Trashgod – part I

21 Feb

Vasilisk squinted four of his seven eyes at the sunset glare. Looking straight into the shininess that burnt on the horizon and the gigantic, glazed corpse of the scrapyard hurt his iridescent pupils. He put his hand under his nose to get a better look.

Treasure island heaved and squirmed. Vasilisk’s inner architecture pained with it. All his guts churned every time the low rumble spread out from the scrapyard.

“Any guess on what that is?”

Mini had squeezed himself next to Vasilisk. Worse, he seemed serious about the question. He really wanted Vasilisk to answer and perhaps he even had the nerve to expect the right answer.

Annoying fat bastard.

“Nope. Just that it’s big.”

“Could’ve told you that meself, boss.”

This jab was too much. Vasilisk turned to Mini and smiled. No, he did more than that. He smiled. And Mini knew he was better off all wrapped-up in his sleeping pouch.

Vasilisk was nervous. Streched. Pissed. Yes. Pissed was the best word for it. This was the best crop in a thousand years and he was stuck right on the doorstep of treasure island with a team that fit him like a five-fingered glove.

The growl boomed again across the field and Vasilisk ground his diamond teeth together to the point of lockjaw.

The scrapheap. So far away from home it had become the stuff of legends. And now that he’d crossed the distance, he had a shot at getting the best stuff and building a life surrounded by contraptions worthy of a small king.

All of a sudden it didn’t look so simple anymore.

He knew about the cacophonic orx. He could beat them. When they were violent, you had to be worse, when they got worse than you, you had to turn smart. Sure, he could be both … but not all at the same time.

And that is why he’d gotten stuck with the other three horsemen of the shampoocalypse.

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