Escaping the giant mob of angry cultists was not as easy as Phoenix had hoped. But then, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. The last mob he escaped from was a shambling mass of zom-bee-infected humans, who had suffered the horrific, mind-rotting sting of the zom-bee. They never ran, but just sort of moved forwards. It could only be described as movement, for no other word fitted the strange, limping, struggling surge that was a zom-bee hive.

But these cultists were different. For starters, they were alive - that was the real problem. Easily remedied in most situations, mind you, but unfortunately Phoenix had a mission here, and it didn't involve blowing up their stupid village. No, somehow he had to go from fleeing in terror to saving the day and winning the girl.

...he filed this under "Future Problem".

Cultists swarmed out of every nook and cranny imaginable, some even dropping from the sky. Phoenix ran as though his life depended on it, which was made far easier by his life depending on it. His breath detonated out of his lungs in ragged, heavy bursts, his boots pounding hard on the Starry Place's dusty roads.

The entire village had, over time, somehow coalesced on Mount Butt's rocky slopes, meaning every single street was some degree of steep and horrible. And the village huts themselves were rudimentary at best, cobbled together from scraps of whatever the hell was lying around at the time of construction. They wound down the slope in a vast network of dirty streets, all of them aiming vaguely for the entrance to the village where Phoenix first encountered Fabbelous and etc. earlier that day.

Phoenix was oddly disappointed at how normal everything looked, even as it streamed past him in a total blur. Scattered between each of the huts were streets paved with dirt and the occasional pile of shit, not the bones of the Starry People's enemies as one might expect. There were crates scattered here and there, plus plenty of cats, and wandering between two houses a bit further down, something that seemed an odd mix of both. Phoenix couldn't see any torture cages or implements of horrible star-themed death anywhere, but there was a well a little ways back up the road he now fled down. Maybe they like, you know, could throw people in there or something.

Bah, he thought. It was wishful thinking, Phoenix knew. At least they all dressed the same. You couldn't have a good cult without a uniform.

Momentarily alone, Phoenix threw himself behind a particularly dumpy hut made of multi-coloured planks and old robes, catching his breath and stuffing it back in his lungs as it tried to abandon his body for good. Sweat hung off his brow in beady, dirty clumps, and piled up in his armpits and crotch waiting for someone to dare take his clothes off. He allowed himself the simple pleasure of wheezing horrifically as he tried to think. How does one go from killing the leader of a group to having their complete, undivided adoration? And what had even happened with the Constellator?

Bert must be having a much easier time than this, he thought. Phoenix had always found bandit leaders much more agreeable.

Then he heard the myriad claps of feet that signalled impending doom, carried on the raging soundwaves of "Over here", "No, over here", "No, over here - I said it first." It was time to move, then.

Scooping up one final breath for the road, Phoenix darted out from his cover and made for down the hill. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he needed to lose these losers so that he could think properly. There was bound to be somewhere to hide in the village. The bedroom of a lusty maiden, perhaps, who would gasp in shock when she found him straddled across her bed, but quickly succumb to her deep-seeded, forbidden desires and make wild love to his tired body. Phoenix would also accept a lusty squire, or pretty much anybody. So long as they took the edge off and didn't rat him out.

"Oi, stop!" shouted a voice.

Phoenix glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a thickly built man thrusting a tassled spear at his skull. Phoenix staggered to the side in instinct, lashing out with his gloved hand to grab the weapon. He wrapped his fingers around the uneven wooden shaft and yanked hard, pulling the figure off his feet. But before he could lay into the man with a boot, three more cultists appeared from an alleyway slightly uphill and pointed at him with an accusing finger.

He turned to flee, getting only a few steps before a wailing stick of a woman landed in a mad flurry on top of his shoulders from somewhere above. The pair fell to the ground in an ungainly heap, the unhelpful bastard that is physics taking them both down the hill a few extra feet. Phoenix kicked out with his boot and caught his assailant in the face, knocking her grasping, grabby grabby hands off his trouser leg. He scrabbled in the dirt and took off downhill again, just as a spear thudded loudly in the dirt where his precious torso used to be.

"Hey, that was close!" cried the woman back at her companions.

"Sorry, dear!" replied a disappointed ex-husband, who had missed.

Phoenix, now limping slightly, ran again. He could sense the injuries of a few days earlier flaring up, unhealed entry wounds feeling like they were tearing open with each painful footstep. He wouldn't be able to keep up this pace for long, not in this condition. Phoenix started trying a few doors on either side of the street, quickly turning the handle, pulling the rope, or squeezing the strange squishy ball (depending on the door).

The first was locked shut, and so was the second. Damn and blast, Phoenix yelled silently. He sprinted for what looked like a lucky door: another multi-coloured planks affair stuck into the side of a hut made of old car doors. The door opened by turning the handle in a panic, realising it was bloody locked like the others, and then shoving hard with a metal-plated shoulder out of desperation - not the intended method of unlocking said door, but an effective one regardless. The planks - their colourful designs long faded - flung inwards, revealing a large interior room with no other doors. Phoenix hovered at the entranceway, spying a massive, fluffy four-post double bed in the centre of the space, with leather and chains dangling from the ceiling, more leather attached to each bed post, and a table piled with what appeared to be whips, clamps, and a number of items Phoenix could not readily identify the function of. One of them appeared to be a fluffy machete, which was more than Phoenix had ever experimented with, it had to be said.

Perhaps more surprising was the small male straddled bent over forwards on a stool off to one side of the room. He was totally stark naked, chained in a kneeling position over this stool, facing towards Phoenix. He was incredibly mutated, even for a Waste town like this, with limbs and other bits sticking out of places limbs weren't originally intended.

"Err ... are you OK?" Phoenix asked, without knowing which answer would be stranger.

The man looked up suddenly with three eyes, a nose and a half, and a mouth that was not immediately visible. His eyes smiled. "Oh yes, quite fine indeed. Just waiting for my wives to come home and finish my punishment."

"Right, right," Phoenix replied standing dumbly in the doorway. "Um ... You missed the sacrifice."

At this, the man rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know. I'm ashamed not to have been there, but Lucille and Ronhilda refused to let me go until I had learned my lesson, you see. Was it a good sacrifice?"

Phoenix started backing quietly out of the door. "Um, yes, well, it was alright. You didn't miss much."

"Hey, could you be a dear and just quickly scratch my balls? By Stars do they itch. I think something is crawling on them."

"Yep, lemme just, you know, I, err," Phoenix stammered. He was now slowly closing the door. "I'll just come back in a bit, shall I? Gotta go do something important, you know, elsewhere."

"No wait, it's just a small itch. Just wave the beastie away and scratch, it'll take two seconds! Wait, please, I'm begging yo-"

The door clicked shut.

Phoenix stared.

A spear thudded in the wall next to him.

Phoenix ran.

* * *

For hours, Terrance Leeland marched, trudged and stomped along the narrow, uneven trails that most Can't Be Buried folk were too scared to travel upon. These trails snaked their way from the Back Road to the Highway, an unmapped, tangled mess of walking paths and ancient roads where beasties roamed free, unchecked by hunters and hired adventurers - who typically kept the main roads safe (relatively). The wind scoured up ragged, dusty whips all around Terrance, a cold front moving in with great haste from the south, taking with it his hat and sandpapering his skin to a fiery red mess. He grimaced tightly, frowned constantly, and swore regularly. But he didn't stop.

For he had a plan.

The only reason a place like Smack-dab would be shut is because that ugly Bert and her idiotic staff were gone. No highway bar, even along a dismal strip like the Back Road, would shut so long as somebody with at least half of half a brain was there to accept money, hand over drinks, and stop any fights before they broke a table. And the owners wouldn't shut up shop if someone was just out hunting, because only a handful of staff needed to go out on those short trips. No, the only reason it would officially close for business is if everyone was gone, and they were going far.

So Terrance did some maths.

The nearest town to Smack-dab was Second Thought, approximately two days' walking - one if you really powered through it. Other than that, Gerald was at least three days, or the Can't Be Buried fort at around one or two - although the chances of Bert daring to go there were next to nil, considering how much of a pussy coward she was. But back to the maths. She was definitely home just the day before last, because that was when Terrance had his ... encounter, with the staff. Where he lost his hand.

He grimaced to the power of grimace, his memory lingering on that particular scene. He bared his teeth to the world, feeling the unyielding itch of his missing appendage, almost as if it was still attached.

She was definitely home that day. No mistakes there. Even if she travelled out the same afternoon, it would be at least four days before she ever got back, and four days from now was still a couple days away. So, if Terrance could see this ... Farmer Brown or whatever his name was, prior to that, he might be able to create some kind of alliance and steal a few bandits. Anyone will hire out their minions for the right price, and almost any minion can hold a flaming torch and throw it on a wooden structure. Hell, you'd barely have to pay someone to do it - you'd get volunteers sticking their hands up just for the fun of it.

That same, dark smile from earlier spread over his lips again. Oh yeah, this was gonna be good.

Terrance marched a little faster, knowing that the back trails could take him to the fort's gate by mid-morning, so long as he could fight off the Things and other nasties that lived along them. And in Terrance's current heightened state of rage, he was confident he was the most dangerous thing out here.

What he didn't realise, of course, is just how truly interested Farmer Brown would be in Smack-dab's current ... availability.

But he was about to find out.

* * *

Villains, amiright? Always up to no good. Also, gossips, amiright? Up to no good too.

Villains and gossips. If story just had a bit less of both, Smack-dab would be safe as anything. Bloody villains. Bloody gossips...

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