Outside Smack-dab, normally a lonely place with only a handful of wanderers doing as wanderers do, trouble was brewing. Today, on this day, from the rickety porch all the way down through Smack's weedy garden and out onto the Back Road itself, two massive hordes of bandits crowded in awkward lines, glaring at each other from across a gap of barely a few feet, but which may as well have been the grandest of canyons. The hundreds of individuals now present on this soon-to-be battlefield gripped their weapons tight, showcasing a plethora of what human imagination, limited resources, and a will to either live or take life can do to a few sticks and some metal. Oh, and some duct tape. You gots to have duct tape.

Behind the more dungarees-wearing of the two hordes, a dilapidated Old World truck wobbled precariously as two heavy machine gun turrets heaved themselves around to face the new threat, squeaking loudly with that rusty, coughing sound only ancient, poorly maintained metal can achieve. The turrets were like large metal buckets drilled into the top of the truck's shipping container/troop carrier, the guns themselves built from about three or four separate weapons that seemed to fit together - more or less. The design meant that bandits could spin in all directions, but also cower in fear should the heat get too high.

Bert herself stood slightly ahead of her Battalion, one hand curled voluntarily into a fist and pressed into her waist, the other doing its own thing on the other side. The aggressive wind hadn't died down since earlier, and instead curled in thick blasts through the two hordes, billowing coats, hair, and anything not tied down properly. One bandit's favourite skull-helmet was now about a mile down the road. The day was cold, but Bert felt warm. Damn near hot. Her face burned with a fiery red, blood boiling through her system. Her pipes had stopped whistling the moment she was close enough to Smack-dab to see the true extent of its molestation, and they instead now simply screamed at a constant rate - like an angry kettle. She could see a number of traders in Smack's windows, faces pressed against the glass in anticipation, drinks in hand, mouths covered in the various juices of the kitchen pantry. She glared at them every so often, hoping to whatever gods dared listen that the money earned from those items was still somewhere inside.

She sucked in a breath to yell, but found herself cut off by a deep growl from the depths of the bar. She could hear the floorboards thud and creak as something huge came to the front door, then the hulking, monstrous figure of Farmer Brown, titanic weapon in hand, burst through the open doorway - which seemed suspiciously lacking in the 'door' part - and glared around the garden. His face was red and angry at first, but when he locked eyes with the fuming Bert, his galactic features rose up with glee. Additionally, and much to Bert's surprise and disgust, the slimy creature known as Terrance bloody Leeland oozed out after the bandit lord, trailing him like a pathetic wolfcat that couldn't lead its own pack. He looked immensely smug, and highly punchable.

The muddy, denim sea of Brown's bandit army parted as their lord barged through the ranks, Terrance in close pursuit. Brown's binary-star eyes swept across Bert's Battalion, and he didn't look particularly threatened. Brown smirked as he soaked in the sight, eventually landing on Bert herself and blossoming into a plague of a smile.

"Welcome back t' yer bar, woman," he cackled loudly, hefting his massive anvilhammer forwards and resting casually on its pommel. "I wasn't expectin' ya quite so soon."

Terrance positioned himself next to the troll, his intact hand resting on a needlessly over-upgraded pistol in such a fashion as to tell everyone, "Hey, I have a needlessly over-upgraded pistol, my penis is so big." He didn't bother looking at Bert's army, but locked eyes straight away with her. And he smiled, oh so wide, in that slimy, smug fashion. "You're looking well, bitch," he snarled. "Black and blue suits you. Oh, and I see you've ruined your hand, what a shame."

Bert snorted and moved her right hand away from her hip and down onto her weapon, mimicking Terrance's stance. The cool grip felt comfortable beneath her fingertips. "I only need one hand to slap that smirk off your face, Leeland," she snapped. "Now what the hell have you two fuck-heads done to my bar?"

Like a fissure opening in an earthquake, so too did Farmer Brown's grin split apart his face. Yellow teeth the size of pebbles glimmered with saliva in the dull smoglight. Thunder rumbled in his throat. "What, you dun like it?"

Smack-dab had more bullet holes in it than Bert remembered (she'd been counting), which meant little streamlets of dust would be filtering into the interior where Meatsack would have a hell of a time ushering them back out again. Its giant letters that acted like a beacon for thirsty travellers were still there, but one had finally fallen down and vanished somewhere behind the structure, while the others were draped in a thick blue fabric. They looked like the tattered banners from the fort, carefully pinned over 'Smack-dab' to censor it. 'Bar. Food. Roo (missing the M).' had, mercifully, been left alone, but an untidy 'or else' was scribbled on a new sign just after. In addition, a bird-pecked corpse lay off to the side of the garden, rotting and bloated under the glow of the smog, and someone had covered The Woman's statue with a towel (which may or may not have been used to mop up sick).

You could have kept Things at bay from the light and heat radiating off Bert's face.

Farmer Brown leaned further on the pommel of his gratuitous weapon, smiling in a way he probably thought was innocently. "I thought blue spiced up th' place a bit, don't ya think?"

Little mechanics fled through Bert's brain away from the cascading, unrelenting steam, deafened by a blaring alarm that screeched "Awooga, awooga, battle stations!" One by one, the pipes that maintained her composure and transferred energy from her trigger finger away to other places exploded into tiny little itty-bitty pieces. Her fingers suddenly gripped her pistol tight, muscles tensing all through her forearm and up into her shoulders. Her mouth ached from the grinding of teeth.

"Where's Meatsack?" she demanded.

Brown scratched his stony chin. "What's a meat sack?"

"She means the stupid grey thing," Terrance added.

"Ah," Brown rumbled back. "He's fine, last I saw 'im. Locked isself in a room at the first sight o' Leelan'. Haven't heard much since, mind. Could be dead f'r all we know."

Then, to the surprise of everyone present, even Bert herself, Bert took a swift few steps forwards on an angry march straight towards Farmer Brown. Her sapphire stare threatened to start a fire in his dirty face.

"I ought to gut you where you stand, Brown," she snarled, closing the gap fast. "Nobody messes with my bar and walks away without missing something. Just ask him." She waved her clenched metal fist at Terrance.

His smile faded.

Bert was nose to nose with Brown, now. Or more accurately, nose to chest. She looked pitifully small in his shadow. "Now get your ass off my property before I kick it off for you."

The bandit lord's buttery grin sizzled on the frying pan of his face. His eyebrows, warmachines in their own right, angled downwards over the tops of his eyelids. Slowly he shifted his ponderous weight off the pommel of his hammer and slipped lower, boulderous head sinking down to Bert's considerably shorter height. He stared at her, eye to eye, the reek of his rotten breath sweeping across her in a micro-hurricane. Tornado tornado, you might say. But Bert stood her ground, pistol in hand, eyes unwavering in their glare.

A Waste Beast rumbled somewhere in the shadowy pits of Farmer Brown. "I'd like t' see ya try, woman," he spoke, his words slow and careful, each syllable tipped with poison. Then his voice lowered in volume, lurching out of his voice box like a zom-bee pouncing from behind a wall. "I ain't playin' this time. Don't ya forget, I made ya a promise..."

Now he stood upright, hundreds of invisible pixie slaves pulling on the ropes necessary to heave his monumental form up into the air. His hulking great silhouette would block the sun, if there was any. "...an I intend t' keep it!"

In a flash his burly hand was wrapped around Bert's slender neck, chunky fingers curling in tight. She croaked with surprise, glare faltering, as the troll creature known as Farmer Brown lifted her bodily into the air to dangle by her neck.

A gasp followed by a call to arms bounced through the ranks behind Bert and Sir Robert brought the army a step forwards, weapons at the ready. He cried out for her to be put down in a civilised manner, but his words could not penetrate the sticky tension that formed a bubble around this duo.

In response, Brown's own army shook weapons and many of them also took a step forwards, howls and curses daring the opposing force to try something. Heavy, metallic clicks echoed over the ranks as machine guns were primed.

Terrance Leeland brought out his pistol fully now, hammering it back with a thumb.

On the front line of the Farm's bandits, H2-149 did nothing.

Bert's neck screamed at her for sweet sweet mercy as it struggled to support her body's weight without feeling like it might pop off at any moment. Her face twisted into a tight grimace of both pain and rage, her eyebrows lost for what to do with themselves. Her left fist dangled uselessly in the air, but her right hand gripped the bone handle of her weapon tight, thumb pulling back the hammer, barrel pressed firmly into Brown's chest plating. Brown glanced briefly down at the weapon, then his eyes narrowed as a lunar landscape of wrinkles and scars deepened on his face.

"You're not ... the only one with an army, Brown," Bert hissed through her teeth, trying not to choke on her words. "Go on, choke me. You'll be ... dead before I hit the ground."

Farmer Brown, holding her in the air seemingly without effort, looked back over his shoulder at the lads behind. He frowned, then turned back. Bert desperately wanted to pull the trigger and get this titan to drop her ass, but she knew that his stony fingers could do more to her than a teensy little bullet would do to him - she had to hope he didn't feel the same way. Her head sang with pain and her throat felt close to collapsing, but short of committing suicide by shooting the great lump, there wasn't anything she could do. Somehow she doubted Farmer Brown would collapse like Hurl after only a few hits to the face.

"Ernest!" he finally bellowed, a small tsunami of spit and noise washing over Bert's red face.

The little man known as Ernest appeared by his lord's side, trusty clipboard in hand. The clanking figure of H2-149 trudged alongside him. Brown glared down at them both. "Gimme sum numbers," he barked. "Tell this woman that 'er army got nuthin' on mine."

"Err, well, ya see..." replied Ernest, grinning nervously and fidgeting with his clipboard. Bert noticed that he took a slight step backwards.

Brown's throat vibrated like it was about to speak again, but H2 stepped in first. It spoke with a booming, hollow voice, singular eye shining brightly. "BASIC CALCULATIONS SUGGEST THE PUNY FEMALE SKIN-BAG'S ARMY IS SLIGHTLY SMALLER IN SIZE AND STRENGTH TO <lord and protector of the Farm, Farmer Brown, long may he reign>'S ARMY. SHOULD A BATTLE ENSUE, <lord and protector of the Farm, Farmer Brown, long may he reign> WILL WIN, BUT RECEIVE HEAVY LOSSES."

"Do ya agree with the tin can, Ernest?" Brown growled.

"ANY BEING WITH A BASIC EDUCATION COULD WORK IT OUT."

Ernest twiddled his fingers around his clipboard, flipping it this way and that. "Err ... yes. We'd be in danger o' losin' th' Farm if we get whipped too hard."

Brown remained silent for some moments, sweeping H2 and Ernest with contempt. It's likely that only one of them cared about this.

In the caverns of his gullet he muttered some unintelligible curses, then quite abruptly...

...let Bert go.

Before she could so much as squaw, Bert's body hit the dust and her legs buckled beneath her, taking her painfully to her knees. She coughed and spluttered on the ground, feeling at once the sweet reprieve of a full breath of air filling her lungs, but also the misery of choking on that very same air. She holstered her pistol and massaged her neck with the hand that actually worked, still able to feel Brown's ghostly fingers wrapped around her skin. How the hell was she supposed to topple someone as immense as Brown? She barely got through Hurl...

Meanwhile, Terrance was bounding forwards, shock apparent in his grim expression. "What the hell, Brown?!" he roared. "Numbers don't mean shit - you've got an Overlord, and me. We'd wipe the floor with these losers, let's just fucking do it already!"

At the same time, H2-149 reached back and brought its cannon off its back, easily balancing the monstrous weapon in its shiny arms. "BASED ON OVERLORD DATABASE OF SKIN-BAG PSYCHOLOGICAL PATTERNS, FIGHTING IS INEVITABLE. DOING IT NOW WOULD BE A MORE EFFICIENT COURSE OF ACTION."

Now Sir Robert was stepping forth, placing himself above Bert with his rifle cocked and ready in his hands. "Except any fisticuffs between our two groups would result in extraordinary losses for both parties. You heard the Overlo-"

"Silence the lot o' ye!" screamed Brown, raising a mighty hand into the air. His lower jaw was sawing back and forth across his teeth, nostrils flaring wildly. He was clearly thinking, and Bert reckoned it looked difficult for him.

She rose slowly to her feet, making sure to do so steadily and with care so as not to fall over and lose whatever shred of dignity she yet clung to. Sir Robert and the robot were absolutely right. It wouldn't matter who won the battle if both sides suffered losses too extreme to keep going afterwards. Any old nut could waltz into the fort and seize it from whatever skeleton crew still remained behind, and Bert didn't need more wannabe kings stepping into the city and pretending they owned the whole damn region. Assuming she survived the battle, of course, which based on the current situation, she wasn't so sure about. Some women could pull of the damsel in distress look and get men clawing at their feet to rescue them, but to Bert it was as alien as being the sad little man at the damsel's feet. Why would she want to be a damsel when she could just shoot whatever villain was making her distressed?

No, Bert had to step in and defuse this situation before Brown, Terrance or, honestly, she, made it any worse. She had to control her rage and wait for a more opportune moment to crush Farmer Brown into a mushy little puddle and flush whatever chunky bits she could find down the toilet. Ooh just thinking it made her feel calmer.

"Brown," she stated loudly, slicing through the tense silence that was beginning to burn.

On muscles the size of four normal muscles knotted together, he spun to look at her.

"Why don't we stop posturing like a couple of hormonal teenagers and talk like good folk ought, huh?"

Glaciers moved across his eyes, or maybe it was just his eyelids narrowing over. "I reckons it was you who threaten'd me first, woman," he replied, his face stern and unreadable.

Bert responded with the same face, though less than half the size. "Aye, and I reckon it was you who invaded my property to set it all off. Twice."

Their stare-off fizzled between them like a micro-storm. A wandering bitefly, unaware of what it was getting into and just trying to get home to its family, buzzed lazily between the two and immediately exploded into sparks and smoke.

Terrance opened his mouth to speak, but caught a side glance from Brown for his efforts. He held his tongue.

Sir Roberts shuffled uneasily, fingers poised ready on his rifle, moustache wafting madly in the strong winds.

H2-149 did nothing.

* * *

BASED ON OVERLORD DATABASE OF SKIN-BAG PSYCHOLOGICAL PATTERNS, YOU VOTING AND COMMENTING ON THIS PART IS INEVITABLE. PLEASE DO SO NOW.

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