almosthonorable: (mine is an evil laugh)
[ "Now, Sparklehead, don't you know it's armageddon out here?" ]


Ben's tired.

His arms are heavier than iron, and his breathing is labored.

But Jesus Christ and all twelve disciples, it's not like he can just quit fighting these swarms of monsters and demons.

So he fires every bullet he can finagle; he attacks with the pike until it snaps in a mammoth, razored mouth; he resorts to fists and elbows and feet; and, when he's driven back, and back, and back by a fire-spitting serpent, he finds himself near the forge once more.

He dives inside, and hefts the first weapon his fingers close around: a samurai sword, as beautiful as it is deadly.

But Ben has precious little time to appreciate the aesthetics. He has a serpent to behead.

He doesn't expect to be thrown backward upon the kill stroke, as if he's ignited a powder keg by mistake.

Hurtling through the air, Ben twists, and — 

shit damn shit shit shit shit


— he's sailing into the forge, headed for a workbench covered in all manner of sharp, certain death.










Two heartbeats later, he blinks in the Texas sun.

He's standing just outside the Acme, sword still in hand.

He doesn't feel like an overgrown pin cushion, but he takes stock of himself, all the same.
almosthonorable: (double-checkin')
[ two weeks prior, or, once upon a time in El Paso ]

Ben's coated in sweat and grime from a fourteen-hour day when he walks into the bar.

Just across the threshold, he pauses.

This is ...

Well.

It's certainly more surreal than usual.

Stepping over and around debris — and taking care to avoid knocking into see-through patrons — Ben picks his way across the bar proper. Amid the general mayhem, a tinny, crackling song plays from what has to be a phonograph, maybe hidden somewhere in the rafters.

"Now that is unsettlin'," Ben mutters to himself.

As if on an eerie-ass cue, the floor tilts beneath his boots.

He grunts, and catches his balance with the help of a nearby stool. Righting himself, he notices the glowing red gem hovering over the counter.

"All right, you've got me," he says to Bar. "Color me curious."

A moment later, his battered brown hat is gone, and he's sporting a rough-hewed pair of decidedly feline ears.

He holds back a sigh.

"That is what killed the cat, as the sayin' goes."

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Ben Wade

May 2012

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