Burney screamed.
“Yes, Burney, it’s too late to get the tank back,” Steve replied. “And we don’t need it. We’re not going to have any collateral damage.”
“It never hurts to ask,” Gore said.
“So what’s the plan, Steve? You’re not going to scare off a group that big with just Burney running around screaming. And there’s no way my bunnies can survive a frontal assault against a fully-armed company of battle angels,” Dawn noted.
The bunnies seemed visibly relieved at this decision.
“All I need is to get to the counter and get a sandwich. This is a bistro in the heart of New Orleans. Odds are definitely good that it’ll be a good sandwich.”
“I could summon the First Regiment of the Bane of Mankind’s Hubris again,” Gore offered.
“Children don’t like getting eaten alive by dragons, Gore.”
“This statement is open to debate.”
“A diversion then,” Dawn said.
“The brewery has a front and back entrance. The front has the most people at it. And angels.”
“There’s a few hipsters out front by the bike rack. Can we count them as acceptable collateral damage?” Gore asked.
“No, Gore, even hipsters deserve life, but thank you for asking. I need each of you to help punch through the wall of angels, distract them long enough for me to get a sandwich, and then run like the blazes once I get in and out.”
Steve checked the setting sun. “Are you all in?” he asked.
Burney screamed.
“I disagree with you about the idea that hipsters deserve life, but I am willing to make this one last thrust on your behalf, half-demon Steve,” Gore said, ceremoniously planting his sword in the ground.
“To the end of days,” Dawn said with a smile. “So what are you going to do?”
“How many more bunnies can you summon?” Steve asked.
If the forty angels a block distant had noticed the four creatures from hell, they hadn’t made any movements away from their posts. This phalanx of angels made a half-circle around the front and back entrances of the rectangular building. They stood resolute, round-edged tower shields bearing the chi rho sigil held firmly in an overlapping, golden barrier. Some fluttered their wings, or adjusted their grips on their white and gold-tipped spears.
The wall of angels ignored the excitement of the children getting free food behind them, and focused their attention on outside threats. At first, when they saw another fifteen thousand bunnies being called into existence along the boardwalk, they found it mildly curious, if not amusing. When the dark Lord Gore sat upon these bunnies in the center of a condensing circle of fur and raise his sword like a lance, the angels found it incredibly amusing. They even made jokes about how many bunnies they thought was necessary to support the weight of a hell knight.
Turns out the number was seven hundred eighty-two. Close to a hundred were crushed under Gore’s buttocks when he initially sat down on this mount of a thousand-score bunnies. But once the bunnies had gathered into as tight a space as physically possible, they were able to support Gore and pile atop one another. It looked like Gore was sitting on the most adorable multi-legged insect imaginable.
When Gore mounted the bunnies, the angels laughed. When Gore held his sword and shouted, “Despair for your pathetic wills, ye creatures of heaven, for your time has come! I, the Dark Lord Gore, shall devour you in fire and brimstone the likes of which shall scar your miniscule capacity for consciousness until the breaking of the sun!” they thought it mildly humorous. They thought it especially funny when Gore spurred the bunnies to charge.
The sight of the hell knight riding a wave of bunnies made the angels laugh. When Burney lay down on top of the pile of charging bunnies and set the giant mass on fire, the angels gulped.
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Twenty thousand bunnies burst into flames around the black armor of the sword-swinging hell knight. Like a burning arrow shot from the most twisted archer in the history of mankind, Gore sped the burning bunnies in a head-long assault straight at the angels guarding the front door of the Jackson Brewery restaurant.
Perhaps if it had been just bunnies charging, or just burning bunnies charging, or just Gore roaring his unholy threats, the mass of people and angels would not have given notice. When the hundreds of children and people saw Gore roaring inside a ball of running fire, all grasps of reality and bowel control left the mortals who dared to gaze upon such an abomination.
The children screamed. The adults grabbed the children and ran. The police officers stood their ground and fired pistols. But when their bullets ricocheted off Gore’s armor and failed to do more damage to the bunnies than the fire was already doing, they too fell back.
Only the angels stood their ground, and closed ranks with spears at the ready. They saw the burning mass of bunny and demon heading their way, and held their shields ready for the strike.
“Hold this for me!” Gore roared, and hurled his sword like a javelin at the front row of angels. The angel at the center held up his shield and braced, and Gore’s sword stuck into his shield with a deep twanging sound. The angel had absorbed the blow unharmed, but had been forced to take the slightest step backward, opening a gap just big enough for a small mammal to pass between the lines.
“Thank you!” Gore shouted, and plucked his sword from the angel’s shield while the horde of burning bunnies leapt on top of the angels and poured through the gaps in their line. Like a river of screaming, somewhat-cute lava, the bunnies flowed into the angelic phalanx. Biting and clawing and trying desperately to crawl inside the angels’ armor to seek solace from the flames, the bunnies swarmed all around the angels and forced them to break formation.
And as Gore struck angel after angel upon the head with his sword of fury and despair, he sang with a bellowing tone that echoed far and above the sounds of battle, “One little, two little three little Indians.” Gore struck an angel trying to reform the wall of shields. “Four little, five little, six little Indians.”
Gore tore a shield from the hands of an angel. The angel had been screaming from having a hundred burning rabbits claw at his eyes. He stopped screaming when Gore shattered his shield on his head.
“Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians,” Gore sang, and deflected a spear thrust with a twist of his blade, kicking the attacking angel between his legs. With a strike of unholy fury, Gore drove his black-flamed sword into the ground, the shockwave bursting skyward angels and burning bunnies alike. “Ten little Indian boys!”
The blast formed a ten-foot crater around Gore, and angels and bunny corpses rained down around him.
“That song isn’t PC, Gore!” Dawn said.
“I am not PC!” Gore declared with his sword held high.
The angels were regrouping, and gathered together to swarm Gore. Into the crater they charged, encircling Gore with spears. Gore stood in the middle and soon became a swirling black dot in a white-winged cloud. But Gore had done the trick, and the back entrance to the restaurant was completely unguarded.
“That’s the last of the Daves!” Dawn said as she, Burney, and Steve ran toward the back entrance. Dawn tossed a couple bunnies to join their burning brethren in cannon-fodder glory, looking a little weary for the effort.
Burney screamed.
“I don’t think we have time to get you a beer, Burney,” Steve said as he reached the short, wooden staircase that led to the back end of the restaurant. “You guys stay here and guard this door.”
Burney screamed again.
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think they normally put extra mayo on sandwiches, and I’m not making a special order.”
Dawn rested at the threshold of the restaurant while Burney stood guard. The sounds of Gore doing battle with the angels continued to rage outside the brewery, and Steve tried not to think about what odds Gore was facing as he ran toward the front of the restaurant.
The Jackson Brewery restaurant was a classy, well-aged establishment. Stained wood-paneled walls and thick leather chairs reminded patrons that this locale had served food and drink for generations. A few burning bunnies were making their way through the front door to try and drown their pain in unattended water glasses and liquor bottles, but this was a relatively minor risk on most occasions.
What staff had not been frightened away when Gore led his burning bunny charge now stood by the front door. Armed with brooms and old wooden barstools, the wait staff and cooks fought to keep more burning bunnies from getting inside, when Steve rushed up from behind them. Steve stuck his fingers between his teeth and let out a fierce whistle.
Frozen with shock, the wait staff and cooks turned toward Steve.
“One sandwich please. To go,” Steve said, and tilted his hat, smiling at the staff.
“Extra mayo?” Jack the angel asked.
A long wooden bar ran the length of the restaurant. It started right at the front door, and made an L-shape that stretched along the back wall. Behind this age-stained bar were the beer taps. The grills and entrée-preparing implements were also hidden behind this wooden barrier.
There Jack stood on the other side of the bar. He held a paper-wrapped sandwich, all made up and ready to go, and tossed it on the grill. The grill was an open flame gas grill capable of preparing the finest of dishes. But dishes were not piled on the grill. No less than fifty sandwiches lay on the burners, the last of which went up in flames when Jack tossed it like a twig to a fire.
“You’re not the only one who can use fire, Stevey-boy,” Jack laughed as the last of the unclaimed sandwiches in New Orleans turned to ash.