Wacky comedy. Not my usual. I don't know.
To optimally enjoy this story, you should have seen Walker: Texas Ranger and Dragonball Z fairly extensively and probably not be a fan of either. There are also references to George RR Martin, Tolkien, X-Men, German History, German Philosophy, German Literature, Akira, Final Fantasy 7, Neon Genesis Evangelion, and probably some other shit I forgot. Oh, and wanton destruction in the state of Arkansas.
Author's Note: In the previous story, WALKER: RENEGADE, the Rangers had a time travel adventure that resulted in the team now having two Trivettes. Yes, it was as awesome as it sounds.
POWER LEVELS
WALKER 2,000,000
TRIVETTE/TWOVETTE 800,000
CARLOS 300,000
GAGE 230,000
SYDNEY 200,000
"This is it, sir," the sweaty man said, his hands rubbing together at lightning speed. "Preparations for the Transdimensional doorway are almost complete!"
"Excellent," the shadowy figure said, deliberately not leaning into the light so as to be more mysterious. A chubby hand grubbed in a filthy pocket, brought forth a stinking cigar, lit it. "Our masterstroke is soon to be unleashed. And when it is, nothing will be able to stop us, Bubba. Nothing."
Bubba hunched over one of the many computer consoles in The Inner Sanctum, chewing his nails rapidly. He wanted to believe the boss was right, that the plan would work, yet as always his fears cropped up stronger than ever.
"But... but boss," he said, "What about the Rangers? What about .... WALKER?"
"What we have in mind," the figure answered. "NOT EVEN WALKER CAN STOP!!!!"
Somewhere, lightning flashed dramatically.
"Soon, the capacitor will be charged," continued the shadow. "And then, the doorway will open into the various dimensions, suck all the evil out, and plop it squarely down in the center of Texas! By the time the Rangers are finished dealing with these threats, it will be child's play for us to step in and mop up!"
"Awfully nice of you to encapsulate the plot- er, YOUR plot, sir," Bubba replied. "But... what if the Rangers can't hold back the forces of evil and they spread here? What will we do then?"
Another dramatic flash of lightning.
"Well... uh... well..... uh.... hey, don't you need to take a vacation day? Go see your sister, I hear she misses you."
"Misses me? Me? My COCK is what she misses!" Bubba began to sob, burying his head in his arms.
"Hey.... there there..." the figure comforted clumsily. "It's okay, you can fuck MY sister. After I'm done."
Bubba brightened up.
----
It was a typical quiet Monday at CD's Bar and Grill of Justice. It being, as CD often liked to say, "betwixt the day's arse hole and its nut sack" (in vernacular, 3:00 pm), the bar was quiet. The lunch crowd, CD's Rangerbuddies included, had left earlier, and the main crowd of drunken rednecks that usually frequented the place wouldn't arrive for another few hours.
CD was wiping the bar with a rag, his old face set in grim determination. In his mind, the rag became his burning fist of ex-Ranger fury, the bar the ugly mug of every dope pusher, every dirty hippie, every speed freak and mass murderer he had taken out in his career. He swiped the oak surface maniacally, grinning in a warm nostalgia of noses driven into brains, snapped spinal cords, and the screams of the weak non ranger infidels that he had destroyed.
His thoughts were interrupted by a the arrival of a huge, glistening black portal that tore the door off the men's room and whirled it around for a few seconds before dropping it in the corner with a crash. A man stepped from the portal. An asian man, wearing robes, thin, yet appearing very muscular at the same time. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, and he moved with a certain fluid, confident grace that CD's trained Rangereye picked out as deadly.
"Whut in tarnation? Who're you?" CD asked. He stayed close to the bar, partially because that was where he kept his gun, partially to hide his raging nostalgia-enduced Rangerection.
"I am Shang Tsung," the newcomer announced in a clipped tone. "Lord of the Outworld, slayer of all I see. And I do not know who you are, but your life is forfeit, and your world is doomed!"
With an ear shattering scream, Tsung leapt atop a barstool and did a series of impressive spinkicks at the air. He backflipped smoothly, landing on cat feet on the far end of the bar. There, he proceeded to scream and punch wildly at the air, flexing his pecs and six-pack as if posing for homosexual pornography. CD watched, impressed, intimidated, and more than a little aroused, but his hand tightened around the shotgun he kept beneath the bar.
"Your soul...." Tsung said, throwing out his hand towards CD dramatically. "IS MINE!"
CD pulled the trigger.
Tsung's head, for lack of a better word, EXPLODED, the top three fourths shearing away in an instant, one quick blur of blood and bone and brain. His body took a few steps then tumbled from the bar with a bone-snapping crack.
"My soul belongs to Jesus," CD said. "And your ass belongs to me."
That was when he felt the chill in the air.
CD whirled to see that six white skinned... THINGS had come from the portal while he was dealing with the first man. They looked like something out of one of the movies, or "them devil pitchers" as CD was wont to call them. Shimmering armor coated their bodies, their eyes were dead and blue and burning, and they wielded what looked like swords made out of crystal.
Six. This might be a challenge, then.
"FOR WALKER!" CD screamed suddenly, whirling to get a bead on the first one with the shotgun. But it was fast. Far, far too fast. Even as the aging ex-Ranger pulled the trigger, the creature swung its sword, the crystal shearing throgh the barrel and most of the stock. The gun backfired, blowing buckshot directly into CD's face.
"AWW SHIT! AWWWW SHIT!!" CD screamed, falling behind the bar and thrashing in agony like a beached whale.
His vision fading, the world growing dim, the green landscape of the Eternal Prarie rushing at him full force, CD reached out for the only thing that could save the town. That could save the world.
The RANGER PANIC (TM) button.
----
Ranger HQ came alive with the sound of a blaring alarm.
"JUMPIN' JEHOSEPHAT!" Trivette said, throwing down his cards and leaping up from the table. "It's the RANGER PANIC(TM) button."
"We're on it, partner!" said Trivette#2, who the Rangers had accquired after their time travel adventure. To avoid confusion, he was now called "Twovette".
"Ave Maria!" Carlos chimed in, sticking his head out of his Latin Love Den. "Sounds like we've got a situation, hombres!"
"That's what I love about your random, casual Spanish, Carlos," Sydney said, stepping from Gage's room and adjusting her belt. "It's so fucking sexy."
"I- I'm sexy too!" Gage protested, stuffing his shirt busily into his pants as he followed her out of the room. Then, as he came upon a sobering realization, he said, more quietly: "Where's the Big Man?Where's C-Dawg? Where's WALKER?"
"This is his day off, Gage." Trivette said. "I had to force him to take it. First time in twenty years he takes a vacation day and then this happens. I hope for his own sake Alex sucked the HELL out of his cock."
"Speaking of..." Gage said, inclining his head none too sublty at Sydney.
"We don't have time for all this woolgathering!" Twovette said, his massive black brow as brooding as something really black and massive. Maybe a big obsidian rock or something. "Where is this distress signal coming from?"
He walked over to the Rangercomputer and pressed random keys furiously until the screen flashed: "CD'S BAR AND GRILLE"
"CD!" Sydney screamed, terrified. Why, he was the one that bought her drinks just for a flash of cleavage! Gage at least demanded "feelies".
"To the Rangermobile!" Trivette bawled. "QUICK!"
----
The sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the green hills around Walker's ranch house in summery tones. Birds whistled, woodchucks loped about, and the cicadas sang their beautiful, haunting song as Alex and Walker lay side by side on the grass.
"This has been a wonderful day, Walker." Alex said, looking up at the sky.
"Yes, indeed it has," Cordell Walker replied, lying in the soft warm embrace of the Earth. It had been a long and rewarding morning. He and Alex had helped deaf children fingerpaint, had built a homeless shelter, and had kept at least seventeen teenagers from trying the evils of marijuana.
And of course, she had sucked his dick. HARD.
"You ought to take more days off," she said, rolling over to face him.
"That's not all I want to take off!" He said, grinning a devilish Ranger grin that would melt the heart of woman, man, or beast.
"Oh Walker....! Take me now. NOW!"
"YEEEEEEEHAW!"
Walker was just about to get down to business when the wind around them suddenly died and a deep, elderly voice rang out.
"Listen to me washoe... listen.... I have need of you."
"White Eagle?" He said, disentangling his head from Alex's Steel Thighs of Love. "Right now? Listen, old friend, all I need is a minute or two here..."
"There is an Indian proverb, washoe. It say "World does not wait for beaver, and neither does brave." If you not act now, the entire universe could be destroyed. AND TEXAS WITH IT!"
"Great jumping horny toads, why didn't you say so?" Walker was up and dressed in less than ten seconds. "Stay here and hold the fort, Alex."
"Um... why are you talking out loud to the air?" Alex looked confused. "You haven't been smoking peyote again...?"
"YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER!" Walker screamed, running to his truck.
"These foes beyond you, Washoe," White Eagle said as Walker climbed into the cab. "Ultimate evil, from many world. You may have need of White Eagle. Call on me for help."
Walker looked down to see a white eagle feather lying on his thigh. He scooped it up, stuffed it in his pocket, and screamed out of the drive in reverse.
----
"Welcome to Texas," Trivette said, grabbing the Nazgul's hood and slamming its head into his knee. The creature screamed in unholy terror as the black ranger picked it up and hurled it the length of the block, where it exploded, leaving a crater thirty feet wide.
They had run into the monsters before they had gotten within five miles of CD's. They came in a massive wave of twisted misshapen bodies, fiends of every variety, nightmares of every kind. The Rangers met them with love, justice, and fury, and the battle was joined.
Gage had pulled two Uzis from his Rangertrenchcoat and was running up the outside wall of city hall, his Ranger skills literally defying gravity. With a grunt, he backflipped off the building, his guns pointed at the crowd of orcs, zombies, demons, and various other creatures below.
"ULTIMATE LIMIT BREAK!" he screamed, ripping vocal cords. "BLAZING DRAGON ULTRA HYPER BULLET STORM GO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!!!"
As he depressed the triggers, his body began to spin around like a top at mach speed, spraying hundreds of rounds in 360 degree pattern on the crowd below. Creatures died left and right, their heads exploding, their bodies reduced to bloody mush, but it was not enough to turn the tide. Not nearly enough.
A burly orc ran at Carlos, hefting a giant battleaxe high and then bringing it down at the Mexican American Ranger. Carlos countered by chopping the knife edge of his hand upwards, shattering the axe into a thousand shards that stabbed into the orc's face like icepicks, sending blood geysering.
"QUE LASTIMA!" Carlos laughed, grinning roughishly. Then he drove his finger through the orc's eye and into its brain.
Twovette dodged a fist the size of a Buick, effortlessly slipping away from the strikes of a giant Balrog. The fire demon roared in confusion and fear as it swung its flaming sword ineffectively. Twovette was simply too much for it to hope to handle, it knew, and yet still it tried. It was a flame of Udun, born to kill and destroy. Surely it couldn't fail... surely.
Twovette's dragon uppercut struck the balrog square on the chin. By the time its head landed in a cow pasture ten miles away, he had already moved to the next opponent, a titantic zombified bear. As the undead ursine beast swung a massive claw his way, the ranger slid back out of reach smoothly and charged back in with a 20 hit combo, rocking the creature completely, his fists of justice breaking the sound barrier and impacting on the bear with the force of ICBMs.
"Dang zombies," he said as the creature's skull caved in like an eggshell. "You stink. YOU FUCKING STINK!" He berserked, pounding the creature into bloody ground beef.
Trivette and Sydney stood back to back, fighting a desperate holding action against hordes of zombies, wights, and demons. The female ranger fought with a titantic 357 magnum hand cannon clutched in each delicate she-Ranger fist, while Trivette wielded a massive hunk of shattered steel girder like a sword. As Syd unloaded blast after blast, sending creatures reeling black with shattered heads, Trivette bulled into the enemies that tried to attack her, slicing away with his seven foot long blade.
Am I doing this for Sydney? For Walker? For Texas? he wondered as hacked five orcs in half with a single slash. He pivoted, slashing again, and a Troll fell back without a head. No. I can't think about that. I only want to swing my sword and think of nothing else.
A massive red dragon rose out of the mass of monsters, roaring. It glared at Syd and Trivette and then began to charge directly at them, its red scales winking malevolently in the sun.
Trivette hurriedly tossed his sword aside. There was only one thing to do. "Syd!" he screamed "Fastball special!!"
"You got it, Jimmy!" Sydney said, bracing herself.
"Now!" Trivette scooped the female Ranger up in his arms and began to run forward. On his fifth step he stopped suddenly and hurled her as fast and as far as he could towards the oncoming dragon.
"Yeeeeeeeeehaw!" Syd squealed, turning a forward flip for shits and giggles as she flew through the air towards the giant dragon. She came out of the flip just as she neared the dragon's face. Her arms snaked forward and she fired her guns in unison into the beast's monstrous visage.
The dragon bellowed and threw its head back, blood geysering from the two red craters that had been its eyes. Syd followed through, launching into a spinning Flash kick that hit the dragon square in the jaw and caved in its face like a rotten cantelope.
"There's just too many!" Twovette said, headbutting a zombie antelope's cranium into a mass of brains, bone, and antler fragments. He grabbed a flying antler and spun, stabbing it into a charging Other's face and grinding it in until freezing cold turquoise blood jetted from the creature's twisted visage. A beaked Trolloc snuck up behind him with a war mace, meaning to deliver a killing blow, but Sydney's well-timed Rangerdagger took it in the eye, dropping it.
"THIS IS LIKE EL ALAMO, FUCKERS!!!" squealed Gage, emptying the last clips in his Uzis and tossing them aside. "SCREAMING RISING HAWK DRAGONFIRE HAAAAAAADOOOOOOOOKENNNNN!!!! He threw his arms out, spraying the horde of monsters before him with raw plasma.
A trio of shrieking goblins had torn off Carlos's shirt, but the Mexican-American Ranger fought on, his bronzed torso shining like a beacon in the sun as he assailed monster after monster with his Fists of Rage and Justice. "You forget, mi amigo," He said, leaping and dropkicking a golem's chest in, "The Mexicans kicked honky ASS at El Alamo!"
But the beasts attacking them were all colors of the rainbow, and despite their best efforts, the Rangers were forced gradually back, farther and farther from the portal at CD's, which continued to disgorge hundreds of creatures per minute. For every fiend that fell, two dozen took its place, and there was simply no way for the Rangers to keep up. Somehow they were all still alive, but that couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, one of them would fall, and that would be the end.
Then they heard it, that familiar roar, like the scream of a newborn god, shaking the very foundations of reality.
"Walker!" Carlos cried, even as their leader's silver Dodge Ram appeared over a distant rise, gleaming like the Pearly Gates of Heaven.
The voice sang, sweet and high, not in their ears, but in their hearts.
In the eyes of a Ranger, the unsuspectin' stranger....
A column of blue white energy sprang forth from the truck, stabbing into the heavens in a lance of mystic fire, drawing eyes for hundreds of miles around.
Had better know the truth of wrong from right.
The light faded, and Walker stood atop the truck, silhoutted before the setting sun, hands at his side, one leg extended cockily to reveal the inseam of his godly stone-washed jeans. An Indian wrap hung from his shoulders, billowing dramatically in the breeze.
Cause the eyes of the Ranger are upon you...
Walker's eyes burned a bright gold against his shadowed form, and as the swelling melody continued, they narrowed in contempt at the mass of misshapen creatures below. And then, finally, Walker himself began to sing in a voice as pure as sweet golden honey and as vicious as a rabid dog.
"So when you are in Texas, look behind you," He sang, eyes flaring. "'Cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be."
Then twin streams of blue light stabbed from his eyes, burning a hole the size of a football field in the mass of freakish beasts before him. They hesitated for only a moment before surging back into the gap, racing towards the new, deadlier threat.
Walker threw out his right hand and thousands of monster heads exploded in fountains of gore in one instant, as if they'd each been suddenly squeezed by a giant fist. He threw out his left and geysers of magma spurted from the Earth with the suddeness and clumsiness of a preteen's first ejaculation. Zombies, Orcs, and Trollocs screamed horribly as they were burned alive by rivers of red-hot rock. The attack stalled but did not break, and within seconds the creatures behind were scrambling over the mutilated and burned bodies of their companions in their rush to get at him.
"I see you varmints are stubborn," Walker said. "It's time for the final blow! SUMMON MAGIC - INDIANS OF THE ROUUUUND!" He threw his arms up and the Indian wrap went flying, tumbling over and over in the air on an errant breeze. Then he held a feather to his mouth, whispered an Ancient Indian Incantation, and there was a blinding flash of light.
The cloth form of the wrap stopped, hovering in midair, then reoriented itself behind the truck, orbiting until the Rangers and the approaching creatures could see every inch of its intricately woven surface. Then, two things began to happen. It began to grow, and it began to change, the fine weaving vanishing to be replaced by a nighttime scene of the desert so vivid it seemed real. Then, as the wrap continued to grow, Sydney realized with a gasp that it WAS real, and in the desert beyond a horde of Indian Braves waited, mounted atop thundering buffalo the size of Buicks. The wrap expanded to the size of a movie screen, then a football field before finally freezing in place, a window into another world, but a window SITTING IN THIN AIR.
Then a warbling scream sounded from ten thousand throats and the braves within charged out in one sudden rush of beast and man, kicking up enough dust to be seen for miles. The massive buffalo surged forth in a living avalanche, nature itself unleashed. On their wooly backs rode copper-skined men wielding lethal bows and streaked with otherworldly warpaint, screaming their hatred of the beasts before them. The massive surge swerved to avoid the Ram, leaving it as a tiny island in a sea of motion. Walker stood atop that peak as his mystic warriors rode out to do battle and laughed the laugh of the sweet and good.
The first ranks of monsters were trampled down effortlessly, dying beneath huge hooves in crunches of bone and spurts of gore. And then, the braves began to fire, their fingers and bowstrings blurring into invisibility, shooting hundreds of arrows per second from neverending quivers, turning creatures into squealing meaty pincushions wherever they rode. White Eagle rode at their head, serpents of blue flame sprouting from each of his fingertips and burning thousands of creatures to ash.
The Witch-King of Angmar reared up to do battle and caught approximately 9,253 arrows in his invisible face. He didn't even have time to scream. Sauron himself fared little better, and it's best that I don't even tell you how Sephiroth's head split open like a ripe melon underneath the hooves of White Eagle's war buffalo. Trust me. Wait. Oops.
The Rangers were so enthralled at the mass carnage that they didn't see the wrap shrink, pick itself up, and move to the other side of the battlefield before growing again. They only saw the warriors ride back into its surface and vanish into the night, leaving only dust and death in their wake. The magical portal held firm for a moment longer then began to collapse until it was once more only a simple piece of cloth. The feather in Walker's hand flared brightly once more then disentigrated in a spray of dust with the words Nice job, washoe.
When the dust finally cleared, the Rangers saw a scene of carnage unlike anything that had ever existed. Gore, blood, and corpses extended for miles, carpeting the Earth feet-deep in some places. Walker was sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this part of Texas would smell like rotten ass for millenia. Yet the price had been worth it; not one of the unholy beasts remained alive.
Walker gave a grin as he surveyed the carpet of offal and gore that stretched before him and tipped his hat to the rest of his crew.
"Let's get 'em cuffed."
----
"Dear Jaysus," Bubba gasped around his mouthful of "chewin' terbaccy" as he looked into his monitors. He'd gone white, the white of a fat old whore's cellulite-ridden folds, hidden from the sun's sweet caress. "Walker took out all of our monsters and our Ranger Scouter still shows that their power levels are higher than we can stand!""Up the power on the Transdimensional Doorway!" the shadowy figure ordered, smashing his beefy fist down on one of the consoles.
"But boss," panted Bubba, "We've already drained every dimension of evil but... but... THAT ONE... and... and you said-"
"Forget what I said!" roared the Boss. "Do it. Open the gateway. Open the gateway to oblivion... to... the GERMANIC DIMENSION!"
----
The Germanic Dimension. How it woke terror in the hearts of children, women, and girlie men everywhere. With what dread they said its name. What horror. It was the dimension where every German who had ever lived went after his death, to live on a giant asteroid that orbited a dying red star. The radiation from the red star made even the good Germans turn evil, and made the ones that were already evil eviller still. The ones that were really bad it basically turned into an obscene display of terrifying power. They also mutated, and became known as the Space Nazis.
-Summary by Devon Brier, Age 5
----
Just as the Rangers were getting ready to enter what was left of CD's and have a celebratory drink, there was a loud booming sound that shook their very Rangerteeth. They turned to see a massive inky portal, bigger than any they'd yet seen, forming two miles away.
"Damnation," Trivette said, as concentrated evil came boiling out of the interdimensional portal. "I guess I have to break a sweat now."
First came the Germanic Tribes, running and howling and waving broadswords and halberds and whatever the hell else the German barbarians used, their helmets topped with fearsome horns. Behind them came the Prussians, the Hessians, and the Teutonic Knights. Marching behind them came the German troops from WWI (you can tell them from the others because they have retarded phallic spikes jutting out of their helmets - I learned this from All Quiet on the Western Front), and behind them Rommel, who had been mutated into a giant Ogre, riding on top of a possessed Demon-Panzer. Behind him came the rest of the Nazis and the SS, their eyes dead and staring, their weapons rusted and mold-clogged, but still deadly. Space radiation burns covered their faces. Next came the rest of the head Nazis. Himmler was dressed in a mech suit that looked like plate armor emblazoned with a skull. He held two lazer swords shaped like lightning bolts and rode a robot horse. Goering was flying overhead alongside the Red Baron in his Demon-Jet, surrounded by Space Luftwaffe planes so numerous they blotted out the sky. Some other Nazi leaders were there, including the fat one that got shot after the Night of the Long Knives. He was dressed all in latex with a gimp mask on. A squat flamethrower tank perched on his fat back, and he held a nozzle in each hand.
Behind the Nazis came all the greats of German art and literature: Goethe, Nietzsche, Kant, Mendolssohn, Bach, Mozart (yeah, he was Austrian, same difference), Heine, Stifter, Buchner, Walter von der Vogelweide, Brecht, Grosz, and all the rest. They had been turned from merely sucky artists and freakos into avatars of pure evil, beasts in men's flesh. Their eyes flashed red and bloody, and each carried some sort of deadly medieval weapon.
"OH SHITBRICKS!" Gage screamed. "WE ARE CROSSING THE RUBICON HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS! WE ARE CROSSING THE FUCKING RUBIC-OWWWWW"
Walker had slapped him. Not with a hundredth of the force he could have, though, or Gage's head would've gone flying off.
"Everybody stay frosty," he advised, barely seeming concerned as he wandered over to the Ram. "I brought our secret weapons cache, so everybody load up!"
As the Rangers began pulling an ungodly assortment of weapons out of the back of the truck and arming themselves, Walker gave battle orders with the cool, collected voice of a man that's been through hell and left Satan with the lingering taste of Rangercock in his mouth.
"Sydney, Carlos, you're in the Ram. Shift it into battle mode and take care of those tanks. Trivette, I want you in the sky taking out those dadburned aircraft. Twovette, you're on the ground with me taking on the soldiers. Gage, you're our backup, so you better get that ki firing."
Gage swallowed dryly, nodded.
"All right, Texas Rangers," Walker said, whirling to face the advancing horde, his eyes gleaming with merry horror, joy in death and carnage. "Let's kill some fucking Germans."
The first counterattack blew through the entirety of the Barbarians in less than five seconds. Walker flew at them first, a sonic boom sounding behind his well-oiled snakeskin boots. Blue beams shot from his eyes and hands, sweeping across the assembled hordes, immolating them, blowing up their heads, tearing them apart. A massive hole opened up in the forefront of the Germanic wave as thousands perished and Trivette exploited it, leaping in with a giant war mace whose adamantium head was the size of a man's torso. He lashed out left and right with the monstrous weapon, cracking bone and sending bodies flying for miles. Last came Gage, covering the other two men from behind (a position he was quite used to ever since that time he was mistakenly arrested for drug possession). He had never trained with the Ranger-Kai, so he lacked the raw power of Walker or Trivette, but he still managed to hold his own. Fireballs and lightning flew from his fingertips and surrounded his body as he fought the Germanic hordes. Reaching his limit as they closed in, he screamed his rage to the heavens,
"FIRE OF MY SOUL, TAKE ALABASTER FORM! CRUCIBLE!"
As a vortex of ki flame burst from him, immolating countless German soldiers and blowing Freud and Beethoven to bloody chunks, the Ranger truck tore by in mech-form, a gatling gun held in each monstrous fist, unloading thousands of depleted-uranium slugs into German panzers and turning them into balls of flame. Jump jets kicked in, propelling the humanoid robot into the air where it released a volley of air to surface missiles. Kant barely had time to scream as he was reduced to mush, the legion of Teutonic Knights around him equally destroyed.
At the apex of the robot's jump, Carlos torpedoed from the window, bronzed torso shining like burnished copper in the sun. He hung for a moment, suspended in air, then began to fall, a living Latin bomb, a cannonball of leather boots, denim jeans and rawhide soul. His voice streamed from his lungs.
"Unfailing Chupacabra Technique!"
Carlos extended his arms, flattening his palms downward as a million silky spiderweb threads burst from each one, snaking down toward the Teutonic hordes. The threads effortlessly pierced the necks of the Germans, penetrating jugulars with sickening ease. Then they began to turn red as they sucked the life-giving crimson from Carlos' enemies, funneling it into the Ranger's form, increasing his strength even as his enemies perished. By the time he landed and the threads retreated back into his body with a liquid hiss, he was surrounded by twenty thousand dead Germans and he glowed with the light of two suns, his power more than quadrupled.
Then he turned, and Himmler was there, his Germanic mech venting jets of angry steam, twin lazer swords whipping expertly through the air as his robo-horse galloped towards Carlos.
Carlos gathered his ki, extending palms outward. "DIA.... DE LOS MUERTES!"
A wave of colorful skulls erupted from his hands and struck the advancing German with the force of Fat Man, but Himmler kept coming. He swung his lazer sword and Carlos rolled low under it, reaching for the monofilament lasso at his belt as the Nazi galloped by. He whipped it out, snaring the horse's head, and tugged sharply, severing it. Himmler did a kung fu leap as the beast fell, spinning in midair and throwing a handful of swastika shurikens at Carlos.
The Mexican-American Ranger cooly deflected the deadly weapons with his bare hands. Himmler hit the ground with enough force to form a crater and then stood, crossing his lazer swords as he glared at Carlos with eyes of Nazi Ice (it's like regular ice, but anti-Semitic and authoritarian).
"I am the UEBERMENSCH!" he screamed insanely. "You don't have the ki to defeat me!"
"Wrong," said Carlos simply. "BLAZING COURAGEOUS RANGER STAAAR!"
Carlos leapt into the air and hurled the Ranger Star he used as a belt buckle. As the star spun through the air, it began to glow with the golden light of a second sun. Then, it suddenly multiplied, becoming a hundred raw plasma stars that tore through Himmler's body armor and impaled his skinny frame.
"DAS ARRRRRGH!" screamed the Nazi, dropping his swords as he reeled in pain. "IST DAS DAS ENDE FUER MECHA-HIMMLER?"
Carlos was already running forward, funneling all the extra energy he had gained from Unfailing Chupacabra Technique into one last critical hit.
"This is the final blow! Montezuma lend me your power! BURNING ANGER OF THE NATIVES..... CRIMSON AZTEC FIST!"
Carlos cocked his left arm back, and it began to glow a blinding white, searing the retinas of all onlookers. Then, he leapt towards the mecha-Nazi, arm flashing forward with a force that rent the sound barrier asunder. A sonic boom split the air as Carlos's fist tore through Himmler's chest, bursting out the back of his armor in a shower of blood and electrical sparks.
For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Somewhere, the blossoms fell slowly from a cherry tree. Then Carlos yanked his hand out of the Nazi's chest cavity, fingers wrapped around his black, still-beating heart. Carolos held the heart high to the sun and crushed it with one convulsive movement of his fingers.
"DAS OHHHH NOOOOO" Himmler screamed, arcs of electricity shooting across the surface of his armor. He fell to the ground and exploded dramatically.
Sydney was standing her ground, unleashing the full arsenal of the Rangertruck on Rommel and his Demon Panzer. All the Rangerrockets had been depleted minutes before and the Gatling Cannons were quickly running dry with no visible effect at all. She tossed them aside as they were depleted of ammo and drew the titantic metal sword that rested in a scabbard on the Rangermech's back.
"Sie haben meinen Panzer gekratzt!" screamed Rommel as his demon machine bore down on her, the veins on his monstrous bulging Ogre-neck standing out. The barrel of the hulking beasttank launched a beam of blackest energy.
"Uh... fuck you, Kraut!" screamed Sydney in confusionrage, spinning out of the way of the blast, sword raised high. "Dragon Swooooord!"
The blade of the Rangersword flared bright gold as it lanced down. Rommel and the Demon Panzer zoomed on, seemingly unharmed, then, suddenly,
"DAS AARRRRRRRRGH!" Blood began to flow from a diagonal slash along Rommel's body as his panzer shot sparks. Both Nazi and machine fell apart and exploded into a titanic fireball.
Twovette sped across the sky, hurling handful after handful of raw blistering Texas ki, hotter and more fierce than Mama Joline's homemade ribs. The sky became a sea of exploding shrapnel, ex-planes, fireballs, and screaming black Ranger as Twovette unleashed his rage, destroying plane after plane, killing thousands of Germans. He spinkicked the Red Baron out of the sky and axe-kicked Adolf Galland's Space-Nazi head into mush, but still they came on, and Goering was bearing down on him in his Sooper Space-Nazi Jet.
"MESQUIIIIITOOOOOOO" screamed Twovette, throwing out his right arm, first two fingers extended. "SPECIAL TEXAS BEAM CANNON!"
A thin beam of raw brown energy, the color of rich mesquite sauce, tore from the tips of his fingers and through the nose of the flying fatty's plane. Goering desperately pulled the eject lever, but his ejection seat was clogged with his own blubber and stuck in the plane as an ERROR klaxon began to scream. Then he went up like a fat, German-Roman Candle.
Walker faced off against Gropius on the ground. The other man moved with strange, fluid motions, his every nuance of body language supremely economical, yet beautiful.
"You cannot hope to defeat my Bauhaus Style!" Gropius said, executing a perfect jumpkick that also really showed off his delts. "It is a perfect union of function and beauty."
Walker shrugged and extended his arm, opening his palm an inch in front of Gropius's face. The resulting ki-blast would have felled Godzilla. As the ashes of the dead German settled to Earth, Cordell gave a shiteating grin. "Well, Mister Gropius, here in Texas we do everythin' one way. BIG."
Trivette had just finished punching out a squadron of Kung-Fu Hitler Youth when he heard a sharp, whistling noise. He ducked out of the way as a throwing knife sailed past his head and turned to meet his assailant.
Friedrich Nietzsche stood calmly atop a hill of his dead brethren, hands behind his back. He wore a neat tuxedo with a cape and a bowler hat. A monocle perched over his right eye, which had swollen to three times normal size and turned yellow from space radiation. "Sehr gut, Herr Trivette," he said, golf-clapping. As he spoke, his voice grew louder, deeper, more forceful. A Black Wind began to howl, ruffling his cape. "But now you find yourself gazing into an abyss. I am the servant of the Void. I am the words of Zarasuthra. I am the monster with which one fears to struggle. I am the gravedigger of God.... I.... AM...... NIETZSCHE!"
A black energy field crackled into being around Nietzsche, causing Trivette to stagger back a step. Then his own ki blazed up in a golden nimbus, pushing back the darkness.
"I'm a servant of the great and sweet state of Texas, son. I am the fist of the law. I am the beast in blue, the Paladin with a badge. I love Jesus. I'm Jimmy Trivette, and I'm gonna beat your whiny honky ass like a rented mule."
"GRAGH!" Nietzsche screamed. "FEEL THE POWER OF ENNUI! NIHILISM FIST!" He leapt at the other like some sort of crazy catlike beast, his fist lashing out, shrouded with crackling black energy.
The very air itself seemed to scream in pain as the punch struck Jimmy squarely in the chest. A black wave of energy bubbled up and blasted hundreds of feet into the sky. The insane force of the blow blasted a crater twenty feet wide.
The smoke cleared. Trivette stood, totally unharmed.
"Man, maybe your crazy philosophy has somethin' to it after all, Freddy," he said, smiling. His pearly white teeth shone with the intensity of a newborn star. "That punch sure FELT like nothin'."
"I-impossible!" Nietzsche stammered, throwing his arms up over his face to protect himself.
"This is for Texas!" Trivette screamed, punching Nietzsche in the gut and breaking his ribs like toothpicks. "This is for me!" He spun sideways, karate-chopping Nietzsche in the neck. The knife edge of Trivette's hand cut through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, neatly decapitating the German philosopher. As his head fell, Trivette spun again, artfully catching the head with the end of his boot and punting it into the stratosphere. "And THAT'S for Jesus." Headless!Nietzsche gave no reply, slumping to the ground.
Gage fought alone on the battlefield, Walker and Trivette having outpaced him long before. Twovette was busy in the air taking out the last dregs of the Space Luftwaffe, and Carlos and Syd in the Rangermech were teaming up to take on Kafka's hideous beastform. That left a number of fairly mundane opponents for Gage, and he took them out with little problem. Goethe fell to a gunshot in the head, a Spinning Piledriver put an end to Stifter, and Gage's flying torpedo broke Paul Baumer like a cheap toy. As his opponents fell, Gage straightened, gazing around. This part of the battlefield seemed empty, the ground carpeted with legions of dead Germans. Perhaps... perhaps his part in this battle was over.
Gage's Rangey-Sense kicked in microseconds before his doom and he quickly rolled to one side as twin gouts of flame tore through the place where he had been standing only seconds before. He turned to face his opponent, feeling his heart sink. Here was a foe whose power level far exceeded his own. A fair match for Walker or the Trivettes, perhaps, but far out of his league.
Ernst Roehm, whose name I remembered since I wrote the last part of this like a year ago, laughed through his gimp mask. He wore a latex bodysuit that revealed the horrifying expanses of his obese frame. A squat gasoline tank sprouted from his back like some sort of fat German tumor, and his twin flamethrowers shot sparks.
"YOOR PURTY," he drooled. Apparently he'd forgotten that, being a German, he wouldn't talk like one of the characters out of Deliverance. Look, fuck you. The next time you write ten pages about insane German hellmechs fighting characters from an apocalyptically shitty TV show, you can criticize.
Gage clenched his fists and threw himself into battle, leaping high over twin jets from Roehm's flamethrowers. He twisted in midair, slamming his heel into the Nazi's chin, stunning him. Then, he landed before the gargantuan hate monger, gathering up the last of his ki for one final, apocalyptic blow.
"Power of a hundred screaming snakes! Thunderous applause! EIGHT HUNDRED HAND HOLOCAUST!"
Gage's fists blurred into motion, trailing white fire, smashing into the massive gut of fatnazi hundreds of times per second. Each sounded like a gunshot, and they melded together into a single sound like the chattering of a machinegun. Gage punched for nearly two minutes solid, and when he stopped, he was utterly exhausted.
Roehm staggered back, his pudgy gut festooned with thousands of punch-craters. He was reeling, his breath coming in great wheezing gasps...
No, it occured to the horribly weary Gage. Not wheezing.... laughter.
"HA. HA. HA." Roehm jabbaed as the holes in his stomach popped outwards in a series of wet, fat-clotted smacks. He looked entirely unharmed.
A gout of flame washed over Gage, setting his clothes alight. A follow-up kick to his groin smashed his testicles up into his spleen, and a stunning right cross sent him flying thirty feet to land in a crushed, broken heap.
Is this.... the end? Gage thought as he laid there, shattered. He could feel the world beginning to grow dim, feel himself rushing towards the Eternal Prarie, where all good Rangers go to spend their eternities stopping drug abuse and kicking ass. Part of him wanted to sink back into nothingness, but he couldn't, not yet, there was still a battle to be fought! If only... if only...
Remember, a strange voice commanded in his brain. Remember what you have tried so hard to forget, Mr. Gage. The programming. The power. The Ranger X Experiment.
With the force of a ten megaton nuke or a weak Walkerpunch, the truth struck Gage. His repressed memories kicked in, and he remembered... the Ranger X program. They had kept him there, in a secret lab under Waco... for how long? Gods, he no longer remembered. By the end of their experiments, he had been gifted with an adamantium skeleton, a healing factor, superior reflexes, and the rage and instincts of a beast.
He had tried to repress that rage by repressing the memories, and his love for Syd, coupled with the cathartic release of being a Ranger and shooting or beating the utter hell out of anyone you wanted while never identifying yourself, which somehow was never illegal, had allowed him to do so. But now, even as his powers kicked in and began to mend his ruined body, his beastly rage tore forth.
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!!" Gage screamed as he stood up, tearing his shirt off seemingly for the fuck of it. Muscles rippled like steel cables beneath his skin, and a quartet of metal blades shot out of the backs of each of his hands. I said FOUR. This is ORIGINAL.
"WHUT?" Roehm said in confusion. But it was too late, for Gage was already leaping at him, claws extended.
"Time ta get ripped, bub," Gage said around a cigar that had seemingly come from nowhere. He flipped neatly in midair, tearing vast trenches in the sea of fat before him as Roehm screamed. That scream was hauntingly familiar...
And then another of his memory implants broke and he remembered fighting Roehm in Berlin in 1936, battling atop a racing icecream truck.
Gage spun, slicing through one of Roehm's fuel lines and sending petrol spraying everywhere as another implant broke. It reminded him of ejaculation. Ejaculation into the mouth of Pol Pot after he'd kicked his ass in 1970something.
Memory implants broke left and right like fine china as Gage berserked. Walker was his dad. He was there for the birth of Walker. He dated an Indian chick. He dated White Eagle. He walked through a parted Red Sea. He fought Cyber-Gage atop a stealth bomber.
By now, Roehm was little more than a pile of gorefat. His Huttish blood splattered Gage and a good acre of the surrounding countryside. That no longer mattered to Gage as he knelt on the ground, screaming his suffering to a sky that really didn't give a flying fuck.
"WHAAAT AAAAAM IIIIII?"
----
The battlefield was almost empty when the communicator on Walker's belt began to chime. He hit the RECEIVE button even as he slammed Eva Braun's face into his knee, scattering her brain across the Tri-State area.
"Walker! This is Jaret Gax at Ranger HQ! We've detected the force that opened these portals. It's emanating from the Governor's Mansion in Little Rock, Arkansas!"
"Those treacherous sister-groping horny toads are tryin' to destroy us so they can take over Texas!" Trivette exclaimed as he walked up to Walker, casually decapitating an SS captain with an over-the-shoulder punch.
"Trivette, I want you to make a direct strike on Arkansas," Walker ordered, catching a bullet out of midair. "Use the TEXSTAR satellite."
"You got it, buddy." Trivette got a running start to blast off into the sky.
"Trivetteu-san, wait!" came a voice from behind him. He turned, and she was there. The idol that haunted his dreams. Eighteen-going-on-twelve, schoolgirl uniform, J-Pop singer.
"Mimiko... what is it?"
Her saucer-sized eyes gushed tears. "Is humanity built for warfare? Is this the only way? Must we fight? Must you destroy the Arkansans?"
"I have to destroy them, Mimiko. They are our enemies. This is war."
She wept. "But war and hate are not the strongest powers in this universe, Trivetteu-san! What about love?"
"Love?" Trivette compressed his mouth into a thin, painful line as he gathered his energy about him.
"Love is Destructive."
He blasted into space.
----
The TEXSTAR satellite was like everything else from Texas or a black man's penis: big. It was a massive orbital device in the shape of a cowboy hat, equipped with a state of the art superlaser that could blast a continent into pea-gravel in minutes.
The great station had been pointed directly at Tennessee during the last Presidential election and had never been moved back. Now, Trivette flew up and put his shoulder to it, wrenching it sideways and aiming the giant cannon down at Arkansas.
Fifteen minutes after he had begun this delicate adjustment - it wouldn't do to incinerate Texas, after all! - the massive station released a lance of glowing red eldritch fire that flew through space and stabbed mercilessly through the Earth's atmosphere.
Both Governor Huckabee and Bubba had forgotten about their evil plan long before and were currently busy fucking their sisters when the blast hit, atomizing them. But Trivette had wanted to be extra-certain that the threat was eliminated and had upped the power of the blast. The resulting shockwave swept over Arkansas, incinerating every sisterfucking inhabitant of the state and turning the landscape into a giant sheet of glass.
No one much noticed. A week or so later, when the world finally discovered the truth, they didn't much care, either.
----
The battle wound down as Walker and Twovette took out the last of the Germans with careless ease. Brecht held out the longest, battling with a knife in each hand while warbling out the annoying Mackie Messer song from the Threepenny Opera, but at last he too had his head crushed, as Elly would say, "like a redpumpkin."
Twovette, Walker, Carlos, and Sydney (still in the Rangermech) came together to palaver on the battlefield. Gage was off to the side somewhere screaming like a bitch, but he did this about once every two weeks so it wasn't really much of a big deal.
"Is it over?" Twovette asked. A single drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Killing millions of Germans was middling hard work.
"NEIN," came the voice from behind him, and a shadow fell over the party. They whirled to look, mouths opening up in shock.
Adolf Hitler glared down at them, his face streaked with Space Radiation burns. He had been the most evillest German of all, and the radiation had only increased this factor of evil exponentially. He had also mutated the most of all the other Nazis. His head was still a normal human head (except for that fucked up gaystache), but it was connected to a massive, heaving body of chitin and sinew and long, wiry hairs. A massive black thorax completely dwarfed his tiny man-head and ended in a huge, bloated abdomen the size of a football field. Eight razor-clawed legs, as thick as redwoods, sprouted from his body and tore at the earth. A red swastika throbbed on the bottom of his abdomen.
When he spoke, his voice was thunderous, mesmerizing, booming: "ICH BIN.......... SPIDER-HITLER!"
"Bienvenido," Carlos said, racing forward. What was left of his ki flared up around him in a blue nimbus. "Conquistador Armor: ACTIVATE!" The blue ki flowed and shifted around him, solidified into a suit of mystical plate mail. A casual flick of Spider-Hitler's foreleg caught him and sent him flying into the Gulf of Mexico.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Walker screamed. Not because of Carlos, because he'd seen him take harder punches and live. Because, across the battlefield, he could see a trio of 14 year olds pulling some joints out of the mutilated remains of George Grosz's corpse.
"Stop them, buddy," Twovette said, readying a spinkick. "We'll take care of things here."
As Walker blasted off to engage in a little DARE, the Rangermech and Twovette rushed the giant Arachnazi, their bodies trailing red fire. Their paths crisscrossed and they leapt, forming an X in the air behind them.
"TEX-STRIKE!" Twovette screamed. Spider-Hitler roared as one of his legs was severed, but he spun with spiderlike (who would've thought?) agility and drove a razor claw entirely through the Rangermech, disabling it and knocking Sydney unconscious.
Twovette crossed his arms and waited, his boots hovering six inches off the ground. As the monstrous beast bore down on him, he flickered and vanished, only to reappear behind Spider-Hitler, slamming his boot into the back of his head. S-H rolled like an SUV full of fat people, tearing massive chunks out of the Earth as he spun away.
"MEIN KAMPF!" screamed S-H, whipping his abdomen forward and shooting spurts of some heinous space-nazi acid into the air that burst like flak over 1940s Berlin.
Twovette flew through the storm, corkscrewing to avoid bursts of acid. He flared with golden light as he zoomed toward a collision corse with the arachnazi from beyond.
"Time to take you down the RIO GRANDE PUUUUNCH!"
Spider-Hitler extended a razor-claw, impaling Twovette through the chest with about six feet of bony chitin.
Twovette hung in midair like a broken puppet, the leg extending through his heart. Despite the gouts of blood that spurted from him due to his anime-level blood-pressure, he smiled, pulling himself further up the leg.
"You... dadburned fool..." he wheezed. "Don't you know.... that a true Texas Ranger can only be killed if you completely sever his head from his body?"
"Danke." S-H opened his mouth and shot a bolt of black energy that turned Twovette's head into bloody pulp.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Walker's scream was primal, his anger fierce. Twovette was a time travelling clone of his best and oldest non-Indian friend. Now he didn't have a spare Trivette in case something happened to the other one. Now, where once he'd had twice the Trivettes and twice the fun, he was left with only one. But he HAD stopped those kids from trying pot.
Twovette would have understood, and approved.
That fact did nothing to assuage Walker's anger now, though. He glared at Spider-Hitler briefly before zooming up, up, up into the sky, surrounding himself with tranquil blue. He closed his eyes, and immersed himself in the invisible world, reaching out with tendrils of ki to touch the land and people around him. Desert, cactus. Dry plains. Cowboys. Texas.
Walker carefully maniuplated their energy, pulling it up to him on millions of invisible chords, fueling his rage and anger with their ki. He ran with the jackrabbit. He spined with the cactus. He casino'ed with the Native Americans, rode with the cowboys, cocksucked with the cheap Dallas crackwhore.
This was TEXAS.
This was POWER.
He zoomed down below the layer of the clouds, radiant with the energy of a land and a people. He extended his right index finger before him as he fixed Spider-Hitler with a baleful glare.
"Feel the wrath of the Lone Star!" Walker boomed, gathering the energy, shaping it.
"Thorns of the Yellow Rose!" Golden snakes slid down his arms, humming as they funneled raw ki to his palms.
"Remember... the Alamo." The air began to crackle. The gathered spiritual energy of All Texas formed at the end of Walker's finger, a mass of power the size of a rice grain. When Walker spoke again, his voice was otherworldly, apocalyptic.
"PECOS KILL."
The grain sped downwards, lancing through Spider-Hitler's forehead like a scalpel through tissue paper. There was a brief moment for Hitler to make a sad face before the grain exploded, immolating him in a firestorm that reached a mile into the air.
As S-H expired with a Lovecraftian scream, White Eagle spoke in Walker's ear.
"That'll do, Washoe."
"That'll do."
----
Twovette was given a viking funeral in the Gulf of Mexico. Walker, standing knee-deep in the salty waters, had cast him off with the setting of the sun. Trivette ignited his funeral barge with a blast of sad ki, sending him off in flames to the Eternal Prairie.
The Rangers had won, but at a terrible cost. And they were not in the mood to forgive. It was a cruel country and a cruel world that had allowed this affront to Texas. And this world would pay.
The following day, Texas seceeded from both the Union and the world. A new era had begun.
THE END(?)
Author's Note: I'm sorry. No. Really sorry.