The|MULTIVERSE

EPISODE 27: Ingeniously Stupid

"Shit, shit. Shit, shit... SHIIIIT!"

For each frantic 'shit' that thrust from Wickels' lips, two hell-smiting rounds tore into the leathery flesh of his demonic foes. That equaled five enormous shots. Two per pump. Do the math. Wickels' boomstick was no mediocre shotgun of tempered alloy with an unbeatable oak burnish. It was his prized double-barrel scattershot christened The Hillshire Legacy, and versus a callous company of provocative man-devils, a nightmare of tumultuous tyranny thundered upon them.

For his 'amazing shotgun' to be explained now (when it should have been defined chapters ago) was...well...quite questionable.

Twelve-gauge; bullpup, it heaved two broad shells the size of well-fed slugs constructed out of sheer mystrock and shredded his demons an incredible new series of asses. With each strict draw and fire, The Hillshire splayed a sturdy light from its ornate barrel, and when that happened, demons turned to fire dust.

Wickels owned six shots left. Two per pump, he reminded himself. He spared them wisely, serving a delicious myst-shard per hungry fiend, one mystified slug per horny head, as he coasted the great chamber of laced-up demons; dispatching the ballsier ones that flailed like mad freaks after him. He was a good size for their liking, no bigger than a tall dwarf and his ears were greater and cuter than a fenic fox and jerboa mouse combined. His copper skin of black stripes resembled brown sugar, sweet to the eyes of his abysmal adversaries, and his hot white-tipped golden hair, brighter than Baartimo's flashy coat, lured them in like hell moths to an alabaster flame-catching the oaken end of his boomstick; for he had six good shots left.

As the bodies hit the floor, Baartimo waded through that saucy-ass horde, headfirst into the thick of trouble, slicing and dicing like a samurai warrior, and facially regretting his brave swordsmanship as one of his vibro-bladed parries failed him badly. He tried to make up for that epic fuck up. He believed his super katana blade, forged by Omegatech, to cut through virtually anything. Its extreme oscillation rendered the subatomic links of all else to nothing, but as he screwed himself with the blunt end for fancy fencing and regained his fancy footing when the cleaver fiend shoved him back with his butchering edge, Baartimo attempted to revolt the second death stroke of his foe, and the demon whacked him into another spin and tumble.

The silly me'ka fool lost Thrillseeker in the midst of that blunder and spotted his blade just a crawl ahead. If he fled for Thrillseeker first instead of twisting his head to see the disturbing shadow of his rabid foe, he could've saved himself a wide-eyed panic.

He could've...

Hanakin slipped in, right upon the scrawny demon's back. She reached around with thunderous haste and muffled its creepy cackle with her devil-eating dagger lodging straight into its mouth and, at the same merciless breadth, and as the demon wailed his cleaver about, shanked his meaty back with the other.

It was one of the most atrocious kill moves that Hanakin had done thus far!

She rent the fiend aloof with the Fangs of Detriment alone. The monster erupted into that glitzy glitter jam; cleaver and all. It was then, as sparkles swirled and winds blew, Hanakin's gloomy maroon hair, that voluminous, lush mane of ruby chestnut, sauntered upon her scalp like thick goddess silk.

And Baartimo saw his dark and lovely savior in all her perilous, fair-skinned glory.

A stunning moment.

A FLEETING moment, for a lunatic mob of demons plunged into their trajectory!

Hanakin spun on her heels and swung her blade across the first face to squeal. The demon's ugly mug seared and ripped from bone, and as it fell to sparkling ash, the next found her next blade curving into its gut. It dispersed. She spun again. Another lost its head, and the next dived beneath her final swing, to seize her at the leg.