud enough to be heard over the din.

It placed a steel elbow on the scratched mahogany surface and leaned over. “Not dead, but very displeased.”

“Yeah, well that blonde playboy has been warned before. Did you blacklist him yet?”

Red, green, and blue lights, dotting the robot’s face like pimples, lit up. A quiet thrumming from within accompanied the outbreak. Then, suddenly, the lights and noise ceased. “Just now,” the automaton answered.

“Good,” she said, putting a half-cleaned glass before a customer and filling it to the brim with what looked to be foaming urine. “I run a clean business here. Don’t need some deadbeat running his mouth off.”

“Or bemoaning his lot in life after every failure to achieve penetration,” added the machine.

Maven cackled at that. “I knew I kept you around for more than protection, Five-Nine.”

“With compliments such as that, people will get the wrong idea about our relationship; I would very much like to keep this professional.”

She favored Five-Nine with a lopsided grin. “Shuddup and tend to the customers, you loose-lipped behemoth.”

“With gusto, madam,” replied the metal giant.
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At a patchwork booth two men made uneven conversation. The chief vocalist, a short and dapper man, spoke in a tone often reserved for children: “What did you think would happen when you pressed the button, Eddie?”

The Eddie in question shrugged his sun-kissed shoulders. Two brutish towers of vaguely human description penned him in, his gesture brushing against their overcoats. They exhaled, bull-like.

“My instructions concerning the device were clear: do not, under any circumstances, press the button. It is in your contract, which you signed in triplicate. Am I to assume you do not read contracts?” inquired the short man. He produced the parchments and placed them down upon the polished wooden table.

“Lenny, I read the contracts,” Eddie began. “What you don’t seem to understand is that these situations, unlike your pieces of paper there, change. My team-“

“Your former team,” corrected Lenny.

“My team picked up no unusual activity in or around the target zone. We went in fully prepared and came out half dead.”

“What was in there, Eddie?” asked Lenny.

Eddie replied by downing half a mug of piss-swill. Overflowing liquid slid along his cheeks and chin like tears. He kept the glass close to his heart after finishing, and his grip upon it tightened. “I ain’t telling,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“I said ‘I ain’t telling.’”

“No, Eddie. You are telling. The device is gone, which means you have failed and I, as holder of the contract, am entitled to information and financial compensation for damages.” Lenny searched the countenances of his hired muscle. They both nodded then peered down at Eddie.

“Don’t care what the contract says. I paid you the damages and then some,” replied Eddie.

“So you did; but that is a mere fraction of the actual value. A paltry, paltry fraction, at that. Now, once more: why did you press the button?”

Eddie’s jaw clenched. He stared dead into Lenny’s aquamarine eyes and said simply, “To get out alive.”

Lenny folded his arms. “Okay. Let me clarify: what was trying to kill you so you had to press the button and sabotage my dinner plans with the Baron?”

“It was…”

An enormous shadow spread over the table. All occupants turned and beheld Five-Nine’s expressionless visage. Eddie swallowed hard. The crowded booth behind him peeled with laughter. He didn’t hear the joke.

“Shall I refill your glasses, gentlemen? Or provide medical assistance? You look as white as a phantom, Mr. Conroy,” said Five-Nine. A metal cord extended from its shoulder and hovered over to the sandwiched man. An eye, lustrous enough to pass for the genuine article, blinked curiously from the tip. Before it could initiate any scan, Eddie placed his hand over the lens.

“Just the refills, thanks,” Eddie replied.

The eye wriggled free of Eddie’s calloused fingers and returned to its master, who was already about the task of renewing each mug. The robot poured the sickly yellow liquid from a sweating pitcher. Eddie watched it waterfall into his own container, a sudden nausea hitting him square in the stomach. He rose up.

“Where are you going, Eddie?” Lenny asked.

“Bathroom. Now,” replied Eddie, slightly bent and shaking.

The goons on either side did not seem convinced. They kept their seats.

“Perhaps Five-Nine is correct. You do look deathly pale,” said Lenny. Then, “Roger, please escort Mr. Conroy to the young men’s room. I want him lucid for our chat.”

Roger grunted an affirmative and dislodged himself from the booth. Eddie skirted along the table’s edge like a frantic crab, then dashed away before the thug could grab him. Lenny did not appear concerned. He casually motioned Roger to follow along.

“Dreadful,” declared Five-Nine. “I wonder what brought on such a bout, Mr. Chambers.”

“I find myself asking the same question,” Lenny mused, and pushed away his drink.

[Greenpee]

Nicely executed. I envisioned the whole thing to a T.

...maybe you could do more with this? Maybe play a few more scenarios backward and then continue where you left off now?

Here's what I see: next scene, confrontation, after that, altercation, and third one (which would actually be the first one) Blondie celebrating something and becomes rowdy. To possibly continue the story from where you are now, I dunno, maybe Blondie wants revenge?

Bah, that's just me digesting the story 'out loud'. It wouldn't really be flash fiction if you expanded.

Thanks for sharing.

[Eddie]

Thanks for the reply, Greenpee. I decided to expand on this, as was suggested. Posting that soon.

[AgentTate]

Looking forward to it. Good vignette.