CampDog slowly opened his eyes and looked around, he was still in the bar, "Budgie mate, I thought you said we were beaming out of Amsterdam and into the extraterrestrial jaws of certain, horrible death?"
There was no response.
"Budgie? Budgie are you there? Ah, Budgie?"
Big Budgie was unable to reply. He was staring cross eyed (which beneath his hard-light holographic disguise, 'twas quite a feat) into the tip of a naginata blade that was pointed at his hard-light holographic nose. More alarming was the gorilla in a black karate suit that was wielding the naginata. Even more alarming was the other gorillas who had also teleported into his hotel room. Each wielded a specific type of weapon – nunchakus, sais, tonfas, throwing knives, broccolis, the allure of trans-femme fatale and an antique blunderbuss. All of the ninja gorillas wore their trademark jet-black ninja outfits, all except one who wore a coconut bra, a yellow with black polka dots tutu, red lipstick and a canary blonde wig.
Sweat broke out on Big Budgie's forehead, in a high-pitched voice of panic, he managed to begin a whimpering squeal with, "Ninja…"
"Gorillas," added the naginata wielding gorilla.
"From beyond da moon sucker!" finished the gorilla wielding the blunder buster.
Meanwhile back in the bar, Field Agent CampDog took check of his surroundings. Things he'd missed when he entered the establishment were now becoming apparent.
He turned to the bartender and in shocking realisation said, "This isn't a normal bar, is it bloke?"
The bartender smiled as he threw a tea towel over his shoulder and placed both hands on the bar, "No."
Surprise and alarm shined from CampDog's eyes as the bartender's face split down the middle and opened up to reveal robotic components and a black spherical cockpit that was about the size of a softball. The cockpit split open in a similar fashion to the android's face to reveal a gerbil sitting in a seat. It wore a green tracksuit and white sneakers. The fur on its head was slicked back with hair grease. It wore a thick gold chain around its neck and when it smiled, both bucked front teeth were solid gold.
"And you aint in Kansas no more, wijze ezel," it said in a thick Dutch accent.
"Oh balls," said Camp Dog in Sentient Barking Spider, Pancosmic Common. "Well," continued CampDog, righting himself from a handstand that was required to speak Sentient Barking Spider, returning to standing on his feet and speaking English, "this is one of 'those' type of a bars, isn't it."
"What kind of bar do you mean?" smiled the gerbil.
"You know," began CampDog, "a bar frequented by off worlders."
"Pretty much," agreed the gerbil, "and the bouncers on the door," gestured the bartender, "they're my guys."
CampDog glanced back towards the burly bouncers for a second, "gerbils piloting androids?"
"Yeah," smiled the bartender, "the Dutch Gerbil Mafia run this bar, as we do with some other, ah, questionable establishments in Amsterdam."
"And you're telling me this, why?"
"The moment you took a step into this bar, my boys on the door, they detected your neural implant … that's some very expensive, Federation tech."
It occurred to CampDog where this conversation was headed, "Now come on mate, you know those things can be tracked, right?"
The bartender smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was filled with menace and lust for cruelty, like an amused cat that toyed with a mouse, before it chewed the mouse's head into mince.
With an expression of pure horror on his face, CampDog took several stumbling steps backwards, he turned to sprint towards the door but ran into the two bouncers as they blocked his exit. The bouncers grabbed CampDog by the arms, turned him around and brought him back to the bartender.
"It can't be tracked if we immobilise the tracking function," said the bartender.
He nodded to the bouncers. They grabbed CampDog's head and placed it on the bar. The bartender pulled out a large metallic object from beneath the bar.
"Fellas, come on," pleaded CampDog, "I'm a field agent for the Agency. You do this and your planetary Visas will be revoked. You'll probably do some hard time out at the cold edge of the solar system, freezing your fuzzed-up fun sacks off in the Triton detention centre, before they deport you."
"Let them try," said the bartender, "our parallel version of this Earth was destroyed due to a thermonuclear boo-boo. Our fault, granted, but who could tolerate hamsters and their repetitively cyclic and conformist ideologies? Am I right? There's nothing to deport us back to except an asteroid field between the orbits of our parallel versions of Venus and Mars. Now hold him still fellas," said the bartender, "now I could say this wouldn't hurt Lycanthropan, but," he smiled, "you know, it's going to hurt a lot … like, a lot, almost as bad as a migraine."
The bartender turned on the device. It made a whirring noise as a massive drill extended from the front of the device. The drill was surrounded by four large metallic grips.
"Now you might feel some slight discomfort as I extract your brain, but it will all be over soon."
"You're mad-rodent!" roared CampDog in desperation, "this bar is full of witnesses!"
"The World Cup is on wise guy," said the bartender, "and everyone's paying attention to the game."
It was true, even the band no longer played. They sat at a bench and watched Italy fake a series of penalties to beat Cameroon.
"And besides, it's Amsterdam after all. Everyone is either more drunk than a Triquillion parakeet or more baked than a turd left on the surface of Mercury, or both. Sometimes the best way to hide or do something in plain sight is to just hide or do something in plain sight. No one trusts what they see or hear in a place like Amsterdam."
CampDog squirmed and fought, he tried to resist.
"Hold him still!" shouted the bartender to the bouncers, "his neural implant is incredibly delicate and worth nothing on the black market if it's damaged."
It was about this time that a middle-aged woman with curly, sandy-blonde hair, sat with extreme rage and indignation. She drank rum and coke from a seven-ounce glass and glared across the bar at the soccer team from Uber-Awesome Industries. Another woman of similar age sat next to her, she had dark reddish curls and drank beer from a pint glass.
"Don't let them get to you Mando," she said to her friend, "they're not worth it."
"Flaming 5000-nil Danny," replied Mando, "they bloody well flogged the Matildas, 5000 to flaming nil. It aint right."
"I know it's not," reasoned Danny, "but everyone knows they're just a bunch of dodgy tosses."
Mando took a sip of her rum and coke and sneered, "Someone should teach these ladies a lesson."
She narrowed her glance towards the captain of the Uber-Awesome Industries soccer team. The woman was tall, slender and unbelievably athletic and well proportioned. Strange, but like the rest of her team, the captain was almost doll-like and with piercing eyes that glowed electric blue.
"You wanna explain to me Danny, how these girls are even human?"
"Settle down," said Danny, "we didn't travel halfway around the world from Australia to get into a pub fight with these flogs, just let it go."
"Look," replied Mando, "I aint a violent person. I don't like violence but look at that scruss," she gestured towards the captain, "she's eyeballing me."
"Yeah, but maybe because you're eyeballing her. Just let it go."
Mando grumbled.
"Well, I'm going to grab another beer, you want another rum and coke?"
"Yep, keep them coming."
The bartender noticed Danny as she approached the bar. He quickly put the skull-cracking brain extracting contraption under the bar and strolled to the opposite end. Danny noticed the bouncers as they continued to hold CampDog's head down on the bar. One of the bouncers held his hand over CampDog's mouth.
"Is everything alright?" she asked the bartender.
"Yes, yes, yes," he replied, "just a slightly disgruntled customer who has had a little too much to drink."
"Mmmm… Mmmmoompft…" mumbled CampDog.
Danny glanced back at the bartender, "Ah, I'll have another pint of Heineken_"
"Troll piss! Mmmmoompft…" mumbled CampDog.
"Yeah," said Danny as she glanced again at CampDog, before she looked back at the bartender, "and a rum and coke and make that Bundy rum thanks."
"Bundy rum?" asked the bartender.
"Bundaberg rum, thanks," Danny replied.
"No worries," smiled the bartender.
Meanwhile, Mando continued to narrow her stare at the captain of the Uber-Awesome Industries soccer team. She ground the ice from her seven-ounce glass between her molars, "Come on scruss," she said quietly to herself, "come over and say something. I dare yah, yah stuck up scrag."
The captain glanced over several times while talking to her teammates before she smiled and waved.
"Sarcastic scruss," said Mando, "you want some, you got some."
She stood up from her chair and strolled towards the Uber-Awesome Industries soccer team. The band went back to the stage to play another song, something a little more appropriate for the volcano of excrement that was about to hit the most epic of fans, a cover of Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes.
Mando was met halfway by the captain. The rest of her team stood behind her. They smiled at Mando with their arms crossed. The captain towered over Mando. She looked amused and chewed pink bubble gum.
"What's your problem?" asked the captain, her voice had a slight metallic and subtle machine-like quality to it.
"You lot," Mando replied.
"Ha, ha, ha," chuckled the captain, "let me guess, you are Australian, right?"
"Yep, born and bred in Ipswich, Queensland, what's it to yah?"
"Ha, ha, ha," the captain crossed her arms and leaned her face down towards Mando, "so sorry for your loss."
"I wouldn't call 5000-nil a loss, more like overkill."
"Well, what do you expect? Uber-Awesome Industries soccer team is number one. We are the best soccer team in the world. In fact, we are by far the best soccer team in all history."
"You're full of crap," replied Mando.
"Ha, ha, ha," chuckled the captain, "you really are a sore loser."
"Why your lot gotta try so hard?"
"What you mean?" asked the captain.
"Why you gotta try to be the best at everything? Why you gotta run everyone down? Why do you feel the need to try to bully, intimidate and control everyone? What's the point?"
"Well," smiled the captain as she chewed her bubble-gum, "we are number one. Uber-Awesome Industries," she blew and popped her bubble-gum, "is number one."
"No one cares."
"Well, obviously you do, you have a problem."
"Not with the idea of making money," Mando replied, "Nothing wrong with working hard and trying to get ahead. But, not at the expense of everyone else," Mando sighed, "when you have all the gold in the world, it feels like nothing," she put her hands on her hips, "so what's the flaming point? Greed, it's never, ever satisfied."
The captain's expressions changed from smart sarcasm to a grave, stoned wall expression. This nothing, this nobody, seemed to have an answer for everything, "You are weak, you are poor and you are nobody."
"I don't like bullies," Mano replied, "you represent a conglomerate that takes, takes and takes. You control the media and pull at their strings to disseminate your lies. You prop up governments and presidential puppets, while funding mercenaries to keep communities in line. And why, what for? Profit? So you can buy the next shiny bling bling thingy-ma-jig?"
"Ha!" laughed the captain, chewing on her bubble gum, "that's only what inconsequential losers think, weak, pathetic, powerless and poor."
Mando took a step closer, she poked the captain in the sternum between her pair of plump and immaculately perfect melons, "Your lot will never, ever be satisfied. They'll be burger chains spread across the cosmos and planets stripped mined into oblivion. It won't matter, because it won't be enough. It will never, ever, be enough."
The captain narrowed her electric blue eyes and gave the queen bee of all smiles before she slowly said with words laced in metallic venom, "Pathetic, powerless and poor."
"You didn't beat the Matildas fair and square," said Mando, changing the subject, "you dodgy scrusses cheated. You aint nothing, you're nothing I tell yah. Why, you're nothing but a bunch of dodgy, lame arse, cheating scrags."
The captain was not amused. She invaded Mando's personal space, her boots sinking into the floor. She leaned right into Mando's face and said, "Say it again."
"Say what?" asked Mando without a blink or a flinch.
"Call … us … scrags."
"Well, why call you a bunch of scrags when I can call you a pack of carobs."
And just like that it was on like Donkey Kong!