Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

27. ...Run in Circles, Scream and Shout (Part 3)

Boom.

Boom boom.

The bugle screamed with renewed vigour as a fast, ominous drum beat rolled across Mount Butt's florpadorps. It wailed and howled, crying in pain as an untalented musician blew with all her might into its slobbery, metal rectum. All around, starry people hooted and hollered, praising the Stars, the Constellations, the Constellator, and in one instance, Andy Buckley's Discount Robe Warehouse, which was having a special at the moment and needed some good promotion.

Phoenix was getting nervous, now. There were too many things going on at once for him to be able to carroty chop them all. A deadly knife point examined every inch of his body - something he wished he was doing with the Constellator, funnily enough - and he felt, for the first time in a very, very long time, that he might actually have approached this quest in the wrong manner. You might even go so far as to say that mistakes were made, but Phoenix wasn't quite at that point yet. It did seem awful hopeless, though, which was a real buzzkill when it came to being hopeful. But ... adventurers didn't die on altars atop mountains and florpadorps and whatnot. They died in a blaze of glory, bullets flying all over the show, swords swinging, axes twirling, people screaming. It was the way to go. Some historic adventurers had gone to great lengths to ensure their death was as big as possible, even starting full-on wars between regions. There was a reason that the Overlords had moved in to Mal's Murderborough up north a couple years ago - it went from unthreatening wine country to craterous, irradiated battleground in less than a week! And Sandra Bulletface had gone down in history after that. She'd also gone down in a ball of flame, but then, that was the idea.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

Oh shit, thought Phoenix. An increase in tempo was never a good thing. Especially seen as how, at this very moment, the Constellator was making all kinds of weird whooshy noises with her mouth, waggling the dagger over the alter and speaking in what could only be described as tongues, for it was no real language.

Ideas, Phoenix panicked, think of ideas!

The Constellator's eyebrows knotted together and she stood, feet apart, in the centre of the altar's side edge. She took a deep breath and raised the dagger aloft, clutching it tightly with two clenched hands.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Phoenix desperately wished he was high. Then he could just shut his eyes, smile dopily, and go dancing with Mr Pumpernickel and the unicorn. OK, maybe not the unicorn right now, but Mr Pumpernickel was a family-friendly sort. So long as he didn't get into the grog. Phoenix wriggled once more, with feeling, hoping desperately to reach with grasping fingers into his pocket, searching for the bonkerberries.

Wait, he thought. Bonkerberries, that's it!

An idea raced through his head at the speed of flight, which in Phoenix's experience, was often very bloody fast. How did he not think of this before?

The Constellator looked at her adoring followers, her face serious. "Behold! For it begins!"

" 'ONKER'ERRIES!" cried Phoenix, thrashing madly in his restraints.

The dagger wavered.

" 'ONKER'ERRIIIEEEEES!" he yelled again, his speech cracking with sobs.

The Constellator gave her raisinous old companion an uncertain glance, but he was as much at a loss as she. One of his bony fingers scratched at the scalp under his hood, and chunky white flakes trickled past his head.