How to Pick Up Women with a Drunk Space Ninja

by Jay Key

  The robotic musician waited for the drunken stage crasher to make the first move. Time passed slowly and nothing happened. After all, Ishiro’shea was asleep. Duke could sense that Sprinkles was losing his patience and was concerned that his street cred as a bad mutha’ was slipping—it might appear as though he was going to show mercy. The silence was broken by a few inebriated calls from the back of the bar.

  “Wuss!”

  “Poser!”

  “Hack!”

  “You can’t even stop a squirrel monkey!”

  These insults appeared to shake the metal performer. When a loyal Jungafallowian questioned his robotic manhood, Duke saw him snap. Spinkles’ cerebral processor sparked and his visor tinged a deep red. Just as Duke assumed, the eyes told the story.

  The Queen’s opportunity isn’t looking like such a bad deal at the moment.

  A loud crash rang through Cyborg Joe’s. It was the sound that a penguin makes when you put it in a blender and then drop it on a landmine.

  Sprinkles dropped the ninja and his hammer fell from attack position.

  Duke was standing on the top of the table, drawing the bewildered stares of the two Jungafallowians and Lilly, the anthropomorphic musk ox from one of the moons of Gartosh. The Trampling Death Robot frontman glared directly at the Stetson-wearing humanoid with his firearm in plain sight. But it wasn’t the laser revolver that he held firmly in his hand—it was Ol’ Betsy, smoke still curling from the barrel. The shotgun pointed not at the musical goliath but at the ceiling of Cyborg Joe’s.

  Hopefully that broke the tension.

  Duke figured that Sprinkles didn’t really want to kill Ishiro’shea; however, not killing him would be detrimental to his reputation and, thus, his musical career—and he needed a way to divert the focus away from this powder keg. Of course, there was always the possibility of the explosion triggering the robot to drop the hammer instinctively, in the process creating the galaxy’s first ninja pancake. Luckily for all involved, Duke’s lightning-quick psychoanalysis was spot on. He gambled—and the early returns were favorable.

  “Okay, Mr. Sprinkles, let’s all calm down. I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Duke said with diplomatic caution. “I’m deeply sorry for interrupting your transcendent set—as is my intoxicated friend, there. And I am sure he would be apologizing profoundly if he was, ya’ know, awake. How about I just pick him up, we’ll go on our merry way, and you can continue to entertain your legions of fans here at this fine establishment? Sound good?”

  Sprinkles inched closer to the bounty hunter. His eyes sparkled an intense shade of contempt. No deal, I guess.

  “We can be civil about this quite insignificant imbroglio. And, with all due respect, I don’t think you want to have a chat with Betsy here.”

  Duke aimed the wide-mouthed firearm at the oncoming musician. He continued to try to reason: “I can see you’re a bit upset. I get it, believe me I do—but there’s no need to cause another scene.”

  Sprinkles continued to approach, his metallic frame convulsing to the point that it almost appeared organic and elastic.

  A second crash!

  The robot halted. The bounty hunter dropped the barrel of his shotgun. They both looked around Joe’s in unison. A Jungafallowian? That big musk ox chick?

  Duke saw what constituted a sly grin on Sprinkles’ mechanical mug. He looked up.

  Looks like this is not going to be my night, the bounty hunter thought.

  The loud crash manifested itself in the form of fragments falling from the ceiling. The rapid descent was slowed—albeit not to the point of no longer being life-threateningly dangerous—by the bounty hunter’s headwear. The debris knocked Duke from his feet and he collapsed amidst a pile of ceiling rubble, splintered table shards, and sticky puddles of spilled Glyptodian brew.

  Chapter 4

  The Gooey Bits

  DUKE WASN’T SURE QUITE HOW much time had elapsed; he opened his eyes and stared up at Lilly and four angry Jungafallowian faces.

  That could’ve been a lot worse.

  “He’s alive,” moaned the Gartoshian beast. “Everyone! The odd-looking primate with the interesting choice in evening wear is alive.”

  Duke awaited audible sighs of relief from the patrons of Joe’s—he heard nothing, resulting in a slight bruising of his ego.

  “Wait a damn minute. Who are you to be calling me odd-looking?” he muttered hazily.

  “Shut up! You ruined the show, you moron,” interjected one of the heads of the larger Jungafallowian.

  “No one messes with the almighty Sprinkles and gets away with it,” barked the other head in a slightly sinister tone.

  “Damn skippy.”

  Duke recognized that voice. Cold. Robotic. Tone deaf. Sprinkles. Guess the ceiling missed him.

  He sat up and tried to focus on the approaching mechanized madman. His concentration bounced around erratically from the throbbing pain in his skull to the blurred pair of Sprinkleses that wouldn’t stand still long enough to merge back into one another. And Betsy wasn’t within reach. He quickly grabbed the laser revolver but his disorientation from the falling ceiling debris certainly wasn’t going away. 50–50 chance.

  Just as Sprinkles was mere strides from Duke, a green flash pounced up like an Erontian River Camelcat and landed firmly in a strike position with katana raised. Ishiro’shea stood resolutely between his cohort and the performer. He held his sword in his right hand parallel to his shoulders at eye level. The blade glistened with reflections of the neon that covered the walls. His stance suggested the alertness of a person that had never downed even the slightest drop of firewater—a remarkable trait in which Duke knew Ishiro’shea took pride.

  Defending his partner—that’s why he’s the best sidekick in the business.

  Ishiro’shea, without moving any other part of his body, made eye contact with his longtime friend. Duke gave him a shaky thumbs-up from within his tomb of fallen debris. The ninja glanced at Sprinkles, his eyes smoldering to the point of being able to boil water. It was quite easy to see that Ishiro’shea didn’t appreciate the singer’s manner—looking all guilty and up to no good. He knew that Ishiro felt confident in his gut, no matter how much of it was filled with fermented grain. Years of being placed in precarious situations with me will do that to you. Hey, we have fun, Duke reasoned.

  The ninja’s strike was lightning fast. Sparks and metal shrapnel exploded from Sprinkles’ titanium chest and abdomen—the blow would have halved most sentient beings, but it was a mere annoyance for the multiton, multiplatinum artist. Sprinkles retaliated with a hammer strike that narrowly missed the stealthy and now very much sober martial artist. The thunderous crash of the hammer into the floor of Cyborg Joe’s caused the onlookers to cover their ears (or whatever they used to hear) and left Duke wondering if Earl was already reviewing Cyborg Joe’s insurance policy. Sprinkles struggled to remove the head of the hammer from the divot in the flooring; this was the opening that Ishiro’shea needed in order to thrust his katana straight into the optical visor of his adversary. As the blade pierced the lens, the sizzle of skewered circuitry resonated throughout the bar. Duke noticed a hint of sadness and regret in the giant musician’s pulsating vision apparatus. Ishiro’shea plunged his sword directly through the glass-like eye. It was a sight worthy of pity—one of the most recognizable figures in robotic explosion rock flailing in agony, one hand stuck four feet into the sweat- and booze-covered stage floor while the other hand grasped at what was left of his optical visor plate as bursts of sparks and smoke escaped through his fingers. But Duke had no time for pity.

  The remaining Trampling Death Robots stood momentarily frozen as this diminutive menace rendered their charismatic and controversial lead singer immobile; but they soon collected themselves in an attempt to extinguish the career wrecker. The three bandmates charged Ishiro’shea, their instruments doubling as weapons, bent on sending him to that great dojo in the sky. They encircled Ishiro’shea and took turns at tryin
g to decapitate him. One swung his Panatynian Earblaster guitar with reckless abandon. Another swatted inelegantly with his signature 14-string Grevlon Electro-Bass. Another jabbed rapidly with his iron drumsticks, trying to skewer the dwarfed combatant. Ishiro’shea parried each oncoming strike and dashed his way around the three attackers.

  “You doing okay, little buddy?”

  Ishiro mirrored Duke’s thumbs-up from moments earlier as he continued his masterful ballet of devastation.

  “Thought so. How about we head out of here? You’re sober now, and I’ve got a massive headache—that usually means that we’ve worn out our welcome.”

  Though he was effectively toying with his opponents, Ishiro’shea was still preoccupied fighting off the angry mechanical musicians and making sure he didn’t get a Panatynian Earblaster to the skull.

  Duke stood up and grabbed Betsy. Okay, time to shut these guys up and end this mess. I have to get back to the Queen with an answer about this damn door. He aimed the gun at the bassist of the Robots, Doug (Model 8). I never understood the bass guitar.

  Before he could fire, there was a firm tap on his shoulder.

  He spun around. Standing in front of him was one of the Jungafallowians—the larger of the two, armed with a wooden shard from the broken table and a sharp steak knife. That might break the skin.

  “You aren’t going to get away with this, human.”

  I can’t be done in by booze, bad music, poor roof maintenance, and low quality cutlery.

  Duke felt a firm tug on his biceps and realized very quickly that he was pinned up against something. He inhaled deeply and realized that the “something” was the other Jungafallowian. Hard to mistake that smell of rotting meatloaf smothered in expired mayonnaise.

  “You’re dead, human. Nobody does that to the Robots,” a slithery voice hissed from behind.

  Duke struggled but the Jungafallowian, even though he was the smaller of the two, had a grip that was unbreakable.

  “Where should I stab him, Flakka-Grog? I can’t remember where the gooey bits are on humans.”

  A duo of cream-colored reptilian heads on muscular neck stems slowly peered around either side of Duke. Both sets of red eyes scanned the bounty hunter meticulously. Creepy. Duke noticed Ol’ Betsy resting on the floor, out of reach; his revolver rested firmly in his holster—but his arms weren’t going anywhere if the Jungafallowian had any say.

  “Flakka, do you think we stab him in here?” the head known as Grog whispered as he glared at Duke’s chest.

  “Oh no, Grog—I think we should have Orbo-Terg stab him here.” Flakka’s snout touched the bounty hunter’s left ear. “Humans can’t survive losing this part, I don’t think.”

  “How about you let go of me, your friend can drop the knife, and we can talk this through?” pleaded the bounty hunter.

  “Just like you wanted to talk it through with Sprinkles?” asked the scaly Flakka-Grog. “You will pay for what you did, fleshy.”

  “Can I stab him yet?” barked both of the larger Jungafallowian’s heads in unison. “Revenge for Sprinkles! Revenge for the Robots!”

  The barbaric alien pumped his oversized fist in the air. Duke noticed, for the first time, that the T-shirt Orbo-Terg wore was for the Trampling Death Robot’s “Four Faces of Death Galactic Tour” and, emblazoned on the black fabric, were the faces of the four band members. Duke’s life hung in the balance of four much uglier faces. Regardless, he appreciated the symbolism.

  “Orbo-Terg, calm down. We want to make sure this primate suffers for what he’s done to Sprinkles,” hissed Flakka. It was clear to Duke that Orbo-Terg was the physically superior of the two; however, Flakka-Grog pulled the strings.

  “Yes, he’s committed the ultimate sin against the Holy One—we need to do more than merely kill him,” continued Grog.

  “Hurry up and decide!”

  “Okay, we definitely think we should stick him here.”

  The long neck supporting the Flakka head curved around and nodded toward the human’s midsection.

  “There?”

  “No, lower—between his legs. Under that ridiculous ornament.”

  “Ridiculous? My buckle? What are you talking—oh wait, where are you going to stab me?”

  “There!” grunted one of the heads of Orbo-Terg as he pointed a knobby finger at an area of Duke’s anatomy that the bounty hunter held in high esteem. The Jungafallowian coughed up a laugh from deep in his innards.

  “C’mon guys, no need to stab me there—I mean, I have plenty of other good parts. I promise they will hurt a lot more.”

  “Is that right, human? No, no, I think we are going to stick to our plan.”

  Duke struggled, but it was futile; he was held almost inert in the powerful grip of Flakka-Grog. I am about to get castrated by a smelly two-headed metal junkie all because I was distracted by some cheap floozies. Screw symbolism.

  Duke kicked his legs frantically in an attempt to prevent Orbo-Terg’s impending charge.

  “Hold still!”

  “So you can stab me? Yeah, I’ll get on that.”

  “Flakka-Grog, make him hold still!” Terg shouted in a borderline temper tantrum.

  A thick stump of a leg wrapped around Duke from behind, limiting the bounty hunter’s movements even more. This bastard is strong.

  “Stab him!”

  Orbo-Terg charged knife first.

  Duke closed his eyes, awaiting a pain that he was not prepared to endure. He felt a gust of wind surge across his stubbled face and heard a loud thud a few paces away.

  He opened his eyes. Orbo-Terg was curled up on the barroom floor—out cold. Lilly stood over him, thin-lipped with nostrils flared and breathing heavily. Her hands remained clenched in boulder-sized fists.

  Duke was thrown to the ground ferociously by the Jungafallowian; he scrambled to grab Betsy. The two-headed beast rushed toward the Gartoshian female but Lilly about-faced before the sinister reptiloid could get on top of her. She lowered her massive cranium and lunged headfirst at her attacker. Duke heard the Jungafallowian’s sternum crack. From his seated position on the floor, clutching his prized shotgun, he noticed Flakka-Grog stumble backwards.

  “No, no, no, no...”

  He immediately found himself sandwiched between the floor and the limp and odorous body of Flakka-Grog.

  “Get this—oh my god, it smells so bad!”

  “Let me help,” proclaimed a booming voice, twice as deep as Duke’s and as full-bodied as the richest of Noctdaryan wines.

  In one swift yank, the anthropomorphic musk ox easily winched up the Jungafallowian corpse with one massive three-fingered hand, then dropped it beside the recovering bounty hunter. Duke remembered scorning the fem-beast at the table, only moments ago.

  “Thanks?”

  “I see that you’re confused, Mr. Human.”

  “You could say that. Don’t get me wrong, lady, I’m glad you saved me—but why? I wasn’t overly ‘interested’ earlier.” Duke dusted Jungafallowian grime from his clothes.

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t offended by your silence—I just assumed you were too ignorant to understand anything more than simple language. I mean, you don’t look overly intelligent.”

  “Insult aside, thank you. But why risk your life to save me from those moronic rock nuts?”

  “Oh, Mr. Human. No matter how discourteous your gesture might have been—what those two uncouth reprobates said to me was beyond heinous. After you caused your scene with the ceiling tiles and started your little tiff with that robotic bandleader, I decided to be the better being and exit the situation—no need to engage with those lower life forms. Then, of course, I saw them about to impale you with a steak knife—my steak knife, no less—and I felt obligated to punish those two and, in turn, save you.”

  “A moral crusader, huh? Well, thank you, Lilly. It was Lilly, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  Duke made it to his feet and extended his hand.

  “I hope that I
can return the favor someday.”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary. But your cute friend appears to need your help.”

  Holy hedgehogs! Ishiro’shea!

  The bounty hunter turned around and saw his cohort still countering every blow from the three members of the Trampling Death Robots—at least, the ones without an appendage lodged into the floor. But he was tiring visibly. Even the most skilled martial artist has his physical limits.

  “Enough of this garbage,” the bounty hunter muttered to himself as he aimed.

  KURGHUFFINSHOBEPOW! (BOOM! never really captured the true sound.)

  The bassist of the Trampling Death Robots dropped to the floor. He had a hole in his chest the size of an exceptionally large ice wombat. Ol’ Betsy was angry. The other two froze and then attended to their second fallen comrade of the night. Amidst the turmoil on the stage, Ishiro’shea stealthily made his way over to Duke.

  “Ishiro, what took you so long with those guys? I would have thought...”

  Ishiro’shea gave Duke an expression that the bounty hunter interpreted as Shut up, you conceited redneck. I was fighting for my life while you managed to get pinned by a piece of ceiling tile. At least, that’s how Duke interpreted it.

  “This has not been my night. Long story. Let’s just say that I’m lucky that I’m only half as big of a jerk as those two idiots over there.” Duke pointed to the unconscious Orbo-Terg and Flakka-Grog. “Thanks again, Lilly.”

  The Gartoshian gave him a blasé wave from across the bar as she pushed through a cluster of military conspirators and entered the ladies’ room. Ishiro’shea looked confused as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Really long story.”

  Ishiro’shea responded with a lengthy eye roll.

  “Oh, but hey—I do have some news. The Queen gave us a crack at a small opportunity. Could be exciting.”

  The ninja halted. Duke knew what his partner was thinking.

  “No, a legitimate opportunity. Nothing impossible. Seriously. You don’t believe me?”

  The masked man shook his head with undisguised incredulity.