Trashgod – part III

26 Feb

Mini crushed the rusted lock in his bare fist before Percival even reached for the clippers. And then he pulled a smug face, too.

They flowed through the corridors of wreckage and junk like poison bubbling  through the veins of the scrapyard. By the time they passed the liver – a large, magenta vehicle of unknown origin, but with deliciously preserved tires and engine – the cacophonic orx shifted into their antibody attitude and began pouring in with their cries of woe-betide, their chainsaws and makeshift Thompson submachine guns and a drugged-out, huge member of their tribe flailing lamppost nunchakus. They were ferocious, but disorganized, and Orion thinned them out with his heavy machine gun and its supersonic bullets.

“Twirp, twirp, vroom, vroom, Mr. Gatling”, he’d chant while Mini pummeled hose who got through the spray with fists and headbutts. Since his resonance frequency was only surpassed by his machismo, he was safe to touch them. Percival stayed put while Vasilisk cried out the tactics and picked off a few stragglers with his gun.

By noon, they’d massacred the toughest ones – the assholes always wasted their best at the very beginning – and had reached a large ‘plaza’.

That’s where they saw the first pit.

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