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“Revenge? Revenge on…”

Ax-Punk is drowned out by a hideous noise. As I resist the urge to cover my ears, Barkeep sets out a string of glasses. If there was a little less noise, I could have counted them.

As is, I wait for whoever is heralded by that noise.

The regulars here – and punk I can promise, you know who is a regular in a location if ya just stay aware – all clear room to the bar.

I stay where I am because, well, punk I’m curious.

While I wait, I hum whatever quirky beat Search was listening to at the dig. Some-kind of metal that a “sweet”, “mild” girl like her enjoys shocking people with. It’s about taking down the current government. I love playing those songs around Oscar. I can hear him going livid. Grimme thinks it’s funny too.

The doors finally swing open.

It’s show time.

 

Well… that’s a strange kinda weapon. Feels and sounds like a grenade launcher had a baby with a rifle.

And no, I’m not explaining where I learned about grenade launchers. But I am willing to say that it’s all Oscar’s fault!  I never get to say that but it’s actually true! Whaddya think about that?!

“What’ll it be?” asked Barkeep.

“Rum and a shot of the Dragon’s Breath for the rookie.” I can hear the gravelly punk slap some kid-punk over the shoulder.

The kid-punk holds up a claw.

I tug on my fingerless gloves. And stick a hand in my pocket. The other keeps a loose grip on my alcohol. I want more – but more isn’t conductive to effectively planning revenge. Or escape. I want escape more than revenge but I gotta feeling that you need revenge to escape. Or something.

Whatever punk.

“First kill!” yells kid-punk.

I twist some free smoke around my finger – and then discretely dissipate it because, ya’know what punks? I fell through a hole in reality. And clearly if whatever that is outside is an indication, people here play by different rules.

It’d be just my luck if talents are death sentences. Ya’know punk? I’m different enough back home.

Barkeep mixes up drinks.

“Couldn’t have been a better shot.”

And here come the abyss-bound yarning and darning.

“Up came the monster. The harpoon had him fast but he would stop fighting.” I can hear the punk punching air. He swirls the smoke about dizzyingly. “Set on blood, he snapped left and right chasing us out of range.” A strong wake to poor kid-punk’s abused shoulder. “Bart here flew right up to the beast, spinning like a madman to dodge ‘im. Boom! One shot in the eye and it was over.”

Clink.

Strike?

I sniff – smell the alcohol fire.

“Drink up lad.” smirks Barkeep.

“Drink it, Drink it, Drink it.”

Kid-punk downs it.

 

I … I want to drink fire. I bet it wouldn’t hurt me that much. Fire opal doesn’t.

I should drink fire. I want to drink fire. I should. I could. I’m sure I could. I see with smoke. Why can’t I drink fire? There is no good reason is there. I will drink fire. I want it.

As soon as I open my mouth to ask Barkeep…

“So, um, Burn, you were talking about some kind of revenge on something?”

“ARGH! You…” deep breathe. You can ask in a minute. “Were you dropped on your head too many times falling through holes in reality?” I grouse. “And maybe keep that part down. Otherwise people will think you’re crazy.”

I reflect a moment. “Hey Ax-Punk. Did we land in your reality this time?”