Heavens above. Bob knew that face. He barked out a short laugh, a broken, wretched sound.

"Of course, of course, of course, of course. It was so obvious, so bleeding obvious."

It was his fault. Yes, not fate, or some malevolent god, not the brilliance of the enemies, but his own foolishness. A hero must be defeated by his own flaw.

"I should have known. I ought to have figured it out. A child might have seen it."

The signs had all been there. Plain as plain. He looked at the dog. He'd blundered this time. He'd blundered bad. Death was leaning on the edge of his seat and rubbing his hands.

On the other side of the funnel, glaring across the corridor, eyes boring into Bob, was... a... beetle. Of course it was a beetle. This was beetle country. Bob hadn't seen a non-beetle for hours and hours. And yet, it wasn't just any beetle either. It was a familiar beetle. An old acquaintance, come to pay his respects. A beetle, yes, but not one of those badger-sized, tame and cuddly Kriegskäfer, who maxed out at level 6. No, if only... At the mouth of the funnel stood the beetles' older brother, their guardian demon-beetle, a level 9 Panzerkäfer, the size of small lorry, neon green with a pearly white three-foot horn. Hello again.

Now that you mention it, look at that familial resemblance. They were peas in a pod. It's not everyday you see giant, horned beetles wandering around. Yes, now that you mention it, it makes a lot of sense for a giant horned beetle to be living in the giant horned beetle city. The city, Bob had boldy decided to sack, yes. Bully the weak and get bullied by the strong.

"God dammit," Bob cursed.

"God dammit," Bob repeated for emphasis, "just when things were starting to go my way, a fricking tank-beetle has to waddle up and shit all over my plans."

He gesticulated at the outrageous animal, "that monster should be illegal. Look at me. Look at me. I'm a human. I'm five foot ten and weigh about 75 kilos. My power is to splash mud around. Splash, splash, how does the mud feel on your back, cool on a hot afternoon, isn't it? No, no, you're most welcome, any time, any time."

Bob spat on the ground.

"Look at that thing. Look at it. It's bigger than a house and with a horn that would glide through plate-mail. How am I supposed to fight that, period? And trapped in an exitless bunker with a comatose dog. Dammit, dammit, dammit all."

The Panzerkäfer, ignoring all rules of decorum, decided to jump the challenger queue and rashly push its way into the funnel. The operation was complicated by the fact that the beetle was wider and taller than the funnel entrance. But the old boy decided he wasn't going to worry about these minor trifles.

Bob's bunker was held together by nothing more than gravity. The walls were heavy. Plenty heavy enough to prevent a badger-sized animal from knocking it over. The tank-beetle was another story. First the roof popped up as the beetle slide its head underneath. Next the funnel walls started to skid backwards. The skidding turned into toppling. The toppling into falling. Alas, alas, for the hero of the siege, for the majesty funnel, you who served your master admirably.

Now, it's a crying shame, but if you recall the design of the structure, you'll remember that the funnel walls were nestled into two vertical walls that formed the sides of Bob's little chamber. The arrangement meant that when the funnel walls started to fall, they fell straight into the walls of the room, starting those walls on their own swift and loud descent to the ground.

I mean really, who designed this piece of shit? Any idiot knows not to leave a single point of failure. The bunker unfolded like a beautiful orchestrated Christmas present. Bob watched his stronghold crumble down around him with a profound sense of helplessness. Unveiled by the falling walls were lines and lines of beetles. There was no escape.

Bob started to back away from the tank-beetle that had savaged his fortress. He backed right up into the back wall. Trapped. The back wall had miraculously survived, since both side walls had fallen outwards. It was probably for the best, because otherwise the ceiling would have crashed down on top of them. Right now said ceiling was balanced precariously between the back wall and the tank-beetle's head.

"Bob, what do you say to a plan? Don't you think it'd be good to have a plan? You know a strategy. Some smart way to get out of this mess."

"Really Bob, really? You don't say. A plan, Jesus, wow, a plan, you know the idea had never crossed my mind. That's a great idea."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The tank-beetle took a step forward.

"The beetle's coming Bob."

"I can see that."

"Why don't you do something about it Bob?"

"Shut up!"

"Very well," Bob stuttered; ahem, ahem, he coughed into his hand.

"Good. Thank you. You're welcome. Sorry. What was I saying?"

Bob snapped his fingers. "So I take it you've finally accepted my challenge. Splendid. I don't know why things had to get so unfriendly, it was the very first thing I said. Ask them," Bob motioned offhandedly to the surrounding beetles, "ask any one of them, what did I say, what was the very first thing I said, 'bring out your champion.' Word for word. From the very beginning, all I wanted was an honorable duel. Cross my heart."

Bob had found his voice; his delivery grew more impassioned; it took on a keener edge; it wore the colors of justified outrage.

"An honorable duel I say. Honorable! And what did your companions do? The shame."

He gestured an accusatory finger at the beetles and hissed.

"Just think, noble sir. They ambushed me and my knight. Twenty against two, sir. Can you believe it? An absolute disgrace. We defended ourselves as any honest man might. Can we really be held culpable for striking back, when we, humble, peaceful, travelers were shamelessly waylaid at the gates of your city."

Could the tank-beetle understand a word he was saying? The beetles were an intelligent, city-building species of insects, so probably not. Did beetles even have ears? They'd communicated by resonating their horns so most likely yes. Bob side-eyed the interloper. Hello there, somehow, the tank-beetle seemed to be getting the message. System shenanigans? Bilingual beetles? Was Bob speaking in tongues? Hell it hardly matters. The beetle was listening. That was enough. Bob had cast the line and he'd got a nipple. Now he just had to pull in his fish.

"Of course, I know very well that your subordinates acted without your knowledge and consent. A noble sir, like as yourself, could never have condoned such abominable behavior. And I do not hold you responsible for the mistakes of your lessers. But now that we have finally met face-to-face, man-to...-beetle, may we not still have friendly and noble dealings. I have come here for a battle of champions. A tradition sacred among warriors. I recognize a master of the blade when I see one standing before me. It would be my great honor to engage you in single-combat." Bob stepped forward and gave a courtly bow to the creature.

The tank-beetle seemed to consider for a moment. It was a long, long moment from Bob's perspective. And then it decided. With a causal flick of its neck, it threw off the ceiling wall and... stepped forward.

"Shit, shit, why didn't a modern education include rhetoric," Bob muttered to himself, gulping and wondering if he should even bother praying to the system.

The tank-beetle nodded its head.

"What?" Bob let out a startled ejaculation. He cleared his throat. "Very good sir. Very good. I knew I could count on your chivalry. Let us make the circle. And please, do warn your companions not to interfere. Let us have a clean and honorable duel. I will give my companion likewise instructions."

The massive beetle unfolded its enormous wings and buzzed them at the assembled insects. Somehow that communicated the situation unambiguously, because all the beetles backed up ten paces and rearranged themselves into a perfect circle, centered on Bob and the monster. Bob picked up George, bed and all, and carried him to the far side of the circle, in the direction closest to the grassland. He laid the dog down and whispered into his ear: "George, the second you can manage it. I need you to jump up and flamethrower down the fat one. You got that?" The dog nodded weakly.

So they had a plan, half a plan, a quarter-plan. They were quite a few details missing. How was Bob going to survive going head-to-head with the beetle demon? What if George missed his attack? What if George landed his attack but the beetle tanked it? What would the remaining beetles do when they saw Bob shamelessly violate the rules of single-combat? What would Bob eat for the dinner tonight?

Bob walked back to the center of the circle. He walked slowly, like maddeningly slowly. If he could just stall for time. What could he say that would interest a mini-van sized beetle? What were beetles interested in? Grass? Nightlife? Music? Horn enlargement? No, that would probably be insensitive. Something more benign. Small talk.

I've got it. What about the weather? Everybody loves talking about the weather. Bob spoke up, "I hear it's going to rain tonight."

No answer, so Bob continued, tell them about yourself and they'll tell you about themselves.

"I kinda like the rain. It's soothing to sit indoors by a warm fire, and just listen to the rain falling down, don't you think?"

Bob facepalmed. What the fuck was he saying? He'd literally burned down their whole city. Yes, why don't you poor beetles go and sit in the ashes of your former homes and weep as the rain beats down on you. Nope, nope, he needed to shut up. Small talk was a bloody mine-field. There's a reason he had a dog and not a girlfriend.

"So how do you want to start this thing? I think a countdown is pretty traditional. Everybody loves a good countdown. What about from 100? 3 is just not enough time to get yourself gunned up, you know. Should I do it? I'll do it. You want me to? Okay, okay, here we go: one hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight—"

The beetle rose up on its hind-legs, clattered its mandibles together and beat its wings. The gust of air knocked Bob clean off his feet and backwards into the mud. The gallery started to drum their horns.

That war music was really unsettling. It made the whole thing seem like a hunt.

"Was that 'go'? Can we try again? I wasn't quite ready."

Bob rolled over as a white horn stabbed into the space where he'd been lying.

"Really I wasn't ready. I need just a bit more time. A minute. Thirty seconds."

Bob jumped as the horn swept towards his legs. He shook his head and asked himself for the thousandth time: where have all the reasonable people gone?