Contributing Author: Zeusified
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Somewhere in the Armpit of New City…
The Frugal Five felt their power slip. They took one last hulking step before their individual consciousnesses began to separate, bringing the weight of their combined form of flesh and flies and horrors down on the rusted-out bed of a nearby pickup truck.
It broke with a snap. Like a twig. Like the spine of a rabbit.
Murk: Brothers… we have failed.
Food: This is it.
Pinch: Everything has a cost. Failure’s cost is steep.
Their audience of strippers and factory workers regained their awareness, and terror returned to the streets of New City’s Armpit. Harried mothers and broken fathers and businessmen in cheap suits with bags under their eyes looked on and screamed.
Rat: One of us will have to pay the price.
Jeff: Heh. I hope it’s not me.
As their Ultra Formation Form timed out, the Five fell to the asphalt. Pinch landed wrong and its leg broke into two clean pieces. Rat fell with grace into an athletic roll. Jeff landed in a puddle of something he’d rather not remember.
Food, their self-elected leader, dusted off his gray, splotchy suit. He’d owned it for nearly a thousand years now, and hadn’t paid for dry-cleaning once. Yet it still held itself together, after all this time. “Gather up, brothers. Yes… even you, Jeff. We’ve got a decision to make.”
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Murk asked. It’s voice was strange and slow, like it was trying to remember the words it spoke as it said them.
“As is tradition,” Food replied, rolling up his jacket’s sleeves.
Jeff picked himself out of the puddle and sauntered over. He had to pull up his pants as he did so. He’d lost his suspenders during the transformation. That wasn’t good. It wasn’t good for a member of the Frugal Five to lose something.
Pinch held out its hands, one open, the other closed in a fist. It grunted in pain, trying to find the best way to balance on its broken leg. “Rock.”
“Paper,” Murk groaned.
“Scissors,” Food said with conviction.
Three rocks. One paper. One scissors.
“Stalemate!” Jeff laughed. “Rethrow!”
They threw again, and the outcome was the same: three rocks, one paper, one scissors.
Stalemate.
Food scratched the back of his head, “Brothers, I know habits die hard. But no recycling here, alright? Choose something different this time.”
They nodded solemnly. Even Jeff. They rethrew again.
One rock. Four paper. In this game, the loser was safe. Winners were meant to bear responsibility, after all.
“Jeff will continue to represent the Frugal Five,” Food said.
Jeff did a not-so-small fist pump, then started to scavenge through the broken buildings and debris that littered the road for his suspenders.
“Again,” Murk drawled.
Three paper. One scissors.
Murk, Rat, and Pinch looked at Food, and he met their gaze.
Scissors beat paper. It looked like he was the winner.
“It’s been an honor, brothers,” he said, taking off his suit jacket. He handed it to Murk, who begrudgingly accepted it.
Food took the Frugal Five’s cell phone out of the pocket of his worn jeans. One of the others would be responsible for their phone, after he was gone. For now, he needed to inform the Boss about their failure.
He flipped it open, dialed the only number he needed to know.
Everything has a price. The price of failure was, understandably, death.
“Yes?” said Lucy, the Boss’s secretary. Her voice was like soiled honey. Sweet and terrible at the same time.
“We have failed,” Food said. He was surprised at how easy it was to say. He’d heard others say it, when they’d been the Frugal Eight, then the Frugal Seven. It had always looked so hard to say.
“Transferring you to his Darkest Demonic Destiny now,” Lucy thrummed.
Hold music. Saxophones and steel drums and some Earthling with a smoky voice.
> Yeah, yeah, yeah!
>
> It’s gonna be a good day,
>
> Yeah, today’s gonna be a great day!
>
> You’re gonna be a superstar,
>
> You’re gonna fly away.
>
> Yeah, yeah yeah!
The line transferred. Beetlebub’s voice seeped through the receiver and clawed down Food’s ear canal.
“It got away, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Boss. The Host escaped.”
“Where?”
Food felt pain. His ear was melting, his skin was bubbling and boiling. He did his best not to stutter. He’d stay strong until the end, like those that had failed before him.
“It fled into the sewers. It was the puddle aphid. The Nameless One.”
“The COWARD,” Beetlebub hissed.
Food nodded. He gritted his teeth. Spat them out. Spat them onto the broken asphalt next to his blood, his hair, his liquified flesh.
“I apologize for our failure, Boss. I am ready to pay the price.”
“You’ve failed, but you won’t be forgotten. Food… you’ve served me well. Fought for me for many years. Your power has always been my power, and now I’ll take it back.”
Food closed his eyes. His remaining ear, his left ear, heard a sound like rushing wind. Deafening wind. Then, his body was torn apart, torn asunder, into threads of sinew and soul that shot into the air, drawn back to their source. Drawn back to Hunger.
Rat, who’d stood by to watch, dove for the falling phone. He wouldn’t dare let it break. He wouldn’t let it go to waste.
He caught it, stumbled, and looked around. Murk and Pinch had their heads bowed, paying their respects to their lost brother.
Jeff sauntered back over, one thumb in a strap of his suspenders, the other holding a half-eaten sandwich.
“Shit, guys. Guess we’re the Frugal Four now, eh?”
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Warehouse 667 was a cozy place. Sure, it was a mess of stained concrete, fluorescent lights, and metal pipes, but it did have one wall, down that hallway with the flickering lamp, that was made entirely out of red bricks. If you really, really imagined it, it was almost like a chimney, almost like a fireplace.
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It was cozy.
Vice Roid liked to stand in front of that brick wall. He stood there now, with his palm against the rough texture of the worn brick, picturing that one good day in his life–the only good day–when Santa Man had come to the orphanage.
He’d been in the back of the crowd, his back against the red brick wall in the orphanage’s foyer. That was back when he was small and frail and had to use his brain, couldn’t use his muscles. Vice Roid had thought Santa Man would forget him, like everyone else forgot him. But Santa Man had pushed his way through all the other boys and girls, reached out a hand, and gave him a stick of gum.
Cinnamon gum.
That was a good day. It was the first day Vice Roid felt like he existed in the world. It was the day he realized that he wasn’t a shadow on the wall. He was more. He could be more.
That was the day his Hunger woke up inside him.
Somehow, in the years that followed, he’d risen through the ranks of the underworld. He’d slaughtered and stole to get where he was now, but he’d earned his spot, his responsibility. He’d even been granted some of the Boss’s power.
The large man flexed. His muscles bulged, threatening to burst through his leather jacket. He grinned, took his hand off the brick wall, and slipped another piece of cinnamon gum into his mouth. The concrete floor cracked beneath his heavy weight as he walked back down the hallway with the flickering lamp to check in on his boys.
It was almost time for the delivery. One of the Boss’s transport teams would swing by, pick up the fuel they’d manufactured, and deliver it to Dr. Hugo Hugo’s secure facility, where it would be spread out through New City via the madman’s Aerosolizer 5000.
Vice Roid had seen several of the tests conducted by the scientist’s 4999 prototypes, and he knew that the second the fuel was released into New City, everything was going to change.
His boys were playing cards and lifting weights. It looked like Hoghead and Tater Tot were out, because they were tossing a medicine ball back and forth. Cheetah Brains had Stew right where he wanted him, and there was a glint in the animal-man’s eye. Vice Roid nodded in approval and peeked at the man’s cards.
You better fold, Stew. Don’t let him bait you like you always do.
“I’m all in,” Stew shouted. He shoved his measly pile of coins to the center of the table and pointed a hairy finger at Cheetah Brains. “This time, you’re done. Done! Hear me?”
Cheetah Brains raised an eyebrow. Beneath the table, where only Vice Roid was able to see, his tail swished back and forth in anticipation.
“Let’s see it, Little Stew,” Cheetah Brains growled playfully. “You think you’ve got me beat?”
The cat-man set his cards down, one at a time. Ace of Spades. Ace of Diamonds. Ace of Hearts. Ace of–
“Cheater,” Stew said, directing his hairy finger at the last ace, the Ace of Clubs.
“Cheetah,” Cheetah Brains corrected, showing his fangs. He put down his last card, unperturbed. It was a 10 of Clubs, but it didn’t matter anyway.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
“Patrol call!” Vice Roid commanded. “It’s the top of the hour, so let’s get this over with. Only a few more to go, and we’re done with this gig.”
Cheap folding chairs scratched against the concrete as they were pushed back. Hoghead carefully set down the medicine ball by their rack of oversized dumbbells. Everyone stood up, except for Stew. He threw down his cards.
King of Spades. King of Diamonds. King of Hearts. King of Clubs. Ace of Clubs.
Stew glared up at Cheetah Brains.
“I’ll kill you, cat. This time, it’s clearer than chicken broth. You’re slipping cards into the deck. The money’s mine.”
“Easy,” Vice Roid said, moving his arms in a slow, placating gesture. “You know the rules, Stew. Everyone’s allowed to cheat. You just can’t get caught.”
“Yeah,” Cheetah Brains grinned. “You can’t prove anything. How do I know you didn’t put that second Ace of Clubs into the deck?”
Stew stood to his feet, moved over so he was inches away from Cheetah Brains. He was smaller than the cat-man, but for what he lacked in height, Stew more than made up for it in width. He was a cauldron of a man, thick skin and hairy arms. A strong smell of spices surrounded him, and the temperature in the room began to increase as the man’s temper peaked.
“I’ll boil you alive. I’ll turn you into my next meal, cat.”
Cheetah Brains just raised a clawed hand and picked at his sharp nails. “That’s not how this goes, kid. You played the game. You asked to be dealt in. You lost. Accept it.”
“Settle it when you get back,” Hoghead said. He was halfway out of the breakroom’s door. “Sooner we’re done with the patrol, sooner we can start up another game.”
Stew kicked his chair over. It clattered to the ground.
“Fine.”
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Warehouse 667 wasn’t that big, at least compared to some of the other warehouses in the port district of New City’s Armpit. That was good. It meant less area to patrol, less traps to check. The bad part? Warehouse 667 housed the fuel: thousands of thumb-sized red vials, secured in a steel crate right in the center of the building.
Vice Roid had warned his boys not to steal any of the fuel, not to try any of it for themselves. He was surprised that they’d listened. It was hard to get into their thick skulls sometimes, but when it mattered, his boys knew up from down. As Cheetah Brains led the way and the rest of his gang checked their individual traps for signs of degradation, Vice Roid kept his eyes on the steel container.
“Did I ever tell you boys about the first time I saw Dr. Hugo Hugo testing out the fuel?”
His voice echoed in the open warehouse.
“That the same one where the guy exploded?” Hoghead asked.
“Nah,” Vice Roid said, stepping over a tripwire. “It’s the one about the fish.”
“Who cares about fish?” Stew grumbled, kneeling down to adjust the wires on one of his heat claymores. “Better fish than people. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It was an earlier batch of fuel, for what it’s worth. Less stable. We were moving barrels in off the docks, loading ‘em up onto trucks, sending ‘em to refineries. One of the workers, he put his truck into neutral instead of park. Hand must’ve slipped or something. It was busy. It always was, when a new shipment would come in.”
Tater Tot mumbled something in agreement. He’d been there that day, and he’d lost a part of himself, seeing what had happened. He understood what it was like.
“Anyway,” Vice Roid continued, following Cheetah Brains into the warehouse’s southeastern quadrant, “The truck was full of fuel barrels. Something must’ve hit it, because it started to roll down the dock. Toward the water. No one was close enough to stop it, so we just watched it roll in. The barrels burst open on impact. Spilled the fuel all over the bay. The fish… they were drawn to it, like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Tater Tot was looking at his potato hands, like he was checking to see if they were still there. He whispered, but they still heard him, “They ate the truck. All of it. Ate the barrels. Started eating the docks. The wood, the metal, the plastic. Then they climbed onto the land. Fish, climbing. We tried to run, but they chased us. They ate us, too. They ate so many of us. Ate us alive.”
Vice Roid put a hand on Tater Tot’s crispy shoulder, careful not to press too hard. It was easy to press too hard, with strength like his. “That’s right. Fish started walking. Started breathing air. Some even flew. They tried to eat everything in sight, like they were possessed by demons or something.”
“Well, they aren’t like that now,” Stew said. “I went fishing in the bay last week.”
“That’s because the Boss had to come in and fix it.”
“Oh. Oh shit. The Boss showed up?”
Vice Roid was about to continue, but that’s when he noticed the back wall of the warehouse. The wall that connected to the sewers. There was a door there, and it was supposed to be reinforced with metal bars and connected to a variety of trigger-based explosives.
“What the hell is this?” Vice Roid asked, pivoting in his crew.
Cheetah Brains scrambled over. His sharp eyes stopped on each disconnected wire. “The door’s not armed, Boss.”
“I can see that,” Vice Roid growled. “Do any of you have an explanation for why it is not connected?”
He’d go up and connect the wires himself, but he wasn’t an explosives expert. He was just the muscle.
“That’s, uh,” Stew started, “I forgot to reconnect them.”
Tater Tot made a worried sound, like a strange mewling kitten.
“Stew,” Vice Roid said, the leather on his jacket tearing, “Why in the name of the fucking hairy balls floating in the void did you disconnect the traps on the door?”
Stew looked down at his shoes, “I needed to use the bathroom, sir.”
“We have a bathroom, Stew, a rather nice bathroom. It has rose scented urinals and we do not skimp on the good toilet paper.”
“Hoghead was using it, and I really needed to go, okay?”
“We’re going to have a chat about this later, Stew,” Vice Roid said. He reached into his stitch-strained leather jacket and pulled out a remote control. He pressed one of the two buttons, the yellow one, not the red one. Lasers shot down from the warehouse’s ceiling, forming a cage of death around the steel crate housing the fuel.
“For now, I’m enacting protocol. The facility has been breached. Stew and Cheetah Brains, go reconnect the traps. Tater Tot and Hoghead, fall back to your defensive positions.”
“Move, hotpot,” Cheetah said, poking Stew in the back with his sharp nails. He didn’t manage to break the hairy man’s thick skin.
Stew glared back at him, but stepped forward. He bent down for the first set of wires, carefully taking them in surprisingly dexterous hands. “I’m on it, okay? I’ll have it back to normal in–”
They all saw what happened next. The simple brass doorknob turned, and the door opened. Almost casually, a young man stepped into the warehouse. Vice Roid, Cheetah Brains, and Stew stared at him. The young man met their eyes and his eyes widened in shock as he slowly began to step backward into the sewers.
Hoghead, from his position a short distance back, stammered, “T-that’s the Host, isn’t it? It’s the Host, Mr. Roid!”
“Of course it is, you idiot. Of course it is!” Vice Roid shouted, charging for the door. He grabbed the sleeves of his jacket and tore them off, making room for his body to expand. His muscles exploded, roaring their own battle cries, whipping out miniature dumbbells and barbells. His bicep, now the size of a basketball, grew a set of arms and started doing preacher curls. A sliver of a smile appeared on the muscle, and it called out to Vice Roid as the big man rushed forward.
“Bro,” Vice Roid’s bicep grunted as it finished a rep. “It’s time to lift, isn’t it?”
“Yeah buddy,” Vice Roid said, flexing his pecs. Whatever was left of his leather vest and his undershirt blasted apart. “It’s lifting time.”
Vice Roid shouted out to his crew. Cheetah Brains and Stew were right behind him. “Let’s get’em boys! Get that Host!”