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Planets and Ugly Guys

The sky definitely categorized as being a dreary day, covered with thick clouds, stained orange and toxic green, due to the reactor. With such an ominous sign of chemical rain to come, Raphael didn’t really notice, or even care one way or the other. That wasn’t what he was thinking about.

“Get the job done, by whatever means necessary.” He kept telling himself this as he continued to cruise the wastelands on his “Stallion” motorcycle, not paying one tiny shred of attention to where he was going. With such reckless abandon behind the wheel (or handlebars), it was no wonder that he was constantly driving over cliffs and drops, having to employ his hover-lift to avoid becoming a stain of twisted metal and pulp on the dusty ground. Nevertheless, he miraculously approached his destination, the backwater station of Veor. It was in this crumbling little dive of a city, where he was told he could locate his objective. He had already dispatched his partner, and friend to the town, as a form of recon. It was in this way that when he arrived, Raphael would know whether or not if he was walking into a proverbial den of wolverines.

Raphael guided his hog down the filthy patch of dirt that was called “Main Street” looking for the signal of his partner. It was past the military barracks before he spotted it, hanging off the tip of a flagpole, bearing the banner of Grand Marshall Myron. The symbol chosen for the flag, which was a hand holding a gun and discharging it into a dog, reflected the distasteful methods of the Marshall, mainly by being such a self-absorbed ass. The signal left behind by Raphael’s partner was nothing more than a thin strip of white cloth, wafting in the light breeze. It was a subtle sign, so as not to arouse suspicion of the local yokels. It was a well known fact that they didn’t tolerate any men in the same profession as Raphael.

Steering his motorcycle to the front of a mechanical parts depot, he pushed down the kickstand, and shut the engine. It was no surprise that he was earning several inquisitive looks from the normal people, not being an ordinary chap. To say that he looked different would be more than just a major understatement, perhaps on par with a guy walking into a Catholic church, and saying, “Aw, Jesus wasn’t that great.” Except saying Raphael was simply different wouldn’t get one shot fifty times over by a bloodthirsty mob, forgetting for the moment of the commandment that read, “Thou shall not kill”.
He was large, well over seven feet, apparently not being infected by the radioactive poison which blanketed over eighty present of this world. Furthermore, he looked extremely vital, having spiky silver hair, exuberant emerald eyes, a handsome face, and a body with muscles rippling, straining to get out of his skintight black shirt.

He reached into the carrying bag, attached to the side of his bike, and pulled out a bulky wrapped package, covered in a burlap tarp. Holding it under one massive arm, he surveyed the scrapyard nearby, checking to see if there was something new he could modify his bike with. Making a mental note of things that he may be interested in, he turned back, ready to link up with his partner. However, he was now staring down into a rusted gun barrel, being held by a big stinky fellow, in overalls, straw hat, and a dead raccoon tucked under his arm.

“I’s think you’d best leave yer money withs me boy, lest ye get yerself a belly full of lead.” It didn’t take much thinking on Raphael’s part to see that this man was not only drunk to the point of liver failure, but having the average intelligence of a normal hick, usually less than an not so average clod of dirt. He could kill the would be robber with no problem at all if he wanted to, but that would attract undo attention. But then, he had no intention of turning over even a single speck of his hard earned money, and besides…business was business.

Without a word of reply to the bumbling thief, he pushed a button on his watch, and vanished from sight. The drunken idiot gaped, his mouth hanging open, a fine line of drool stretching out. Before he had any chance to comprehend a choice of options on what had just happened, he was dead. Flashing into view once again on the other side of the street, Raphael replaced something back into his trench coat, and then straightened his collar. Behind him, the man lost the grip of his gun as well as his dead raccoon, and fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. His head rolled away a few inches, his blood, stained with a hint of green, began to pool around his carcass.

Forgetting all about the drunk, Raphael entered the alleyway, whistling the first verse of a familiar tune, one that he had loved as a child, as he walked. From deep in the darkness, a reply came, another person whistling, this time, the second verse of the same song. Stepping from the shadows came another man, or rather young man. He was far younger than Raphael, with fiery red hair, also wearing a brown trench coat. He wasn’t quite as large as his friend but still rather formidable looking. He flashed his approaching partner a grin.

“You certainly took your sweet time in getting over here didn’t you? I just can’t understand why I drag your worthless carcass everywhere I go. Hell, if it wasn’t for your skills, I’d throw you to the wolves in a heartbeat.” Raphael had heard the kid preach this garbage every time he came to a destination, where he would get some work done. He knew that the kid was very good at his job, but he possessed a motor mouth that could piss off a Riflebuster, quite impressive seeing as that was a machine, and all machines of the universe were designed without emotions.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that crap before,” he said, walking up to his partner, ruffling the kid’s hair as he passed. “I trust you brought the equipment necessary for this particular… situation?” The kid gave his head a slow shake, the wide grin across his mouth never faltering.

“Tell me Raff, do you have such a lack of faith in the cerebral skills of the great G’nache?” So saying, he reached behind a trash dumpster, and brought out an equally similar package that Raphael had pulled from his bike earlier. “Inside the bar at the end of the street,” said G’nache, putting a pair of black sunglasses over his eyes, even though there wasn’t the slightest hint of sunlight breaking through the contaminated sky.

“Lets make this quick,” said Raphael, checking his own equipment. “I want to get off this shitty planet as soon as we’re finished here.” G’nache nodded with a grin, and extended a hand. “Ladies first.”

Raphael pulled his own pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes, and stepped out, back into the street. He and the kid walked down the middle of the road. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a heavy stride in their steps, kicking up clouds of earth from behind. It was no real shock that all the normal folks who saw the duo swaggering through the streets ran like mad, knowing full well that all hell was fixing to break loose.

At the end of the street, the men came to a junk heap of a shack. The walls and roof looked to be made out of strips of rusting sheet metal and a porch made out of rotting wood. The door was just as awful as the rest of the place, being little more than a screen smeared with ugly green paint. There were numerous windows which had probably been punched into the metal, covered with some see through plastic, but didn’t really properly give one a glimpse inside. Hanging over the icky door, was small tin sign read, “Rip’s Place”.

“Classy,” Raphael said, glancing down at his partner. “You ready?” G’nache flashed another wild grin. “Ready to whup some ass? You know I’m always ready for that.”  Being a good answer, Raphael pushed on the wretched door, and a snowstorm of flakes of paint drifted to the ground.

The inside of the bar was even more miserable looking than the outside, a feat that was really hard to top. There was no actual floor, just the open soil. The bar itself was a long wooden bench, having a serious termite infestation. Behind which, there was a massively fat man, with hair sprouting everywhere, a big tattoo of a fish on his left palm, and a grimy white apron. On a shelf behind the “barkeep” there were maybe a dozen unbroken bottles, filled with dark liquid, one container actually having something moving inside of it. In some marvel of architecture, this dump surprisingly had a second floor, which was somehow being supported. It was a wonder that it didn’t come crashing down on their heads. There were maybe six or seven doors up there, probably leading to poor excuses of bedrooms. The whole place was covered in filth, and across the earthen floor, swarms of mutated cockroaches, rats, and spiders scuttled along every which way. Clearly, the owner of this establishment, probably “Rip” the “barkeep” standing behind the bar, wasn’t exactly up on his health codes.

Scattered around on the ground floor, were numerous round tables, and in the corner, a piano that was obviously longing to die. All but two of the seven tables were vacant. Around one, there were only three men, a bottle in front of each, appearing not just drunk, but borderline of comatose. The other table was what attracted both Raphael and G’nache’s attention. Around this table, there sat five men, all of which were big hillbilly type fellows, playing poker. Sitting at the “head” of the table, there sat what can only be described as an amorphous blob. A man, if indeed a man he was, must have weighed in close to six hundred pound. He had scruffy black hair, with a matching mustache, and pudgy scrunched up face. His arms were enormous lumps of fat, making it very difficult to identify his fingers. Not wearing a shirt, one had a clear, and ungodly view of the fat man’s stomach, roll after roll after roll of blubber. Not wanting to be in this place longer than necessary, or having to look at that sorry beached whale for longer than was required, both men strode into the room.

“So,” said Raphael to the fat man, “here at last is the ever famous Horace Pyle, the dreaded “Quasar Bomber” of the Yamato-Te 7 system.” Horace, who was far too fat to deal the cards, had the man on his right do so for him.

“I see you gentlemen have business with me. Do I take it you two are after the fifty million credits that go along with my capture? Or perhaps you come to join my ever swelling ranks? Do tell.” The sound of his voice would have made a lesser man purge himself on the spot, but as it has been no doubt conveyed numerous times, both Raphael and G’nache were not ordinary men. Raphael pushed down the sunglasses, so they hung on the tip of his nose.

“Let’s just stick with the first reason you pitched. Surely you understand that the fragging of an entire planet is going to make you a very wanted man. And after we bag your bounty, we will be very rich men.” A grunting sound came from the giant glob of flesh, and it soon became apparent that he was, or at least tying to laugh.

“Rich, I see yes. But I want to ask you something first, gentlemen. I am a wanted felon of the galaxy, with more deaths on my head than you could possibly imagine. How, I ask you how do you think I have evaded capture up till this point?”

“Personally,” broke in G’nache, glowering at the lard ball from behind his shades, “I don’t really give a damn how you did it, but we ARE gonna haul your fat ass in, collect our money and watch as you are disintegrated by the authorities, you giant tub of…”

Before another word could pass from the lips of the brash young hot-head, all the doors from the second floor, as well as the door to the entrance, tore open. Coming in, was close to thirty or forty men, all of whom looked like hillbillies, each one carrying a weapon of some sort. Most had shotguns or rifles, but a few had handguns, one had a Tommy gun, and one other guy was carrying an elephant gun. Not only that, but all the men sitting at the table, the drunks included, and even the smelly barkeep Rip, were all holding weapons. And every one of these firearms was pointed directly at the two men, getting Horace to let out another gurgling laugh.
“Well, now you boys do know exactly why I am a difficult man to capture. I have so many loving helpers to give me protection. Protection from say… oh bounty hunters for example. Men like yourselves.” He flashed them a piggish grin, then whipped his head to the man next to him, and shrieked in a girlish squeal, “Kill them!”

Not wasting a second, Raphael and G’nache turned and bolted for the nearest protection, which happened to be the wooden bar. Vaulting over it, and kicking the gun from Rip’s hand, they both took up shelter behind it. Having been given the order, every man in the place let fly, loosing as much hot lead towards the hunters as their gun would allow. The sound was deafening, as the already decrepit bar nearly vaporized, chunks of metal and wood went spiraling off in every conceivable direction. All the while, Horace sat there watching, hands over his ears, laughing like the hysterical lunatic he was.

And just like that, the booming thunder silenced. The only sound that could be heard was the hunks of scrap falling to the floor. The bar couldn’t really be seen; a thick cloud of dust, gun smoke, and sawdust obstructed everyone’s vision. After a moment, all of Horace’s goons began to yuck it up, laughing at the stupidity of the two moronic bounty hunters. This continued for sometime, dreadful laughter coursing throughout the room, including the gooey laugh of Horace. At least until every man began to notice; two human-like shapes slowly coming into view from behind the cloud. That shut everyone up. Stepping forth, both Raphael and G’nache were completely unharmed, not even a single bullet hole in their clothes. Every hick in the place just gaped, trying to comprehend how these guys survived that storm of gunfire. And unfortunately for them, they never would find out.

“Nice shooting jackasses,” laughed G’nache, grinning around the room. “Man, you guys really suck!” Raphael rolled his shoulders and stepped up.

“Our turn,” was all he said. Obviously lapsing into a state of panic, Horace turned towards his men, and screeched, “Kill them, you pricks! Kill them now!” All of the men were snapped out of a daze, and began pulling the triggers of their guns again, only to find out that each and every man had fired his gun empty. Some began fumbling around their pockets, vainly searching for more bullets. Raphael and G’nache had no intention of letting them reload. They each took hold of the wrappings of their packages, tore off the burlap coat, and threw it aside. Beneath the outer covering, was the glint of shimmering black steel, radiating off each man’s weapon. In their hands, they held an XM-214 minigun, the bullet spewing killing machine made out of the glimmering black metal. On the side of each one, there was a name, a nickname that each man called his ass-kicking gun. On Raphael’s, it read the name, “Chronoscepter” and on G’nache’s it read, “Big Fucking Gun”. Knowing that they were seconds away from death, every hillbilly in the place dropped their own pathetic excuse of a gun, and ran like hell. From behind them, came two simple words.

“Eat this,” and suddenly the room filled with a hurricane. Depressing the triggers, both rapid fire guns began to roar, bullets flying, shell casings dropping like tinking rain. Each bounty hunter took their own floor, strafing back and forth, mowing men down like grass, ripping holes in the cheap tin walls. The majority of the sound heard was not from the guns themselves, but the hailstorm of searing hot lead annihilating everything and everyone in their path. It only lasted for about thirty seconds, but in that time, easily two thousand bullets had been fired into the bar. The damage wrought by those artillery weapons, was inconceivable. The only thing left in the entire bar once the tornado had passed, was a single chair, its occupant being none other than Horace Pyle. Using their expert marksmanship, he hadn’t received even a scratch. Knowing that their job was finished, both men strolled over to the cowering jelly-fish of a man. His eyes rose up to meet theirs, dominated by absolute terror. From the smell around him, one would imagine that his bladder and bowels had loosed themselves in the melee.

  “Our ship is already on the way,” Raphael told the fat man. “We’ll be escorting you back to Ujali 11, where we will part ways, and you will face execution. And remember,” he bent down, so he was nearly nose to nose with Horace, “Black Zero always gets their man.”