Contributing Author: Zeusified
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THEN.
34 minutes before Trey arrived at New City Casino…
Vice Roid had a skip in his step as he strolled down the colorful streets of New City. His new body, an amalgamation of winding green vines and the remainder of his bulging muscles, was incredible. Before, his life was all about the gym, top-of-the-line biological enhancement products, and following the Boss’s orders. Now, he saw the light. All those vegan and gluten-free bloggers had it right all along. It felt good to go all natural.
All around, people drifted in and out of bars and clubs, shouting, laughing, smiling. He was in the part of New City that let loose at night, the kind of place he never used to visit because he was afraid of breaking his strict routine. So, he wandered around almost aimlessly, in awe of the bright lights, the dancers, the confetti, and the magic of the night.
“Hey man!” Two men in suits approached him, holding onto each other for balance, grinning as they stumbled along. They wore their ties like bandanas around their heads. “That is a sick costume. You look just like Doot!”
“Who?”
“You know, that alien tree that’s on the Cosmic Custodians?”
His buddy chuckled and said, “Doot. Doot. I am the Doot.”
That was a movie, right? A series? Vice Roid wasn’t sure. He hadn’t had time for TV in his old life. He tilted his head to the side, trying to think of a good answer, and the vines wrapping around his neck creaked.
“Such a Doot thing to do! Silence is so cool. What’s your name, dude?”
“I’m, uh… I’m Vice.”
“Look, I know you’ve got a killer costume, but it feels like you’re a little lost,” one of the suits said. His tie started to fall off his head, so he grunted and tightened it up as he spoke. “Need some directions?”
“Yeah,” Vice Roid said. “I’m looking for some pizza.”
The suits laughed. “Aren’t we all, my man? Pizza on a night like this is a treat. You ever been to King Albert’s?”
“I haven’t had pizza before, actually.”
“WHAT.”
Vice Roid considered the two men, putting a beefy, vine-covered hand to his chin. Did they not know what it took to create a body like his? “It takes more than hard work to build muscle, you know. You have to be diligent, you have to stick to a routine, you have to make sacrifices. There’s a lot–”
“You haven’t tried pizza?”
“Well, no.”
“Greg. Grab his arm.”
“Mike, I can’t even wrap my entire arm around his bicep.”
“Dude.”
“What are you guys doing?” Vice Roid asked, staring down, confused. The two men looked like toddlers trying to hold onto their father’s legs.
“We’re taking you to get pizza!”
“Can’t you just give me directions?”
“Well, yeah, we could,” one said, stepping back. The other glanced up at Vice Roid with pity in his eyes. “But this is a big deal. Now that we know you haven’t tried pizza, it’s our responsibility to see it through. That’s what friends do.”
“We’re friends?” Vice Roid asked, raising his eyebrows.
Is this what friends do? Do they always go out of their way like this to help each other?
“We are now,” the other suit said, beaming at Vice Roid. “Come on. We’ll take you to King Albert’s and get you a slice.”
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THEN.
28 minutes before Trey arrived at New City Casino…
King Albert’s Pizzeria stood on Tin Can Avenue like a lighthouse on a dark stormy night. Its logo was plain, almost too simple–just red bolded text lit up by a white outline. The music playing from the bars and clubs was distant but not too far away, like a siren call reminding the party-goers to return once they’d eaten their fill.
Vice Roid had to crouch and turn his body sideways to get through the door–a fact which Greg and Mike, the two suits, found hilarious.
“Doot would totally do that! Do you think Doot ever tried pizza?”
“Yeah. Didn’t he have some in the second movie? I thought Pocket the Possum gave Doot some because he thought he was gonna die.”
“That’s right. Holy juice boxes.”
The inside of King Albert’s smelled like grease and glory. There were three tables–booths–on one wall, a bunch of off-kilter framed certificates and awards on the other. Red-and-white checkerboard vinyl stretched from the front door all the way to the counter, where a chubby old man with a chef’s hat and an ‘I’m the KING of Pizza’ apron spun massive discs of dough in each hand.
The suits approached the counter, tugging Vice Roid along. One of them had taken the tie off his forehead and was now wearing it like a scarf.
“Albert, my dude!”
“Greg, Mike. Uh…” Albert started, slowly sizing up Vice Roid. “Who’s this big fella’?”
“I’m Vice,” Vice Roid held out a hand. It was as big as the cash register on the counter. Albert eyed it warily and raised an eyebrow. “My hands are busy, but hell, it’s nice to meet you. Any friend of Greg and Mike’s is a friend of mine. What can I do you for?”
Did I just make another friend? How many is that now? Five? Seven?
There wasn’t a menu. No hint of one on the walls, no laminated sheet on the counter. Vice Roid looked to the suits, a little nervous, then back to Albert.
“I’ve never had pizza before.”
“You WHAT,” Albert said, almost fumbling his spinning dough.
“That’s what we said!” Mike chimed in. “Guy’s a blank slate, so we took him here. We had to take him to the King.”
Albert let out a solemn, regal sigh. “You’ve done me a great service, gentlemen. Look, I’ll be honest with you guys. This dough here is all I’ve got left for the night–I’d planned to sell it in slices. Today’s been crazy. Everyone knows the King makes the best pizza in town.”
Greg and Mike nodded their heads. Albert’s pizza was the gospel truth.
“However, it would be my honor, Vice, to serve you your first pizza. I won’t do you the indignity of selling you a single slice. I’m going all out. You’re getting two of my specialties.”
“No way…” Greg gasped. “You’re one lucky dude, Vice.”
Vice Roid was feeling like a lucky dude. Things were really looking up for him tonight. Still, he had one more question for King Albert. Carefully, he composed himself, cleared his throat, and asked, “Do you have any pancakes?”
Mike chuckled to himself, “Are you a visionary, Vice? Pancakes, pizza. I can see it now!”
“Earlier today, I met my first real friends,” Vice Roid continued, ignoring Mike. “In a way, I think they saved my life. I… wasn’t in the best place, you know? So, when they asked me to buy some pizza and pancakes, some maple syrup, too… I promised them I’d get them what they needed.”
The big guy lowered his head and looked at the ground. His voice softened a bit as he added, “I don’t want to let them down.”
“Wow. You’ve got a serious quest on your hands,” Greg said.
“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Mike added.
“I know,” Vice Roid answered. “I’ve never felt a weight like this on my shoulders. It’s strange. It’s heavier than anything I’ve ever squatted, but it’s also oddly… light.”
Albert smiled wistfully as he eased his spinning discs of dough down to the flour-laden countertop. “Makes sense. You’ve got a purpose, something you want to fulfill.”
“A purpose, huh?” Vice Roid lifted his head, meeting the old man’s amber eyes.
“Yep,” Albert grunted. He dipped a brush into a red sauce and continued prepping the pizzas. “Having a purpose helps us feel alive. It gives us something to work for. You probably felt it before, lifting weights, right?”
Vice Roid considered. Had he ever felt a purpose before? For as long as he could remember, he lifted because it was just… what he did. It was who he was. Was a purpose something more than that?
But he had had a purpose, hadn’t he? When he was young. When he was skinny and frail and poor and weak. When he just wanted to be strong, at any cost. That purpose was still there, just different.
“I think I know what you mean.”
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Strength wasn’t just defined by how much you could lift. There was so much more to it, wasn’t there?
“I can see that. You’ve got a fire in your eyes. I wouldn’t want to get between you and your purpose, eh?” Albert smirked.
“You look like Doot did when he found out that all the other Cosmic Custodians were captured and it was up to him to save the universe,” Greg said in awe.
“Or, when Doot was learning how to walk on his own two roots for the first time,” Mike added, wiping a tear from his eye.
“I can do this, can’t I?” Vice Roid said, building up his confidence. “I can bring my friends pizza and pancakes. They’re relying on me.”
Mike gave Vice a friendly elbow and winced. It was like elbowing solid steel. “Say it with me, buddy.”
“Say what?”
“Say, ‘I will not let them down.’”
“I will–” Vice hesitated, stumbling over his words. “I will not let them down.”
“Again.”
“I will not let them down.”
“Again!”
“I WILL NOT LET THEM DOWN!” Vice bellowed. The pizzeria shook, resonating with the big man’s words, with his purpose.
“Greg,” Mike said in a low whisper. “I’ve got goosebumps.”
“Me, too, man.”
Albert, starting to add a wide assortment of toppings to the pizzas, leaned over the counter. “Vice, you’re going to go on to do great things. I can feel it. Your friends are lucky to have a guy like you at their backs.”
Vice Roid let a smile cross his face. It felt so good to smile.
So, this is what it means to be friends.
“Give me a few minutes here. I’ll finish whipping up your pizzas, box them up, and put together a stack of pancakes. Let’s not keep your friends waiting, alright?”
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THEN.
13 minutes before Trey arrived at New City Casino…
Vice Roid left the shop with two massive pizza boxes, another box full of pancakes, and a few milkshakes for good measure. The pep in his step remained as he happily sauntered down the lively New City street toward the spotlights that marked the casino’s location. Mike and Greg headed toward the opposite direction, into New City’s Nexus, to try to get some sleep.
On the rooftops, two people watched from behind a chimney. One was part cheetah, the other was a hairy brute that was, surprisingly, 100% human. Seeing the happiness in their old supervisor’s gait, they turned to each other and smiled.
“Bro,” Cheetah said to Stew. “Should we let bygones be bygones?”
“Yeah, Cheetah,” Stew replied. “There are more important things in life than arguing about how much you cheat at cards.”
Cheetah gave the hairy man a sharp-toothed grin, “I’m going to act like you didn’t say that.”
“Hold on,” Stew frowned. He tapped Cheetah’s shoulder, pointed at the street, then said in a low whisper tinged with a sprinkle of fear, “Is that what I think it is?”
Something in a trench coat stood before an alleyway. Despite how it seemed to be trying to appear as a human, its joints were angular and the way it shifted with a stiff, almost hydraulic movement gave it away as something else. It waved a gloved hand into the darkness, then jabbed a finger at King Albert’s Pizzeria.
Another figure stepped out, wearing an identical trench coat. Then another, and another, until the sidewalk was bristling with them, like a wanna-be detective conference.
“It can’t be,” Cheetah Brains hissed back.
“It is. That’s one of Dr. Hugo Hugo’s special armies. The Trench Coat Troopers.”
“What are they doing here?” Cheetah asked.
“Don’ know.”
“Stew, you remember how I have all these extra lives?”
“’Course. I even took one of them.”
Cheetah grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I can still feel that burning meatball searing into my skin. I can still smell my hair as you set it on fire. And that suit… I miss that suit.”
“It was a good suit.”
“Anyway, I’ve got four lives left. They’re enough for me to hold onto my [Feline Danger Sense]. And my gut, Stew, is telling me that Vice Roid isn’t safe.”
“You think the Trench Coat Troopers will go after him?”
“Yeah.”
Stew grumbled, then clenched his fists. “Alright. Then let’s go protect our bro.”
“Let’s show him that we’re not just his underlings. We’re his friends, too.”
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THEN.
9 minutes before Trey arrived at New City Casino…
The door to King Albert’s Pizzeria opened with a DING. Albert looked up, chef’s hat folded in his hands, as he prepared to put away his leftover ingredients.
Should’ve locked the door. I know better than that.
“WE ARE HERE. FOR PIZZA,” a figure in a trench coat said. Its voice and pitch were monotone. Something glinted from underneath its garments. A knife? A spoon? Albert wasn’t sure if it was dangerous. Some folks around these parts, especially late at night, got real demanding about their pizza.
“Sorry, friend,” Albert said, putting up his apron. “We’re closed for the night. I’m sold out.”
“ERROR,” the figure stated. “WE ARE. HERE. FOR PIZZA.”
The old man carefully set down his chef’s hat, making sure each of his hands were free. He might need them both, if it came down to self-defense. He kept an uzi underneath the counter, right by the cash register, and he began inching his way toward it.
“Easy. I told you. I sold my last pizzas. I won’t be able to make more until after I buy ingredients tomorrow.”
“UNACCEPTABLE.”
They must be robots. They sound exactly like robots.
The thing in the trench coat stepped into the middle of the shop, one boot on a white tile, the other on a red one. Fifteen identical copies shuffled inside after it, along with fifteen DINGs of the doorbell.
Meanwhile, Albert had made it to the cash register. He rested one hand on his uzi and put the other hand up to try to diffuse the situation.
Well, this isn’t looking good. I’ve only got 20 rounds. Maybe I should’ve splurged for the extended mag.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble in my pizzeria. Can you come back tomorrow? I’ll throw in a few garlic knots, free of charge.”
“UNACCEPTABLE.”
What are they carrying under their trench coats?
He searched his mind for an answer, for a compromise. He eyed the bowl of batter beside the stove top.
“Could I interest you in some pancakes instead?”
Everyone likes pancakes, right?
“PANCAKES?”
“You know, fluffy, tasty pancakes. I’ve got a good maple syrup here, too. I sometimes use it to sweeten up my bacon.”
The figures in the trench coats vibrated, as if they were doing some kind of complex calculation. Albert watched steam start to stream from one of the robot’s shrouded heads. It collapsed to the floor a moment later.
“THIS IS. A DIFFICULT PROBLEM. HUMAN.”
Is this the answer? Albert thought, letting go of his uzi and walking to the stove.
“PANCAKES. OR. YOUR DEATH.”
“Let’s not go that far,” the old man said hastily, reaching back for his gun. “Pancakes first. I’ll make you all pancakes, okay?”
“ACCEPTABLE,” the trench coat figures said in unison. They made their way to the three booths against the wall. Most of them took seats. A few awkwardly stood around. The one that overheated remained on the floor, steaming.
“WE HAVE. DECIDED TO LET. YOU LIVE. HOWEVER. WE MUST KNOW. WHO PURCHASED YOUR LAST PIZZA. TELL US.”
Albert gulped. “My customers have a right to privacy.”
“AND YOU. HAVE. A RIGHT. TO DIE,” the robot answered.
Slowly, it opened its trench coat. A very, very small part of Albert’s mind–perhaps the smoothest part–expected to see an assortment of fraudulent watches, each with a different price tag. What he saw, though, was far worse.
Four additional arms were clenched tightly around the robot’s steel torso. They were curling outward by the second, preparing for violence. Each arm held in its hand a sword that glistened with bloodlust and forged intensity, that screamed danger and destruction.
Albert realized he’d frozen in place. Before he knew it, a blade, sharper than the corner of a MEGO, was pressed against his neck, pricking his skin, and drawing blood.
I’m sorry, Vice Roid. I’ve got to tell them. I’m not ready to die.
“Okay,” the old man said, trying not to breathe, trying to keep his neck perfectly still. “I’ll tell you.”
“AND THEN. YOU’LL GIVE US. PANCAKES?”
Holy juice boxes. I’m closing for a week after this.
“Yes, and I’ll also make you pancakes.”
“ACCEPTABLE. TELL US.”
“It was a big guy. Tall. Broad. Looked a little like Doot, if you know who that is…”
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THEN.
5 minutes before Trey arrived at New City Casino…
“Rose, are you telling me that King Albert’s sold out of their pizza?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to direct your forces to another restaurant?”
“He’s the King, Rose. Once you’ve tried Albert’s pizza, there just isn’t another pizza out there.”
“I do not understand,” the little MEGO-and-wire golem said.
The bleachers were finished. They were packed with robots of all shapes and sizes. They surrounded a single styling chair in the middle of the street.
Dr. Hugo Hugo sat in the chair, eyes closed in frustration, hair wet. His stylist behind him tentatively holding a pair of scissors.
“I need that pizza,” the scientist frowned.
“There is still hope. Perhaps the last customer has not eaten his pizza yet.”
“Perhaps.”
“Am I sensing violence?” the bloodthirsty golem chirped.
Dr. Hugo Hugo didn’t need to consider this time. There was only one real option.
“Yes. Violence is the answer. Get me that pizza at any cost. Send in the Trench Coat Troopers. Call in whatever ninja luchadores we have left on surveillance duty. I’m giving the kill order. Make sure they don’t harm the pizza.”
“Understood.”
The hairdresser looked around, uncertain. “Should I, uh, continue?”
“Please,” Dr. Hugo Hugo said. “I can’t wait to see what I look like after all these years.”
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NOW.
In the rear-most backroom behind New City Casino’s hidden hallway, three people played poker around a green-felt table: Captain Corrosion, Mayor Wanton, and the Bishop. The other players, including the Treasurer, were out. They were slumped over in their chairs, emaciated husks of who they were now that their tokens–pieces of their souls–were all part of the pot.
They had nothing left to give.
Sweat beaded on the edges of Mayor Wanton’s mustache. If this was one of his movies, he’d have found a way out by now. Fired a pistol under the table, maybe, or challenged Captain Corrosion to a competition of who could drink the most whiskey. But he had to face the facts: he wasn’t a real cowboy.
Still, there was one thing Wanton knew from his acting career–a cowboy never won by playing defense. You didn’t come out on top of a sunset duel in a dusty street by dodging bullets.
You shot first.
Still, the Mayor only had seven chips remaining. Seven, people said, was a lucky number. But he couldn’t help but feel that his luck had turned and that things were only going to get worse. He risked a worried glance at the Bishop. He had nine chips left. They’d been trying to work together to stay in the game, but poker wasn’t exactly made to play as a team.
How can we turn this around? How can we catch that damned pirate off-guard?
At the other end of the table, the dealer was terrified. Her hands shook as she passed out another round of cards, as she tried not to fumble another shuffle. If she concentrated, she could just barely hear the sound of fighting outside, the sound of the building breaking and collapsing, and the sound of people screaming. The noises were distant, as if they belonged to another timeline, another reality.
It felt like that, too, with the massive rust-orange semi-opaque dome that surrounded the poker table in a protective cage.
For his part, Captain Corrosion was sitting comfortably. He had one boot kicked up on the table, and it continued to pour out an endless stream of salt water. He wondered just how long would it take the barrier he’d set up when the game had begun in earnest to fill up. How long would it take for the Mayor, the Bishop, and the dealer to realize that their time was slowly disappearing?
Captain Corrosion was excited to find out. He couldn’t stop grinning his barnacle-and-algae-toothed grin–especially as he eyed his winnings. Only a few more souls and he’d claim the soul of New City–not just its leaders–for the big boss.
That would be something worthy of a reward, wouldn’t it?
But then again… he did miss the sea. The real question was whether the reward would be worth the time he and his crew spent here on land.
He’d have to make sure to catch Beetlebub in a generous mood.