Chapter 2: Assault

Nearer and nearer, the slavs moved towards their un-suspecting prey, taking great care to stay out of sight. They hunched close to the ground, knuckling their way forward in an effort to reduce noise. Slowly but surely, they began to close in. After a couple of minutes the gopniks were only a few yards behind Ian and Safari Man; they were now close enough to hear the intruders talking.

"-all I'm saying," said Ian, absorbed in his own rhetoric.

"All I'm saying is that when you reach the age of sixty, sixty-five tops, you should be killed. No question. Unless you're an immortal Lycra guy, or whatever, when you get to that age, there's nothing more you can do for society. Old people are parasites, and if they had any self-respect at all they would give themselves a shotgun-blowjob. End of discussion."

Safari Man slapped his knee and laughed heartily, seemingly agreeing with his companion's ultra-fascist viewpoint.

"Ha! Amarini mo furu sugimasu. Sore wa koko de jūyōde wanai. (Ha! Too old is too old. Not that it matters out here.)

Meanwhile, the masked Slavs drew identical knives out from their tracksuits. They would pounce any moment now and slit the necks of their victims, before proceeding to make sweet love to holes that they had created. Not all Slavs were this depraved, it was true, but years of scouting in the Chernobyl Wastes tended to warp the sexual desires of all that trod across the plains. The radiation, no doubt played a part in this degeneracy. The moment had almost come. The slavs arched their bodies, ready to attack.

And then, suddenly, Safari Man let out a cry of surprise. His Safari Sense had kicked in. It was one of the few powers he possessed and it allowed him to perceive the relative proximity of indigenous life forms native to other realms. He had been too absorbed by his pleasant company to register it right away, but now their present danger hit him like flash bang. Despite his heavy dialect, the tourist knew just enough broken English to warn his companion, and he put it into effect.

"Ian! Behindaa-ruu!" Safari Man yelled. Ian didn't have to be told twice. He sprinted forwards, letting the Slavs spring and fall short of their targets. Then, while turning around, Ian reached up to his backpack and grabbed the wooden stock that was poking out of the top. When his arm came back down, he was levelling a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun at the two slavs. The gopniks recoiled in fear, and Ian grinned a manic smile.

"Wal, wal. Wout do we alve, ere?" He said in his Gay Retard accent.

"Wout are you bose dowing? It's nawt Halloweem! Pout the knauves down, you oogly coonts!"

The Slavs did as they were told and chucked their weapons onto the roadway. Safari man picked them up and watched as the gopniks meekly held their hands above their heads. Ian kept the gun trained on them, ready to blast the would-be attackers if they showed any signs of double-cross.

Safari Man was breathing heavily. He grabbed Ian's shoulders and babbled some oriental gibberish, clearly shaken by what had just transpired.

"Stay back, Safari Man." Said Ian, suddenly serious.

"I won't let them hurt you. God, these guys almost killed us both. "

"Sōdesu. Ian, arigatō. Anata wa hontōni yūkan'na otokodesu. (Too right. Thank you Ian. You are a brave man, indeed.)"

"Look, there could be more of these things. What's say we cancel our vacation for now?"

"Sore wa kenmeida. Watashi wa kono ryōiki ga sorada to omotta (That seems wise. I thought this realm was empty.)

Ian started to walk around the gopniks, back towards the way they had come, but then he stopped short. A childish scowl spread across his pale geeky face and, for all intents and purposes, he had gained the cruelty and entitlement of a fan-edit school shooter.

"Wait. You know what? No! These guys need to pay. Hey! You can understand me, right?!"

The two slavs nodded their masks up and down in agreement.

"I want reparations! Give me the sneakers!"

The gopniks looked at each other. Ian cocked the shotgun.

"Give me the sneakers! I won't ask again."

Reluctantly, the slavs unlaced their shoes and kicked them over to Ian, revealing their disgusting, mutated feet. They had seven toes on each foot, some of them fused together at the bone, some of them little more than shrived black cheese-puffs.

Safari Man vomited onto the road and Ian picked up the shoes and stuffed them into his pack.

"You see! You shouldn't have messed with a Nigger Faggot, should you. Oh, and just so you know, I'm going to burn your shoes later. Yeah, have myself a little brand-awareness bonfire. Have fun walking back to the city, cunts."

Ian and Safari Man started to walk away, occasionally throwing a glance over their shoulders to make sure they weren't being followed. After a while, Ian turned to his companion.

"Got a bit carried away, didn't I? Sorry, Safari Guy. But what with the thought of you lying dead in the road, I guess I just saw red."

Safari Man took hold of Ian's hand and laughed. Ian loved Safari Man's laugh. He loved how it could nullify his anger and transmute it into golden love.

"Uwa ̄ ! Anata wa senshidesu, ian. Anata wa watashi no tame ni tatakau koto de watashi o meiyo o ataemasu. (Wow! You are a warrior, Ian. You do me honour by fighting for me.)

Ian couldn't understand what the tourist was saying, but he smiled anyway. Just hearing the acceptance in his voice was enough for him.

"Let's go some other place for our holiday, pal. I think we deserve it."

They had made it half way back to the portal when the pair heard a roaring noise coming from the distance, far off at first, but growing steadily louder with every passing second.

"The hell is that?!" Exclaimed Ian, looking wildly around him. Safari Man mirrored Ian's surprise and together they started walking a little faster.

Then a pair of rusty vehicles came accelerating over a dirt mound and plunged down into the valley. They were soviet-era jeeps and each held a complement of five Slavic hunters, all sporting Adidas tracksuits and black rubber gas masks. Some of them chugged Vodka from clear glass bottles, some of them readied huge nets braided from human hair, and all of them whooped and cried with the thrill of the hunt. It was like some strange scene out of budget Mad Max movie.

"Book it!" Ian yelled, but it was too late. The jeeps caught up with them in seconds. The nets fell and the pair were forced to the ground, entangled in a course, matted heap.

The jeeps passed them, and circled around. Ian desperately tried to stand up but the ropes were too heavy.

"Surabu wa watashitachi o motte iru! (The slavs have got us!) Said Safari Man, who was beginning to panic.

"It's okay," Said Ian, formulating a plan.

"I'll bite through the ropes. That'll get us free. One second, I *urrgh* *Urgh!* Actually, no. That tastes pretty rank. I'm not going to do that."

The gopniks laughed and began to drive back towards Ian and Safari Man. Two Slavs from each jeep grabbed hold of the nets as they passed, dragging the two unfortunate men behind the vehicles. Ian and Safari Man bounced and rolled in the confines of their netted prison, desperately trying to avoid friction burns from the rushing ground beneath them. Having lost his shotgun in the confusion, Ian glowered at his slav captors.

"You're going to pay for this, we know people. Powerful people. Y'all fuckers need Chin Chin!"

Safari Man, however focused his energy on sending a psychic SOS message to Frank and the gang. He scrunched up his coin-slot eyes, visualized the message's destination, and projected his panicked cry.

"HALP! FRANKU! CUM-MU FAST! SLAV-OO MEN TAKE US! HALP!"

The psychic message invisibly launched itself from the tourist's skull and diffused through the Omni-verse. It sped through the cosmos at the speed of light, and then it turned and headed directly for realm 6.2, the current residence of Filthy Frank.

Whether Frank had the power to save his friends, however, was another question entirely.