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They were dressed in fatigues and combat boots. Gone were the ancient ways of robes and armor. These were modern soldiers in every sense of the word.
Sitting before me, not six feet away, was the warlord Corin Damewood, sprawled lazily on his carved Balinese throne, arms hanging off the teak lion armrests, fingers bedecked in silver rings loaded with diamonds and emeralds. He was a slight man, a ragged beard We stood in the great hall of Hannel House, myself - Roger Bristol - surrounded by ten of the 231 NS Combat Division, standing in a semi-circle, blades out, the techsteel glowing blue, aqua, red and purple, each color and hum matching with the unique soundpitch of a specific soldier. The men and women of the division held their swords (called Kiri-Katana) in the modified ready stance of the ancient samurai, two hands wrapped around the intricate handles, held at just-below-shoulder height to their right or left sides, dominant hand depending.
peppered with gray and red, bright eyes darting everywhere like silver fish in a pool, glinting and flickering, those eyes surrounded by smudged mascara, long dark lashes accentuated by the stuff.
He was dressed in a dingy black t-shirt and jeans.
The soldiers were here to arrest him or kill him.
I was here to provide the world with the interview everyone wanted.
Rock star stuff.
For here was the legendary pariah messiah, the lazy lord, the man with no plan. Yet also sitting here was the Prophet with a capital P, the man who'd predicted more outrageous shit than any crazy Nostradamus-type-wannabe in thousands of years. This man might be the most stunningly accurate predictor of future events the world has ever seen.
He predicted the bombing of the Taj Mahal
The tsunami that swept away the majority of New York? Called it.
The election of Lazar P. Buford? No one could have seen that one coming. The list goes on.
But the man who had an army of ten thousand screaming loyal zealots, was now almost alone, the guardians fled, the servants dead or hiding, the massive estate in flames and riddled with bullet holes. Twenty vacdrones surrounded the complex, armed with frightening force. He was done and he knew it, yet here he was lounging on his awful throne like a debutante, casual and carefree.
But the man had one more - make that two more - cards to play. The first was that damned chatterbox mouth of his. The second card was lying equally casually at the foot of the throne, covered in golden fur and watching the warriors with calm, deep-pool eyes, the bluest of blues, blinking serenely, massive intelligent orbs observing the ten Neo-Samurai surrounding her and Damewood. Her five-inch claws clicked on the tiled floor, retreating into the huge pads of her feet, then clicking again on the floor; click ? click ? click She was purring, a deep, metallic, resonant sound that rattled her chest.
Her names was Elliana, and she was as legendary as her owner. Created in the infamous vats of the Polyblue Farms in late-stage revolutionary California, she was regarded as the finest bit of pirate genetics to come out of that lab. A blend of tiger DNA with modified elements from at least a dozen different apex predators, Elliana had been purchased by Damewood three days before the raids at PolyBlue, a decision much of the world would rue. She was as close to immortal as was possible; bulletproof, slashproof and smashproof, it was rumored that the only way to destroy her was by fire.
Without Elliana, it is likely Damewood never becomes the warlord he is - or was.
So now I am standing ten feet away from Damewood. My heart is pounding and I have never sweat so much in my life. Hannel House had been built deep in the Amazonia, by design of course, and the humidity and heat - not to mention the stress - were getting to me. The pencil in my hand shook as I tried to write the first words.
We are here now.
Yes we were.
I knew the men and women of the 231 would protect me, I wasn't worried when the zealots were charging and the plasma rounds were whistling by at 1/10 the speed of light, I have been in enough war zones to remain calm enough to function, but this was different.
Elliana made this different. The Neo Samurai could protect me from most foes, but her? I found it dubious they'd be able to slow her down, much less kill her. Still, I had a job to do.
The fear would have to wait.
?Mr. Damewood?? I said. A ludicrous start, I admit. Who the hell else would he be? ?My name is Roger Bristol, I write for -?
?I know who you be Mr. Breestahl,? Damewood said in his famous drawling Arkansas patois. ?Heard you might be out these parts. I bid ye welcome. Welcome to ma home.?
I nodded, scribbling furiously now.
?These men and women are here to arrest you,? I said, motioning with my head and eyes to the ten soldiers holding screaming blades surrounding us. I found the rainbow of crackling plasma blades distracting and more than a little ominous.
?Iyam sure they tink they're going to do so,? Damewood said, cackling, his toothless maw wet and slobbering as he stretched his face into the grin of a skeleton. He was a gaunt figure, his torn and shredded Levis hanging off of him and his shirt full of holes.
One thing I have never understood. These new warlords are billionaires, most of them, yet they all dress in rags and never seem to shower.
?Before they do that though, I was brought here to ask you some questions,? I said. I was, after all, an official representative of the Union of Federal States and Countries, a rare and unusual position for someone who was better know for rock ?n roll articles than serious geopolitical intrigue.
Yet here I was.
He nodded, though a big grin came onto his toothless face that alarmed me. ?Sortainly,? he said. Ok, I thought, too easy, too willing.
I gave him a wry look. His smile only grew larger, more menacing.
The 231 took a unified step forward, closing the circle, their boots thumping on the hard, expensive Moroccan tile of Hannel House at the same time. Elliana shot to her feet and growled and began carving a silent circuit around her master, over and over again, that wide, murderous head looking from man to woman to man, those giant blue eyes - so close to human - looking at each person directly, sizing them up, assessing their threat level. The hostility was unmistakable and that afternoon I saw looks of fear on those bold, brave samurai, men and women so hard that fear was an anathema to them. Yet here in this room, outnumbering their foe 10-2, I saw them sweating and shaking, though they kept their composure the entire time.
Elliana might be able to destroy all of them without receiving a scratch, and they knew it.
She once tore through a regiment of riflemen at the battle of Banog. By herself. She might be the single most lethal being on the planet.
?My first question is - why?? I asked, scribbling notes in my journal, looking up periodically at him - and Elliana - to see what his reaction was.
He chuckled, that exaggerated southern laugh that the rest of the federation came to dread. It was said that whenever Damewood laughed, death followed.
?Whah my deah Mr. Breestahl,? he said, the smile fading as he regarded me seriously. ?I expacted you'da be a more intelligent sort. What a silly question.?
?Just answer,? I said. His kingdom was smashed, his vanguard of zealots crushed and scattered, his days of inflicting terror gone. ?You've got moments before they take you.?
He put a hand on Elliana's head, petting her golden, roseate fur, fingers disappearing between thick tufts of her mane only to reappear a moment later. I found it hypnotic, and maybe that was the point, so I shook it off.
?Please, Mr. Damewood, we have no time You have no time,? I said, imploring him with my eyes and my hands to take this seriously. I knew what was going to happen, even if he didn't. He had grown lazier and even more complacent over the years and it would be his undoing. He truly only had moments of life or freedom left, and yet he never dropped any of that façade of surety he always carried so effortlessly.
?Yaiht son,? he said, clapping his hands together suddenly, startling Elliana and then the Neo Samurai were started by her, and shuffled their combat stances as if she'd sprung at them. ?I give ye what ya seek.?
He sat up straight, brushed off his filthy O'Neal Surf T-shirt, taking a moment to pick at a piece of some stuck wayward food. He looked up.
?Whyah? Whyah ask?? He said, cackling. His eyes burned suspicious holes into all of us, which made me restrain a laugh.
?I tell ye whyah. Because I wunted ta get laid.? He jammed a skinny finger up in the air, towards the teak ceilings. He locked his eyes on my face with a fierce glare, an angry look, as if that explanation was somehow the right one. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I'd come all this way to find out this man, this legend who'd created a cult out of whole cloth, the man who'd inspired 500,000 ordinary men and women to throw away their lives to become warriors to the cause, zealots of the army of flame, that man, this man, had done it ? so he could get laid.
I looked around me at the gathered soldiers, and seeing their worried faces looking back at me, I had to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. They could tell I wanted to say fuck it and let them do what they do. I was close, there's no doubt.
In my head, I thought: you fucking douchebag.
I took a breath, composed myself.
?Mr. Damewood, are you seriously telling me you did all of this, threw the former United States into upheaval, cost hundreds of thousands of ordinary people their lives, and you did all of it so you could - quote - get laid??
His skeleton grin grew wider. I wanted to smack him. One look at his beautiful but deadly pet disavowed me of that notion.
?Weyall there was theya drugs too,? he said. A stream of drool suddenly flowed out of the corner of his mouth and leaked off his chin before he could stop it. He was truly a wretched figure. I would have pitied him if he wasn't who he was.
?Surely there has to be more, Mr. Damewood,? I said, pleading with him now. I had never felt more dispirited as a journalist. ?There must be ? something.?
He shrugged. ?The powah was nice,? he drawled, wiping off his chin and slurping up the remaining drool. ?Acting withuh impunetay is quite the rush Mr. Breestahl. You should try it.?
?I have impunity to end this interview,? I said. I smirked. He knew what I meant.
?Then ye should youse it,? he said, jabbing that skinny, malnourished finger at my chest, spit flying from his flappy hole.
?Don't think I'm not tempted,? I said, smirk growing. It felt good. Let's face it, reporter at large isn't exactly a power position, so when you have a taste of it, it feels amazing.
?Look,? I said, softening my tone, knowing we really were out of time. ?Quickly tell me what happened. I think the world deserves to know. After everything that's happened.? I looked at the men and women again and their looks told me they were more than ready to end this.
He looked at me and the expression on his face changed, softening until it seemed tears would pour from his eyes, but then he shuddered, shook his head a little, and seemed to recover, but the sober look remained.
?Iyah know what Iyah done,? he said, and his voice trembled. He turned his attention to Elliana, who sat erect and wary beside his throne, purring her disturbing metallic purr, that massive head watching each of us in turn. He regarded her with so much love that it made my heart ache to see it. We all love our pets, even if they are murderous beasts who have - supposedly, there's no confirming that story - killed over a thousand people, including old people and children. Again, supposedly. A lot of things happened after the collapse.
?This heyar kitty cat is as good a freyand as I uh ever had,? he said, and this time there could be no doubt, the man was crying. I couldn't believe it. He wasn't crying about the massacres or the atrocities or the global upheaval he had caused.
He was crying because he and his cat were about to die.
It couldn't end any other way, could it?
?Sheuh been through so many adventuhs wit me, sheuh -? then movement, coming in from the right, so quick it barely registered in my brain.
A slash, a blur, a glowing arc sudden and merciless, before anyone could react - not Damewood or Elliana or me, it was over before it had seemingly started, a whoosh as the humming blade wielded by Gunnery Sgt. Maxine Weathers crashed down into the massive, bulky form of Elliana, whistling through the air, cutting through her fur, armored hide and refined skeleton as if it were a paper lantern. The head toppled over, big blue cat eyes rolling back into its head.
Her head toppled from her neck, the separation causing a massive explosion of white fluid as the severed tubes and artificial arteries unloaded their supply of sustaining milk, showering Sgt. Weathers and Damewood in a bath of the stuff. He took the brunt of the liquid, getting completely saturated in it, his skin, beard and clothes turning a pasty shade of white, so that his gaping mouth and eyes looked dark and startled.
He choked and coughed and spat out the liquid remains of his champion. He stared at Weathers with a terrified, shocked expression, as if he couldn't believe that his defender, his most powerful weapon, could be so easily defeated. Her body lay convulsing at his feet, still spraying gallons of milky fluid.
Her death throes were piteous mewling cries, growing more grotesquely pixelated with each moment as her core processor shut down.
Damewood was trembling now, nearly convulsing, and after a moment the inevitable happened: he wet his pants, a dark stain opening in his crotch and spreading downward towards his left knee
Gunnery Sgt. Weathers struck out with her right fist, still clutching the glowing, burning blade, smacking Damewood with a short, sharp blow to the back of his jaw, a quick, efficient shot that staggered him. His already trembling legs went fully rubberized, and he listed, leaned, then toppled over, sprawling unconscious over the body of Elliana.
This was a sad end for the world's greatest warlord, hunched over his decapitated terror, bladder emptying, his wound for a mouth open and grotesque, his eyes rolled back in his head, his clothes grubby, torn and filthy. He looked like little more than a homeless grifter.
And he wasn't even dead. He'd sworn he would never be captured alive, but alas, I'm certain he thought Elliana would have provided more of a fight.
?Sorry to cut the interview short,? Weathers said. ?Had to take the opportunity.?
I chuckled and shrugged my shoulders.
Later I would find out the NS 231 had hacked the security features embedded in Elliana, had shifted her defensive frequencies to a resonance that matched Sgt. Weather's Kiri-Katana, allowing her to defeat her quickly.
Damewood had used an easily discovered password for her security features: ProphetwithaP123. It had taken a computer tech ten minutes to access her account.
See? Lazy.
Within an hour Damewood would be on a vacdrone heading to Baltimore, given a halo and a sedation pack. With 48 hour his arrival at the capitol, he was tried, found guilty with prejudice and sentenced to a life extension of 487 years, the longest such term handed out in UAN history. No surprise, considering what he'd done.
So now Corin Damewood sits in jail, tracing out a neurotic circle in his tiny cell, over and over again, circling the perimeter of his ten foot prison. He wears a shimmer suit (not the most flattering attire) and slippers. His detox from the massive orgy of drugs he'd been taking was not pretty, and I'm told he almost died on at least five occasions, but these prison wardens, they take their jobs pretty seriously, and there would be no death relief for Damewood. They made sure he got the best medical care possible so that he would live every moment of his sentence. Only on January 6, 2546, would he be allowed to die.
The army of the flame was scattered, most had been executed or sentenced to life extensions, but some still remained alive and free, many supposedly holed up in Amazonia, still clinging to that quaint saying they'd cribbed from the old country:
The south will rise again.
Maybe. But for now, the world licks it wounds, the bombed out Arkansas territory remains a wasteland and the Prophet with a Capital P sits rotting in the Lackansa Federation Holding in the northern wastes, where he will remain until the ends of his days.
All so he could get laid.
The Binding
By Shane LaGrange
Prompt: Set your story at a convention for a hobby most people have never heard of.
Ding.
The quiet beep from David Henning's phone told him, certain events around his area. Namely comic conventions. Twenty years old and he still read them. His highlight of the month was UPS bringing a parcel of superheroes, one-shots, and specialty comics. Much better than going to the local comic store.
His phone rang to the tune of Tubular Bells. A video call was coming in.
His lock screen was a picture of his girlfriend-Tamera Martin, nineteen, and of mixed heritage. He admired her exotic complexion and dark eyes before entering his four-digit password.
A Sharing of Friends invites you to our special comic convention.
The time is this Saturday at 11: am
A surprise awaits!
Odd he noticed. No weblink to click. Why was it delivered so soon, and tomorrow morning? Usually receives these advancements s couple of months ahead of time. Gives him time to plan. This was way off in the left field.
?What is up?? He asked of his friend, Clayton. Sandy brown hair swept over his face. Brown eyes leering at him, and David knew why: sis sister. Clayton had it bad for her ever since junior high, when she turned from an ugly duckling into a Swan. What a Swan he thought.
??bout time you answered.?
?I just got a text on my phone. A special comic's convention tomorrow.?
?That is impossible. No one throws an event like that in a few days much less one. Look it up.?
He opened up Google, he typed in the name. The phone thought for a moment; then delivered the answer. On the other end, things were getting noisy.
?Camille, what are you doing1 Mom!?
?I am a Zopie,? the unseen voice said. ?I need to munch on your leg.?
His mother was yelling that they had a trip to prepare for; he needed to start packing
Itinerary posted at the door day of the convention.
He scrolled down further: Free event caught his eye.
?This said it is free!?
?Bullspiut,? Clayton replied. ?Must be Thomas and his gang of Rat Roaches. I am sure they would like to get a whole of you after what Little Debby did to him.?
?Would you stop calling her that? She is my sister and Thomas is not that bright. He couldn't send a text if it was step by step on YouTube.?
?If you are looking for a ride from me, I guess you heard Mom. A family bonding adventure waits. Complete was all the boredom I can stand and NO phone.
?I am telling mom you said that!? The Zopie stated.
?Don't you have packing to do? Go! Unless I whack you with a crucifix. . . .you gonna bring? No, someone had to take you. Let me think, who has a car you can borrow??
David thought for a moment, as Clayton's mother continued to nag. He could bring Tamera along if he promised her something special afterward. She really was not into the whole horror/science fiction genre. She tolerated it. This might send her over the edge. He could not have that. Not for a moment.
?I M ON THE PHONE!? Clayton roared.
I can call my sister I guess.?
Davis heard more voices on the other end; his father was getting in on the action.
?Little Debs? Too bad I can't get out of, our trip,? he pantomimed his mother. ?Just what we need to become a family again.?
?She's my sister,? David said again.
?Half-sister bro' you know what I say, as long as they aren't blood-related.?
?That isn't right,? David said as pounding noises came from his friend's door.
?Open up son, you know my rules.?
?Gotta go. If I go all Manson you know what to do.?
?Get the cell next to you so you won't be violated.?
The call ended with Clayton walking across the room to open the door before exiting the call. David saw an image: a picture on the wall as he walked by on purpose.
?It was a poster-size blown up from a photograph of his sister in a sizzling two-piece bikini from the beach last summer.
?Slime!? David said as the call ended. ?No being cellmates for that!?
He punched up the number for his sister.
***
Saturday. Nine am
Unseen he rolled his eyes at their conversation prior to picking him up and driving off. The Rapper/R&B from down under, Iggy Azalea was either singing something or speaking a foreign language. The title Heavy Crown was all he understood. He was sure this was his punishment for even bringing the subject up.
?You really should buy yourself a car. You certainly have enough saved up or ask mom.?
?Step-mother you mean.?
?Whatever. You should have talked to her instead of calling me. I am sure she would like to know you.?
?She would like to know when I am moving out.?
?Then move out.?
?Why? It is my home. I shouldn't have to leave my home,? he bitterly replied. ?Anyway, she and dad are gone for the weekend.?
Silence greeted her, the rest of the way, as they exited the freeway; arriving with three minutes to spare, as they arrived at the sprawling multiplex convention center. The parking lot devoid of cars and trucks delighted her to no end. A fact she kept driving as David got out of the car.
?Deserted,? she finished. ?What do you think of that? Must be a prank from your pev friends He was constantly in my face all when I was at the beach.?
David glanced down at his sister's shapely thighs and calves. The black skirt and stiletto heels was compounding the issue of what Clayton said to him.
?You look at my tots and there is going to be trouble.? She reached for the ignition to start the car back up again.
?Just a minute,? David said hushing her up. He got out of the car and quickly surveyed the area. He saw two more individuals: a guy and another woman walk toward the direction of the entrance.
?Two more just showed up,? he announced turning toward her. ?We are here. Might as well check it out. It is free after all?
?Fine,? she retorted getting out of the convertible. ?At least something is worth it out of all this. My day is already shot to hell.?
She got out of the car; straightening her top. Her breast strained at the material.
He wanted to say, we have a washing machine. . .but he held his tongue. She would pull it out and wrapped it around a body part he needed.
The sun was bright, and she flipped open her Foster Grants as they walked somewhat side by side toward the glass doors.
?Lighten up a bit,? David said. ?You look like you are telling everyone to F.O.?
?Don't get on my bad side. It is a long way back to your house; you may or may not get a ride back. Besides, I don?t want to call attention to myself.?
The rest of the minute and a half hike was in silence. She parked way in the back. Yet, another form of displeasure. She was good at mental punishment. No doubt, she missed her calling as a dominatrix.
They entered the building and to his disappointment, the hall was empty. No vendors, no banners, no Cosplayer or overweight basement dwellers. Just two other women.
To the left, a table with soda and chips and dips for them to enjoy. In front, a podium with a curtain draped across the backside, hiding what was there.
?Real high-class stuff,? Debby snorted ?What is next? A magic act??
One of the other guests, a tall man with graying beard and hair spotted the young woman.
?Deborah?? He said.
David caught the inflection in his tone. Surprised, shock or scared. Knowing his sister, he banked on the third one.?
?Professor Shielding,? she purred going over to the buffet table. : How are you??
Miss Henning, ?he managed to say, trying not to look at her tight skirt or the ample cleavage showing out of her top. ?I see you are well. ?
?Well enough. Sorry to hear about the death of your wife. ?
David turned back at his sister's stinging words.
?I thought we put that behind us after the grade I gave you,? he whispered.
?You did I did not,? Deborah hissed back. ?Not unless you want certain photos to start copping up, you better take me out tonight.?
David gave a silent moan and returned his attention to the others. Sandy Beechman was twenty-five. Petite and compact with an hourglass body. An avid horror fan and Podcaster of wrestlers. She took out her phone; showed him her hobby of collecting Funko Pops. Cheryl Bliss was thirty. Long blond hair and also fit. A lesbian and exotic sex writer. Her hobby was Twitter and Mixed Martial Arts
?What about you?? Sandy asked David.
?Comic,? he replied.
?A man of few words,? Cheryl teased as David's face turned red. ?Those are the kind I like the best.?
Deborah came back to the small group dragging the professor behind her.
?We all good?? Deborah asked. ?It looks like dudsville here.?
Cheryl took a look at David's sister admiring everything she had to offer; was about to make a suggestion when the lights went black.
A few minutes later, Champagne bubbles though not the real kind, but simulated through a strobe light.
?What the fuck?? Deborah asked as floor lights lit up the stage, and a woman came out from behind the curtain.
?I had hoped for more,? she began. ?Perhaps next time.
The woman had platinum blond hair that cascaded around her shoulders and fell to the middle of her back.
?I am Angela Grey.?
?You are in trouble that what young lady,?
?Professor Shielding,? she said. ?You hide your filthy act behind a screen of academia standards. While in truth you are nothing more then a pervert.?
?I don't know who you profess to be but I had enough,? He turned to the direction of the doors; only to find out they were gone. He waved furiously at the bubbles that swirled faster.
?Turn off these foolish lights!?
?Where are the doors?? Sandy asked.
Cheryl wobbled a bit and tried to fall on Deborah for support. ?I-I-is there so-o-o-mething wrong with the room?? she stuttered.
Deborah shoved her off as David caught her.
?Sandy Beechman,? Talented speaker and electronic expert, but you would rather use that body to hoodwink gullible men; asking much and giving little.?
Sandy felt sick as well; as the bubbles swung faster colliding with each other and splitting off into small bubbles. David and Cheryl collapsed onto the floor as vertigo claimed them. Now, loud music pumped into the room. Heavy metallic guitar riffs assaulted their ears making their equilibrium even more worst as the bubbles became insane; bouncing around them like moths.
?What did we do to you?? Cheryl screamed as she puked coffee and some other half-digested particle onto the floor.
?You and the new girl--nothing. I never had a threesome with two women. I might enjoy it.?
?Not on my life!? Deborah said as she felt herself pulling away. It was an indescribable feeling and it pained her. ?Help me!? She cried as both Shielding and David caught her arms, the music was deafening; the two men found it hard to keep a grip on her. Suddenly, with a screech, she was gone.
With everyone on the floor writhing around, she stepped off the stage. She walked slowly around them.
:W-w-why,? David crocked.
?Isn't it obvious sweetie? I am insane I found out my talent quite by accident when a young man broke into my house and tried to rape me.? He and others are in this,? she said patting her compact disk player Hooked on her belt.
Strangely enough, they could actually hear over the thunderous solos.
?Changing times called for updates. The others are stored safely until I can find a way to transfer them.? Now . . .it's time to go/?
They felt their spirits rise; saw their bodies lying on the floor; they tried to resist hoping someone would hear and call the police.
One by one, they became part of the grooves of the CD Never to see home, family, or friends again. She, however, left Cheryl to stay. The spirit hovering above her not quite sure what to do.
Angela curtseyed; Cheryl bowed, and together they began to say to sway and hold each other close to music only Angela could hear.
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