Inside the truck, a radio crackled.

First thinhssh first ya gotta put your gloves onhssshause this could get real messy.

Like this, Bobhsssh?

Yeah you got it. It's a bit of a hashhsle, but safety's imporhssshant.

The figure driving, a skinny bandit known as Ernest, peered out through the dusty windshield. He hunched forwards in his seat as the truck bounced and rocked on the cracked asphalt, eyes squinting as the wind sneezed dust across his field of vision. Something was smudging into view ahead.

Now what, Bob?

Hssshkay, grab the salad by the bottohssh, but keep your hand away from the stalks hssssssssh.

That's the deadly part.

Aye, Hilary, hsssshat's the deadly part.

Something was there, by the side of the road. And as dilapidated as it might look from the outside, it most assuredly wasn't another Old World ruin. This building had some love in it. Which, from what Ernest could determine, meant that it had more than three walls and at least the better part of a roof. It looked a little ... slanty, though. Like the building was drunk. Ernest glanced to his left to check if the man, no, the Being, in the passenger seat was awake.

It was, and its titanic head, crammed like the rest of its giant form inside the small cabin, was staring at the same structure Ernest was.

Now what hsshwe'll do is turn it upside down to point the stalks away, then with one swifhssh motion, cut it in half with our machete.

Right. I'm grabbing it hsssh the bottom.

Good, that's it.

I'm lifting it up, slowly.

Yes, hssheep going.

And - ARGH! Oh sweet hsshercy, it's all over me. hssssssh I'm burning! I'm fucking meltinhssh

hsssssssh

My arm, argh! My arm fell off. Somebody call the docthssh, the fucking doctor!

"Turn it off," the Being rumbled.

Ernest reached for the truck's centre panel and pressed a switch next to some pick 'n' mix dials. He didn't know what half of them did, but the mechanic had at least shown him which one was the radio. Pity there was only ever one broadcast at a time. And true to its Old World heritage, it was always talking or ad breaks.

He tightened his grip on the steering wrench as the truck tumbled through another particularly deep crack in the road. The building ahead was clearly visible, having coalesced from a vague brown lump into a less vague brown lump. It was a two-storey wooden structure, technically, with a statue out the front. There were big wooden letters on the roof, one of which looked to be peering over the edge and contemplating its existence.

The Being leaned forwards as best it physically could, and Ernest felt the weight of the truck tip forwards.

"This th' place?" it asked, vibrating the cabin.

Ernest nodded. "Um, yessir. Right where 'e told us."

"Good," it said, leaning back. With a hand the size of two hands mashed together, it plucked a small metal box from the cabin roof. A wire cord connected the box to the truck. The Being lifted it up to his gargantuan lips and pressed in a small button on the side.

"This is Brown," he spoke, slow and clear, his voice transmitting to an Old World shipping container hinged to the back of the truck. "Prepare to dismount. We're here."

* * *

Bert felt the ground thud with pondering, Waste Beast footsteps. Her body tensed, her fingers danced on her pistol. Outside, gravel crunched, rolled, and, at one point, swore. Then Smack-dab's wooden porch screeched under an immense weight.

The noises stopped outside the front door.

Bert prepared her glare.

Phoenix cocked his weapon and hunkered down behind it.

The traders whispered nervously to themselves.

And then Smack-dab's front opened inwards.

Gently.

However the man who followed looked anything but.

A thick, chunky hand was attached to the door handle, with a tree trunk arm jutting out of it and fitting somewhere into the torso of someone who presumably was always described by their size - never their profession or their personality, just a man with a size. He had to retract his head into his mountain range shoulders just to fit under the door, and each long step shook the floorboards with miniature earthquakes.

Without realising it, Bert took a nervous step backwards.

The troll finally got his skull under the doorframe and extended to his full height, buzz-cut hair practically scraping the roof. He'd probably knock the lighting fixtures around if he moved too much. More fool him, though, because the dust up there knocked back. His body looked as though some mad god had reduced three men to putty and haphazardly slapped them together again. Then the god, wild with a mad glee, coated the Being in heavily scarred metal armour and leather, a pair of knee-high rubber boots (with spikes), and a flowing blue cape. Oh, and to top it all off, the god handed him a colossal great bloody hammer made from an anvil and said, "Here you go. Now you have fun, dear. Don't forget your lunch," before fading into smoke, cackling.

Bert's feet debated the consequences of fleeing in terror, but she nailed them to the floor. She tightened her expression into something hopefully resembling contempt, but which might have looked constipated. So long as she didn't look afraid.

The man before her, if you could call him that, swung his heavy glare around the room. Bert gritted her teeth, feeling almost naked as this invader judged her life's work. I've shown you mine, she thought, now you show me yours.

And he did. A small swarm of bandits oozed in after him, each armed mostly with clubbing sticks and leg breakers - no guns, so far as she could tell. There were about six all totalled, forming an aggressive arc behind their leader. Most worryingly, though, was the Overlord standing behind and to the left of the titan in front. It wasn't growling or shaking weapons like its human companions. No, far more disconcertingly, it just sort of occupied the space. Like a placeholder for something far more horrifying, but which hadn't been designed yet.

Six bandits total wasn't bad, though. Bert had more manpower behind her, and more guns. But then, should it come to a fight, her folks would most likely surrender at the first sign of trouble. And then the Overlord would probably kill them anyway. At least she had Phoenix. He was the right mix of stupid and skilled to at least put up some resistance, though his performance recently left much to be desired.

The titan's gratuitous eyes landed on Bert. With a face chiselled (crudely) from granite, he stared at her, almost expressionless. His lips, suffering from a sizable underbite, twitched hungrily. And all Bert could think at the time was how pitiful her pistol seemed against a monster like this. Would he even feel a bullet? Or would the pain message take so long to travel that he'd have ripped her in half before knowing he was dead?

The monster opened his cavernous mouth. Presumably there were teeth inside it somewhere, but he seemed the kind of man to swallow things whole, and thus, not require them.

"So..." he spoke, dragging out the word. His voice was thicker than Smack-dab's pathway. "This be th' Back Road bar my man has been tellin' me 'bout, huh? Wouldn't have guess'd there be somethin' like this 'round these parts. Yer a bit out o' th' way."

The noise swept over Bert, blowing at her short, sweaty hair. She shot a few more nails into her feet, just to be sure they wouldn't try anything stupid. "We like it that way. Means bandits can't find us." Her fingers twitched.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Yer've done a grand job there, then, haven-"

"You must be the new lord," she stated, interrupting him.

He frowned momentarily. Then his grotesque neck muscles squirmed up and down. It might have been a nod. "Aye, that be m'self. Brown, ya can call me. Farmer Brown."

"Well, Brown," she said, emphasising his name, "what's it going to take to make you go away? Your filthy bandit horde is tracking mud all into my place."

Farmer Brown again swept his gaze slowly around the room, the edge of his lips suffering slight continental drift. He was either smiling, or having a stroke. Bert hoped for the latter.

"Dun't look like we could make it much worse," he said. Lipland ground further up into Cheek.

Bert's brain was quickly becoming a dangerous chemical cocktail that lingered somewhere between blood boiling anger and pants-wetting fear. The pipes rattled, pressure gauges spinning wildly, and the little mechanics of common sense and rationalism ran around her mind with wrenches, banging things and generally not being helpful. She didn't know what to feel, and to Bert, that defaulted her state to Bertrage.

"How about we cut the bullshit and you tell me what you want?" she demanded, face filling with crimson. She realised that her hand had clamped around her pistol.

The continents on Brown's face drifted apart. A flash of anger trekked across the landmass of his skull, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Did Bert just hit a nerve by refusing to play his game of banter, or did she see the true Farmer Brown, if only for a moment? No doubt a few more prods of this particular Waste Beast and she'd find out for herself. Front row seats, even.

"Alright," he said, the vocal equivalent of a deep growl from a dark cave, "business 'tis then. I bin hearin' stories, so I has." He started pacing, each step a threat to put a hole in the floor. "Stories o' a little piece o' shit bar in the middle o' nowhere darin' not jus' t' refuse the Tax they rightfully owe, but t' slaughter innocent collect'rs, too. Jus' folk out there tryin' t' make the Waste a better place, an' they had t' die f'r it."

Bert opened her mouth to retort, but one of his megahands shot up to stop her.

Phoenix hunched behind his rifle, staring through the scope, his finger already on the trigger and dreaming of squeezing. Through his scope reticule, he saw the close-up image of a red lightbulb.

The traders all around Smack-dab watched in fascinated horror as the scene unfolded. Most had forgotten they were supposed to be playing a role, and were just enjoying their drinks and a show.

Meatsack, pressed his ear against the door of his room, straining to hear at least a flutter of sound - something to tell him Berty Bert was OK, and the bad men were leaving. Don't get mad, he repeated to himself. Don't get mad.

And Farmer Brown continued to pace. "I'm a reas'nable man, Bert," he continued, flashing her another angry look. "Maybe ya didn't realise who me lads were. Maybe ya thought, these are some bandits pretendin' to be somethin' better, eh? An' out o' fear, ya shot 'em dead before they could take what yer reckon is yours."

He stopped suddenly and brought his heat-ray stare back to Bert. She stood with muscles as solid as The Woman outside, her teeth grinding together. If her mouth were any dryer, she'd be spitting fire. Bert kind of hoped that would happen - breathing fire and smoke would certainly emphasise her points. The pain was a future problem.

"Maybe ya got no friends, Bert, and ya shoot first to protect yerself. Tell me, d' ya have any friends? Allies? Anyone that gives a shit about ya, who'd actually wanna help?"

Bert's knuckles went white. She knew the answer, and she knew he knew. And she knew that he knew that she knew he knew, which made her knowing that he knew a whole lot more annoying. And she knew that, too.

If snakes were seven foot tall and cared to laugh, it would sound identical to what was slithering out of Brown's mouth at this point. "I didn't think so," he cackled. "So here's what's gonna happ'n. Despite ya killin' my folk, denyin' what ya owe, I'm gonna be good t' ya, Bert. We're here t' make the Waste a better place, after all. But yer in no position t' be bargainin', so ye can take yer hand away from that pistol, as much good as it would do ya. I'm here t' make ya an offer ya can't refuse."

* * *

Pretty civilised so far, right? Now all Bert has to do is accept that offer she can't refuse. Easy!

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