Gator Lickin' Good

Shattered safety glass sprayed away from the reptilian snout; glittering in the afternoon sun like droplets from crashing waves. Through it swam the beast, blazing fire leeching from blast-furnace eyes to trace ‘round every dark scale. I was launching myself sideways; throwing that familiar weight forward from my hip in a smooth arc, time tugging thick on my limbs. Hammer and hand then front sight tipping up to meet the low GI profile rears – and the sear broke crisp.

The flat heavy bark of the .45 broke the spell; my shoulder hitting tile as the massive alligator lunged the last six feet and my chair vanished in its maw with a brief bright screech of collapsing steel. I fired twice more as I rolled on my back before a head bigger than the condiments’ bar swung towards me, maw gaping wide. I blocked the lower jaw on my boots and went shooting ‘cross ceramic like a hockey puck, firing again before my head banged against the feet of a table. The titanic reptile’s claws cut furrows in the tile as it aligned to charge – and then the Colonel appeared mid-leap behind it, pink tutu fluttering in the air and black cane lifted high. The ‘gator’s head slammed into the floor, impact cracking through the room like a thunderclap.

I leveled my gun, sighted on one red eye and was just taking up the trigger slack when the massive beast blurred, shattered side-wall windows still crashing to earth like a crystallized waterfall when its tail came ‘round from behind the Colonel to hit him like a truck’s grille. He flew over and out of sight, and then I was staring the beast down alone. Rivulets of fire wept from multiple wounds, but it was the insult, not the injury, that had its eyes blazing with rage.

I charged, pistol tucked close and dining room chair trailing from my other hand, and the monstrosity lunged to meet me. My chair arced up and over but its head jerked aside with astonishing agility, steel smashing tile instead of tongue, and then it lunged for me with widening maw–

–I leapt forward; left palm landing on its bulbous snout as I vaulted it like a horse and found myself legs astraddle its nose, .45 pressed between the eyes and thundering – and then I was twirling ass-over-teakettle, the gator throwing me like a bucking bronco. I floated untethered for an ethereal moment before the floor smashed reality back into my skull. The gator’s advance rumbled through the floor and guided me to it; pistol hanging upside-down in my vision as I fired from my back, slide locking open just as its slavering maw opened wide–

–and stayed that way; the Colonel’s cane-handle tight against its upper jaw like a hook.

“Y’WANNA PLAY RODEO, YOU SUMBITCH?” Sanders shouted, feet planted square on the beast’s skull. “TRY SOMEONE YER OWN SIZE!” He yanked it back, hard, and the beast roared so loudly the gypsum ceiling tiles shed dust – then started falling as the beast reared and bucked and twisted, the Colonel roaring half-heard imprecations that’d make a sailor blanch until the monster finally rolled. Sanders sensed it coming but opted to flop prone, grappling the beast’s back with arms and legs. They rolled through the last wall with intact windows; bursting into the parking lot in a cascade of glimmering glass; flattened and twisted tables and chairs trailing behind them. The ‘gator was the size of my Humvee and twice as long counting the tail, and now it was lying on its back, rearing up and smashing back to try and flatten Sanders. Once, twice, thrice as I staggered to my feet and dropped the slide on a fresh magazine – and then the beast’s fourth oscillation paused short of asphalt. Bowed beneath the bulk was Sanders, on one knee and the ball of one foot like Atlas.

“I’LL SKIN YUH!” Sanders thundered, glass in the parking lot lamps shattering. “AND MAKE YOU A SUITCASE!” He rose, the impossible bulk borne upwards on both hands. “SO’S YOU CAN HAUL YOUR OWN ASS TO HELL JUST LIKE THE CARPETBAGGING DAMNYANKEES!” He seemed to blur, the very air seeming to haze, and then the bus-sized creature was flying tail-over-snout towards the open grassy area behind the restaurant. The impact shook the earth; cars swaying on their wheels.

But the beast rose to its feet once more; battered, grass smoldering where liquid fire wept from its wounds, and thundered into another charge.

I holstered the pistol and dug into the cargo pocket of my wet Crye combat pants. “COLONEL, FASTBALL!” I shouted as I reared back, and hurled the M67 frag at him with my best baseball throw; dragging toe and finger-tip follow-through included. It tumbled straight and true, safety spoon glinting in the sun as it twirled off alone – and then the Colonel caught it with a perfect swing, grenade CLACKing off the polished wood to arc straight into the beast’s gaping maw.

It coughed gustily as the frag went down the wrong pipe – and then the beast seemed to swell; red fire tracing blazing upwards in thin lines of fire before leaking white smoke. At last it slumped, dazed, and I lifted my pistol–

–a long, graceful arrow shaft sprouted from the monster’s flank, then another and another. Gunfire, the bright sharp pop pop pop! of 9mm, and I pulled up in a tight Weaver stance, the .45’s flat low barks settling into steady cadence as I pegged lead at its fist-sized eye from fifty yards distance. 

It spared me one last baleful glance – and then it fled; tail whipping with rage as it slid down the grassy bank behind it and into a small river. The ring of a second frag was tight against my knuckle – but I decided against it.

Turning, I saw the fluffy-haired woman trotting towards me, a long traditional Japanese longbow that towered well above her in one hand and a handful of arrows in the other. Right behind her was the young guy in the crisp shirt; his pistol at low-ready before him.

“What the hell WAS that!?” the woman demanded.

I stared at her, lost in that same floaty detachment I’d felt when the ‘gator threw me; that feeling when the fight’s been snatched from under you and your mind’s still flying free on inertia till it finally hits the ground.

I looked down at myself – scuffed steel-toed boots; battered black Crye pants, well-torn OD green t-shirt; all of it soaking wet. “Well, it must be my face then,” I concluded. “Something about my rugged good looks that makes people think I, of all goddamned people, should have an answer to questions like that.”

I took two steps towards the restaurant, aiming between them, when the boy scout’s pistol rose and pressed against my chest. He got the first syllable out before he registered I’d pulled the pin on the grenade.

“Jan, ken, pon!” I oscillated my grenade-clutching fist to punctuate each syllable and flipped my middle finger out on the last. Brushing his gun aside, I strode towards the KFC.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see the devastated interior completely abandoned, nor what looked like the staff and customers laid out in neat rows just outside the kitchen’s back door. The devastation was almost hypnotic in its completeness – the gator’s tail had hit the condiments’ bar before the Colonel and it'd just cleared the counter, scraping the registers off it before embedding halfway through the kitchen’s rear wall. But as I drew near the glassless frame of the door, I made out one tiny island of peace amidst the chaos – the table I’d been sitting at, fish and food undisturbed.

I slumped against the brick facade as I wiggled the pin back into my frag. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Anytime, son,” his voice drawled from nearby. I turned to find a plastic statue of the Colonel, guarding the door, and indeed it was sporting the same frilly tutu I’d seen him in.

“… may I ask–”

“New magical girl anime,” he replied, the statue’s plastic visage giving me a wink only I could see. “Corporate promotion. Should’ve named my finishing attack but I don’t know how ta’ say ‘suck on this you cesspool-sucking belly-dragging carrion-chewing shit-stomping-boots-for-pimps-waiting-to-happen’ in Latin.” He paused. “Oh, sorry about that Yankee comment.”

I grinned. “He was clearly a damn Yankee, Colonel.”

The Colonel’s voice chuckled – in my opposite ear this time, the mage and Monster Division man now within earshot as they warily closed on me. “Hang onto your receipt, son.”

I smiled, and let myself slide down the bricks to sit on the sidewalk, my vision a little hazy. The short mage reached me first, dark glower softening a little as she took in my battered form. “Mind telling us what happened, at least?”

“Trade you for some Motrin or whatever.”

“Oh, uh–“ she turned and stuffed bow and arrows into the arms of the unprepared young man, whatever stern broadside he had quite forgotten as he tried to juggle them along with his gun. She was digging through a clutch purse. “I’ve got naproxen sodium–”

I held out my hand and she tossed. Shaking the tiny bottle to guesstimate contents I deemed it sufficient, then tossed the entire bottle’s worth back. She was still staring when my other cargo pocket produced a flask and I washed them down with two gulps, which I decided tasted like more.

“Okay,” I wheezed. “Let’s chat.”