FIXES FROM THE PYXIS: THE BESTING OF THE BADASSES
By Quillon42
CHAPTER TWO
ROSITA ESPINOSA VERSUS FRANK DELGADO
Deep within a subbasement of the storage facility utilized in the second Walking webisode, the most energetic of the "Ostensible Scientist Escort To Washington DC" trio nursed an ankle grazed by Gatling. On one hand, Rosita felt a bit of comfort that, as skilled as her unctuous oversized enemy might have been with his enormous generator of leaden diarrhea, he was going to run out of the shit sooner rather than later, the rate his weapon was rambling.
She'd never be able to tell, though, how many rounds he'd have left when she'd finally have to face him down. Kind of hard to do that Dirty-Harry-climax chamber counting when the other guy had a belt-fed weapon capable of firing off hundreds of rounds per minute.
[WHIRRRRRR RATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA TATTA]
The overwhelming issuance of so much automatic ammunition peppered the walls all around where the lady lay, all upon the floor of the chamber in which she was contained.
Fucker's going for scorched earth tactics, and he against only just one opponent.
Oh, Rosita…if only you knew how scorching this wacky pyromaniac, freshly crazy out of the Pyxis, could make things.
But, as matters would have it…the comely commando would be able to meet her assailant with a response that would prove a polar opposite in more ways than one.
It would be about another fifty seconds before Frank would force the door, his overly imposing frame now skulking towards his slender enemy, the ogre of an hombre coming on with his Gatling Gun as thuggishly in figure and gait like one of the endless evil iterations of Oleg in Saints Row the Third.
"You gonna keep leadin' me on and draggin' this out, Mami?" Delgado trained the lengthy barrel of his rapid-fire wreckage wreaker upon Rosita.
"I gots to get back to Billie so's I can make her bleed…with my other Gatling…"
The beset belle measured the moronolith before her, she tensing, waiting for the moment as the latter looked her up and down devouringly.
"Now I know you've got that bit of ordnance on you…won't do your guapa concha no good against a modern-day wizard like myself."
Rosita whipped out the DefTech 37mm Rotary Launcher before her now, she figuring she had nothing to hide, literally, since this fuck Frank here somehow knew she'd found it down in this basement…
"Like, so what do you have in there, incendiaries? Won't do nothin' against someone imbued with Ababinili…"
And then, finally after so much blustery blather, time was up.
[WHIRRRRRR]
The sound Rosita had been raring for finally reported. She dove out of the way of the gunfire following, letting loose with her own cannon as she flew.
Frank then felt, gelidly from gut to Gatling, what he never foresaw as the liquid nitrogen freeze shell struck home straight against his chest. Instinctively he summoned the abovenamed italicized exotic entity, whose fiery essence could smother any mother, stat. Even this was extinguished in the wake of the stupefying sciencing initiated by Espinosa between episodes of her show, in her spare time.
Now that her fuckwad of a foe's bravado was ever so coldly curtailed, Rosita could easily explain the ice ace that was up her sleeve this whole time.
"Eugene laid the foundation, with his formulas for bullet manufacture." Freely she tossed her arms so her hands landed elfishly atop her scalp, she striking the same flirty, faux-vacant semi-voguing pose she did in her first full appearance in the fourth season.
The rotary launcher still perched between said voguing palms made the lady come off a mite bit less silly this time, though.
She stood a foot from her ice-writhing adversary now. "I took his recipe and decided that the dish could be served a bit more chilled, you know?
"I could make an alliterative stereotypical reference, like…call these babies projectile piraguas or some shit, but the author's not that much of a honky simpleton.
"Anyway…"
Rosita started to raise(ita) the Rotary once more, but this time not to fire.
[SMMMMMAAASSSSSHHHHHH]
…
…
As Rosita pored over the assorted fragments of Frank on the floor now:
"Unlike what I heard your squadmates saying regarding something you like to utter every now and then…for you this isn't just another day at the office…but rather, a day on ice instead."
Ugh, she thought to herself as she made her way out of the facility basement, it was a good thing neither Eugene nor Spencer was around to hear that one.
…
(But certainly all the worse…"raiseita"…maybe this author really is that kind of honky after all).
VICTOR: ROSITA ESPINOSA
OFFICER DAWN LERNER VERSUS FRAULEIN HANNE LICHTHAMMER
Everybody from interns to outpatients found themselves to be more than a mite scandalized upon witnessing a most necrotic Nazi nightmare in the midst of their hospital haven of Grady Memorial. The frightening sight of the unholy elitist evil here, more terrifying than any woeful walker that any infirmary inhabitant here had ever laid eyes upon, was almost as disgustingly repulsive, in fact…
…as the most distressing spectacle of the evil's opponent, that overbearing officer who once oversaw all the operations of the emergency institution with the steeliest of fists. To be sure, it was this pair of putrescent authoritative anathema now which was mixing it up while the medics all around made away from them as fast as they could so hastily mosey.
"I've heard tell that your reign here was one to be rued," spat Hanne most haltingly as she swiped at her American enemy with the nastiest of nails. Her officer adversary dodged quickly, her spartanly athletic torso arcing back to avoid the agony-uttering scratch. "You are one who was indeed dreaded by all…which, I must admit, commands my grudging respect."
Dawn did all she could to suppress a grin as she swung an arm forward now, she easily blocking another vicious strike from this miserable mistress of the Master Race. "Yeah, Frau Fuckpiece…respect is all that matters…the most of what little's left of what we got here now."
Lichthammer abruptly lunged at Lerner's midriff, and the latter brought up a knee spryly, the reaction still visiting pain upon the policewoman, yet her meniscus mitigating the damage that would have been dashed upon her intestines.
"Ze superior officer you exterminated…I was told his name was Hanson." A violent thrust of the Teutonic temptress's fingernails once more towards Dawn's temple, which caught the officer instead across the cheek, bringing a bloom of blood upon half of her face. "A name not very far removed from my own Christian one, in a sense…"
"Someone of your ilk dares to deem any aspect of you to be Christian." This the cop-batant taunted, she not too cop in fact about the designation that the other dire damsel placed upon her perdition-permeated self, as she caught a flailing arm aimed her way and configured the limb most cruelly, so as to fracture it unfailingly.
[CRRRAAACCCCCCKKKKKK]
"Mmmfff…Scheist…
"You know, Frau Lerner," grunted the haughty Hanne as she continued to slash at the other sadistic sister with her still functional arm, "I am still in ze dark as to ze weapon you chose to bring to zis little hoedown of ze horror. No truncheon in tow for you? You are not packing ze standard issue Schmidt unt Wesson you officers are reported to have on you at all times?"
Dawn was done with this decomposed Dusseldouche. "You know, Gretel…I've heard tell that you were once blue-eyed, and blonde, and beautiful…of course, this was all ages ago and such for you…but not too traumatically long ago, I had a run-in with someone similar, at least in terms of her pukeworthy physicality.
"I'm going to do you the way I wanted to do her, so many, many times over."
An instant following, and Dawn darted with the weapon she went with—not any officially-issued
ordnance of an officer, mind you, but an item inspired by these environs she had run for so long.
Soon thereafter the shiny syringe was sticking sharply so deeply into the depression between the banal banshee's breasts. "And here's another offering for you, to match all the moves you made these past fifteen minutes."
So many shivering stabs from needles clutched tightly in both of the officer's palpitating palms. "Do you really get it now, you blonde bimbo fuck?!"
For all that she might have heard before the battle, Hanne would never have been party to the revelation of the whole petulant "I get it" that that biddy Beth Greene had told the lethal Lerner, before the former had buried a pair of scissors in the other's chest. But the lurid Lichty was certainly "getting it" now, ever so vindictively, from the punishing peacekeeper as Dawn drove the silver-nitrate-saturated syringes again and again into the undead overlady's frail frame.
Fraulein Hanne was now teetering at the edge of an oversized laundry chute, just as she was so similarly and precariously situated over the enormous arch from which she was taken down most trouncingly, then by a saucy psychic swordswoman whom the naughy Nazi dared to call Wilhelmina.
"Do you fucking GET IT?!"
Then one final stamp of the syringe upon the pusillanimous parchment of Lichthammer's pallid sternum as the force of the attack ejected her out and down, down the length of the utility chute.
More exasperated than exhausted despite her victory, Officer Lerner leered down the vertical passage, a shaft somewhat like the one that hayseed whore had sent O'Donnell screaming down. The furious fuzz lady was still so angry as all get-out, but this beatdown made things a bit better.
And hey, things could be worse for the woman, given that she was back now. She could once again have her reign over the place, and get more white male goons like the molesting Gorman; like the surly O'Donnell, for sure; and even like the duplicitous Doctor Edwards, who killed to keep his job. For certain, there would be other females of whatever color, and nonwhite males who would oppose her in this small sandbox, this originally-fifth-season hospital sequence of The Walking Dead forerunning The Force Awakens in its sickening SJWness.
Because a story in which women and/or nonwhites are marginalized or otherwise made to look bad is called Sexist and Racist…yet a story in which white males are uniformly, unvaryingly made to look like assholes is called Social Justice.
VICTOR: OFFICER DAWN LERNER
DARYL DIXON VERSUS XAVIER JONES
In the still of a very stifling morning in the sticks of Hotlanta, a certain hayseed heartthrob worked his way through twigs and troughs surrounding another kind of still, one which he wasn't too stoked about revisiting.
This was the hickory haunt occupied by himself as well as that same blue blonde who was invoked and excoriated by the cop from the confrontation prior. Yes, Daryl and Beth were damnably blessed, in a sense, to have that time to themselves in that moonshine shack, to while away an evening reflecting on their piteous pasts as well as their present predicaments. It was so blisteringly bittersweet, as each of them had engaged soulfully with the other, also argued heatedly, ultimately emerged strongly and all the more fulfilled as the ravishing redneck became enriched through hearing of the tribulations of one of Herschel's dearest honeys, and vice versa.
But this affair now, here only an hour or so after a breakfast of badger balls and pig's toes…Mister Dixon didn't know if he was feeling up to it (even after such a sumptuous feast). Echoes of the encounter with Beth had made him edgier now, the Deep South downhomer on the defensive; the selection of this arena by his host couldn't possibly have been a coincidence.
[WHHHSSSSSHHHHH]
His crossbow was cocked and at the ready now, the hillbilly's hackles raised at the slightest stirring uttered by Nature at large in this most rustic theatre of reckoning.
He could scent out the spoor of just about any animal, as he'd done with squirrels and skunks he'd summoned from the brazen brush for so many suppers. The cocksure clodhopper could pick up from prints what might have went down between a couple of cusses, as he did while speculating in the second season, back on Beth's homestead, upon the wayward fate of the Shane-strangled Randall.
But here his target, of a tech much higher than any opossum he'd opposed before…for all of that enemy's overt onyx threads…Daryl just couldn't draw him out.
Straining in the peeling silence, the bucolic bumpkin did all he could to listen for his foe…while the same watched him, from a most unlikely, vulture-victuals vantage.
That mofo Merle's younger brother was actually making complete unwitting eye contact with his opponent right now, in a way, as Daryl peered deeply into the eyes of the walker he'd staked with a bolt so many months back…
…and his astrally-projecting adversary stared at Dixon in turn, measuring him through the same skin-eater's peepers, the enemy actually a measure of meters away and making ready for his assault.
Sleepwalkingly now, in a sense, was that extranatural exterminator Xavier, as he shimmied along stealthily, readying his shotgun to reduce the rube before him into so much cornfed compost.
Still resorting to the standpoint of the staked-up undead, Xavier watched through other eyes as his Peach-State prey made his way around the back of the nostalgia-hallowed hovel, it somehow having been revived (as if by the resurrection-energized hands of Ross or Rawlings) for the sake of this treacherous tourney.
It was at the rear of the rickety structure that the two tusslers would finally make actual contact, eye and otherwise. Captain Jones was so confident that he would be able to come upon his boorish, back-turned opponent undetected that he uttered a footfall that was more false than furtive…
[SSSSSSHHHHHHHHH]
and the one then whirled on the other instantaneously with quarrel ready to quell, while the other
[THHHEWWWWWW]
[BLAAAMMMMM]
had his shotgun already at the ready, it bellowing its blast to catch Daryl staggeringly from solar plexus to chest now, even as
"GHAAAAAGGGHHHHH!"
the eon-traipsing Xavier-executioner took a bolt badly to the upper front of his left leg.
Carefully the chronospanning cadet trundled over to the side of the small housing, as he took in the sight of the semi-figure now that was his quarrel-queefing quarry. The other looked a man who had been through several stages of the abyss, all in one epoch. It didn't take tripping through everyplace from Rule Britannia to Rome Imperial in order for him to earn his stripes of inter-settlement strife.
In any case, now, there was the needling of the noxious projectile protruding through Jones's thigh. For certain, the Captain knew, it would be hell for him to pull the ornery arrow out…but the heady healing abilities of his canny compatriots would make the treatment for it a treat...
…and for certain, the agony for the consciousness-jumping Jerichoan was naught, he was sure, compared to what he had undergone most devastatingly in the Pyxis…and compared to that sustained by his fellow dweller in this deceased-diseased thicket.
As the most taciturn of his troupe, Jones wasn't one usually for eulogy or elegy. But he had felt compelled now, at the worthiness of his woebegone foe.
"Far as trackers go, your instincts, under other circumstances, could outdo my astral.
"It's too bad this time that the hooch hit you so hard."
He then looked to the shoddy shanty, of which he was informed of the experiences of Daryl and Beth (just as he was educated on the exploits of all from Al-Khali to the Assyrians), and the soldier smh-ed somewhat sympathetically.
VICTOR: XAVIER JONES
TO BE CONTINUED