The mineral Rottweiler licked the head that had just became lodged into his parcel of limestone. He had never licked a head before, or anything for that matter, but Cutbastra’s struggling as he tried to pluck himself out of the cavern’s ceiling gave him the wiggle room he needed to lick a head in the crown. This mineral dog would relish this experience for the remainder of eternity.
An inverted carrot, Cutbastra finally dislodged himself from the stone, just to see Crusadina readying a ballista loaded with a fat, sharp stalagmite. Cutbastra wondered how he knew it was a stalagmite and not a stalactite. Probably the proportions.
The tension of the weapon’s rope, released, and Cutbastra, trapped between the thick stalactites of the ceiling, had to think fast. He summoned his dimensional orb and pointed the opening of it at the projectile. Then, he closed his eyes and braced for impact. The speleothem penetrated with ease into the orb, and entered it as if lubed, without major fanfare. It looked like a tennis ball of particular radiance had swallowed the earthly lance, and the lack of an hearty burp afterwards made both combatants feel a bit of discomfort.
Of course, for Crusadina, the main feeling was disbelief. “You stole my fucking attack.”
“In the lands of the south raised and born, gal!”
Cutbastra kicked the celling to propel himself downwards, aiming for Crusadina with an extended fist infused with the power of a thousand divorce hearings. Crusadina reeled her fist in and pictured a battering ram capable of pounding down the gates of the sun. as much sense as that made. And her spirit heed her deranged idea, providing her punch with the oomph necessary to counter Cutbastra’s.
The clash of fists sent a wave coursing through the cave and the mountain above and below. It made stalactites rain from the roofs, autochthonous lifeforms to finally give a fuck about anything besides evolving into blinder lifeforms, and the mineral Rottweilers to howl in pain. A lightning bolt born from Cutbastra’s home-wrecking soul struck a couple of blind albino sirens that were hypermonogamous: They had been together for eighty-three reincarnations in a row, and sook each other on each of their lives, even if the gods had decided to mess with them by incarnating one into the prey of the other, even if they were on different continents and one life wasn’t enough to find their love again. And yet, after being exposed to Cutbastra’s aura, both instantly began searching for opportunities to cheat on their soulmate.
Crusadina gritted her teeth and pushed, her little feet digging into the wet stone like Cutbastra’s dug into thin air. Cutbastra did the same, hardening the air over his feet to have a better support.
“You are losing this one, she is too powerful. You need my help,” the voice spoke yet again.
“No, if you get out, you are going to abuse thousands. Millions, even. I am not a slave of the Road I walk.” He answered in his mind, sweating, trembling and getting slightly scare at Crusadina’s smug smile.
“And if you don’t, you die, and the illegal holes of madness destroy the world.”
Cutbastra mentally sighed. “Why do you refer to a child like that?”
“I believe a girl that wants to destroy the world deserves the misogyny. Just a little, you know.”
He was despicable. Everything Cutbastra hated about his Road, embodied by that greasy, fat avatar. Not even to save his life he would let him out. But the world? The world was worth unleashing such supreme evil.
Cutbastra used the last of his strength to break the clash, and jump away, boncing against the roof to return to the ground. “Girl, you are amazing. You are, perhaps, the most talented cultivator who will ever live,” he said, fixing a bang of his golden hair because no conflict inside a wet dirty cave excused looking scruffy. Not as long as he was himself, anyway. He sidestepped in a hurry to avoid a ballista bolt from giving him a haircut a la late 18th century France. “But your road ends today, Crusadina.”
Cutbastra closed his lips, and yet the shine lingered in hope of seeing him smile again. Yet smile he wouldn’t. “You are free, cunt!”
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The cucktivator buckled as Crusadina, confused, scratched the side of her head.
Something seemed to bubble under Cutbastr’as skin, it was as if the floodgates on his bones had opened and let the grease demons well from deep within. His chiseled abs disappeared under waves of shapeless, ugly blubber. His untainted, glittering skin sprouted black, thick hairs and spawned ugly freckles, moles and darkened spots. His golden mane waned, threads of the morning sun falling down as the balding spot grew atop his head and his hairline receded.
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Stashed in a hollowed trunk far away, Oracle jerked awake from his nap. “I either left the oven on or Cutbastra is letting Him out. And I sold my oven last month because I always burned my snout trying to turn it on. Shit!”
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Crusadina heard the frantic screams of quintillions of photons as they flew in horror from the cave, leaving them blind in the tenebrous cavern. And while her eyes couldn’t see, Crusadina still could make out the form of the man in front of her, his body odor assaulting her nostrils, painting an image with unnatural definition.
“Come, darling, come to papa FUB,” the possessed Cutbastra called, wiggling a greasy finger. Crusadina conjured her wings of fire and her jaw fell when, under the dim warm light of fire, the image of the man got burned onto her retina.
Katie cried aloud inside Crusadina’s head. This wasn’t a wall. This was death personified, and it had come for them. Crusadina needed to flee, now!
Whenever she turned his image was still there. She inhaled and exhaled fire born from the friction her distressed breathing caused. The cold cave was to her as scorching as the desert.
Crying and babbling nonsense she tried to fly away, and began clawing and eating her way out of the ceiling, through rock and Rottweilers alike. The Rottweilers, of course, took exception to this, but didn’t bite back because they just trusted she would come across a vein of asbestos sooner or later. A powerful thing, a Rottweiler’s faith in mineral friends.
“Mom! save me, mom, mom!” Crusadina cried out, practically unaware of what she was spouting as she drilled through solid layers of rock.
She emerged on the mountain side, and got blinded by the evening sun, and then, bu a fat hand grabbing her face.
“What do we have here?” said the possessed Cutbastra. “An exotic tuber.”
Crusadina tried to bite against his hand, and scratched it, and tried to use her vital energy to repel his foul spirit, but it was all in vain Like graphite trying to scratch diamonds, her efforts made no dent onto the cucktivator’s final form.
She manifested a little ballista on her left arm, that had been healed by her multiple breakthroughs since then, and shoot it against her captor’s expanded stomach. But before even touching the greasy surface, the bolt nopped, making a U-turn and hitting Crusadinas leg instead, piercing through it, through the skin, muscle, tendons and bones it found in its way, leaving a dangling mound of bleeding meat that somewhat resembled a girl’s leg.
Crusadina didn’t scream from the pain, she just stared at her leg, bewildered, as though an alien limb had just sprouted from her petite body. “What the Fenestration of Uncircumcised Canine K9s?” she uttered, elucidating the true etymology of the word thanks to a fortuitous epiphany.
“Hey, lil girl, have you heard of Jim?” Fatugbastra asked, grinning, revealing his teeth, so yellow that he had learned to not smile in the presence of gold diggers.
“No…” Crusadina let out a pathetic whimper.
“Then kneel down and meet him!”[1]
Fatugbastra drove his gnarly knee into Crusadina’s tender abdomen, causing her to puke out a load of gunpowder mixed with blood and choccy milk all over the cucktivator’s wide figure.
He launched her against a nearby boulder, making a Crusadina-shaped dent on it. A high quality boulder, no doubt.
“Did you drink chocolate milk before the battle?”
“No,” She told the truth as she scrambled for footing.
That made Fatugbastra stop in his tracks. “Why do you bleed chocolate milk?”
“My family hails from a land where lactose-intolerant vampire dogs used to terrorize the population, until we began producing intravenous chocolate milk when under stress,” Crusadina explained, standing in only one leg, leaning against the boulder for support.
Crusadina froze in place as the man began charging. She was hurt, unable to concentrate, to keep her head cool for the fight.
“A pleasure meeting you, Crusadina of the intravenous cocchy milk.” Fatugbastra said, and then , despite Crusadina’s guard on both sides of her head, he drove his fists like a press, turning her into a fountain of blood, gunpowder and chocolate milk that splattered on his figure from the spot where her head used to be. “Well, now I am free to do whatever I want until you regain control, Cutbastra. How many wives can we break, other me?” He said, kicking Crusadina’s headless body down the mountainside, watching with glee how it became undone against the sharp rocks.
And deep down inside his own psyche, Cutbastra wept. The continued existence of the world was worth this pyrrhic victory, but it didn’t make it any less aberrant.
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[1] Adaptation of the greatest piece of Spanish literature ever written: the joke about Marcelo.