Chapter Two/Three: Assuming Command
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The Ice Climber's simpering had broken the fantasy. He accepted the M60 from Popo. Odd, the old pig feels heavy today. Mmm… better take the grenade launcher as well.
He threw a wad of paper money at Lip – a mere formality for he doubted she'd live to spend them. While she counted the dough, he snatched the wig off her head and shoved it into his utility belt. An unexpected twinge of loss stung him. Lip had played pretend better than the rest. The Primid might not register her as a threat. Sure, and I might be crowned king again.
She looked up at him with questioning eyes. "Get out of here. Hide," he said in her native tongue. Lip continued to sit there. He turned away from her and left the office with Popo in tow. If she wanted to die in this heap it was no longer his concern.
"What are we gonna do?" Popo asked. Bowser didn't need to smell his fear, he could hear it in the Climber's quaking whine. The icicle humper had attitude when he wasn't scared shitless, which almost excused his incompetence. Negative qualities outnumbering the tantalizing positives – such was the way of underlings, and the soldiers stationed at this shit hole were no exception.
Yet, they were his. As their leader, he owed them something, even if it didn't prove worth a plumber's fart in the end.
"What I'm going to do is radio a request for evacuation. A bit late, but maybe someone's nearby or on their way already." Fat chance. But as the old Koopa maxim stated: when the hammer drops, pipe dreams cost little.
The Ice Climber's fear-reek grew ranker. "Major Hand isn't going to like that much."
"You let me handle it. Get back out there and hold off the enemy until help arrives. Green Platoon at the north-east wall probably needs you the most. They're undermanned, after getting their dumb asses ambushed on patrol last week. Wait for me. If I don't show up before the defensive perimeter breaks, fall back to here. Got it?"
Popo's shoulders drooped but he hustled off to fulfill his orders.
So much for brave speeches. Time to bloody some knuckles.
Bowser considered also taking the photo of Peach, along with her letters, hidden beneath his mattress. She had promised to wait for him. He knew better. More likely, she had married Mario. The sunuvabitch probably invites his brother over every other night so they can double team her. Peach would like that. She was a freak behind closed doors and that was one of the many reasons he loved her.
Marching down the long corridor to Hand's office, he tried settling for the satisfaction of knowing she would live on, happy, despite his approaching death at Primid hands, but all this line of reasoning bought him to was an enlightened state of pissed-the-hell-off. Immortality as fond memories in a loved one's heart was for suckers. The bitter ambrosia of inconsolable rage was his best bet for surviving today, he thought.
Cradling dear that blood-red coal of wrath in his soul, Bowser shouldered the major's locked door off its frame. The giant disembodied hand sprawled limp over its desk like a drunken spider, still wearing its whole-body glove, once white but now splotched gray and brown with filth. As anticipated, Base 6-4's C.O. had decided to greet its end riding the syrup. Hand developed the habit to chronic proportions months earlier, leaving a power vacancy Bowser had been happy to fill.
"Bastard," rumbled Bowser. "I always knew you were worthless." Bowser kicked down another door to the right and found Comms Officer R.O.B. #1984 sitting at the radio.
"Call Fort Hanenbow for reinforcements! Call for air support! Call for emergency evacuation!" he roared at the robot.
"Negative, Captain. All radio transmissions require an order, written or oral, from the commanding officer. Major Hand has ordered a stop on all outgoing transmissions," R.O.B. droned.
Bowser spun on the lethargic hand, got right up in its… palm, a gesture that felt ridiculous without a face in which to glower. He growled. "Sign me permission to radio for help, scumbag."
The major rolled over on its back and wriggled its fingers, resembling a dying spider now instead of an inebriated one. Bowser suppressed a shudder of revulsion. Major Hand began to sign: Not going to do it. I don't want my commander angry at me. My career has suffered enough damage already.
"You'll like the damage I dish out even less if you don't give R.O.B. that order! Not to mention what the Primid will do to you if they capture you alive."
Major Hand pointed to its private latrine, then pointed at Bowser and made a flushing gesture. The Captain blinked. The office and all that resided within turned a rippling shade of red.
"You just bought yourself a whole slab of whup ass, sir."
The major made a feeble effort to crawl away. Bowser slammed down on its back, spiked carapace first. No longer fully in control of his actions, he grabbed Hand's middle finger and pulled it backwards with all his might. The major thrashed and heaved beneath him, but the syrup had drained most of its strength. The Captain hooted and hollered, and wished for a cowboy hat to wave in the air as he rode the bucking Hand. First came a slow creaking, then the sudden greenwood snap of bone breaking. The finger flopped loose at a sickening angle. A scarlet stain spread out through the fabric spread taut over the new joint.
Nothing inside Bowser told him to stop.
He snatched the stapler from the major's desk and went crazy stamping down into the squirming fabric until he ran out of staples. He belched flame and set the major's soggy glove on fire. And before the resulting brown smoke could choke him to death, Bowser stomped the flames out by slamming his spiked carapace onto the smoldering Hand over and over again. This created a catchy if irregular beat. Snap. Crack. Pop. Crack, crack, pop.
The fire extinguished, Bowser reclined on the twitching wreckage of his superior officer, glazed eyes hooded in the afterglow. Oh, how he had needed that. Bowser lit his last stogie and let the rich smoke tickle his nose and flush out the mildew stink of scorched glove. The moment was complete.
Something big exploded outside, rattling the bunker hard. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The teeth-rattling thud reminded him of the work yet unfinished. He produced the correct form from the major's desk, along with the official seal and ink pad.
"Here you go." He passed the stamped and signed order to R.O.B., who had only sat there and watched the whole show.
R.O.B. said, "This form has not been dated."
Bowser leaned in close and glowered into the robot's optical sensors until his breath misted the round plastic lenses. "Hey, little operating buddy, tell me something. You need both those arms to operate that radio?"
R.O.B. paused. "Radioing HQ immediately to request assistance, sir."
Popo reached the north-east perimeter and found it intact, if only barely.
Charizard sprawled in a puddle of his own blood, bellowing mindless agony. The Pokemon dead lay everywhere. A few still whimpered or twitched, most were silent. No place existed below the sky where he could rest his gaze that did not reveal a new kind of wound. Lacerated scales that would not stop bleeding. Puckered holes of charred flesh where a Primid laser had found its mark. Smooth skin gnarled to burnt hamburger. Eyes dangling from smashed sockets. Each victim a mere brick stacked high in a shivering, oozing monument to trauma. Already, flies gathered in their black masses. If left alone, this courtyard would soon overflow with more new life than the latrines hosted. The rancid stench of the slaughterhouse filled his nasal cavities and could not be breathed out.
Only Pikachu and a few of his Pichu cousins remained. Bandannas soaked through, helmets dented, yellow fur encrusted with soot, they fought on, a maniacal gleam shining alongside the sun in the molten tar of their eyes. Again and again, they tipped over the top of the wall and sprayed assault rifle fire or dropped a grenade. Those who ran out of ammo killed the all-natural way, using biologically generated lightning streams.
"Pi pikachu chu pika," Pikachu chirped. Popo knew enough Pokemon to understand: Bring forth more explosives. The corpses of the blasphemers pile high, my Brothers, and we must clear the wall lest our foes clamber up our defenses on a ramp built of their dead!
Popo approached the nearest ladder, swallowing to rid his mouth of the bitter twang of mortal terror. Halfway up, a great clamor from the south stopped him short. The additional height allowed an unobstructed view of the East Quadrant. Tabuu's legions had breached the fortifications there. First through a hole in the outer wall, then over the abandoned gun nests, G&W and Primid alike scurried into the base. The pounding of thousands of scrambling feet almost drowned out the weapon fire.
The few remaining defenders rushed screaming into the black tempest, rifles and glands blazing. Game & Watches cut them down using pieces of their own bodies, often shaping these fragments into grisly parodies of everyday objects: food and frying pans; firemen's water buckets; trampolines; oil cans; even giant matches. The unwavering lines of Primid supported the G&Ws with every kind of firearm imaginable.
It was over in a matter of seconds. All the base would soon belong to the enemy. Only one lone figure remained to bar their way. He wore a distinctive red uniform Popo recognized even from this distance.
Pokemon Master Sergeant Red stood alone among the crumpled bodies of his charges, unflinching before the hail of enemy fire. The blue flare of opened pokeballs hid the man from Popo's view for a second, searing a phantom silhouette of flame that floated over his vision. Red hugged several Electrode Pokemons to his chest, the medicine capsule patina of their shells glinting in the sunlight. The Primid rushed in to take control. As a dark unified mass they encircled him, piled onto him, swallowed him.
Though it seemed all collapsed into the roar of general slaughter, the sergeant's scream still reached Popo. "You can't take me alive, mother fuckers! Palutena, I'm –"
The explosion burned too intense to watch with naked eyes, yet he could not look away. The searing white shock wave swept half the quadrant clear, the sheer force of it shaking Base 6-4 to its foundation. The tremor nearly threw Popo off his ladder.
While the sound was deafening, the icing on the shit cake came a moment later when one of the yellow-furred twits on the wall top, distracted by the conflagration, held onto a live flash bang grenade a second too long. Popo's head was turned, so he was spared another blinding flash, but his ears bore the full brunt of the assault. He screamed bloody agony but only heard it in his mind.
Screw this. "Yoshi. I'm coming buddy. Just hold on." Again, he heard the thoughts but not the spoken words and wondered if the ringing in his ears would ever stop. He jumped down from the ladder, hesitated, remembering the Pikachus nearby.
Pikachu gestured wildly from the top of the wall, its tiny mouth snapping open and closed. Before Popo could produce an excuse, a red laser beam divided the fresh smoke and ran the thunder rat through. Its insides flash boiled, the short fat body exploded into a spray of bone chips and meat and superheated body fluids. Gore drenched the Ice Climber.
Blinking furiously, he willed his legs into a sprint. Popo drew up the discipline of a glacier dweller and refused to succumb to the horror of the situation.
He ran back towards the center of the base faster than he had ever hurried for anything in his whole life – focused on rescuing the one friend he had left in all the world. Back to the foxhole.
Not much time remained before the enemy secured the base. He estimated several minutes at best. No problem. A lot could happen in a few minutes. The droning of his shocked ears lessened, and louder sounds began to find their way through the insulating noise-haze. The growing roar of the Sub-space Army's approach was one of these intrusions. The foxhole was just ahead, right around the corner.
Someone screamed. Popo hoped it was Wario.
Popo wheeled around the corner and charged the entrance, a slanted rectangle of pure darkness reclining under the jungle sun's glare. He heard the scream again and saw who unleashed it. Donkey and Diddy Kong ran from the foxhole on fire, arms flailing. A Primid with a flamethrower stalked up behind the Kongs and gave them another spray of flaming napalm.
The apes had been no friends of his. It no longer mattered. The M16 was level in Popo's hands, the stock braced against the shoulder before conscious thought ordered it so. The assault rifle fired, louder than the battle. Louder than everything. The Primid took the three bullets in its blank face and crumbled into a shifting pile of shadow particles. Popo growled. He wanted a corpse he could piss on.
There was nothing he could do for Donkey and Diddy. The apes blazed as they sagged to the cement in brown sizzling heaps, still clutching each other. Popo hurtled through the foxhole's entrance and found more Primid wielding flamethrowers. They had most of the storage room scorched clean. The syrup addicts lay curled on their filthy mats, oblivious, or perhaps welcoming the cleansing orange radiance. No one fought back. The Primid swept their flamethrower streams over the drugged soldiers with the same unconcerned efficiency of servants ridding a house of dust.
Popo spotted Yoshi. He screamed.
A twist of charred carbon was all that remained of his friend – marked by the saddle still strapped around what was left of the dino's back. Leather and scale crumbled to ash and scattered in the churning air.
Late. An eternity too late.
He wished then that he could feel the heat of the burning room. Or the sensation of being coated with blazing jelly, or Wario's knife carving deep into his neck. Anything, instead of what he felt at that moment.
The Primid locked onto this new infestation and swung their flamethrowers around for a final extermination sweep. Blue pilot lights hissed against a surging background of dirty red flame.
The jungle humidity froze over his skin, frosting every inch of him with innumerable ice crystals. Popo emptied the magazine into the two nearest him, ejected, slapped the next in before the empty clip clattered on the floor. He squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. For one horrible moment, time froze. A jam. He was charbroil. He stared, and the Primid stared back.
He tore his eyes away to check his rifle, found he had fumbled the safety catch on, clicked it off. Several streams of burning napalm unfurled his way. He rolled, coming up in a kneeling position. The rattle and bang of automatic fire reverberated in the foxhole's confines, doing his battered hearing no favors. Eyes and skin itched as if doused in acid. He was distantly aware that he was screaming again, half words and obscenities. Most of the Primid had dissolved. The last few charged him.
The M16 clicked, empty. No more magazines. Popo thanked the Captain silently for his insistence that all his men attach bayonets to their rifles. Popo met the Primid rush, stabbing and clubbing their heads and dumpy bodies. The flames came close enough that even his buried nerves could sense some heat.
All too quickly, there was nothing left to kill. He stumbled back out into the fetid jungle air, his parka tarred and clinging from the slurry of melted frost and ash. The furred hood was still on fire. He tore the garment off, the last reminder of home destroyed, save Nana's photo, which he removed and placed in a pants pocket. Down to his undershirt, he no longer cared if anyone made fun of his chubby figure, if there was anyone left to do so. He'd rip their throats out with his teeth.
Sand grated in his lungs and throat. Thanks to the close brush with napalm he had no more hair on the back of his head. The scalp beneath bleed on his fingers and was painful to touch.
He never saw Wario coming.
Something hard slammed into the side of his skull. Stars danced through his eyes; shadows clouded his consciousness. The world swam and flipped, unable to decide which way was up. Popo then noticed the ground against his back, hands idle at his sides. He knew those appendages should be doing something useful, like protecting their body, but they wouldn't move the right way. Agony spider-webbed across his brain. The salty taste of blood mixed with the metallic savor of fear in his mouth.
The generous deadness of shock fled. Above, Wario's hideous grinning face came into sharp focus. The drug pusher dropped his bloodied shovel, a few strands of hair stuck to its blade, and came closer. The stench of garlic and week old sweat made Popo gag.
Cold light glared off the knife, matching the glint in Wario's eyes. Gazing into those dark and deep sockets Popo recalled the fly-swarmed latrine pits. The knife point tickled up his cheek until the tip rested on his bottom right eyelid. Slowly, the blade tilted up into a prime angle for scooping work.
"Told you, you were gonna pay me back. Now that the shit's hit the tennis racket, you owe me and my boys double. I'm gonna take you apart from the kneecaps on up. The only thing I can't decide is if I want you able to watch me do it, or if I should cut your eyes out first and let you imagine what's coming next."
Popo had nothing to say. Wario was beyond words now. He could only lay there, mouth wide open. He regretted this in the next instant when the shovel axed down through the fat man's head, splitting the skull. Viscera geysered from the ruptured cranium and sloshed Popo with polluted blood. Popo spat out what he had not already swallowed in fright.
A scaly claw reached down and snared his shirt.
"On your feet soldier," said the Captain.