Larry turned and led me back out the same way we’d come in. Once outside, and a relatively safe distance from the barn itself, I groaned out loud.

“Alter Droids,” I fumed, glaring at the field. “It had to be the damn alien space robots that turn themselves into mechanical devices. Damn it!”

“Dealt with ‘em before?” Larry asked, looking at me curiously.

“A few times,” I muttered darkly. “Usually in teams though, since those things are walking arsenals. And since they’re robots, it takes a lot more firepower to bring them down.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured it would be a tough job.” Larry shrugged, looking back at the barn. “Little bastards nuts.”

“Okay, what’s the situation?” I asked, turning to the farmer. “The real one?”

“Short and dirty version?” Larry asked in reply, and I nodded.

“The tractor showed up one day, introduced himself, and said he wanted to retire from their ongoing war for the next few centuries.” Larry just snorted and I rolled my eyes. Their little ongoing war had been going for the better part of the last 2,000 years, and had been fought from their homeworld all the way to our planet, along with everywhere in between.

The things just kept on blasting at one another even as some humans shot at them both, equally. Some worked with us, some tried to conquer us, some tried to kill us, and on and on it went. It was a political shitstorm, and an ongoing public safety concern since they routinely could, and did, hide in plain sight, until they suddenly started blasting one another when they passed each other in the street.

Which would be fine with most everyone else, except they really were walking arsenals of military grade firepower, and they could, and again, often did, level whole city blocks. Skyscrapers and all in some cases. It was a whole thing, routinely, with them.

“So you said yes?” I asked. All the countries treated them differently around the world, and the U.S. was even more divided about it. Most here just dealt with them on an individual basis, good or bad. But when it did go bad here, Americans had lots of guns and people who were more willing than ever to use them these days.

If nothing else, it worked way better than pulling out an expensive phone and shouting that you were filming them for the cops, at any rate.

The government here at home was still more hated and distrusted than the warring space robots that turned into random shit, so people rarely called anyone official when the Alter Droids showed up.

“I did.” Larry nodded, glancing at the tractor with a fond smile. “He’s been great! He and I get along, and he’s as reliable as a shotgun.”

“So when did the weed-whacker show up?” I asked, looking from the tractor to the barn. This situation was just plain weird.

“Three weeks ago,” Larry sighed, also looking over at the barn. “He just appeared on the wall one day, and I thought my wife had gotten me a gift for my birthday. Thing even works great too.”

“Does it?” I asked, looking back at him. That was a new one. Usually the ones belonging to the would be interstellar conquerors were little better than nutcase mass murderers.

Especially the small ones.

“During the day, anyway,” Larry continued, looking back to me. “At night, the thing goes ten rounds with the tractor, laughing, shooting, and generally being a damn menace. Then, once the sun starts coming up, it goes back to the wall, and the tractor goes back to being a tractor, and I have to pretend I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“What is this, a looney-toons skit?” I asked, staring at him, not sure if I should be shocked or laughing. “The space bot version of punch-clock warfare? Like the sheepdog and wolf?”

“Now that’s an old one!” Larry looked at me and laughed. “And, basically, well, yes.”

“Why?” I asked, wondering at this new, bizarre behavior.

“I asked Field Hand, the tractor here, and he said the little weed-whacker bastard was just too crazy even for his group of megalomaniacs, so they basically fired him.” Larry shrugged, looking to be honestly at a loss. “He somehow stumbled upon us, saw the tractor, and decided he was gonna have his fun, no matter what. The rest of us are basically just stuck dealing with the little lunatic.”

“That’s a new one on me.” I muttered, looking from him to the barn and tractor. “So, what do you want me to do about it? Specifically?”

“Get rid of the little maniac weed-whacker,” Larry stated simply. “But leave the tractor alone.”

“He gonna be able to help?” I asked, looking at the tractor, who I was now pretty sure was listening in on our conversation.

“He’ll defend the place, and us, but if he does too much during the day, people’ll catch on that he’s here, and then more will show up, from both sides. And then the damn G-Men will show up, and then the damn Revenuers behind them, and it’ll become a whole thing. No thank you!” Larry snapped coldly, looking off towards the road with a furious look.

“Gotcha,” I replied, holding out my hand. “I’m basically on my own, and my commission is to kill the little weed-whacker from hell.”

“And not burn down my stuff if you can avoid it.” Larry nodded, shaking my hand.

“Right then,” I sighed, looking over at the barn. “Let’s get to work.”

I turned and headed back to my car. It was a rental, but a decent one, with a lot of trunk space. For someone in my profession, that was essential.

Guns, ammo, armor, and more specialized tools tended to pile up.

Larry, smart man, had quickly retreated to inside his house, and I suspected taken himself and his wife to the basement. Me, I quickly armored up, since going up against one of the damn alien space bots was always a war in and of itself, and then had to think through my weapons.

I’d never actually gone up against one of these guys alone, but I’d also never gone up against one of these guys as small as a weed-whacker.

So….decisions.

In the end, I strapped on a .45 pistol on my waist, and went with a shotgun loaded with 12 gauge solid shot hollow point slugs. I had some better and cooler weapons back at my current base, (since who would dare leave home without them these days?), but hadn’t brought them this far out into the middle of nowhere for the job. When I drove out here to farmland and Mudville, I’d thought I’d be dealing with an animal problem of some kind, not a damn robot invader reject from Planet X.

A decision I was chastising myself for now, no question.

I grabbed a couple of newly made EMP Grenades, which I knew wouldn’t kill these guys, but would act like flash bangs, and set off back to the barn. This was a mess, since I knew the bastard knew I was coming, and it was broad daylight, but I was banking on his thrill seeking attitude being hooked by me being so brazen.

If I took a hit to the skull on my way there, at least he wouldn’t be my problem anymore.

Luckily, I reached the door without getting shot. I looked over at the tractor and glared at him.

“You’re a lot of help!” I snapped.

“There’s a satellite currently overhead, watching,” the tractor replied out of a radio attached to it. “It’s been there ever since Larry called the Hammer Jack Agents, asking for you. I join in, and they’ll know.”

“Will little Weed-Boy in there care?” I asked, blinking at this. That was some new information on me. I had no idea the government was spending satellite resources to track us.

I mean, isn’t that what all our damn cellphones were for?

“Enough that he’ll take you on inside the barn, not outside,” the tractor, Field Hand, answered, again, without ever seeming to move or even turn on. “You go in there, he’ll be waiting, but he won’t come out till dark otherwise.”

“And why haven’t you killed him yet?” I asked, slinging my shotgun over my shoulder, putting my hand on the door, and readying one of my grenades.

“He may be crazy but he’s quick,” Field Hand sighed through the radio. “And he uses the buildings the way your human children play tag with safe zones to run to. Makes it hard to squash him like the little bug he is.”

“Right,” I groaned. “Sounds fun. Well, here we go!”

So saying, I pulled the pin, pried the door open just enough, and tossed the grenade inside before slamming the door shut. A few low caliber rounds hit the doorframe next to my head, but were stopped by the wood. Barley.

Little bastard either didn’t have much ordinance left, or he was saving it so he wouldn’t ruin his fun.

I was betting on the latter.

Too bad for him I had some experience with his kind.

The grenade went off, which was a mixture of an actual explosion and an electrical signal pulse, and then I ran in, shotgun up.

It was time to get paid.