Chapter One: An Eternity of Relaxation and One Day of Bliss

“In space, there are things we cannot begin to comprehend. The vigilante world that orbits the mega-planet Magnus, of course I am talking about Xzipit, better known as Neon Gash, is beyond our understanding. All we know is that it is the meeting place of calamities.”

– Old Man Lightning, primeval incarnation of lightning and an old adventurer from another dimension.

I awake to find myself upside down on my old, squeaky bed.

“Third time in a row I’ve ended up like this in my sleep. Maybe me – in my dreams – is tryin’ to tell me somethin’.” I sigh and arrange the pillows so that they’re at the back of the bed rather than the front.

“Now I better stay still during the night or else I’ll have to get myself a new shrink,” I say to no one.  I jump out of bed and walk over to the adjoining kitchen/living room, and check the calendar to see if anything’s happening today. . . Nope. Again, another boring day where I get to do nothing. Great Space Ape in The Sky! This. Is. Boring! Maybe if someone were to try and assassinate me, maybe, just maybe, I could get some excitement. But,noooooo. I got to be stuck in here, because I’ve been put on house arrest by request of my would-be executives for “over-working” during an operation. So what if the building was destroyed to “no repair” in the process of the mission!? At least, I got the job done.

“Space Mecha Christ, Odin, Big Mamma, someone give me a job!” I weep to my cracked roof. After being stuck in my house for two months, anything will do. Even delivering pizzas! I slump to the ground in the fetal position for a good couple of minutes and stew in my own annoyance.

I get up, begrudged, and head over to my vault to do the one thing that interests me in these fine days of solitude: Inventory. I have a lot of guns. And when I say a lot, I mean A LOT. My apartment’s interior is like a small dormitory for college students attached to a Library but the books are guns, and the pages explode when you read them. Some badass reading right there. The dorm is my measly living space, and the library is my vault. Inside, the vault is a gigantic room with wall upon wall of weapons. Each one is high-grade and heavily drenched in awesomeness. Each and every day I feel them and categorize them in different ways. Today, I shall categorize them on the ornateness of their handles.

* * *

I walk out of the vault refreshed and ready for my day of being a righteously extravagant lounge lizard. I haven’t put on pants, but I am ready for the day. I whistle and jig my way through the living room, completely unaware of the black-hooded figures in tight leather circled around me. I stop whistling before I stop my jigging and do a 720˚ turn to survey the area. I count five . . . Wait, what! Five? Do they take me for a joke? Oh god, I have been out for too long. I gotta work!

“Okay boys, I hope you came with resolve because it is really embarrassing to be beaten by a man without pants.” I say this as I motion to my white, Winnie-The-Fooh boxers. They seem to take offense to my comedic gesture and begin the attack. One assassin runs up and does a double fake to the right of my head and body. I side-step through the fakes and do an elbow drop on the base of his spine during the middle of his tackle. I land on the ground and stretch my right leg out, bend the other leg, and rest my head on my right hand with my left hand on my hip. This pose is known as “The French Girl” – an old combat maneuver created by ancient mankind. I keep my right elbow in the man’s mangled spine. The others pull out an assortment of weapons – ranged or melee – and each of them come at me from different directions.

“Ohhh noooo . . .” I say sarcastically as I side-step and trip one assassin gripping a sword into another with a gun. The gun discharges and sends an EMP into his teammate’s brain, turning off all functions in the body and completely shutting him down. The two left take out guns and fire in my direction. The ammunitions are shrapnel rounds which bounce off of anything more solid than human skin. I run away from the enemy fire and jump behind my couch. I take out a shotgun from the wall. “Seems like I’m trapped. I’m tooootally stuck behind my couch . . .” I say over the gunfire. The bullets stop, and the shrapnel drops to the ground.

“Psych!” I jump from the couch and fire two shots in the assassins’ heads.

“Huh, they fell for it. Woulda thought they’d be smarter . . .” I mumble as I stare at my work, and the damage done to my crib. A rational thought runs through my mind. Is the guy with the EMP gun still alive? I turn and see the man stand up with a sword sticking through his abdomen and point the gun straight at my head. “The Mafioso says hello,” he says as he pulls the trigger only to find his hand completely mangled. In the time it takes to deliver his message, a silent distortion grenade plopped itself onto his hand and detonated, leaving it a bloody, morphed, and destroyed mandible holding a sharp scrap of metal.

I turn to the entrance of my apartment.

“Hmmm looks like I just saved your ass, Sphinx.” The figure speaking is as tall as me and holding a launcher in one hand. He has dreads down to his shoulders, skin the color of black coffee, and long canines. At the moment, he is wearing a black trench coat, jeans and a red shirt with a big, black lightning bolt in the center. His name is Rex Dominus – my partner in mercenary work. I quickly move to the assassin and snap his neck as to stop his annoying high-pitched screams.

“Hey Rex, what’s up dude?” I walk over to him and bump his outstretched fist. Rex has been my comrade, battle buddy, and sworn brother ever since I first came to Neon Gash 16 years ago. Rex was born inside a harsh neighborhood called Dark Business. The first time I saw Rex, he was standing atop a pile of half dead gangsters and clutching five bloody bucks in one hand and a makeshift club in the other. His parents were tough as laser nails and had the determination of a Honey Badger on Neptunian Squid Mucus. By getting help from me and our fellow friend Serpentes, we got all of us out of Dark Business and on a sure fire way into success. He’s helped me through thick and thin all the way from the centers of Black Holes to the crime-encrusted surface of New Venus. From dragons to Neo-Stalin, Mecha-Ganesh to zombie vikings, Rex has had my back.

Rex has a penchant for mayhem. Just like our pal Serpentes, Rex has always been on the less than stellar side of sanity. But after quite a bit of group therapy, later called ‘The Battle of Dark Business’, Rex has turned into a model business owner and incredible demolitions expert. I wonder why he’s showing up. Thank the pearly whites of Space Mecha Christ for Rex’s appearance but still, what’s he doing here?

“Nothin’ much man, just deliverin’ something from your mom.” Rex motions to his right and a crew of people with eight wooden boxes rush into my apartment. On their uniforms, there is a logo reading, “Dominus Freelance Delivery Squad.” That’s Rex’s own, personal, high-grade delivery company. He also works for the same people as me. That’s right, the same tightwad, loser pricks who locked me up in my apartment complex. My Executives aren’t all pricks, but these guys are.

“Also, while I’m here, the Executives have given the okay for you to get back into the outside world. In other words, NO MORE HOUSE ARREST DUDE!”

“Yes!” I yell as we jump into the air and high-five. I land and notice my lack of pants, then quickly run to my closet.

“But before we get to work, let’s open these boxes!”

“Hells yeah! Let’s open that shiyet!” I yell through the closet as I walk out with my usual repertoire: a sun-kangaroo leather ranger hat, a long coat with metal cloth paddings on the joints of my shoulders and elbows, jetpack boots, a shirt with a screaming T-Rex, and a pair of Levi jeans.

“Oh right! And to celebrate you getting outta house arrest, I got the sketchiest most downright exciting and mysterious mission for us to annihilate,” Rex says while arranging the crates from smallest to largest.

“Yeah! I knew I could count you dude! You are the man!”

“Hell yeah! You know it!” We do a high-five that the gods would envy and get down to business.

I stretch my arms, crack my knuckles, pop my neck, and roll my shoulders. Finally, I look at the delivered crates. In total, there are three big crates, and five smaller ones. I spy a note from my mother on the biggest box.

Dear Sphinxie-Pooh,

How are you? I am doing phenomenal. I have just fought off thirty mercenaries to get these pieces of hardware for you. These should serve you right. I, along with your father, could not be more pleased at the news of your freedom. For your and my enjoyment, I have cancelled your standing with The Executives at the Diamond Headers. What complete and utter nags they were! I have never dealt with such an annoying firm of cutthroats in my life. First they want me to tell you, that you have not been forgotten and they will hold some sort of grudge against you. We’re Blasters – we get that a lot. Second, they tried to send a bunch of amateurs to rough me up a bit. Jokes on them! Now they have five whimpering idiots to deal with! Anyways, I’ve sent you these things to up your game a little bit. I’ve felt some distressing things coming your way, so I’ve set up a meeting with your new boss and I’ve sent some extra hardware just in case. Once you finish this job you’ll be immediately ushered off to his location. He’s very strict about his new employees feeling confused when they first meet him. So be on your toes! Eye of the Walrus! Never back down! Buh-bye sweetfeet!

Love,

Emorrigan LeFay Blaster

PS: Grandma says sayonara and good luck dealing with those Diamond Teabags! Give em a good Blaster patented one-two-three-four straight to the nuts!

Good ‘ol Ma and Grandma. I can’t believe Gram’s is still alive though. Last time I saw her was when she dive-bombed into a space volcano. Well, professional bear wrestling’s one hell of a job! I get to work unloading the boxes.

“Okay, let’s open the smaller ones first.” Rex says as he puts the last small box in place. With that, we line them up, and I cut through them with my Dimpson Laser Bowie (if it ain’t Dimpson it ain’t professional) . Each crate holds one singular pistol of renowned Mind-Blowingness: A 1911 Supersonic Mass Firing Colt, a Fire Chargers Salamander Quick Shot, The Blazicon 5000, an Ancient Curver Pistol from the year 2066, a Sword Shooter, and a Launch Pad Pistol.

“Motherload bitches!” We scream in unison. We carefully put the guns into the vault for future use.

“Cannot wait to use this stuff,” I say while wiping my hands clean of gun oil.

“Can’t wait to see you use ‘em!” Rex says while getting out a crowbar to pry open the three other boxes.

As we pry the boxes open to see the plentiful, murderous gifts, Rex looks over and asks, “What’ll we do about the bodies?”

“Well. . .” I say as I check the calendar for the hopeful weekly event. My eyes spot today’s date on the calendar.

“Today is the cleaning lady’s weekly appointment.”

“Okay. . . we’re in the clear.” Rex says as he pries open the last crate.

“Yup, so let’s get a look at the fine haul Momma got me.” We open the final crate a little more and in tandem take the contents out to observe. The only word that can be uttered by the both of us is a word of respect only given to the most righteous goose-bump inducing of things.

“Bitchin’.”