Chapter 31 - The Warthog’s Legend (Part II)

Author's Notes: A heartfelt thanks to every reader, particularly those who take the time and effort to leave a comment. You have no idea how encouraging those are!

Special thanks to ddamyon for writing a review on the main fiction page. As promised, here's a new chapter.  And may we all keep posting, har har!

“Let me teach you of this thing called..” The man standing before Akatombe spoke softly, yet he felt as though an icicle had crystallized within his heart, radiating a numbing chill which pumped his veins full of liquid winter.

“Fear,” the mysterious man finished, with a frigid smile that contained no humor whatsoever.

In one instantaneous, explosive moment his opponent's entire figure blurred and before he knew it, the insane little man was dashing forward at an impossible speed in a clearly suicidal charge!

“I will kill you!” Akatombe roared, finally shaking free from the turmoil in his mind. He reacted instantly and reflexively through finely-honed, pure and unadulterated survival instinct, launching his own body forward to meet the man with his own shoulder charge. He easily outmassed his opponent by at least 150 pounds. He was Ombue “The Tombstone” Akatombe - 355 pounds of pure muscle hard enough to dent steel! In a face to face collision, the poor bastard would be crushed like an egg smashing against a freight train!

At the moment of impact, however, there was no bone-splintering crash, no sudden eruption of mangled flesh nor even a spray of blood. Instead, an unsettling, bone-rattling sound went through him, penetrating his body somewhere below his arm, right around his ribs. It was not a sound that he perceived with his ears, but rather it was felt throughout his entire body. It impacted against his flesh, then coursed up his ribcage and spine, before reaching his head with mind-numbing, skull-rattling impact.

All breath escaped him with a sharp, soundless cry and stars swam across his vision as he was forced to yield against this overwhelming onslaught of pain, instinctively twisting his body away from its source and falling back against the metal bars behind. Slowly, he slid down towards the floor, his hands trembling violently as they moved to cradle his midsection. In a daze, he looked down to see what sort of instrument of death and mayhem this cheap bastard had used to rip his guts out.

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he failed to see even a hint of blood, let alone any weapons as he’d initially suspected. His shirt stood whole, and even his skin, when he peeled the rough cotton fabric back, showed nothing but a dark, bloody bruise beginning to form. Still, when he gingerly laid his hand against his flank, he hissed with an indrawn breath as he noted that he’d cracked at least a couple ribs, if they weren’t outright broken. What the hell? How had the broken his ribs so easily? Furthermore, Akatombe was an unstoppable force, an avalanche of absolute power, a true juggernaut that transcended mere flesh and bone. A few broken ribs were nothing to him! Yet he’d seldom, if ever experienced such heart-rending pain before!

“Im.. Impossible,” Akatombe cried out in disbelief, raising his eyes to stare at the man who stood before him, watching him intently. His eyes were embers of charcoal smoking with some dark, disturbing emotion, yet his body remained absolutely still and impassive like a statue, his arms crossed behind his back.

It looked like a vision of the grim reaper himself.

Shaking off the sudden chill that had descended upon his bones, he stood up shakily and once more summoned up his rage, that seething fuel that always burned within him. It slowly turned his vision red, until everything faded away except this little man who had dared to, impossibly, inflict such grievous pain upon him with nothing but bare fists!

Luck! It could only have been luck! There was simply no other way to explain such vicious, overwhelming power!

With a cry of pure, murderous fury, Akatombe swung his right fist as though to smash both the man and the wall behind him into dust. If anyone thought Akatombe would be any slower due to his massive size, they would find, much to their ever-lasting regret, that they were dead wrong. And if they thought size and speed comprised the entirety of Akatombe’s arsenal, they simply could not be more mistaken.

Tombstone Akatombe had crushing power, yes; mind-boggling speed as well; yet, his deadliest weapon were neither his rock-hard flesh nor his steely bones. No, Akatombe’s greatest asset was his finely honed combat instinct, forged in the heat of countless battles and tempered in the blood of his enemies.

In the blink of an eye, and with an effortless ease which had been painstakingly earned from a lifetime of brawling against anyone, anywhere and at anytime, he smoothly switched from the messy, uncoordinated pounce he’d used into an expert's fighting stance. This instant’s adjustment allowed him to shift his balance in a flash as he pulled his punch back at the last moment.

A perfect feint!

The man fell for it, as his eyes widened ever so slightly, and he paused in the motion of swaying away from the blow. This was how he’d apparently vanished from Akatombe’s sight earlier. He had shifted his weight, then rapidly shuffled towards his blind spot. A superb fighter, but that was not enough to defeat the Tombstone Akatombe!

Before the man had time to recover his balance, Akatombe launched his true blow, a deadly cross that carried with it the momentum of his entire body, all 355 pounds of rock-hard muscle, into a truly vicious, fatal strike which struck like lightning!

However, confusion once more widened Akatombe’s eyes as he saw that the insane little man had chosen to spin around with the same motion he’d used to sway to one side, all in one smooth, graceful movement. Was the man completely insane? His back turned against Akatombe, he had no chance to dodge or counter the fearsome blow at all!

Akatombe couldn’t help but snarl in feral joy as he could almost taste the blood that would liberally splatter against his fist, upon the wall and even on his face, when his thunderous hook ruptured the little man’s flesh and caved his skull in.

Impossibly, however, that blow never connected. Instead, as though he’d grown eyes behind his head, the man lowered his head just a fraction, a few inches. It was enough to cause the furious punch to slide past him, not even brushing up against its intended target.

Akatombe’s eyes widened as he felt the punch strike nothing but air, then looked up in bewilderment as he sensed a shadow rapidly approaching from above, of all places! A kick? The man had used the same spinning motion of twisting away from the incoming punch to power his own spinning back heel kick in the perfect counter! Let alone the peerless skill required to perfectly time this counterblow, the sheer guts required to even attempt such a suicidal move when confronted with Akatombe’s soul-crushing power - it was simply awe inspiring.

Was he a man or demon?

Then all conscious thought was fractured into splinters as he felt an impossible weight slam his face mercilessly down toward the ground, as though someone had swung a massive sledgehammer against his nose.

Cartilage crackled and bone snapped as blood poured forth copiously in a grisly shower of red. Complete darkness was flung against his mind as though a titan had picked up the Earth and used it to smash his entire face in. Crumpling to his knees, Akatombe struggled to hang on to consciousness, and managed another roar though clearly weaker and with the last desperate reservoirs of his strength, as he launched one final, defiant blow.

This one did connect against flesh, but it was a hand which easily stopped his quivering, powerless blow. The now disconcertingly familiar voice scorched its way into Akatombe’s entrails as it ruthlessly rang out from above his head, looking down upon him. “Decent skills. Excellent focus. Though you suffer from severe tunnel vision. Ah, just like a big, unruly warthog. Ugly enough to match, too.”

Akatombe’s fading consciousness barely registered a blisteringly cold, evil laughter that sent a wave of shivers down his spine, melting all traces of resistance. His burning anger once more attempted to arise, to burst forth from his chest and power the endless furnace of his heart. However, just as a few sparks were gathering, the steely grip that held his fist suddenly twisted, then mercilessly yanked sideways at an unnatural angle.

A loud crack could be heard as the arm broke and searing pain flashed across his entire limb, before a cold numbness subdued all feeling altogether.

“Tut tut, that’s enough. You’re mine now,” came the ominous words, and Akatombe barely suppressed a shudder which emanated from deep within his soul.

The last words before he became drowned in a icy sea of darkness were the words he would never forget.

“Well done, Little Bue. Next time though, don’t go so crazy.”

“Bastard, you’re the one that told me to go crazy..” Akatombe murmured helplessly within his mind, before all thought and consciousness were snuffed out.

***

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And that had been his first time getting his ass kicked by the Boss. Of course, it was not the last. Not nearly. Eventually, however, he had wised up. He had learned. That precious gem of wisdom had become so deeply embedded within his soul, it blazed like a burning insignia against the dark fury that rose within him still, whenever he went into his berserking rages:

Never, ever piss off the Boss.

That was the single most important rule that must never be violated. Ever.

He thought he’d done rather well for himself, up until now. Shaking his head and surveying his surroundings, he finally had to admit it. That had to be it.

He’d finally gone and pissed off the Boss.

He had no idea how or when. That was completely beside the point. The main thing was, the Boss was angry and Little Bue would pay - pound by pound, in blood and tears if need be.

That was the simple life of Ombue “Warthog” Akatombe.

“Fine then. All troops, open fire on my command!” Came the screeching, furious cry from the little fat man below.

“Alright, I’m coming, coming,” Akatombe grumbled, raising both hands above his head and walking forward slowly. His posture was truly awkward since his melon-sized head was lowered as far as he could and his bulging shoulders hunched inward as he approached the enemy. One could only hope that with this poor visibility and at this distance, no one would recognize him. Otherwise, he’d never live it down.

Yeah, he silently consoled himself, it was pretty dark by now. Besides, how would anyone recognize him without his signature exo-skeleton, or Bertha by his side? Yeah, it would be alright, he realized, as he breathed out a sigh of relief.

That was, until the next words he heard chilled his blood and almost froze him on the spot.

“Wait, isn’t that.. Isn’t that the Warthog?” Came a startled cry from the group below him.

Aw, fuck me.

“Oh yeah, that does look like the Butcher of Salinas, don’t he?” Came another excited, disbelieving question, and a massive flurry of voices ensued.

“Holy shit, we did it. We captured the Warthog!”

“You mean the Demon of Marseilles, that madman?”

“I thought it was impossible to capture the berserking son-of-a-gun. Hell, I heard at New Lima a whole battalion of armored infantry ran him down and surrounded him in an abandoned building in downtown. Almost one thousand men against one! And in the end, not one survivor. Not a single one.”

“Yeah, I heard that one too! Supposedly he stepped out into the street in a giant abomination of an exo-skeleton and started spraying bullets like there was no tomorrow. Literally spitting out death left and right! He obliterated the whole city block around himself, took down the entire battalion and almost all of downtown New Lima with it.”

“Yeah, I heard they baptized his superlarge-caliber vulcan gun as Bertha the Doombringer from that day on. Man, I even have a picture of it in my phone!”

“Hahah, they even said next time they would just nuke the bastard and save themselves the grief,” another laughed.

“Y’now what, I heard the Warthog once charged at a whole wing of armored vehicles all by himself. Forced them to retreat in a panic too, not even half of them made it back!”

“I know a guy who knew a guy who was there. Said the crazy bastard just kept firing rocket after rocket at them, wouldn’t even stop for nothing. Then when he finally ran out, he just fucking charged the nearest tank screaming like a madman and left a dent the size of a damn rhino. Even flipped the whole thing over!”

“Holy shit, for real?”

“Yeah, they say he even busted into a superarmored bunker when the bunkerbuster missile failed to breach the doors. Just tore the damn hinges off the door like it was tin foil and sprayed the whole room with hyper-napalm. Cooked the poor bastards alive.”

“Goddamn..”

“Silence!” Roared Lin Feng’s voice all of a sudden, quieting down all the impromptu conversations. Then he turned his gaze upon Akatombe, his next words dripping with equal measures of contempt and pride. “So, the Warthog Akanooshe, is it? Hahaha, not such a big man, after all. Rather.. Disappointing, as a matter of fact.”

Akatombe’s eyes instantly went bloodshot as his pulse began to rise furiously, but he continued walking forward.

It’s Akatombe, you imbecile.

“So, Captain Akanooshe, to what do we owe the dubious honor?” The odious little man continued.

Major Akatombe, you retard.

“That tight little spandex fetish squeeze the tongue out of you along with what little manliness you had left?” The fat freak continued, chortling at his own wit.

“Pathetic fool, if I get my hands on you, I will skewer you like a shrimp and roast you alive,” Akatombe thought while glaring murderously at the fat little man. “Then we’ll see how honored you really feel.” Still, he maintained his silence.

“Heh, I didn’t think a fat pig like you would even dream of sneaking up on my troops. I’d heard that muscle-bound brutes have their brains melted by all the steroids they take, but really you must have flushed what little grey matter you had left down the toilet before this last mission,” Lin Feng laughed crudely at his own joke, and his troops obligingly laughed along.

CRACK, a hairline fracture ran down the tiny display screen in the laser homing device he held in a deathgrip. He exhaled one slow breath and slowly forced his fingers to ease on the pressure. Damn Boss was liable to chase him down to hell itself, should he break his little toy before accomplishing the mission.

Which reminded him, what about the damn mission now? Aw hell, surely it wasn't  his fault this time. Clearly, it wasn't. Perhaps once, just this once the Boss would let one slide by. After all, not even the Boss was THAT good. He was simply the Boss, not God. He couldn't just be everywhere all at once, right? Right?

Just at that moment, a high-pitched ringing sound started to reverberate from his wrist-mounted personal comm device. At the same time, flashing streams of electric neon green and blue began to snake across the skies above, lighting up the whole rockside where he stood along with the mountain pass below him.

“What is that?” Lin Feng cried out, frowning as he shifted his gaze between the radiation storm that had suddenly come into being, and the alarm sound from Akatombe’s comm device.

Slowly and almost languidly, Akatombe turned his head slightly to read the words flashing upon his comm device. It made all the blood drain from his face and his whole body tremble. It was as though a gigantic hand had just reached into his chest and squeezed his heart dry.

The display on his wrist read, “Little Bue, get down in 20..”

The little number in the end continued to flash as it kept ticking down.

19.. 18.. 17..

Now he recalled that his Boss had programmed some sort of alarm timer in his comm device before sending him off. He’d had a bad, bad feeling about this whole stinking affair right from then and there.

And now that he’s sticking out like a sore thumb right in the middle of thousands of enemy soldiers’ crosshairs - now he wants me to get down?

Aw, fuck me. Why me Boss?

“I repeat, what is that? If it's your comm device, you will immediately turn it off and deliver it into my possession. All foreign signals are being jammed to and from this location, so it is useless to try and contact help,” the fat little pig called out shrilly.

Akatombe turned his head back towards the odious little man very, very slowly, like the turret of a tank turning to acquire a new target. His eyes showed a hint of madness that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s not a call for help, dumbass,” he snorted, shrugging as he leveled the little toy gun and pointed it towards the army standing before him, then pulled the trigger - at a very far, and hopefully marginally safe distance away from himself, of course. Unsurprisingly, no one opened fire against him. After all, what could a tiny polycarbonate gun do to them? They had full combat armor, EM fields, plus plenty of bullets to fire back, should Akatombe be feeling suicidal enough to fire off a single shot from his pea shooter. More like a simple toy gun than an actual artifact of murder.

“Idiots,” Akatombe thought to himself in an almost sympathetic manner. “Obviously you’ve never met my Boss.” Hell, sometimes he wished HE had never met the Boss.

“It’s the damn Boss from hell come calling,” he finished loudly, just as he managed to catch several flickering shadows streaking in from above, followed by the distinctive, intermittent flashes that could only be combustion exhaust fumes.

“And you just drew the shitstick,” Major Ombue “Warthog” Akatombe, the man, the legend become flesh, called out grimly as he finally tossed the gun into the air, then unceremoniously jumped to the ground, hiding behind a nearby crag and striving uselessly to make himself as tiny a target as possible.

“Fuck me, boss. Why me?” He lamented mournfully, squeezing his eyes shut and compressing his mouth in a gesture an untrained eye might have called a pout.

Surely not.

And then, there was light.