Anyway, back in the pub near the Western foothills of the Sunshine Coast Hinterland…
Chief stood silent in the country pub. His pale green battle armour was covered in dints and scratches along with the multicoloured specks and spatters of half-dried goo. The goo was from various conjured things that had crossed his path. They were horrible, hideous things that were hellbent to do him harm. Things of nightmares that were now no more. Things that were born from nightmares, that raged and died briefly in the nightmare that was.
The bronze-orange visor of his helmet reflected the dull, fluorescent lights that flickered with uneasiness. The visor hid his face and blinded everyone from the expression in his eyes, eyes suspended in confusion, mild panic and alarm. He dared to not move, lest his body language betrayed the calamity occurring inside his head.
His neural implant was accustomed to the steady stream of data, fed from the Protectorate SI. Data streamed in and data streamed out, memories recorded from every second of his mission. The SI held digital constructs of all field agents, continuously updating each construct with real-time information. The information was thorough, DNA, neural networks, thoughts, feelings, clothing, etc. It constantly stored and updated absolutely everything about a field agent, faithfully replicating everything down to the molecular level … every last atom and quantum particle.
In the event a field agent died while on a mission, the death signal sent from the neural implant would initiate near-instantaneous teleportation of the fallen agent's mortal remains. It provided field agents with a sense of security that no matter what happened while on a mission, the Protectorate had their backs. It made missions feel more like a video game. If you died, you would respawn, safe and sound in one of the Protectorate HQ's teleportation rooms.
Sometimes the data streams were corrupted or incomplete. In such an event, the digital constructs stored by the SI contained the information necessary to repair or replace corrupted or missing data … perhaps an arm, an eye, a sequence of memories, etc. The information was so complete that even if an agent was completely vaporised while on a mission, the mainframe could resurrect the ill-fated field agent in the form of a copy, indistinguishable from the original version. Game Over, real death, was never an issue. Unless you were vaporised and replaced by a perfect copy of course. But streams of data into and from Chief's neural implant had abruptly ceased.
Such an event was impossible, right? Chief tried to reach out to the Protectorate SI but there was nothing but quantum static. Something had happened, something bad, something very, very bad. Chief pulled himself together. Whatever had happened was catastrophic and he was helpless now to change that. He was still on mission. Whatever happened with the Protectorate was irrelevant at the moment. All that mattered now, was the completion of his mission.
"Hey Chief," said the younger Himbo, he scratched his backside before he adjusted his aged blue belt, Jiu-Jitsu jacket and gi pants. The jacket wasn't quite large enough to hide his black rash guard t-shirt nor his rice belly milk gut for that matter. On the rash guard, the words 'TEAM HIPPO' was written in white, across the chest, "I've lost contact with the Protectorate," he said.
"I know," replied Chief, "it doesn't matter at the moment, our focus is the completion of this mission."
Himbo sighed in an agitated and worried manner, "Yeah, but what about Ronch mate?" He pointed to Ronch, the old hippy, "he's here, he's alive."
"Yes," Chief replied, "but we don't have anymore time to be asking questions right now."
"Say Chief," said Himbo, "this hunger is getting out of hand."
His stomach rumbled and vibrated … as in it physically vibrated and was quite noticeable. He panned around, looking for something to eat.
"It's not you who is hungry," complained Chief.
"Yes, I know, it's just a figure of speech. But he needs to eat."
"He always needs to eat," affirmed Chief, "he has always needed to eat."
"Well, if he doesn't eat," added Himbo, "you know what'll happen."
Chief sighed as he scanned the pub for available food. Data appeared on the inside of his visor as his battle armour's computer searched for anything edible.
Old fart excrement was everywhere, on the timber floors, timber cladded walls and balustrades, on the vintage nick-nacks, and even the pool table.
"There," he said, pointing to a barrel of peanuts, "eat that."
Himbo strolled over to the barrel of peanuts, he minded each step but still managed to pull off another commando roll for dramatic effect. He inspected the contents for faecal matter before he proceeded to stuff his mouth full of what seemed like an endless volley of peanuts.
"That big fat bald fella is not even stopping to peel the shells from the peanuts first," said the Indian fellow, "is he some kind of bogan gastropod or something?"
"Be very careful with your words," said the woman with the swords in a slow and very stern tone.
The Indian man gave her a confused and puzzled look.
Meanwhile, the millennials behind him were busy filming the spectacle on their phones. Everyone in the bar (except for the millennials), turned their absolute attention to Chief. Reality and all things sane had long since left the pub by diving headfirst into a thunder box of chaos and mind-shattering confusion. They wanted guidance, direction and answers.
"Well?" snorted the farmer who sat at the bar with the Māori trucker chick, "what the hell was that? What, what was that, that … that pink calamari thing that bloody well ate the fat guy in the stinger suit?
"And why, why did … what the flaming heck happened to old Henry?" The farmer was visibly stressed, panting, holding his chest with one arm, in the grip of panic or heart attack, whichever came first, "Is any of this crud for real or like what I said to this baked up hippy," he pointed angrily at Ronch, "were our drinks spiked or something?"
"How on God's green Earth did he turn into a giant set of butt cheeks that ate poor old Eliza? And … and why in the name of Wally Lewis is that karate nerd eating an entire barrel of peanuts, bloody shells and all?"
"It's mawjitsu mot kawate," mumbled Himbo while he stuffed fistfuls of peanuts into his mouth.
"He has an ultra-terrestrial symbiote," replied Chief.
"A flaming ultra-molesterer-did-what-to-a-goat?" asked the Farmer in alarm.
Chief sighed, "An alien from another universe, lives in his abdominal cavity and functions as his digestive track. Without it, he would die."
"Well," said the farmer, "that clears it all up then … you're more cooked than that boofhead old hippy," he pointed at Ronch.
"I've been like this since we were kids," added Himbo, polishing off the entire barrel of peanuts before he marched over to the bar, "brain transplant as well."
"Well if you ask me," said the farmer, "Yah bloody well all need a brain transplant."
Himbo shrugged before he picked up a barstool and smashed a glass display cabinet, reaching inside to grab an assortment of toffees, slices of cake, muffins, cupcakes, apple turnovers, biscuits, meat pies, spinach triangles and sausage rolls. By now, everyone turned their attention to Himbo.
"Maaan," said Ronch, "that dude has a serious case of the munchies."
"It's okay," announced Chief in a calm and commanding voice, with the hint of what sounded like a Filipino accent, "he's mid feeding frenzy. He should settle down fairly soon."
Himbo polished off five custard tarts before he walked into the bar and opened the fridge. He grabbed five, three-litre bottles of full cream milk, being careful to avoid the soy and almond milk and all that other crap. He walked back out from behind the bar, sat on a chair and proceeded to drink the entire five bottles. He paused only to discard a bottle, grab a new one and break off the cap. This was followed by a long and horrendous burp. Himbo sat back in satisfaction and looked content. Crumbs and stains covered the front of his Jiu-Jitsu jacket.
"Is Fernando all good?" asked Chief.
Himbo responded with a thumbs up, "Yes … for now."
"I can't take this," said the barmaid. Mascara ran down the sides of her face from streams of tears, "What a fat, disgusting pig!"
And then something stranger happened, something even stranger than the old jukebox that started back up again and from no apparent cause. It played Breakaway by Big Pig.
To everyone's odd mixture of curiosity, horror and alarm, the splattered smears and puddles of faecal matter, that had been the giant granny eating peach, that had been the old pop Henry, began to change colour from mustard dark brown to an oily black. The black masses moved through the pub towards one of the walls. On the wall, next to old street signs and a mosaic of Australia made from beer bottle caps, was the stuffed head of a giant boar, mounted on a plaque.
The oily viscosities moved across the floor and up the wall, soaking into the timber behind the head of the massive boar. Its huge tusks were only outmatched for ferocity by the look of pure rage in its large glass, inanimate eyes.
"We need to go people," said Chief.
The timber behind the boar's head began to shake and tremble.
"I'm bloody well not going anywhere with that calamari buggery thing outside," said the farmer.
The wall shook violently as smoke wafted from between the palings.
"Now!" roared Chief.
The cowboy guy stood up from his stool and sculled his last shot of whisky, "Do what he says," he said to the farmer before he strolled across the pub towards Chief and his cosplay/martial arts entourage.
The Indian fellow shrugged stoically and abruptly left the pool table along with the small group of millennials. They rushed towards the front doors. They were followed by Ronch, who strolled at a slower, much more casual pace. He seemed slightly distracted as he rolled something questionable between his fingertips and sealed it with a lick.
"I think we should go," said the Māori trucker chick as she patted the farmer on the shoulder.
"No," he whispered in reply, "we don't know who these weirdo drongo deros are, let alone whatever that pink tentacled thing is outside."
Cracks appeared in the wall, followed by grunts and snorts. The ears of the stuffed boar's head began to twitch, the glass eyes softened as the pupils narrowed from static dilation to vengeful focus. Steam appeared from the snout before its mouth tore open, letting out a horrendous series of snorts and squeals.
"Go, go, go, now!" shouted Chief, ushering everyone towards the front doors while the guy in the silk kung fu outfit and the woman with the swords, removed the furniture barricading the front doors before they opened them wide.
Everyone except Chief ran from the pub, this included the fat Flash in spandex and his romantic compadre in bearded Klingon drag. They all scattered into the dark and wet, abandoned main street of the tiny town. The street lights flickered and a smoky mist wrapped itself around buildings and coiled through alleys. Puddles of black water, filled potholes. What resembled droplets of black spray paint, stained everything from the post office box to the telephone poles and the cars parked along the sides of the blackened streets. Inside the pub, the sound of breaking timber, roars and squeals of the boar was blended with bursts from Chief's pulse rifle.
POW-POW-POW!
"Die you sonofabitch!"
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEL!
POW-POW-POW!
Moments later Chief dived out from the double doors as the giant unholy boar plunged from the pub. The doorway shattered in its wake. The black ugly mass slid across the street and toppled over before it righted itself. It was huge and dwarfed a rhinoceros which incidentally, appeared on the street in a flash of blue light and then ran away in the opposite direction. It tossed cars and utes aside as it was pursued by a mob of angry Mongolians riding dirt bikes.
Unfortunately, the millennials and the Indian fellow were just within charging distance. All of the millennials had their phones out and were too detached and distracted to cogitate the immediate threat.
"Do you have any bars?" asked one of them, "I'm still trying to upload the video of that old guy turning into like, a literal anus."
"Oh my gosh," complained one of the millennials, "he like, turned into a giant pair of bouncing butt cheeks, not an anus."
"Yeah true," said another millennial, "but like, it ate the old woman by using its anus, right?"
"Gross."
"So gross."
"Like, totally."
"I can't get phone reception either," said another, "like I swear, it's like, sooo frustrating."
"I bet like, somewhere like Romania, still gets better internet than Australia."
"Oh yeah, like totally."
"Totally."
"I'm getting just enough light from this street light to like, film this big pig that's charging towards us. Wow, guys, this is sooo going to get like, a million-billion plus views."
If the millennials chose to use just a degree of common sense, they would have dropped their phones and fled for their lives. Unfortunately for the millennials, without hesitation, the giant boar stomped, chomped and gored a burgundy path of destruction through them. All perished in the wake of its rage, except for the young Indian fellow. He was saved from the carnage and tossed aside by the big pig like a salad on a kid's dinner plate.
From his knees, Chief fired two shots from his grenade launcher. The rounds exploded on the boar's fighting pads. It squealed in agony but did not appear to be seriously injured. It turned towards Chief; steam rose from its nostrils while fire roared from its jaws. The pig paused while glow in the dark, fluorescent green liquid gushed like a toxic waterfall from its corkscrew appendage. It bellowed an ungodly squeal and charged like a 10-tonne tank hell bent on buggery.
The woman with swords ran with the swiftness of a swallow towards the left flank of the rampaging boar. She rolled under the belly of the beast and with two slices of her dual-wielded samurai swords, she disembowelled the beast before severing the boar's legs at the knuckles of its knees.
The beast tumbled and slid across the road. It lay there belly up. It's hoarse squeals sounded like some kind of tortured tauntaun, waiting for Luke Skywalker to use its guts as a swag.
The cowboy strolled up casually to the head of the squealing monstrosity. From the aether, he pulled out a .357 magnum revolver with depleted uranium, hollow-point rounds and placed it on the boar's tremendous skull, on the bone right between its bulbous eyes.
"Sayonara carbonara," he said as he pulled the trigger.
KABLAMO!
The blast sharted the big pig's cerebral misery across the bitumen.
"I told you," said Chief as he huffed and puffed and slowly stood up, "that you would come in handy."
"Glad to be of service," said the cowboy as he tipped his hat in acknowledgement.
"What is your name soldier?" asked Chief.
The cowboy paused for a second. It was as if, no one had ever asked him that question before.
"Tex," he replied, "Tex Tockley."
Chief nodded in agreement. It was as if he already knew the man's name. That he had always known this man. That he was just playing along, allowing this man, much like the others, to find themselves as they came into being.
The obvious distraction meant that no one noticed the slow rise of pink tentacles from the stormwater drains in the gutters.