Rayguns & Rifles - Bounty Hunter
I geuss I should add a disclaimer, seeing as it's the "done" thing. This story contains low level violence & swearing. There, now it's not my fault if you go blind. Rayguns & rifles - Bounty Hunter The dry dust swirls & hits his face, red, as if the earth had rent open & weeped blood into the sandstorm. It rasps & the lone rider ducks his head against it. The red sun can be seen through the stained pall, low on the horizon, but nothing else. It is the only visible landmark from atop the cresting sand dune, but it is enough for the dark figure against the chaotic backdrop to guide himself by. The sand-crusted horse plods slowly on, head bent, eyes shut, while the rider hunches in his saddle, protected by his stiff hat & over-large, dark poncho. From behind him many strange weapons protrude. Ragged wind whistles softly down the barrels of rifles. Encrusted rings stubbornly float around antennae & tapered barrels, while blocked-up scopes whirr mechanically to themselves, trying to focus on the ever-moving sand. Half an hour passes slowly by, as had many before it, until a thumbprint grows to a black smudge & fades out to a silhouette behind a sheet of grating sand. As the horse stumbles forward to pass it, the silhouette reveals itself as a skinny man, with a ragged straw hat & overalls covering its body. It is holding a hoe & is slowly, meticulously, cultivating a ground that instantly heals the scars of the blunted metal. The rider looks up, carefully sheilding his face as much as possible, before pulling the horse to a halt & dismounting. He maintains his awkward hunch, with his arms holding the poncho to his sides, as he walks towards the figure. The weak sun briefly illuminates, from under the hat, a crocodiles scaly snout, nostrils blocked with sand, before shadow reclaims it. Reaching out a raw, scaly hand, the rider scrapes some of the thick sand off the would-be farmer to reveal a tinted shine. Metal. The rider nods, reaches back into the folds of his poncho & pulls out a tarnished pistol with faint, purple rings orbiting aroundits tapered barrel. One of the rings rotates askew. Bz-zap! There is a flash of light. The skinny robot crashes to the ground, a gaping hole in its side spewing thick, black smoke. The rider remounts his horse & continues in the same direction, leaving a thick column of pollutant behind him. Any life the robot had managed to plant would be dead by morning. Soon a much larger silhouette resloves itself into a wooden cabin, its boards worn but whole. Long sandstorms have burrowed Grotesque faces into them. They glare balnkly as the rider passes to the front. The rider dismounts & ties his horse to a wooden post jutting lopsidedly from the swirling mess of bloody sand. He then pushes back his poncho, inviting in the grating sand, but freeing a twin pair of pistols. One has a crack down the side. He positions himself carefully so that his shadow falls on the front door, confident that the raging sandstorm had masked the robots destruction & the horses distressed whinnies. The shadow grows quickly & a foot lands forcefully in the middle. The door explodes inwards & the long denied sand splashes to the ground like pools of blood. Inside the furniture is plain & wooden. The shelves are unadourned & the floor is a mosiac of large, plain stones held together by white mortar. The red dust begins to slowly seep in, fillinf the cracks & piling against the thin legs of the chairs & tables. The room is devoid of life. Stepping carefully, almost timidly, but with speed, the crocodile-man crosses the room with pistols in hand. Dissapointed he did not burst in on his prey immediately. His yellow, slitted eyes dart around the room, banded with shadow. His red crusted boots step cautiously around the larger stones, like a man creeping into a perilous temple. He expects a trap. Only one doorframe exits the room & the croc-man stops, staring up it as if the corridor beyond was covered with needles & studded with black, poisonous slabs instead of doors. The rider glances at the floor, envisioning pressure sensors, lasers & gravity enducers, then pieces & messes, slowly muddying with the sand. Every stone looks large & suspicious. Time is running short & the chance of surprise has sprinted. Knowing his prize must have heard him enter & is preparing even now, but also knowing every step could hold oblivion, he boldly raises a foot & steps. "Oh god no, not THAT one!" a cheerful voice cries. The riders foot pauses in the air. "Who said dat?" he barks. He glances around. The corridor in front looks empty. The room behind is bare. "Where are you?" he tries again. No reply comes. The rider narrows his eyes & slams his foot down. Nothing happens. "I called your bluff!" he cries. Still no answer. The croc-man grunts & strides forward, all menace & intimidation. No bladed pendulum nor giant boulder rebuke him. Grinning wide he gains speed & kicks to the left. Kicks to the right. As the doors crash down his arms swing up like a scarecrows. He stands there for a moment & glances from side (pantry) to side (wash house). Neither hold any interest. "I'm not in there, I'm in the kitchen! How do you like your potatoes? Mashed? Boiled? In a jacket? I like mine completely replaced, but potatoes are all I've got!" Growling, the croc-man goes to the next door & blows off the doorknob. The dry timber cracks inwards & folds to the floor. Inside stands a young man stirring a large pot over an old-fashioned stove. The croc-man draws a breath. "Alrrright wise guy I've got bofe dese guns strrraight betwenn your eyeff so'ff iff you've got even one booby trap or one weapon of any description about to do anyfing, anyfing at all, to me I suggfft you turn it off so'ff I DON'T BLOW YOUR FUCKIN' BRAINFF OUT WHEN I GO!" They stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do, while a bubbling noise grows louder. Steam starts pouring from the pot. "Do you mind if I turn the oven down? The waters boiled." explains the man. The croc-man casts an appraising eye over the rusty cast-iron & unlabeled dials. "Don't." replies the croc-man, all calm & radiating menace again. "Why? So I don't turn on some kind of cunningly hidden laser?" The crocodile remains impassive. "But how do you know I I haven't set something on a timer & I'm about to turn it off? Decisions, decisions." "Shut up!" The young man raises his arms above his head & smirks at the wall. The croc-man watches as the water starts to boil over. He agonises for a minute before kicking a piece of broken wood to the young mans feet. "Put fffat on de uvver element & sit on it. Don't touch de dial or de pot." The young man obliges, sitting on his hands & as far from the spitting pot as he can. The wood beneath him begins to charr. "De way I see it is you have two opshins. You can be uncooperative & I'll shoot you & claim de bounty, or you can be cooperative & find out about exsssellent deal number two." The croc-man permits himself a smile. "Sooooo..... what's deal number two?" The crocodile grinned wider. "You get to join a gang. Dey're always on the lookout for a good mechanic. One in particular-" "Just one question." The smile drops & the rider glances at the sand past the kitchen window. "Why'd you trash my robot?" For a moment the crocoile man looks panicky. "You couldn't hafff heard dat." "See that light over there?" The crocodiles eyes flickered to it & back. "Yeah?" "It goes off when my robot gets damaged. You know, the potatoes are probably ready by now, how did you say you wanted yours?" "No! Shut up! I don't want a potatoe!" "I already told you I can't do that one." "My- MY boffff, haff heard about your experteve wifff machines & wantfff to offer you a place in our-" "Let me get this straight. You're gonna kill me." "Uh...ye-yeff." "Unless I join your gang." "Yeah." "& you think destroying one of my robots is a good way to start these negotiations?" The crocodile pauses & then regains some of his grin. "I think it showfff my refreshhhing honesty confferning my violent nature, so'fff you know who you're dealing wifff... PLUFFF, it could've snuck up behind me. So, yeah." There was a lengthy pause while the two men stared at one another. "Hey, Crocodile Dundee." "Yeah?" "Your dead right there." There is a crash behind the rider. He spins around, fast as a crocodile lunging from the river, & places a shot in the head of a crusted, crab-like robot. He spins around again, crouching low, & pulls on the trigger. Bang! The gun cracks, spilling molten green on his hand. Bang! He topples sideways, looking up. The kid's holding a midget gun dead-level. He looks down. Blue blood is washing the sand from his chaps. Bang! His hat flies off, mottled blue. Bang! The gun pours its waste over his hand. Bang! Everything goes dark. BZZZ-ZAP! Bz-zap bz-zap bz-zap bz-zap BZ-ZAP! But the sound is only in his head. His blistering, burning hands go limp. There had been two lightbulbs on the moniter. The kid lowers the gun & leaves the kitchen to pack. White foam is pushed out of the pot. Black heat reaches to conquer more wood. Red sunlight falls on his blank & scaly face. Blue blood stains the floor. Well, now. How was that? If I get a whole lot of feedback I'll probably do a follow up, there are a whole lot of chapters I could write after this, but I won't bother without an audience. & I will say now that I flatly refuse to insert any yiff into them. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. PS: If someone can think of a better title I'd be happy to hear it, although there is something to the blandness of what I used.