Hurl brought his three-headed axe down in a wide, heavy swing, thick blue veins popping beneath his leathery skin as muscles roiled and inflated. Bert cursed at her weapon and flung herself backwards, feeling the cool hiss of air as the blades narrowly avoided kissing her forehead goodnight. She rolled skillfully in the food-littered dust, toppling over her right shoulder to land in a low kneeling position. Meanwhile, Hurl was already moving in for his second attack, using the relative nimbleness of his short-handled weapon for a quick follow-up.

Bert wasn't prepared for a fight with a fast opponent. All her assumptions about Hurl told her he would be slow, lumbering, and dedicated purely to strength. He'd take a few hits, but only needed one of his own to win. But, sadly, like they say: When you assume, you make an ass out of you, me, and the bits of brain that end up draining though the dust at the victor's feet. These thoughts poured through Bert's brain as she pounced sideways a second time, an axe swing singing past her face.

Her ears fought for breath in the noise of his battle cry, a long, rumbling roar with no particular wit or catch phrase - just straight up volume. It curdled her insides even as she clicked back the hammer on her weapon to shift the dud bullet out the way and load up, hopefully, a functioning one. The noise speared through her Bertrage and felt around in the darkest recesses of her mind for old memories, ones that she didn't dare think about. She couldn't afford a flash back right now, she needed to focus.

Bert regained a decent foothold in the dust as she landed just off to the side, while Hurl closed in a third time. He lifted his axe, and his silhouette, outlined by the turbulent orange bonfire glow, looked eerily familiar to the time she was freed from the Awesome Squad's prison cell. When Hurl had brought her out by the hair, forced her to her knees and...

She pulled the trigger, her ears ringing equally from the blood rushing through her head, the deafening bang of her revolver, and the sheer din of Hurl's various angry cries. Instantly she felt the satisfying shudder of a bullet exploding out the barrel, the force of it rocking her arm back into her shoulder socket. But the shot was too wide, slashing through the side of Hurl's abdomen just below his ribs. His flesh was seared open and blood began to pour as he staggered a step backwards, but he remained quite noticeably upright.

Understandably, Hurl howled with pain. No longer was it only his face flushing a deep angry red, but his entire body seemed glowing with the hot crimson of a man slowly losing his tether on human decency, rational thought, and being generally calm. He swung again, but Bert was growing familiar with his style of attack. Hurl seemed to prefer wide, long swings, either cutting horizontally or striking straight down like a bladed, handheld meteor. Bert deftly stepped around the powerful strike, her thumb already pulling the hammer back on her pistol. She arced through the air and into a position just behind her opponent, who was recovering from making the dinosaurs extinct. This was it, she thought. Bert lifted her weapon, planted her feet to fire into the back of his big ol' skull, and...

...got kicked in the stomach.

Indeed a large, metal-capped boot connected with her abs, causing her to pull the trigger and send a surprised shot flying off into the dust somewhere near the bonfire. The bonfire, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind. Bert was lifted from her feet and flung briefly into the air from the sheer force of the boot, sending her reeling into the dust behind. Pain flooded her system as air struggled to find any traction in her winded lungs. She found herself lost in a sea of coughing, floundering on the filthy courtyard ground as dust clung to her clothing and exposed skin. Something felt loose in her mouth from where she landed on her face.

"Yer gon' pay for what ya did t' me face, Berty," an animal hissed somewhere above her. "I'm gon' chop yer limbs off one by one an' use ya like a toy until ya starve."

Bert gritted her teeth in frustration and went for her pistol, but it wasn't there. In alarm, she hurriedly scanned the area to see that her weapon lay near the feet of her meaty opponent, a dribble of smoke still leaking out the barrel. Shit, she thought. How would she get it out from under him? Bert glared up at the figure looming nearby, seeing how his body was glazed with blood, dirt, and sweat like one of Phoenix's unsuccessful Chef's Specials. His chest heaved up and down with heavy, deep breaths, blood pumping out of his abdomen in a steady stream, despite his best efforts to hold it in with his spare hand. His face was shrivelled up so far it might either have dried out from lack of moisture - it was flowing out below his ribs, after all - or he was pissed off beyond all recognition. Bert began to wonder if she could goad him into an over-aggressive little bit of rage, which she could try to take advantage of.

Try being a particularly important little bastard of a word in that thought...

Finally, after coming to the decision, she snorted unnecessarily loudly, a swirl of dust flicking up where her breath hit the ground. She tucked her knees under herself and pushed down, bringing her body to an upright, if not entirely steady, position. Blood trickled out the edge of her lip. "Rip my limbs off one by one, eh?" she jeered loud enough for his crew to hear, wiping the blood away.

Hurl glared back. "Oh yeah."

"Well colour me impressed, Hurl," Bert started.

He cocked his head, his expression doing its best impression of an earthquake.

"I didn't realise you could count to one."

Hurl looked stunned for a second, a few sniggers sniggering out (as sniggers are wont to do) from either very brave or very stupid bandits nearby. His solitary bloodshot eye latched on to the hushed laughter, scouring them with a look to make even a man-eating tree question its life choices. Bert knew instantly that she was successful. But would it work, or just give him super-human angry powers all the better to smoosh her with?

The man started to tremble, veins looking like they were about to burst all over his skin, and at least one vein actually bursting next to his bullet wound. The vibration raced through his meaty body from foot to head, erupting out of his mouth as a terrifying roar of fury.

Somewhere in the darkness nearby, a small group of Things heard the roar and froze. They were waiting in the shadows for the next victim to dare urinate, and decided upon hearing the noise that, perhaps, there were better brunch options somewhere else in the Waste, and this maybe just wasn't a good time to be here in Dunce Town. There was clearly an important event on, and it was a rude time to interrupt. They could come back later, it was no big thing. They'd just come back later. And so they scampered into the night.

However, were the Things to remain where they were, they would have observed the following: A large human male whom the Things would have called Om, muscle-bound all to hell, even meaty, you might say, though the word has a different meaning to Things, was charging head-first towards a slight human female whom the Things would have called Nom Nom. She was maybe half his size, if even that. Om swings his axe in a particularly wide arc, but Nom Nom sidesteps it to the left and slightly forwards, bringing her under his giant, sculpted chest. She grabs his axe and yanks it before he has finished swinging, offsetting his balance and giving her an opening. She then thrusts with her inedible left fist and it connects with the giant's cheek bone, upon which he topples over into the ground. This is, of course, where the Things would swarm in to consume Nom Nom before she has a chance to retrieve her weapon and fight back. Then they would consume Om. But they'd only swarm in this fashion were there no other humans around, of which there were many, and of course if there was no light, which was the Great Enemy. Oh, and more importantly, they'd only do so if they were still hanging around to watch, which they most assuredly weren't.

But back in the realm of humans, Bert was now standing over her prone opponent, flexing and unflexing her robotic left fist. The servos, normally chipper and sprightly, complained with a pitiful high whine, and her middle finger wouldn't flex. She swore beneath her heavy, exhausted breathing, but was glad it was at least her middle finger that had broken, not another. If there was one finger she might want not to flex, it would be that one.

Hurl, meanwhile, was writhing in the dust, chunky fingers inspecting his jaw while the gooey red ichor that should be pumping around his body instead booked a holiday to Dunce Town and travelled out his abdomen. It was a good thing he was already missing teeth, because the sudden shock to his face would have ended the last of them. Blood pooled in his mouth and he spat it out in a large, sticky globule, blowing some of it off his lips as long strands clung on for dear life.

All around, Polite Bandits and their somewhat impolite counterparts watched on with anticipation. A few of their number had sat down mid-fight to watch the duel like old friends listening to a radio play, while many more were quietly taking bets on who the victor would be. Sir Robert remained standing, posture firm and steady, gazing on nervously as the two combatants battled back and forth. Bert could see him staring intensely at her, his moustache blowing in the icy wind, but she couldn't determine what his expression meant. Doris, however, gave her a smile and a respectful nod. The man she was still threatening with a bloodied machete did not do the same.

A chill wind swirled in and around the courtyard, brawling with the bonfire at its heart. Bert sweated in her body heat despite the bitter air slicing through her jacket. She looked down at Hurl, his muscles rolling like a fleshy ocean beneath his scars as he fumbled in the dust for consciousness, and she tried to feel anything other than hate. Bert didn't expressly like killing, it just sort-of found her lots and snuck its way into her business. There was enough shit in the Waste out to get you without her being part of it, which is why she maintained the lifestyle of a pacifist. Or rather, why she attempted to maintain the lifestyle of a pacifist, anyway. But Hurl? He inflamed her mind, the very sound of his grating, unintelligent voice a tornado blasting through her memories, picking up pigcows, houses, and all sorts of hidden, repressed feelings. She tried to feel some kind of disgust at the idea of murdering the man, wanted to desperately, but she felt as ice-cold as the night around her.

Bert took a few steps away from Hurl and retrieved her waiting pistol, brushing some of the dust off it. She flicked open the cylinder to see if any dust had gotten in, but was satisfied to see her remaining bullets unharmed. Her bone-handled weapon clicked quietly as she flicked the cylinder shut, and clicked once again when the hammer locked into its ready position. It was time to end this, but for real this time.

She turned around, walked resolutely back towards Hurl, and angled her pistol down towards him. She'd put a bullet in his brain, or whatever dark, slimy thing he had in his skull as a replacement. She'd take his life and hopefully it was some small vengeance for the lives he had ruined. She aimed.

Then a hand jumped out and coiled around her ankle. Bert pulled the trigger quickly but was tugged off her feet at the same time. The bullet went wide, cutting through Hurl's ear and embedding itself into the dust as he launched himself towards Bert. He pulled her all the way down to the ground, clambering with speed and strength along her body, blood dripping all over her. She swore loudly and hammered back her pistol, but the bandit chief swiped it from her clutches and growled like a rabid animal.

Eyes alight with murder, Hurl lifted a huge fist and brought it down hard toward Bert's chest, connecting with her forearms as she brought them up in defence. Drool hung from his mouth, droplets flying into Bert's face as Hurl brought his fists up again and again, hammering and hammering on her forearms, using his fingernails like rakes to try and pull them apart.

Bert's heart thudded in her chest almost as hard as Hurl was pummelling her, her stomach filling with acidic little butterflies as her forearms screamed in agony. When a moment appeared between batterings she put all her strength behind her knee and thrust it into his abdomen, hoping to spark the pain in his bullet wound and shift his weight somewhere other than her chest. He shuddered from the blow and howled with pain, more spit and blood blasting from his mouth to shower Bert below. The man lifted up as he flinched from her knee, but his lower body still trapped hers. She was too weak to lever him off with strength alone, but she didn't know many close quarters techniques to dismount him some other way.

Desperate, now, Bert tried again to knee Hurl's ribs, but he countered by grabbing her thigh. His fingers wrapped around it and squeezed painfully hard, and then he brought round his other hand and grappled her shoulder. She wriggled and jiggled to get free, but the man's strength was as you might expect from all the meat stuck to his bones. He shuffled his feet apart, and started to try and lift Bert. She wriggled more, using her metal fist as a blunt weapon to his skull, punching and slapping and thumping. But he gritted his teeth, or rather, his gums, and heaved himself into the air, bringing Bert with him - clutched from thigh and shoulder.

Up into the air they rose, Hurl screaming so loud she could feel his voice vibrating all the way into her skeleton. More and more she punched him, specifically targeting his face to try and break it open, maybe drop him into unconsciousness. She felt him squeeze harder on her body, and his weight was shifting beneath her. Suddenly she became extraordinarily aware that her back was exposed, and at any moment she could be dropped onto his knee and practically cleaved in two. She'd seen him do it many times before, on insubordinate bandits, unwitting challengers to his position, and, worst of fall, the toys of his that dared talk back too many times.

Bert started to panic, her Bertrage faltering under the sheer toxicity of fear. Blindly and wildly she slapped at the man's face with her metal fist. It had worked so well the first time, but now he was madder than ever and he was just taking the hits. His nose had practically turned to dust under her blows, and his cheek, eye and jaw were clearly all broken. But still he squeezed, finding his feet in the dust for the support needed to break her back over his leg. She hammered again and again, aiming for whatever soft bits she could find - or, in this case, make. She focused on his eye, which was filling with blood and making him look like a red-eyed demon from the very pits of Gachook's Freckle.

"Fuck ... you!" he stammered, his voice disrupted by the thudding of her blows.

And, finally, he staggered. Bert was momentarily dropped as Hurl's feet slid slightly apart, but he caught both her and himself in a second. His head was swaying, rolling on the neck in a drunken manner. She punched again, and it forced Hurl a large, highly unstable step backwards.

"Die!" he growled, his voice forced through the blood and spit swirling around his mouth and throat.

He gripped hard on her thigh and shoulder and brought her down - the move she had been dreading.

This truly was it, she thought, but not the it that she was anticipating. This was the it where she failed, where she let Phoenix, Meatsack and The Woman down. This was the it where Farmer Brown rode through Smack-dab like a tsunami wearing dungarees, tearing the bar to pieces and scattering its staff to the winds.

This was the it where Hurl finally got his wish and beat her to death.

Except she didn't die.

Her tired body sailed past where Hurl's knee should be and careened straight into the ground. She landed with a thud and an oof, the air bursting out of her lungs and the shock making her wish that someone would hurry up and cut off her forearms already, because they couldn't possibly be less painful than right this moment. Above her, Hurl swayed and staggered, unable to keep his footing for more than a few moments. Vague words babbled out of his face - finally no longer twitching. Shortly after, the tower that was Hurl collapsed over, and a huge cloud of dust kicked up into the air as he collided with it face-first. A bassy sound escaped his throat as he hit the ground. And nothing more.

Bert winced as she placed her arms down and pushed herself to her feet, staring at the motionless, bleeding pile of muscles that was the corpse of Hurl.

She had won. Bert's Battalion was hers.

Bandits flooded into the centre of the courtyard, congratulating her loudly and slapping her all over. Doris tried to push through the throng and fret about Bert's wounds, but the sea of cheerful faces washed her out as many times as it washed her back in again. Bandits both polite and impolite suddenly knew she was going to win, and of course there was never any doubt it about it, eh? Money exchanged hands where folks had lost the bet, and at least two or three bandits began plotting their future mutiny against the new leader, as was customary in certain unlawful circles.

Bert herself felt relieved. Maybe it was cliché to talk about huge weights lifting off one's shoulders, but it truly felt to her that the last jigsaw piece of her pre-Smack-dab life was finally shredded, and the puzzle could never again be put together. And even better, Hurl's end would mean she had the strength to have a future, to fight Farmer Brown at his own game and cast him back to whatever southern farm he grew up on.

How she was going to defeat Farmer Brown himself was of course another matter entirely, especially since she could barely defeat a man who was only half his immense, titanic size. But this seemed like one of those Future Problems, at least for now. Right at this moment Bert felt it was time to regurgitate her last meal, yell at people to stop slapping her on the sore bits, and then get Bert's Battalion mobile.

It was time to march on Smack-dab.

...but maybe after some first-aid.

And a bloody drink.

* * *

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