by Jake Bible
“Yeah, she was lying,” Rage said. “You really don’t know shit about chicks, Jackie Boy.”
“You may be correct there, Maximillian Rage,” Jack Connor, King of Mars responded. “But I do know how to get you out of here and to the ship that your friends seek. Shall the rescue begin?”
“That’d be great, man. Can we go now?”
“But you haven’t chosen a weapon, Maximillian Rage. I must recommend Desdemona. I cannot believe I forgot about her. Stupid Jack Connor, King of Mars.”
“No, I’m good. My fists are pretty handy.”
“Are you sure? Desdemona shoots straight and true.”
“I bet she does, but like I said, I’m good.” Rage smiled and waited. “Really. Can we go now?”
“Of course,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “Once the mole people have finished feasting.”
“After the mole people have finished doing what?” Rage asked. He didn’t have to ask a second time.
The mole people tore into the corpses of the naked spider ladies. They ripped open the exoskeletons and grabbed at the yellow guts inside, stuffing the spider innards into their ravenous maws by the handfuls. Much of the yellow goo spilled down the mole people’s chins and onto their mole chests, but they didn’t seem to care too much.
“Oh, how messy they are when they eat,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said, looking a little nauseous. “But what they lack in manners they make up for in enthusiasm.”
“No shit,” Rage said, a little nauseous himself.
It was pretty disgusting how the mole people were devouring the naked spider lady bodies. It was like watching a bunch of starving refugees attack an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet. Rage expected a few of the mole people to pull out bibs and tools for cracking the naked spider lady legs apart. But the little beasts didn’t seem to care how messy they got and their teeth worked just fine for cracking those spider legs open.
“How long is this gonna take?” Rage asked.
“Oh, it’ll take a bit,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “Perhaps we should move to the corner over there and talk over beers.”
“Not sure I want to talk, but beers are good,” Rage replied. He looked at the few tables in the beer hall that hadn’t been overturned. The few that held beer mugs, held only broken beer mugs. “Looks like we’re outta beer, though.”
“What? Oh, Maximillian Rage, have you never been to a Martian beer hall before?” Jack Connor, King of Mars asked. A stray chunk of naked spider lady splatted on his cheek and he casually flicked it off. “Beer halls can never run out of beer. That is Mars law.”
He turned and walked away, weaving through the naked spider lady smorgasbord, headed to a set of doors against the far wall, opposite the still-roaring fire. Rage followed.
When they reached the doors, Jack Connor, King of Mars, knocked loudly. The door cracked open slightly.
“Hello there, beirmeister,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said to a pair of eyes. “The violence is over and the mole people are feasting, as is their custom. My good friend here, Maximillian Rage, and I would be most grateful if you could supply us with two… No, better make it four pitchers of your finest. Please and thank you.”
The door closed and Jack Connor, King of Mars gave Rage a big smile.
“It’ll only be a moment, Maximillian Rage.”
The King of Mars did not lie. The door opened in a moment and a tray with four frothy pitchers of beer was handed out to him. Jack Connor, King of Mars took the tray and curtsied.
“My gratitude to you and yours, beirmeister,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said then turned on his heel and headed for the corner table, well away from the ongoing feast. He set the tray down and handed Rage one of the pitchers. He picked up one for himself and raised it. “Cheers!”
“Cheers,” Rage echoed and clinked the pitcher to Jack Connor, King of Mars’ pitcher.
Then Rage downed the entire pitcher of beer in one, long drink. He belched, wiped his mouth, and snagged the second pitcher. To his surprise, Jack Connor, King of Mars was also on his second pitcher.
“Ah, it is good to see you are not a sipper, Maximillian Rage,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “There is something off about those that sip their beer.”
The two downed their second pitchers, belched loudly, wiped their mouths, and smiled.
“If I don’t look behind me,” Rage said, “I might enjoy this moment.”
“That is good,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said then leaned across the table and whispered, “Perhaps now might be a good time for me to ask you for a favor.”
“Go for it, Jackie Boy,” Rage said, feeling the warmth of the beer take the edge off, well, everything that had happened since he woke up tied to a large cross. “Whatcha need?”
“I need you to take me with you when you leave, Maximillian Rage,” Jack Connor, King of Mars whispered. “I am the mole people’s prisoner and I would like to go home to Earth now.”
Rage should have known. He really should have.
“Of course,” Rage said. “How about we get a few more pitchers and you start from the beginning? I have a feeling there’s a story to all this shit.”
“Oh, Maximillian Rage, there is,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said, nodding his head up and down vigorously. “Quite the story.”
Thirty-One
Jack Connor, King of Mars, had once only been Jack Connor, king of nothing. Or nothing to his friends and family. But to Jack Connor, he was about to be the greatest adventurer in the history of human civilization.
For Jack Connor was building a machine that would take him to Mars!
If he could get his machine to work. It wasn’t like he had anything to compare it to. The year was 1934, the United States was in the Great Depression, and there wasn’t even a transcontinental interstate highway system built yet, let alone an aerospace industry. It would be over a decade before rockets designed to go into space would even become a feasible idea.
That did not deter Jack. No, despite his wife’s constant nagging for him to put the saw down and come inside and wash the dishes before bedtime, which was at exactly 9:30pm every night since Mrs. Connor was very strict when it came to one getting their proper amount of sleep, Jack continued working well into the wee hours of the morning on his invention.
“The egg was a thing of beauty,” Jack Connor, King of Mars told Max Rage.
“The egg?” Rage asked, not really wanting to, but four pitchers down kind of stripped that bit of willpower away. “Sure. The egg.”
“I called it that because it was shaped like an egg.”
“Makes sense.”
“Shall I continue?”
“Is there more beer?”
“Plenty.”
“Then continue away, Jackie Boy.”
Jack Connor had once been to a museum when he was a child. Being from the Midwest, the museum was in Chicago, which was a city filled with wonder for a young boy, and the city did not disappoint. Jack toured the museum with his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide. Even his mother’s need to hold his hand at all moments, even though he was almost twelve years of age, did not ruin the wonder.
Especially when they reached the exhibit of flying machines.
The Wright Brothers had just announced their success at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, so every museum in the country was scrambling to cobble together exhibits that showcased past attempts at flight. The museum Jack Connor toured was no exception and the main exhibit hall was jammed with aeronautical failures.
Except Jack did not see them as failures. He saw them as dreams that someone had never completely followed through on. Every contraption his eyes fell on had the potential of flight if only the inventor had not given up. It was completely illogical, and rather stupid, but that was how Jack saw things at eleven years of age.
“Yeah, that is kind of stupid,” Rage said.
“I know, I know, Maximillian Rage,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “But I was only a boy and did not know better.”
&
nbsp; “Hold up, Jackie Boy,” Rage said, eight pitchers in. “This is early 20th century? You built your egg in 1934? Science is good, but not live forever good.”
“I shall get to that, Maximillian Rage. May I continue?”
“Continue away.”
The idea of building the egg came to young Jack Connor in a dream one night. A Midwest thunderstorm raged around the two-story farmhouse where Jack was raised, shaking the walls and threatening to tear the roof right off. But Jack slept soundly. He’d always been a good sleeper. It was one reason he and his future wife had connected so well. Until Jack became obsessed with building his egg.
In the dream, Jack stood on a desolate landscape. Nothing but red rock and sand for as far as his eyes could see. Then an object appeared before him. An egg-shaped object. Well, an egg. That was why it was egg-shaped. It was an egg. A big egg.
“Jack Connor!” a voice boomed like thunder. “You shall build this egg so it may one day transport you here!”
“I don’t want to be transported here,” Jack Connor replied. “It’s really dusty and I have allergies.”
“Silence!” the voice boomed. “This is your destiny! For the next eight hundred and sixty-three nights, except for holidays, you will dream of this egg and what it will take to build it in your time and place!”
“That’s a lot of nights,” Jack Connor said. “I really do have bad allergies, so I may wake myself up from sneezing. Is that alright?”
“You will not sneeze here!”
Jack Connor sneezed. He woke himself up.
And so it went for eight hundred and sixty-three nights, except for holidays.
Jack Connor dreamed of the egg and how to build it properly. The problem was that he kept sneezing in his dreams and waking himself up at the worst possible moments, so he missed a lot of the finer points of the egg’s construction.
Once the eight hundred and sixty-three nights, except holidays, were up, the dreams ended.
After a couple of years, Jack Connor forgot all about those sneezy dreams and the egg. He graduated high school and went off to college where he met his future wife. She wasn’t at college, because the college he attended didn’t have a home economics program and women were only good at home economics back then as everyone knew. She worked in the cafeteria, had very large breasts, and thought Jack Connor was swell.
The day after graduation, Jack Connor married that large-breasted cafeteria worker and they moved off to one of the larger cities in their Midwest state.
Jack got a job as a factory worker, making factory stuff, and his wife stayed home and kept the house free of dust so that Jack could sleep properly. Sleep was important.
Then the dreams began again.
“Jack Connor!” the voice boomed. “Put on that suit!”
Jack looked at the red dirt at his feet and saw a strange-looking suit. He reached down, studied it, then sneezed and woke himself up.
“I’ll clean twice tomorrow,” his wife mumbled then rolled over and went back to sleep.
Jack lay awake the rest of the night, his mind racing with the long-forgotten dreams he’d had as a young boy.
The next night, Jack had the same dream and put the suit on before the voice could even utter the command for him to do so.
“Good!” the voice boomed. “Now you will not sneeze! That suit is sealed to protect you from Mars’ dusty atmosphere!”
“Mars! Golly!” Jack Connor responded. “This is Mars?”
“Yes, this is Mars!” the booming voice replied. “Where did you think it was?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Egypt?”
“Why would you be instructed to build a vehicle to transport you to Egypt? That makes no sense.”
“Have you ever been to Egypt?”
“Well, no…”
“Do you even know how to get to Egypt?”
“No, I do not know how to get to Egypt.”
“Then maybe don’t be so judgmental, please and thank you.”
“Silence!” the voice boomed. “You must listen, Jack Connor! You have a destiny that must be fulfilled!’
“I do? What’s that?”
Jack woke up when his wife elbowed him in the ribs.
“You’re talking in your sleep. Stop that,” his wife said.
“Sorry,” Jack replied and lay there the rest of the night wondering what his destiny could be.
The next night it was revealed.
“You shall start building this egg!” the voice said. “Then you will use it to travel here and fulfill your destiny!”
“That sounds swell!” Jack exclaimed. “But what is my destiny?”
“To be King of Mars!”
“Oooo, that’s a nice destiny.”
“Yes, very nice, so do not screw this opportunity up, Jack Connor.”
“I promise I will not. Being King of Mars sounds awfully important and you can count on me, Jack Connor, to be up to the task.”
“I know I can! Now, pay attention! Did you bring something to write on?”
“No, this is a dream.”
“Right. Yes. Hold on a moment.” A pad of paper and pencil appeared in the dirt. “There you go. Start taking notes.”
And Jack Connor took notes. Notebook after notebook of notes. Then he was required to memorize those notes. It was two years later before he began building the egg in his garage, much to his wife’s chagrin, as stated previously.
“Your wife was a real ball-buster,” Rage said, twenty-three pitchers down.
“She was nothing of the sort. She was a lovely woman with large breasts that cared for my health is all.”
“If you say so, Jackie Boy.”
“I do. May I continue?”
“Continue away.”
Then, one night, the egg was done. Jack had had a dream the evening before that told him not to hesitate. To jump into the egg immediately. He was not to let his wife know. He was not to pack. He was to open the egg’s lid, climb inside, and press the single button.
Jack Connor did exactly as he had been instructed in his dream to do.
There was a flash and Jack felt as if he was being torn inside out. Then it was all over and the egg’s lid was lifting open.
“Get out,” a man wearing nothing but a leather loincloth said. “Hey! Moron! You deaf?”
“Uh, no,” Jack Connor responded.
“Then get out of the egg!” the man in the loincloth ordered.
Jack climbed out of the egg and the man climbed in.
“See ya, sucker!” the man shouted before he slammed the lid shut and the egg disappeared.
Then Jack Connor was surrounded by a thousand mole people.
“And that’s how I became King of Mars,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “It’s been really awful.”
“I bet,” Rage replied, finishing his sixty-third pitcher. “Now can we go?”
“Yes,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “But you have to kill them first.”
“The mole people?”
“Yup.”
“All of them?”
“Yup.”
“No problemo, Jackie Boy.”
Rage stood up and turned to face the mole people. They were done eating the naked spider ladies and all were glaring at Rage.
“I had a feeling this was where it was all going,” Rage said and cracked his knuckles. “Beer power, activate!”
Fueled by alcoholic courage and his always physically enhanced strength, Rage rushed the mole people.
Thirty-Two
Rage crushed and killed mole people with his bare hands at a rather surprising rate even for him.
He also threw up a lot of beer. Considering how many pitchers he’d drunk, that part was not surprising.
But, Rage being Rage, a constant spewing of Martian beer didn’t slow him down one tiny bit.
The fact that the mole people kept multiplying even at the rate he was butchering them, did slow him down a little bit.
“Where the fuck a
re they all coming from?” Rage shouted.
He slammed six mole people heads into six other mole people heads. He wasn’t sure how he did it, and would have loved to see the instant replay, but two dozen more mole people leapt onto his back before he could ask Jack Connor, King of Mars whether the beer hall had surveillance equipment, so he simply asked the previous question again.
“Where the fuck are they all coming from?”
“That door,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said, pointing at a side door and not helping Rage in the least.
“Then go shut the door!” Rage shouted.
“Oh, I cannot assist with this battle,” Jack Connor, King of Mars explained. “As their liege and ruler, it would be a conflict of interest.”
“You’re the one that told me to kill them!” Rage bellowed. “Pretty fucking sure conflict met interest a few minutes ago!”
“Yes, well, the mole people expect that of their king,” Jack Connor, King of Mars said. “It comes with the position. Did you not infer from the telling of my tale that no one willingly takes this job?”
“I inferred that you got suckered,” Rage replied. He spun in a tight circle and dislodged the mole people from his back. Some flew into other mole people, some missed the others and slammed into the beer hall’s walls, making disgusting splat noises on impact. “Are you telling me they expect their kings to try to kill them?”
“All the time,” Jack Connor, King of Mars replied. “Yet it does not diminish their worship and loyalty. Strange creatures, the mole people of Mars.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” Rage snapped as eight mole people clawed at his face with their extremely sharp mole claws.
Blood poured down Rage’s face, blinding him briefly. Only briefly. The cuts healed quickly and he continued his assault on the mole people of Mars. They, in turn, continued their assault on Max Rage, Intergalactic Badass.
There was a lot of mutual assault.
Most of the assault was of the melee variety. Fists. Claws. Boots. Claws. Teeth. Teeth.
Then, as if psychically linked, Rage and the mole people paused in their mutual assault upon each other and looked down.
Down at the laser rifles that had been forgotten and discarded.
