Kylee’s first day at work had turned into the worst day of her life, being cast as the newbie bimbo in a third-rate horror movie based on a video game the likes her brother was still playing in his gel-lined sensory chair at the OATH. [1] And there she was, somehow back into those impossibly contorted blue jeans, her brass hoops dangling down to her shapely shoulders, her crazy green eyes lighting up the faces of every man who dared look into those seductive caverns. What was worst, is Ass & Brass, with little room left between the bar back and the tap wall for Kylee, squeezed past her to relieve the relatively matronly Tits & Tats of End-Time bar-keeping, so she might blast Wedgies full time. The woman winked at her and kissed her cheek, “Thank me later, Buttercup,” then switch gears and glared at her recent mating interest, who was high-fiving with Dallas Jack and Pops, and scolded, “I said, go do some man shit! You can still throw can’t you?!” Then she hauled out some beer buckets form under the bar and handed them to Jack and Mac, “Load up boys!” and nodded towards the pool tables up front where the Well Brothers and Phatz were now taking up pool cues and darts against a ragged line of Somali warriors entering the bar front, over broken glass in bare feet, a bit too gingerly for a good movie scene…
The small, brown, triangular faces chewed on their whatever weed and stalked in, under the man hanging from his bleeding arm, not even helping their fellow, but intent on the bar. “They want more than a drink, Buttercup,” chortled Mah, “Too bad Monty’s saving some cuter piece-of-ass, probably down at the health club making sure all of those rich bitches get to safety.”
Kylee was still working, filling a pitcher of Pabst, as Ass & Brass lined up beer bottles at the front angle of the bar to throw at the enemy. “Whose Monty,” Kylee chirped as she scraped the foam off the pitcher with the stirring stick.
Pops perked up, seriously, talking like he had once been a man used to command, “A xeno-hunter. When workright citizenship was instituted, double pensions were taken away, and pensioners lost the vote as recipients of unfunded liability payments, xenophobia became a crime; fear of strangers an outlaw brand. Some men had had enough.”
A skull was smacked with a pool cue. A pistol fired. A man screamed. Tits & Tats snarled like steel and yelled, “Shit!” Ass & Brass hurled a beer bottle and a sickening crunch was heard as Kylee looked over and saw a pool ball embedded in a Somali head. A Well Bro groaned and went down, a thrown sword sticking out of his belly. The defenders were in a loose semi circle, tits & Tats at the center, clearing a dud cartridge from her double-barreled shotgun, Dallas Jack throwing a pool ball and taking up a cue stick, Mac with a ball in each hand, not sure about throwing…
Pops commented, “You see that, fear and indecision. That is what xenophobes were accused of. Some became xenohunters. But the reality was they got it right, this workright citizenship, mandatory double pension immigration sponsorship, so that a retired airman who retired from the fire department also, had to dedicate both pensions to immigrant care givers to collect his Social Security, all that started to look like a plan—too late for those who saw. But the xenohunters, they knew in their bones, in their stones, that a race war was on and it was time to fight back. The population quietly took their cause, shielding and feeding them, the police turning a blind eye…”
The old man was temporary at a loss for words, so Mah, completed his thought, “Racist Robin Hood, ideally with a big dick that don’t quit!”
To the left of the aisle Dallas Jack was laughing as he cracked a beer open in a side pocket, Rodeo Ron yelling for him, “Could use some help up from Texas if yeh can spare some Milla Time!” With that, Rodeo Ron turned over a pool table as a barricade and ducked behind it as a pry bar and mattock were thrown at him.
Kylee looked forward and saw that the men defending them were to the left and right, and a clear aisle way yawned between the girls at the bar and the now seven Somali men. Norman yawned and barked, his beer pail now empty. Ass & Brass took the empty pail and began the refill.
Kylee could not believe her eyes. Mah comforted her with a wink, “Norman is magical. When this dog is ready for a beer, the mud cleansing thunder is near. Another shot, Buttercup, make it a triple—shit is getting real.”
The Somali men, more now, maybe ten, took up a chant, to which Norman equaled their combined volume with a mighty bark. Willy Mac stepped up to throw a cue ball, stepping into the open aisle, next to Tits & Tats, who stood stoically with her shotgun at rest, muzzles up, then his legs gave out and he buckled to one knee, to which Mah opined, “Way to go super-slut, took our best man’s legs with your greedy cooter.” To this Ass & Brass growled and threw a beer bottle that bounced off of Willy’s broad back.
The Somalis raised their knives and gave a cheer as the sound of a vehicle raised their spirits, it being clear in their eyes that reinforcements were here, probably borne by one of those New Peace Corp vans she had just seen on the news. Norman barked louder and the engine outside seemed to howl along the sidewalk, reverberating. The front of an ancient Jeep, the steel kind, with winch on the front, came into view, rolling over brown bodies, turning hard left into the bar front, and crashing into the Somali band crowded there with a hideous crunch. A man in Old West attire—Austrian outback, more like—was at the wheel, steering with his right hand over the crumpling bodies and leveling and firing, one round at a time, into those small triangular heads with a big black military gun. The invaders broke and fled towards them, running over Willy and past Tits & Tats, who blasted one head from its shoulders, and then splattered another in the back to slide forward along the floor like a limp red rag. A tired Somali was tackled by Dallas Jack, who then smashed its head against the floor with two cuss words to every skull crunching smash.
The fifth fleeing Wedgey stopped suddenly, wide-eyed, arms akimbo, the sword held in hand, but paralyzed, Norman standing before him, on all fours, almost eye-to-eye, snarling. As hissing shots sounded up front and more gear grinding body smashing formed an audio horror reel in her mind, Kylee saw Norman rise on his hind feet, two heads taller than the Somali, and slash down with his right paw, backed with steel over claws, ripping the throat out of the Somali, who gurgled piteously, just before his little head was taken in those great jaws! Norman crunched the skull in his leather and steel sheathed maw and dragged the quivering body over to the dining lounge before the wide screen TV that showed the fake sunlit Wichita sky rather than the snowing reality outside. Hauling the body up into a couch, Norman behaved like a lap dog with a new toy and cuddled with his prey, barking once over his shoulder, to which Ass & Brass said, “Your on deck Buttercup,” handing her Norman’s bucket of beer.
Her ears were ringing as she looked down into the suds and heard the crunching of bones in canine jaws and under Antique Jeep tires. The bar top “clunked” gently. Looking up, Kylee looked into the broad chest and up to the kind eyes of a man from another era, a killer who was a nice guy, like in the old movies. His voice was low and soft from under his brown mustache, “I’ll take that miss, with apologies. Norman is beginning to take on Viking Age pretensions.”
The man sauntered off with the bucket of beer as the men cheered, “Monty Basedstones; [2] Skinny Skinner on deck!”
“Oh, he’s handsome,” she drooled, without thinking, to which Ass & Brass slapped her butt, declaring, “You’re packing just enough tush to get you a seat in the Jeep bitch—just don’t push it, or you’re Skinny bait.”
The terrible sexy woman than, brushed by her to congratulate her hero, rather than spare a word for her weak-legged paramour of a mere five minutes ago.
Notes
1.) Optional Assisted Thriving Home
2.) It is surmised by various students of racist flyover folk hero mythology that this is a compression of Based Stones [as in a racist patrimony of the loins] or Base Tones referring to the deep voice favored by unrepentant white female breeders.
-Sarah Vingh, Director of Moral Ecology, COME
