Batteries Not Required

Chapter One: Neon Highways and Coded Byways

Dillin's bar was a sinkhole.

No, literally, it was a sinkhole.

Some man a long time ago in a time warp far, far away must have went out for a hike into the desert, far away from the neon highways and humongous black mirrored skyscrapers of the city, stumbled across a sink hole and said, 'this is perfect'.

By the time the bar fell into Dillin's hands however, it was far from perfect.

The building was damp and stank of blood, musky vomit, and stale cigarettes. Black and deep purple lights overhead illuminated the white graffiti on the walls: various foul words and phallic images people had illustrated over the years. A toilet flushed somewhere, and Dillin out of the bathroom. He made his way through the cretins who called themselves 'customers', stepped over cum globs and a bag of half-eaten corn chips, and finally made it behind the bar. He picked up a rag that sat by the sink and began wiping the inside of a stout glass. A loud belch from the end of the bar made Dillin turn his head. He furrowed his thick, dark brows and took a heavy step towards the man who had belched.

"You again?" Dillin groaned. "Look, I told you. If you don't have any scheckles, I'm not pouring you anything. I'm sick of racking up your tab-"

He was cut off by the man tossing a black felt bag right into the stout glass.

"That's my tab, Thomas." The man flicked his eyes up from the shadow of his hat's brim the sclera's of his eyes glowing for a second under the black and purple lights, and he put another black pouch on the bar. "Now get me a bottle of vodka. The top shelf stuff."

Dillin flinched, then nodded. He pulled the pouch out of the glass and shoved it in the pocket of his black jeans.

The man at the bar scratched the back of his neck, watching the bartender walk back to him, unscrewing the top of the alcohol. "So, where've you been, Rogue? You've been greatly missed."

Dillin placed the large, slim bottle of vodka in front of Rogue.

Rogue grabbed the vodka and pulled down his mask. He took one, two, three large swigs of it before giving a short cough and a twitch. He raised an eyebrow at Dillin. "Sorry, I didn't hear you over the bull you just shit."

"Ah, don't be so sore, Rogue. You know money is everything in The Internet."

Rogue gave a dry chuckle and took another swig.

"But really," Dillin said, and placed his palms flat on the bar and leaned in towards Rogue, "everyone's been wondering where you've been. Radio's been real staticky without you burping and farting over it."

"I've been takin' a break."

"Lolcows don't take breaks," Dillin said, and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I'm not a Lolcow." Rogue took another swig, the vodka burning the back of his throat. "I'm just a retard."

"True," Dillin stood up, and wiped his hands on his black v-neck. "But people have been wondering about you. They're saying Chris started really getting to your head."

Rogue became overly aware of the sounds in the bar. A jukebox in the corner played some remix of an old song from another generation. A glass shattered as a group of women squealed in laughter. He could even almost hear the grunting sounds of someone taking a shit from the bathroom.

"I needed to spend some time with my body pillow and cum sock," Rogue muttered, pulling his mask up. Dillin took a second and looked Rogue up and down, glancing between his tired eyes above his masked face, and the white Rockstar symbol on his hat that gleamed under the black lights.