It was a new day. Some might have even called it a beautiful day, but that's only in the sense that those people woke up this morning, and any morning you wake up the same way you went to bed, is a beautiful day.

In reality, it was a pretty unpleasant day. The smog was feeling particularly bleak, clouds pregnant with a brooding, melancholy sort of grey snot that clogged it all up and just dared folks to travel without a raincoat. It left the landscape in a perpetual, almost shadowless tint, a black and white blanket over a world that had clearly not suffered enough. The temperature had climbed somewhat since the chill frosts of night, but this was overshadowed quite significantly by the fact that the wind was also drastically picking up. Strong gusts blasted in from the southern coasts, vandalising street signs and unstable Old World ruins, whipping up large chunks of dust along the way.

Towards the ocean side of Can't Be Buried, a vast horde of bandits was packing up camp amid the dewy landscape, and those who weren't packing up the camp were chasing the bits that weren't packed up in time. It was a rag-tag assortment of folk, to be sure, but since the violence of the night before, only minimal murder had taken place between members of the separate factions. They were superglued together, you see, with the almost literal iron fist of a solitary, small woman, who was at this moment standing ahead of the pack, gazing towards a towering mountain range that stretched as far as the eye could see both north and south. When she walked, she walked with a slight limp, and those who saw her briefly before she put on her large, flowing trench coat noticed that her arms were a brilliant rainbow of blues and purples. Her left hand, as chunky and solid as it was, seemed to have been clenched in a fist for quite some time. In fact, nobody had seen her unclench it since the fight, and it looked what you might call 'A little worse for wear'. Some had even called it 'Fucked', but they learned rather quickly that the subject was personal and their opinions were ... unwelcome.

On this same morning, high up on the slopes and indeed florpadorps of one Mount Butt, another horde stirred; one the likes of which the Waste had not seen since the destructive War of Stars many, many generations ago. An incoherent bugle beeped and bopped somewhere in the midst of this horde, which wound like a giant, black snake down a narrow mountain road. The wind howled through their ranks, channelled by the many peaks and troughs all around them. The occasional figure was lifted completely off the road and sent screaming down the slope. But nobody worried for their safety. All of these determined, black-clad, highly weaponised figures were marching down the hill anyway, and the few who took a trip off the side were just getting there faster.

Two figures strode excitedly ahead of the pack, locked in an unheard discussion. One, a moderately-built man with a billowing, armoured trench coat; the other a woman encased in a brilliantly made suit of black, white-speckled metal plating. Both kept the horde at a steady marching pace.

At the very base of the slope, a long, broken road swept past in a mad rush and stretched out for miles towards where it intersected a strip known as the Highway. It was amid the distraught rubble of this road that a rabbit-like creature with a hat sat on its haunches and stared at an approaching dust cloud. The rabbit-like creature was called Randolf, and he was a Conqueror, Ruiner of Worlds, Bringer of Shadows, and, indeed, a Lord of Rabbit-Like Kind. His black eyes shone like angry gemstones in small grey sockets, the folds of his forehead creeping down in a frown. He was on this road hunting breakfast, not to mention plotting the ultimate destruction of the human species, as well as numerous other species including but not limited to ants, wolfcats, and the sky-dwelling Devil Terrors (a type of falcon). And yet now the wandering prey he had been sniffing out for the past two hours had shat itself and fled with unfortunate haste, frightened off by the vexatious rumbling that preceded this approaching dust cloud. He began to wonder if the beast was back.

In mere moments his suspicions were brought true by sight, as he saw the beast that approached was none other than the scaly red - grentuputron, some might call it - Waste Beast that was the destruction of his predecessor. It lumbered down the road with great speed, bouncing from pot hole to pot hole all to the unending din of its constant grumbling. Randolf the Conqueror, Ruiner of Worlds, Bringer of Shadows and Lord of Rabbit-Like Kind found himself captivated by its glittering scales and its brilliant glowing eyes, but had learned the lessons of his one-time rival and superior. Reluctantly, he stepped to the side of the road and glared as the great spiked beast bounded past, roaring as great breaths of thick, black smoke burst from its rear. Dust and smoke spilled over Randolf as it passed, smothering him in filth. The Conqueror, Ruiner of Worlds, Bringer of Shadows and Lord of Rabbit-Like Kind felt his paws tremble with rage as he coughed and spluttered. This beast dared insult him? It dared?! This was of the highest insult! Nobody should so much as think about farting smoke onto a Lord of Rabbit-Like Kind without expecting some kind of rebuke. The sheer malice of the act was ... was, it was astounding! Oh how Randolf the Conqueror, Ruiner of Worlds, Bringer of Shadows and Lord of Rabbit-Like Kind seethed.

He ran for a local rabbit-like burrow, quickly moving the revenge and ruination of the great spiked beast to the very top of his to-destroy list. The beast had destroyed the previous lord and now it sought to ridicule the new one. It simply had to die - no court of Rabbit-Like Law would find total revenge anything other than appropriate.

And he'd start with where it was going - one of the human's pathetic above-ground structures, located smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

His nowhere.

* * *

Terrance Leeland sat crushed between two figures in the seasick truck cabin. To his right was a skinny wretch of a creature, who looked more suited to administrative pencil sharpening than the stabbing of other humans in battle. This was perhaps why the man, whose name was either Ernest or who was feeling earnest at some point in the past few hours, wielded a clipboard with the same tenacity and confidence as one might wield an axe, or a shoulder-mounted tactical nuke launcher.

The other figure crushing Terrance was the one who did most of the crushing, but less of the driving. It was Farmer Brown, who could barely so much as squeeze into the front seat; his rocky shoulders forced their way into as many unoccupied spaces as possible. The complete lack of oxygen, and the horrible feeling of bones crammed into horrible positions, reminded Terrance of an old adventure, back when he was forced into strategic hiding between a rock and A Hard Place - a popular, if violent, little Waste bar to the south. Folks would flock from all over to see its famous bar fights, until the Overlords came and participated in its final, and fatal, battle. Those were the good ol' days. People knew who he was back then.

Terrance couldn't help but smile - a look that didn't suit his face. But how could he not? His plan was going better than expected so far. His power-march through the back trails last night had indeed brought him to the Farm by mid-morning, and although he had to castrate a few bandit guards to gain an audience with Farmer Brown, it had been worth the ammunition. Brown was extraordinarily receptive to his news - it seemed that the idiot fool Bert had pissed him off shortly after she had dealt with Terrance. She was denying Brown his rightful Tax as lord of the land, which he intended to use to make the Waste a better place, or whatever that meant. No matter the details, his plan sounded like it would bring more foot traffic to Can't Be Buried, and more foot traffic meant more foot problems (not the medical kind - the kind that occurs whilst walking), and more foot problems meant more jobs for a seasoned adventurer like Terrance Leeland. But more importantly, far, far more importantly, Farmer Brown himself was willing to go seize Smack-dab, and he'd brought an army with him packed into the trailer behind this decrepit vehicle.

The only way life could be better at this moment was if Bert herself appeared crying for mercy, ready to sew Terrance's hand back on so it felt good as new. But, failing that, he'd accept her complete annihilation and/or life-long misery instead.

The truck started to judder, more so than it was already, anyway. A nails-on-blackboard screech screeched out from each of the truck's five wheels, and Terrance found himself being pulled uncomfortably to the front of the cabin. His smile dissolving rapidly from his grim features, Terrance glanced out the front window to see the looming figure of Smack-dab swaying in the powerful gusts. Its lettering threatened to topple over the sides, and the window panes bowed in and out with each blast. A hiss erupted from the side of the truck and it came to a complete, merciful stop.

Doors somewhere behind Terrance squealed open with a rusty bang, and Farmer Brown's dungarees-wearing minions poured out of the trailer and into Smack's garden, taking up positions all around it, but none yet entering. A sizeable number flocked around the back to surround the place, while the rest hugged up against the front porch walls or created a line of menacing soldiers down the length of the pathway. They were an impressive sight, even for bandit scum such as themselves. Some wore patchwork scrap armour made from bits of whatever was lying around, but only a handful had guns - hunting rifles, mostly, but even those too were getting rarer by the day.

Now the front cabin door to Terrance's left squeaked open and the whole vehicle tipped to one side as Farmer Brown pushed his giant form out the small doorway. Terrance had to hold himself steady as the suspension sprung back again suddenly. The adventurer followed after him, hearing a deep, guttural laugh begin low in Brown's quarry chest and rise through his drainpipe gullet, to roll out from his chunky lips in an increasing bellow of evil laughter. The giant bandit laughed openly to himself the whole way up the path, seeming in great joy at the rickety bar before him. Terrance trailed after, the deep, dry wrinkles on his face broken by more of his sly smirking. Brown looked to be loving this, which could only mean good things for Terrance's plans.

Soon the bandit lord was stepping up onto the tired porch, pushing each plank to its absolute load limit. The doorway to Smack-dab was flapping open and shut in the strong wind, but it was dark inside to Terrance's smoglight-adjusted eyes. He watched as Farmer Brown examined the open entranceway and then beckoned for Ernest - who had the ability to appear out of nowhere - to close it over properly. Terrance arched a muddy eyebrow and swept an uncertain gaze over Brown's form. The giant crooked a slight smile as he caught Terrance's gaze.

"Life, Terrance Leelan', is all 'bout entrances," he rumbled.

"Entrances?" Terrance replied, unsure why they weren't just barging in and shooting some people.

"Aye. Nev'r just walk through a door when yer could make an entrance instead, tha's what I say. Either big an' kickin' it in, or slow an' menacin', steppin' in real slow."

Terrance scratched in confusion at the unyielding ghostly itch of his missing hand. "Could you not make an entrance normally?"

Brown shook his head disappointedly. "This'll be a dramatic entrance. Jus' watch an' learn, adventur'r."

Ernest took the cue and cowered backwards out of sight, while Brown examined the now-shut front door to Smack-dab. His planetoid eyes momentarily flashed over to Terrance before he lifted one gigantic boot and ploughed through the flimsy wooden door.

Needless to say, it was done with life anyway and gave up without much fight. A shower of splinters rode Farmer Brown's boot as it pushed through the door like it was paper, accompanied by a sudden, frightening bang and the smell of musty, damp wood. Farmer Brown continued onwards after, ducking under the top of the frame and striding slowly into the bar, Terrance following close at his heels.

The entrance had left an impression, that Terrance could tell straight away. It was dumb, but maybe there was something behind it. Smack-dab was currently serving a small assortment of wanderers and the like, each drowning their memories in the bottom of a pint glass. Well, they were drowning their memories in the bottom of a pint glass, but were now quite assuredly glued to the scene unfolding before them. They were scattered about various tables in small clusters, with Bert's large, disgusting grey mutant hiding behind the bar counter.

Brown surveyed the scene, his large face seeming satisfied. "Oooh Leelan'," he started, his voice low and slow, "you dun' good. You dun' reeeal good." His smile unstoppably consumed the lower portion of his face.

Terrance's boots crunched wooden shards as he positioned himself next to the bandit lord, his own eyes scanning the bar. He couldn't help but grimace at the filthy sight of the mutant, which was somehow allowed to serve food and drinks without being considered a health hazard. If you asked Terrance, the creature ought to be put down. Its life surely couldn't have been worth the pain of its own grotesque existence.

"Just like I promised," Terrance stated, still staring at the mutant.

"Oh aye, adventur'r," replied Brown, his eyes alight with mad glee. "As ye promised an' more, oh aye. Ye were right t' come get me, so ya were. Worth rushin' for, this. I gets what I want and don't have t' shed any blood for me troubles. He he he."

The bandit lord strode slightly further into the room and peered through the kitchen passover window. Tree-branch fingers stroked at his mountainous chin. "Ernest!" he boomed suddenly.

The wretch of a man whose name Terrance could now confirm was Ernest bustled through the door with his trusty clipboard clutched in twiggy fingers. To his surprise, Terrance also saw an Overlord stride in second, its lonely red eye completely unreadable. Terrance's body tensed, fingers lightly touching his weapon. This was an unexpected surprise, but yet Brown wasn't doing anything about it. Only the traders seemed to care that there was an Overlord here, but then, they seemed to care that anybody was here, let alone an Overlord.

Terrance decided to play it out, see where it went. If nothing else, there were plenty of unnamed bandits to use as meat shields should the robot start shooting.

Ernest stood obediently next to his lord, who didn't so much as look in his direction. "Start takin' stock. I wanna know what we got 'ere, an' how much it's worth. We'll figure out wheth'r t' steal it an' blow the place up, or keep runnin' it a bit longer an' make a bit o' cash while there's stock left."

Ernest nodded quickly and disappeared down one of the bar's rear hallways, scribbling on his clipboard with a well-chewed pencil. Meanwhile, Farmer Brown stood tall on the spot and brought the full force of his presence on the traders around the room. Their frightened looks suggested they originally thought they might get away with just being background players, who could fade out at any moment.

They were wrong.

"Listen up!" Brown growled, getting a jump from some of the patrons. "This bar has had a change o' own'rship, an' yer lookin' at the new owner. Drink up an' be merry!"

He paused.

"Or else."

* * *

Err, woops. Guess Smack-dab is under new management. Maybe that's a good thing? Sometimes a business needs new leadership to give it the ol' refresh.

...oh boy. This ain't gonna go well, is it?

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