Millard 19017, Fascist Hunter

 
 
 
 

MILLARD LOOKED at the sycophant sitting at the end of the bar. Fucker. The ‘phant’s face seemed to drip into nothing, an ever changing merge of pop nonsense and media platforms. The puckered mouth sucked at a straw without really drawing anything up it. The ‘phant was waiting for a mission. Its eyes clicked back and forth with an uncommon rapidity as it scanned feed data within its ocular implants. Millard touched the butt grip of the delineated scatter gun at his hip. His pulse throbbed against the 9mm strapped to his ankle. The compression gun in his sleeve hugged his forearm tightly. He wondered if it would be enough, if he would be quick enough when the moment came. 

The snake-skinned bartender asked if Millard wanted another drink.

Give me a Mollo, Millard said without looking away from the ‘phant.

The bartender pulled a heavy black bottle down along with a low glass. He poured the thick, dark Mollo into the glass and dropped an asemic into it. The asemic initiated a bio-grammatical luminescence that threw a cool glow across Millard’s face. As the asemic dissolved, the syrupy liquid became a flat amber color. Millard took a long, slow pull from the glass. The asemic tera-points hit his cortex like one million atom bombs. A shudder rippled down his spine. His asshole quaked. Within his mind, thought processes and linguistic structures began to collapse as the tera-points emptied out functional meanings, leaving behind a hollow, briney vapidity. Coolness swept through his veins. 

By the time the asemic tera-points receded and his cortex began to reconstitute into the new composition, the ‘phant was already moving, lurching away from the barstool, leaping backwards onto a table, secondary limbs dropping from beneath the long coat, each stoney hand gripping a weapon. Millard struggled to keep up. Each movement sat frozen individually behind his ocular sensors, one piling on top of the other until the image became a strange multi-dragon. He tried to force the conversion into overdrive. Things were happening too quickly. An asemic formation of the word NOW snapped across his data feed. The 9 was out of reach. As he pulled the scatter gun from his hip he heard the static discharge of the ‘phant’s compression gun. The reconstitution of his cortex was picking up. New meanings began to flood the scene. His scattergun discharged, the angled projectiles picking up random paths. It was too late. The ‘phant had thrown over the jade table and ducked behind. The projectiles thudded across the back wall of the bar. His cortex had completed the psycle. The phant’s compression pulse faded before it reached him. He plan b-ed, dropping the scattergun and leaping over the bar. The bartender was crouched there, too. He looked wild eyed at Millard and uttered the word fuck which Millard heard as, ackoooLLLLLLLLc. The compression gun on his forearm slipped into position. The ‘phant was now firing an old world Kalashnikov that it had printed from memory on the fly. The composite bullets rattled across the bartop. The mirror behind exploded. In one of its other hands the ‘phant was readying a tomahawk for a charge. Millard stood, fired his compression gun, and stacked it with rounds from the heavy 9. The data compression bars locked around the ‘phant’s head and pushed. Three nine milli rounds thumped in behind. The ‘phant’s head exploded. Data began to pour from the stump of its neck across the divide into Millard’s reciever. It was a complete dump: contacts, combat positions, electro-cypher security stations, detainment models, troop movements, arms compositions, targeting capabilities, moles -- the whole sha-bang.

 
 

Millard chuckled to himself. Sweat slipped down the side of his face. He had been made by the ‘phant, but the fascists had been stupid enough to send it out with a full load. Someone would be executed for that mistake. But, Millard didn’t have a problem with fascists killing eachother. If they put forth more of an effort this whole thing might end a little sooner, he thought.

The snake-skinned bartender stood up from behind the bar. The scales on his back were standing on end exposing the baby like flesh beneath. He said, goddamnit! Did you have to clap that suck-ass in here? Look at my fucking joint! Millard heard and saw this as ..mslknoids, lksdfjlll  lhjjljlj,bnldjso0. But, his asemicated mind was settling now. Everything was returning to a measure of normal and the weight of it made him instantly tired. 

He smiled at the scaley barkeep and said, 888jnno j...ls]][fasdf.

(Remind me not to drink when I’m hunting fascists).

And with that he walked out into the heat.

 
 
 
 

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Social media splash image, Scuttlebutt vs. Strugglebus (BALM), by Adam Turl and Tish Markley.