Someone once said that hate is like a red-hot poker applied to your nethers by someone you love most in the world. We’ll take his word for it; it’s not our place to dispute the personal experience of the greatest scientist in history. Anyway, Flapman hates the Bolshevik, and the Bolshevik hates Flapman. We’re not saying there’s a red-hot or even a lukewarm poker involved here, but there’s definitely some ambient-temperature steel. Please enjoy Chapter 4 of Magnificent Bastards of the Apocalypse.
The Bolshevik stood under the Dark Sizzler‘s lights, her left hand on her hip and an arrogant sneer on her face. The thematic resemblance between her and the ship was surely premeditated: they were both dark, technologically superior, and deadly. Flapman stared coldly at his adversary, a notorious smuggler and repo agent who had made a great many enemies in the course of her work and who had made even greater numbers of dead enemies.
She was tall and athletic, dressed in black pants, jacket, and boots. Her clothing had a faint, uniform sheen to it, even though her back was to the light: advanced combat fabrics, certainly projectile-hardened and probably bio-mechanically enhanced. She wore mirrored shades despite the darkness, so augmented vision, too. Her hair was short and black, with a dramatic red stripe running through the side-swept bangs. And down the left side of her face, from scalp to chin, was a ragged pink scar that Flapman was all too familiar with. She probably thought she was pretty fucking cool.
Flapman wanted to murder her.
He recalled that, once, Super had sheepishly told him that some people were attractive, but Super was a fucking pervert, so who knew if that was actually true. He hadn’t the slightest idea if that applied to the Bolshevik or not, and he didn’t give a shit. Flapman himself had no predilection for Baseline humans; he found them all nauseating and shrill, and the thought of touching one for purposes other than murder made him want to kill them, which was consistent. And that applied to this one, for sure.
“Hello, Flapman. Gibson left you all alone in another parking lot, huh? That has to be getting old,” said the Bolshevik.
Flapman’s deadly eyes narrowed; he was ready for her verbal games. “Do I look like another parking lot is getting old while I’m alone?” She paused at that, and he smiled grimly under the eternally smiling bag. He wasn’t going to give that harridan an inch.
But Flapman did know that the Bolshevik was dangerous. Somewhere under that jacket was a flechette pistol that she could draw and fire faster than most opponents could even see. One second she’s flashing that shitty smile at you and making you feel inadequate, and the next, a hundred tiny, explosive darts are turning major organ systems into a pink mist and proving that she was right: you were inadequate. And now you were also dead. Continue reading