Robocopout

By Damon L. Wakes

How much cyborg does six million dollars actually get you nowadays? Will anybody ever manage to use time travel to kill Hitler? And is that guy a wizard or just a man wearing a dress? Written one-a-day in July 2016, the stories in this book will answer all these questions and more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Damon L. Wakes
• Release date: Dec 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370631414

Damon L. Wakes

Damon L. Wakes was born in 1991 and began to write a few years later. He holds an MA in Creative and Critical Writing from the University of Winchester, and a BA in English Literature from the University of Reading.When he isn’t writing, Damon enjoys weaving chainmail and making jewellery. He produces items made of modern metals such as aluminium, niobium and titanium, but constructed using thousand-year-old techniques.Damon’s other interests are diverse. He has at various times taken up archery, fencing and kayaking, ostensibly as research for books but mostly because it’s something to do.

Book preview

Introduction

Heeeeere’s Girthy! cried Girth Loinhammer, Dungeon Lord, as he headbutted his way face-first through the door of my room.

That’s an odd reference to open with, I pointed out. It doesn’t quite work here.

I forgot my axe, said Girth. Shut up.

There was an extended silence. Girth tried to shake the splinters out of the crevices of his tight-fitting black leather outfit. I took another gulp of coffee, but it was cold on account of having already taken quite a while to get started on this introduction.

Well? demanded the Dungeon Lord, after the silence had shifted from extended to decidedly awkward.

Well what? I asked. You pretty much just burst in here and told me to shut up. What do you want from me?

Oh, that’s a good question... said Girth, rubbing his meaty hands together. "What do I want from you?"

Please think about how that sounds while you’re wearing a spiked codpiece.

What? Girth stopped rubbing his hands and looked down at his crotch for a moment. Oh! Not that! Not that!

There was another, even more awkward pause. I picked up my coffee, remembered it was stone cold, and put it down again.

Girth continued to say nothing. It was becoming clear to me that if the introduction to this book was going to go anywhere, I would have to take the conversational initiative.

Is this about those stories in the last couple of books? I asked.

Yes.

Where you were running a generic fantasy dungeon?

Yes.

"And all the ‘heroes’ you caught in there secretly wanted to be tied up and whipped?"

YES.

In my defence, I thought those were pretty funny.

Yeah? Girth Loinhammer stepped over to my desk and placed a hand just next to my keyboard, leaning in close. Well we’ll see how funny it is when I make you write a story every single day for an entire month! How does that sound?

That sounds a lot like what I’m working on right now.

What?

Seriously, see for yourself. You’re in it. More than once, even. I pointed to the screen.

Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words: ‘Girth read the words: Girth read the words—’’’’’’’

By the cankers of Crom, that makes my eyes hurt!

The act of reading your own story seems to produce recursively nested quotations. It’s no picnic for me to punctuate either, by the way.

And you say you wrote nonsense like this every day for a month?

It’s called ‘Flash Fiction Month.’ I’ve been doing it every July since 2012.

Voluntarily? Girth was horrified. On purpose?

Yeah.

He thought about this. Well then. My month-long torment shall be even more cruel. I shall set you challenges, so that some of your stories must be written within a particular word limit, or in a specific format, or include certain familiar tropes!

Yeah, Flash Fiction Month has those. I like them.

Girth Loinhammer shuddered for a moment before regaining his composure. "Then...then some of my challenges shall be especially diabolical Nasty-Ass Challenges, with especially demanding requirements!"

I mark all those ones with asterisks, I said, rubbing my nipples. "They’re my favourites."

Ew! Ew! Ew! The Dungeon Lord jogged on the spot, flapping his wrists in a most un-lordly way. Just for that, I’m making you do a whole Statistical Analysis of the month’s stories, with word counts and averages and all that boring maths stuff!

Mmmmmmm! I groaned. I bet you want to get right into my spreadsheets!

Augh! cried Girth. This is just too weird! I’ve got to go! and he smashed back out the door.

I watched him depart, then turned to you, the reader.

That was all a cunning plan to outwit the Dungeon Lord, I lied. Just so you know.

It totally fooled you.

Now introduction over, here’s some book.

1

Mad Munchkin: Fairy Road

Challenge #1: Community Mashup.

"A variety of breakfast cereals + nihilistic dystopian setting," requested by Distortified.

"Fairies and NASCAR" suggested by Megan1289.

It has been eighteen years since the Final War. Eighteen years since the mushroom kingdom vanished into mushroom clouds. In the days before, the races were mere sport: entertainment for spectators grown fat on crunch. Now, the races are survival. An endless struggle between the Coco Tyrants and the Sugar Crazies. Those who gain the approval of the ganglords survive. There is nothing more. There is no right or wrong. No mercy or restraint. No choice.

Until today.

The wheel burns within my grasp. The pedal screams beneath my boot. Beneath the hood, a dual-linked pair of solvent-quenched shredcannons; in the hold, three hundred kilos of high-octane Frosted Flakes.

The Coco Tyrants want them. The Sugar Crazies want them back.

Our cargo is precious: not merely the most important meal of the day, but the most important meal of all time. Enough sugar and crunch to let all the elves in the Nugget Fields rise up and overthrow their gangmasters. Enough cereal to fill the dust bowl.

Enough too, to make the rig sink just a little low in the ash-dry glittersand of the Fairy Road.

It's not long before we hear the nitrous squeal of a troll-stoked sandrider pulling up alongside, spiked tyres biting deep into the dunes. A grappling pole snares the window of the cab.

Give us back the crunch! bellows Lord Humungoblin, veins throbbing in his tumescent forehead. Give it back, or I'll snap, crackle, and pop a cap in yo' ass!

Imperator Fairyosa gives him both barrels of the sparklegun, right in the face. Her eyes don't even drift from the twinkling glimmer on the horizon. Not even as Humungoblin's body tumbles beneath the rig and splatters beneath its tracks.

The troll in the sandrider stretches forward, struggling to reach the wheel, straining to regain control, but he is chained to the furnace. I catch his eyes for just a second before the vehicle hits a burnt-out wreck by the side of the road. It crumples and rolls, the gas furnace rupturing violently on impact.

Bah! yells Impmortan Joe. I hear a squeal of tyres as he swerves to avoid the flaming carnage. Mediogre!

The howling engines hang back