As the screams subsided in the old country pub, situated west of the Sunshine Coast Hinterland, Himbo's bottom half that consisted of his lower torso, backside and legs, continued to convulse and twitch. The legs shook like a hound dog and threw Kenpo kicks like a horizontal Elvis on stage. Nerves cried out for connection to a central nervous system that had quite literally, left the building. The top half of Himbo was torn apart and devoured by some kind of pink, monstrous land squid thing.
Chief looked down at the pile of gore. It was impossible to read his expression due to his helmet and bulky green battle armour, however it appeared he was waiting for something. The twitching legs were now motionless. A few seconds passed and then poof! In a flash of pink and purple light the gore was gone, blood and excrement, lard and bone … gone, all gone, totally gone, like … gone. All that remained was the polished timber floors, devoid of stains.
"Dammit Himbo," muttered Chief to himself, "that was your 12th and final respawn. Forced retirement big fella."
"You know Johnny, I'm still here," said the plump Jiu Jitsu bro standing behind Chief – the guy who originally entered the pub with a sequence of pointless commando rolls. He regained his composure, "technically, I haven't left … and, I'm still bald."
"Ease up telling everyone my name, and you're still, what?" Chief replied with a blend of confusion and frustration, "what does you being bald have to do with the price of Triquillion parrakeet eggs of the Pan Cosmic Black Market? You've almost always been bald. Because of Fernando, your scalp is toxic to all forms of follicle life."
Chief refused to turn his back to the barricaded window. He took several careful steps backwards, "Yes, I know you're still here Himbo, but that was the older, grey silver back version of you," he turned and faced the younger Himbo, "you know, the one who fought and lost a battle against a god for the woman he loved?"
Himbo's expression was one of blank confusion. Clearly, this version of Himbo had no idea what Chief was rambling on about.
"You'll meet her one day," said Chief, "a pretty face but with a wicked set of slithery dreadlocks."
"Sounds like a real looker," said the fellow in the kung fu outfit.
Chief turned his helmet briefly towards the kung fu guy before looking back again at the Jiu Jitsu butterball, "Awe yeah, she's a real looker alright," he said, "she'll harden up any man, she'll make them like rock, like stone."
"I'm confused," said the younger Himbo – the Jiu Jitsu butterball, "and also a little bit hungry."
Chief sighed, "We needed that older and somewhat wiser version of Himbo," he looked the younger Jiu Jitsu Himbo up and down, "while this version of you, still has his head shoved firmly up his backside."
"Agreed," replied Himbo as he nodded, acutely aware of his addiction to Betelgeuselian Jiu Jitsu, "and just to reaffirm what the older me said before, ah, well … it was pretty fudging unpleasant what happened, wasn't it?" he turned to look at the old hippy, "yeah, anyway, it truly is good to see you again Ronch. Although mate," he stroked his chin in confused contemplation, "I, I don't really understand why or more importantly, how, you could possibly be here. You're you, but, you can't be you. There's no coming back. Just, just how the fudge are you here mate? The dead, well, the truly dead that is … they don't come back."
For a second the old hippy looked shocked and in awe, but then he suddenly smiled, laughed and started to clap, "Awwwe yeahhhhhh, ha haa, haaa, right on maaan," he laughed again and clapped a few times more.
"Temporal agents," sneered the cowboy as he grabbed the bottle of tequila from the benchtop, poured himself a shot and drank it, "puppets on strings for some off-world, extraterrestrial force," he put down the shot glass, "I don't know how I know that, but I do. Sounds like conspiratorial crap, but for some reason, I just know that it's not."
As Johnny stared at the cowboy, his neural implant scanned his facial features for identification. Strange, he thought. He was unable to identify the cowboy, no known human existed on Primordial Earth. It was as if this man just morphed into existence. On a hunch, Johnny performed a more invasive scan to see what was beneath his sun-tanned skin.
"Mm," mused Johnny, "it appears you're one of … them. Many hands make light work. You'll definitely come in handy."
"Wow," slurred the old hippy, "this is all like a video game man."
Johnny turned his helmet towards the hippy, "On the other hand, you, Ronch Reefa, and I know that you are indeed Ronch Reefa because I just scanned your DNA, you should be dead. Big Ham was there on Primordial Earth V-117325005007942-B12-9 when it happened." Johnny stomped towards the old hippy, "That Earth is as close to the idea of a post-apocalyptic Mad Max radioactive wasteland as it gets. He said it took days to shampoo out all of the chunks of blood, guts and bone from his mullet."
Chest plates to Ronch's face, Johnny looked down, his gold tinted visor hid the severity of his stern expression, "If Big Ham was just some normal bloke, he would have cracked every bone in his hands, caving in the heads of over a 200 barbarian bevans. You're not an agent Ronch, you never were. No respawns for you, no second, third, ninth or twelfth chances. Dead as dead can be. You were in the wrong place in time, space and universe."
"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not dead man," said Ronch before he chuckled, "maybe a bit brain dead, but not dead, dead man,"
Chief leaned down with menace and soberly said, "Why in Bloke's name did you go to that thunderbox of a planet?"
"Dunno what you're talking about man. I don't even remember how I ended up here."
"Well," continued Chief, "When you crashed on that hellish Earth and switched on your emergency transponder, Big Ham was the first to answer your call for help."
"Sounds like a legend."
"He was."
"The dude's dead man?"
"Might as well be."
"How's that man?"
"He's retired," Chief straightened up, "and married."
"Dude," said Ronch with serious dread, "fudge that man, being married man, that's way too much grief for any man, man."
Chief leaned in a little more, "Commandant Scarecrow ordered him to stand down. 'Protectorate resources could not be used to retrieve 'problematic' civilians, especially those who ran a conspiracy podcast, she said."
"Sounds like he didn't listen … and I ran a podcast man?"
"You don't remember?" queried Himbo, the Jiu Jitsu butterball, "I used to listen to it all of the time."
"What was it called, man?"
"Captain Kombi's Gonzo Conspiratard Podcast," interjected Chief, "And as for Big Man, no, of course he didn't listen – to Scarecrow or your podcast," he leaned down towards Ronch again, "Big Ham broke every rule and regulation in the Primordial Earth Protectorate's Big Book of Procedural Protocols to try and rescue your delinquent backside. He literally had you on the ramp of the TR-3B he commandeered when some barbarian bevan blew you to kingdom come with an RPG."
"What a banging way to go man."
Chief continued, "Big Ham said that after he killed that entire bevan horde, torching their muscle trucks and plutonium powered panel vans, at sunset he cremated what was left of your remains, out there in that outback."
"Sounds like a picturesque farewell man."
"And when he jumped that TR-3B back to Protectorate HQ, Scarecrow had him thrown into a temporal detention cell for three minutes. Do you know how long three minutes can be in a temporal detention cell Ronch?"
"I don't know man," Ronch replied, "come to think of it, I don't even know about anything you're talking about man. Who's Big Ham? Man, right about now I could really go for some ham and cheese toasties, even some smoked oysters on toast or strawberry jam on big slabs of cheddar cheese man."
"Oh, you don't know what I'm talking about Ronch?" Johnny barked, "Really? For his perception of time, Big Ham sat in that temporal jail cell, staring at the grey concrete wall for over 30 years. And what makes it worse Ronch, is that those sickos who run the Protectorate's detention centre, well, those depraved nut jobs played Backstreet Boys The Hits – Chapter One on continuous loop," Johnny paused for dramatic effect, "30 years of Backstreet Boys, Ronch. That's what Big Ham endured trying to save you on a bombed out radioactive Earth in some backwater universe. The Protectorate threw him in that cell for 30 years in three minutes real time and made him listen to a 90's boy band for 30 … fricking … years Ronch. They tried to break him, but it only made him bitter … even more than before."
"Did he like, grow old while he was in there man?"
"No," Chief replied, "biologically, he only aged three minutes, but mentally, he was totally cooked. You really don't remember anything, do you?"
"Backstreet Boys, hey?" pondered Ronch soberly, "that was indeed a torturous tragedy."
"So," Johnny said, standing straight and trudging back two steps, "How the hell are you alive and how did you end up here?"
Ronch grinned in ecstatic relief, "I knew it man, I knew it! I knew I wasn't crazy. I knew these flashbacks were real flashbacks man. Whoa," said the hippy, "either that Jesus edible is starting to kick in or all of these flashbacks are cooking my brain man … I think I hate flashbacks man."
"But you just jokingly jousted your joy for flashbacking," said the Fat Flash with a thick lisp.
"bIH yInmeH jIdegh 'ej bIH vIrur," said the big guy dressed as a Klingon. He stepped up and tapped the Fat Flash on the shoulder in lovingly agreement.
"Thanks babe," lisped the Fat Flash.
The old farmer noticed the intimate interaction, "Told yah. The city aint nothing but a bunch of lefties, kooks, weirdos and," he said as he pointed in triumph at the Fat Flash and Klingon in drag, "funny buggers."
The Klingon took a step forward but stopped when the Fat Flash put his gloved hand lovingly but assertively across his chest, "Don't let him get to you babe, he's just a backward bushie."
The Klingon growled in acceptance and took a step back.
"What was I talking about?" asked Ronch in genuine confusion, "awe yeah … because when I tell people about my stories, they think, like I'm crazy man," Ronch's eyes gleamed like meteors, "but, I knew they were real man."
"Your stories are complete bullcrap because you are crazy," remarked the farmer, "and after seeing some, pink calamari tentacled squid thing, tear that bloke in half, followed by … well, whatever ungodly things these pair of weirdos get up to," he pointed again at the Fat Flash and his partner, the Klingon in drag, "I'm starting to think you spiked our drinks hippy," he paused to glare and snarl at Ronch, "you useless, brain dead hippy."
Ronch just smiled as wrinkles creased around his old eyes, "Nature gave us a huge backlog of brain cells for a reason man."
"Hippy drongo," added the farmer in disgust.
"Guilty as charged," smiled Ronch.
When we're done with this mission Woodford," Johnny said to Ronch with grave intention as he stomped towards the old hippy, "you and I will have a little talk about how you came back from the dead. Twelve re-gens are all we get."
Ronch looked genuinely puzzled, "How do you know my first name man?" he asked with sincere puzzlement. "I, I think I know you," a serious expression shrouded his face as his eyes narrowed slightly, "but, I can't remember how."
"He's in cosplay costume," said the Māori trucker chick with a thick kiwi accent, "like, from those Xbox games or something."
"Kind of correct," said Chief, without turning his helmet and visor away from Ronch, "but this is genuine battle armour … reverse engineered COHP tech."
"Oh," said Ronch is realisation, "The COHPs man, I can't quite remember, but I know all about the COHPs man."
"I bet you do," agreed the farmer, "probably been arrested by the cops heaps of times for drug possession."
"No," said Ronch in annoyance, "the COHP man, not the cops man," he took a few steps, both hands on his temples in frustration, "I know about the COHP man, but what is it?"
Old pops, who was disarmed and dropped by Himbo prior to the pink squid Himbo buffet, started to twitch and convulse on the floor. He rolled around, as if playing a tense game of Twister with himself. To everyone's shock and disturbing amazement, his torso and neck twisted and rotated 360 degrees. His arms and legs seemed to break and twist as well. His eyes bulged from their sockets as he vomited an endless torrent of black, oily liquid. He let out a series of inhuman, ungodly moans and groans, complemented with endless flatulence.
His wife, the old mom from behind the bar, just looked with a resided expression of horror and stoic acceptance, "Oh, why Henry, you silly old bugger," she said as she left the bar and approached the convulsing wreck of her husband. "I told you not to drink that rainwater with your heart pills. Didn't I tell you that it looked a little funny?"
She continued to approach her husband but stopped, black goo oozed from his eye sockets before to her horror, both eyes popped like cherry bomb firecrackers. With more swift and violent motion, he continued to twitch and convulse out of control and toot wind like a freight train. To almost everyone's horror, his butt cheeks swelled in size until his entire body consisted of a large, wrinkly old, monstrous peach that now blasted a noxious green gas.
"Well Henry," said old mom, stoically channelling over 40 years of marital frustration and contempt into a simple statement of sheer and utter relief, "you finally did it, didn't you? You silly old fool. You finally showed the whole world just how huge a butthead you really are."
The giant old wrinkly peach screeched demonically. A long brown tongue of effluence lashed out like a cane toad. It snatched old mom and devoured her in several gulps, proceeded by a large long burp … or fart, at this point it was hard to tell. Chief stepped forward and swung his pulse rifle from his shoulder. He fired several shots into the giant demonic peach. It roared in rage and bounced towards the pool table.
Ronch stood directly in its way. He was frozen with fear. His entire field of vision filled with giant, old, wrinkly peach. Time slowed down for Ronch, his entire universe consumed by peach. Peaches by The Presidents of the United States of America, played on eternal rerun in his transcendental jungle of a brain.
Just before it made contact, Chief pumped the grenade launcher attachment on his pulse rifle and fired a single shot. The old wrinkled peach exploded mid-flight in a shower of excrement. Fortunately, no one was hit by the pungent shrapnel.
The Indian man who stood next to the pool table with the younger millennials said, "Well everyone, not to be alarming but you know what I am thinking? I think that this place has totally gone to crap. I think that none of this is normal and I think that it is a good time to go."