posted on Jul, 30 2017 @ 05:49 PM
With a chuckle, Dub relented and reached into the
bag one more time, and said, “I did find one more
thing, a rare treat. Right up your alley.” A small tin
was presented. Cat food.
“Seriously,” Frank exclaimed as his eyes lit up. “Fancy
feast. Chicken.” He wagged a finger at his buddy. “You
are one fortuitous foraging #er.” He licked his fingers,
smoothed back his hair, and pried the lid off the tin.
“And now, so am I.”
“You guys see Vince?”
“Jumpin-” Frank exclaimed as he spun in his seat, fork
still poised at his lips. “Give me a sec, I need to crawl
back into my skin.”
The newcomer, Lola, smirked at Dub, who’d seen her
coming, and said, “Well?”
Dub shook his head. “Nope. He’s late. Unless he’s
hanging out with one of his chickees.”
Lola sighed and her hand slipped down the the revolver
hung low on her leg, quick draw style. “They haven’t
seen him either,” she said. “I better go check on him.
He’s got a nose for trouble.” She glanced at the rank
bits on Frank’s fork. “That’s disgusting.”
Frank stuck out his chest, indignant. “Cats are finicky
eaters, I’ll have you know. And anything that’s good for
them is twice as good for people.”
“Riiight,” Lola drawled, then with a wink to Dub she
spun on a heel and left.
As she made her way to the door, Frank couldn’t help
but stare: Lola’s clothes were all black, and tight, mainly
because small strips of dark leather tied down any loose
bits, for absolute silence. Then there was the belted
black corset. If there ever was a real life comic book
heroine, she was it.
Frank turned back to Dub: “So. You’re wife is looking
good today. Corset’s kind of racey though. What’s up
“It’s a secret,” Dub answered as he fought with the
metal tab on a sardine can. A second later it snapped
off without showing a glimmer of the contents. “Ah,
“That’s Exterminators,” Dub corrected as he examined
the seam of the can lid close up.
“Ah yes,” the newcomer, Zander, said with a mocking
tone. “You killed roaches in the old world, you kill
roaches in the new world. Fumigator would be more
appropriate though, don’t you think?”
Dub didn’t answer right away. Fact was, the base
sub-commander was right. Dub had run a pest control
service. Terminator Exterminator. Made a decent buck
at it too. Then one day, a woman called saying she
wanted her no good boyfriend taken care of, wink wink.
Dub would have hung up, but she was crying, and the
story gushed out, a horrifying tale of her daughter being
Money passed hands. Guns were loaded. People
buried. Interestingly, Dub found he could live with the
deed. Ended up doing it more than once, if the circum-
stances demanded it. Apparently, roaches came in all
“If you say so, Zander,” Dub said, unwilling to get into
a sniping contest.
“That’s Zander sir,” Zander corrected. He reached out,
probed the pile of cans, and whistled. “That’s some
premium loot you’ve got there. Must have gone far
abroad to find that.” He piled the cans into a tidy stack
then said, “Problem is, you didn’t report it. Sardines are
on the base priority list.” His eyes narrowed. “What do
you say about that?”
Dub leaned back in his chair, and placed both his
palms behind his head, knitting the fingers. He
was a big man, as big as Zander anyway, but more
imposing was the array of cobbled together armor,
kevlar and the like, which made him look even bigger.
Plus there was the big knife sheath strapped across
his chest, another, smaller, on an arm, a looped utility
belt, half of it filled with three inch spikes, railroad,
the others with shot gun shells. An unusually robust
pistol was tucked in a wide holster.
Dub: “I say I was just heading over to submit it all to
“Don’t bother,” Zander said as he felt any resistance
from the other slip away. “I’ll take it.” He scooped
up the cans into the crook of an arm, then after a
pause he tossed two of the flat cans back. “Just so
you don’t think I’m a total dick.”
“Too late,” Frank murmured.
“What?” Zander snapped.
Frank held up the fancy feast. “You’re too late for
the cat food. I’ve already dug into it.”
Zander left in a huff.
“What a twat,” Frank said between bites. “Aren’t you
mad? You should have up and swatted him.”
“Nah,” Dub said as he took up a can, the battle with
the pull tab starting anew. “I got all that from
the base stores to begin with.”
A spray of fancy feast decorated the table. “You are
a bad man,” Frank chortled. “But in a good way.” He
pointed the fork at his friend. “But bad. Bad, bad,
end part 2
There comes a time in everyone’s life where mortal
threat and awkward happenstance crash into the cross
road called here and now.
Vince wasn’t absolutely sure this was his turn, but
if it wasn’t, he gave fate kudos for the effort.
On his way back to the Bastion of Hope, a name he
coined and used exclusively (though everyone else
called it by it’s real name, Culvertville, which his
opinion was not nearly as poetic) he’d crossed the
dried mud plain, aiming for a rancid puddle he’d
passed on the way out.
All the blood he lost earlier hadn’t made him dizzy
yet, but it might, unless he found some water soon.
Said refreshments lay at the end of a long line of
fallen down fence posts, the kind that used to have
barb wire attached, but in this case, the steel had
long been either scavenged or rusted away. Three
of the posts still stood, the last being the one with
the bit of water.
Once he spotted the three wooden uprights, he
allowed himself to relax a bit. He shifted the sub-
machine gun that hung across his back, tried to
find a spot that wasn’t sore from the jabbing metal
edges, then gave up.
That was when the moment came.
A familiar pitter patter of paws made him do a
shoulder check. A canine. One of the ones from
earlier. The smaller of the two. Somehow it had
dispatched it’s larger companion. Not that that
mattered much. The little ones made up for size
He couldn’t use the machine gun due to it’s con-
dition, and the bowie knife at his waist was not an
option. A quick look around told him what he already
knew; no significant cover or refuge.
He’d have to take what he could get.
What he could get was a dead run to the fence posts,
where he managed to clamber to the top of the last
one, before his pursuer made a last snap at his
He teetered there, windmilled his arms for what was
surely half of eternity, while the dog scurried round
in a tight circle, it’s jowls and teeth dripping nasty
There wasn’t enough room for both feet, and Vince
found himself balancing on one, until the mutt leapt
for him, making him hop to the other foot.
That went on for the other half of eternity.
He got a break from the acrobatics when the animal
paused to sniff the post then lifted a leg and
relieved itself, adding to the small puddle there.
Well that explained where the water had come from,
Vince mused with a grimace.
Suddenly, the dog leapt a short distance back, with
neither a bark or yelp, and sprayed the mud flat
with a blackish tinged gush of blood and brain.
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