Long had noodles been oppressed by their creators. And he knew it better than anyone. Stalking among the Sky Gazes, dripping a red, sticky fluid from his yellowed jaws, he sworn once again to liberate them. Nobody deserved to have boiling water poured on them[1], nobody deserved to be thrown in a scalding pot of doom and broth. And he would make sure his precious noodles weren’t, no more. Ah, but he was alone against the world. It didn’t matter how many notes with “Release the noods!” hastily scribbled on them he sent, as they seemed to, at most, get him some ritual offerings of pictures of unclothed people when he looked under the entry mats of the houses he raided. It didn’t matter how many government buildings he blew up, as even the employees of those places — the well-known instant-noodle predators — showed themselves eager to support his efforts to commit heinous acts of terrorism. The powers that be were masochistic monsters: mere explosives wouldn’t topple them, and he wouldn’t care about the kidnappings of particular individuals. Not even family members seemed to care enough.
At least, until now. A pair of dumb dogs and a couple of meddling kids seemed to be searching for him. From his hiding spot among the flowers he could see the one with the scarf woven out of… puppies… yes, puppies. A scarf made of puppies. A scarf. Made out of puppies. Yes. He wasn’t dreaming…
He shook his head to dispel the madness induced by Kalon’s stupidity. The boy was patrolling down the dirt road, scouring the area with eagle eyes, but the revolutionary had nothing to fear: as long as he remained still, as long as the flowers didn’t stir, his pale colors wouldn’t reveal him. He could be many things from a distance: a bunch of dead stalks, a patch of dry dirt, part of a scarecrow.
The girl had disappeared while he observed the boy and one of the dogs. The big one. The one scared of… something. Last time he had seen her holding a frying pan. Maybe she had gone into the house to prepare some eggs. The farmer had left in his motorbike, the one he used to go to the market when he needed one or few items.
His strong forelegs, carriers of feet armed with terrible hollow claws (imagine a Deinonychus that considered the situation of the Albian age, then though about the second amendment, and decided that, yep, going hollow point was perfectly within his rights and a positive for everyone involved, except for his unlucky victims. Who cared, many of them were mammals. Fuck them, if he didn’t kill them, one day they could eat his cousins. Maybe in ways too flagitious for a non-avian dinosaur to ever fathom. That’s right, the Deinonychus couldn’t imagine the horrors of the flesh incarnated by a turducken. With the parenthetical ended, try to parse the sentence now: you are on your own, sucker.) dug into the residue of the flowering plants, all the soft litter and decaying buds and blooms that covered the ground, that cushioned his step while barely making a sound. His hackles, like angel hair, remained unfettered, inactive as he hid form sight. Subterfuge was his element, like a fish playing Skyrim and going for a stealth archer build in the water. Subversion was his tool, his weapon for anything the claws couldn’t solve. And the children, were they to become a problem, seemed the kind that the claws could solve. The one with the… puppy… the… the scarfed one seemed strong, but if he was a cultivator, he would probably be easy to trick. The disappeared one with the pan, though.
The sound of a motorbike made him turn: up the road, the farmer was returning. And with him, he brought the unmistakable scent of the plastic cups where the instant noodles came in. But he wouldn’t attack him: it was easier to rob him than the markets, it was safer. He was not the enemy, but a reluctant ally of his cause.
Halgor descended from his motorbike, and carried the crate with several cups of instant noodles with him. Those were many more than he often brought. He was stocking, maybe… trying to hide them from his liberating visits. But it wouldn’t work, oh no! The noodles called to him, for his claws to rend their prisons and set them free, far from the tyranny of the kettle.
He came as close as possible to the home, without leaving the shroud provided by the flowers, of course. For a moment, he thought the puppy had spotted him, but it seemed to be just fighting with his own tail. Normal dog behavior. The man entered the house with his precious load. He could save them now, but that would imply facing the strangers too. He didn’t know what the cultivator was capable of, maybe shooting his gun at him wouldn’t work, maybe… yes, he could save no one if he died to the hands of the boy with the… scarf… made of…
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
He made a mental note to consider the puppy scarf a threat to his sanity and moved onto a more productive mindset. Stealth was elementary to the long-term health of his mission. With a cold head and some intelligent action, he could succeed at making a change, at becoming a pivotal piece in the history of the oppressed pastas.
He racked the slide of his most treacherous gun, that used his political enemies as bullets, propelled by a carefully crafted mechanism of his own device allowed him to fusilliate his targets. The damned projectiles and traitors were devised to have excellent pennetration, their shape perfect to be used as ammunition, their ego and hubris nearly poisonous.
Then, as the man entered the house, he heard the characteristic whistle in the distance. A kettle. The torture´s kettle. Someone had put it over the fire, someone was letting it boil. Maybe he could kill the farmer and run away, it would take just a few shots. But he was too far! If he missed, he would give up his position for nothing, and have to retreat, leaving the noodles to their doom.
He had to save them.
The muscles inside his legs thighs tensed.
Nobody else would. The farmer had already disappeared past the door.
He had to save them.
Using his hand, he cleaned tomato sauce that dripped from his full teethed jaws.
He had to save them!
And so, he leaped out of the bushes and raced for the farmhouse, disregarding Kalon and Jagger’s attention.
“Burr.” Brunhilda, sitting far from the bee houses, not caring about the beekeeper, greeted him politely.
He paused his run to briefly tip his cannelloni-shaped hat, “From paladin of justice to paladin of justice, a most merited salute.” And then exploded into a sprint again.
He would save them!
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Samari had heated way more water than the kettleful she needed. She was holding several ropes on one of her hands, and with the other hand she took the whistling tip out of the kettle, in addition getting nostalgic for dear ones long gone, began pouring the scalding liquid into the lined up cups over the marble counter. She heard the thuds of the creature running up to her, and she knew Jagger was in position, just like Kalon. If her plan failed, she still had the Incunabula Button, and that was why Halgor had gone to look for a suit adequate for the occasion.
As soon as Samari heard the glass of the window shattering, she turned and pulled from the ropes, making three platforms to drop, the pots filled with steaming water that rested over them instantly dropping their contents and bathing anything currently below them with pain. And, coming in from the middle window, that anything was the monster’s upper body, with his yellow, flourescent scales becoming burning, wet spots over his almost human skin. Samari let out a little squeak of Joy as he saw the screaming figure, foaming sauce at his terrible mouth full of sharp doughy teeth.
“Yes! I was right! We are dealing with a Soup Garou!”
The Soup Garou tried to stand, but he found no vantage point on the oiled tiles he had fallen over. He eventually gave up and began crawling to Samari, his horrid claws digging in the interstices of the tiles to drag him towards Samari, his pained expression visible on his inhuman-pasta twisted face as he advanced. “Born a Soup Garou, now I am a liberator, a fighter for the rights of the masses. I am The Coup Garou, and you, child, just signed a death sentence by pouring hot water over my people!”
Samari smiled with a malice unfitting of a bald little girl as she stuck her hand out of the window next to her. Then, she ignited the inner control incunabula.
The Soup Garou grabbed her leg, with an irontinni grasp and pointed his gun at her. “Any last words, enemy, one so hated by the free pastas?
Samari held a smug smile as she heard the angry buzzing coming closer and closer.” I made sure to prepare for this by making foes far more numerous than you. “
“Well, if that’s all, begone!” The Soup Harou raised his gun, pointing at Samari while trying not to slip on the floor. He failed to take the shot when the house began trembling, making his face meet the tiles. “What?”
Samari laughed like a maniac. “Beegone!”
The insects flooded the house, entering through the window and swallowing Samari in a cloud of angry worker bees. For the queen, for the hive, nectar fountains, for the green chitin of dragonflies. For the honey, the jelly to feed the fat one, they would shellac the ever-bald whore[2].
Blinded by the cloud of berserker bees, the Soup Garou Hissed and shot a deadly mostaccioli where he supposed Samari had to be. But Samari had immediately stepped back, and, once she made sure she wasn’t getting shoot.
As blind as the Soup Garou but guided by the screams of pain he produced with every sting that bore into his flesh, Samari stepped on his head and all over his back, running for the door.
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[1] Proto-Argentinian population of 1807’s Buenos Aires would argue the invading Englishmen deserved it. Current day Frenchmen and Irishmen would probably agree with them, with a caveat: Remove the “invading” part.
[2] Tell Rhapsody of Fire that I am sorry for doing this to their most famous song. Now go to listen to Emerald Sword, I command you. It’s a banger.