So... umm.
How's uhh... everyone feeling?
FIERCE.
This armor is... very sticky.
A lot of things have happened in there you probably don't want to know about.
It smells like old sweat and strawberries.
That would be odor of celibacy.
And all the voice prompts are... somewhat inappropriate.
Oxygen levels are normal Storyteller-son. Would you like to see me naked?
I'm... not opposed to it.
What?
Oh nothing, never mind.
Well, fuckidy, well well FUCKING well.
Didn't realize there was a fucking anime convention in town.
I would have dusted off my Sailor Moon outfit.
Hey, Vincent, we got any whippets left over from that furry con?
I'm thinking things might get kind of weird.
And... who are you, pray tell?
I'm Triage, this is my rather imposing, and annoyingly well spoken, associate, Vincent...
Charmed. ... and his gaggle of bipedal murder monkeys.
And this is my club.
And you, are the superfecta of dip shits that cremated Louie.
Louie?
My bouncer, you fuck-witted walking pussy desiccant.
Desi-?
Ohh... no argument there.
Hey!
Your little brain dead quartet has a lot of brass to incinerate my doorman then waltz
into my fucking club like a goddamn bro squad.
Not now EDNA.
YOUR DOORMAN WAS AN ASSHOLE.
Do you know of any fucking bouncers that aren't?
It's part of the god damn job description.
Position available: night club, bouncer, must be large, overbearing, strong, asshole.
Not in the criteria but no ones perfect.
What's the big deal?
He was just a robot.
*record scratch*
Duuuuuude.
That's a rather pedestrian perspective.
Wait I didn't mean- Okay let's not all run to fucking tumblr at
once here.
There's a reason your in my office, and not working your way through the digestive tracts
of my more visceral employees.
Because I'd cauterize your ass if you tried?
Vincent, if you would.
I... fuck!
Not cool dude.
Keep quiet or I call for the fucking jack hammer.
Now you two.
As you might guess, as an employer I do not take kindly to the wanton manslaughter of
my employees, in full view of my patronage no less, but as it stands right now I find
myself in a predicament you might be able to help me with.
... yeah we're not playing into this one.
Fine then.
I know you're looking for the cannon.
How do you know that?
Because you tell everyone and their fucking geiger counter within the first few seconds
of meeting them that you are.
I suppose... yes, we do... do that.
Everyone from here to fucking Palm Springs knows a masked twink, derpo the virginal tin
man, and tinkerbell the perpetually triggered eyebot are scouring the Outerlands for that
goddamn cannon without even so much as as a second thought about whether that is or
is not wise information to be sharing.
You also forgot kinko the repressed head statue.
Head!
So, getting to the point, you know where the canon is?
Sure do.
The canon is a bit of notorious article in these parts.
As the the purveyor of this fine establishment I am privy to certain information.
When you've reached a comfortable moment in the exposition, would you mind getting me
the fuck off the fucking floor you fucking fucks!
Oh god there are so many stains down here.
Hold on a moment.
You said Outerlands.
I've never heard of that, what are you talking?
Where'd you find this idiot.
A fucking cracker jack box?
He's some kind of vlogger or something.
Quaint.
Brotherhood, I take it?
How did you guess?
Only the brotherhood can reliably churn out so many utterly fucking clueless dipshits
such as yourself.
And you are a T-41 Mr. Gutsy unit, correct?
Oh, good catch, what was the first clue?
You always were the most useless model of your make.
That's why we always recycled T-41's whenever we found them.
To useless for anything but the scrap.
Careful- Listen, Johnny fuck head, I'm not in a great
mood.
Whoooooooooooooooooooah.
Did... it just get cold in here?
I have been traipsing around this batshit hellscape for days now.
I've stared down deranged bridge keepers, insecure animated statues-
HEY! -squads of deranged soldiers, exploding talking
undulates and monstrous deathclaws.
Oh, you met Edwardo? ... in a manor of speaking?
But I'm tired.
I'm wearing a suit of power armor that wreaks of teenage angst and I'll be damned if I'm
going to sit here stewing in it for one minute longer while endure verbal harassment from
a fucking toaster oven that has delusions of grandeur because someone at the factory
decided give him a (IN BABY TALK) whittle buzzsaw arm.
So if you want to hurl threats, feel free.
But this isn't my first fucking rodeo.
So make a move or get to the fucking point.
Holy.
Shit.
Yeah no shit.
I was just going to con you then throw you to the incinerator... but fuck if I don't
look go in for a good dose of threatening verbage.
How generous.
What's the ask?
You want the cannon.
Do you have a stutter? ... but someone wants you.
Me?
No, not you.
You.
Wait, I thought that woman said you were free for the next few weeks.
Fuck.
They found me.
No comments:
Post a Comment