Bert continued to storm through the, well, the storm, her human hand locked on the holster of her beloved pistol. She would only draw it out when necessary, for fear that exposure to the crazed, manic winds would clog up the weapon and render it useless. She wasn't wrong to worry, either, for not too far from where she marched, three separate bandits lay dead because their guns had jammed awkwardly at the last minute. One of them had even asked for a brief pause to the fighting so that she could quickly clean it out, and you know what? Her opponent had kindly obliged, taking the opportunity to attempt rolling a smoke. Needless to say, the bandit with the jammed weapon was killed by an axe that someone had carelessly let go of up-wind, while the other bandit died from inhaling too much dust from a cigarette made mostly of dust, that was promptly inhaled.

A figure fell suddenly out of the haze, landing at Bert's feet and quickly scrabbling to get back to his. It was a skinny stick-figure of a man, heavily scarred and wearing a set of stained denim dungarees beneath armour made from two old car doors. The spiked stick in his hand was coated with dust, glued to the metal by fresh blood. When he finally noticed Bert, he glared through his filthy goggles and then leapt with a battle cry to swing his spiky blood-stick at her face. Bert stepped back quickly, bringing herself just outside the arc of the man's heavy swing. He travelled past her, the force of his attack accidentally stripping the bandana from his mouth and revealing it to the world around.

And oh how the world was ready for it.

The moment his lips were in sight, dirt rushed in at lightning speed and pelted him in the teeth. Tiny stones and clumps of dust bore through his best attempts at keeping them out, barging through his fingers and into his throat. The man fell to his knees, clutching his throat, gagging and choking. But the dust swept in as fast as he cleared it out. It filled his lungs, coating them in filth and grit. The bandit looked up at Bert, tears in his eyes, his face pleading with her to do something. He tried to suck in a breath but started coughing uncontrollably. Blood specks gathered at his knees.

Bert gritted her teeth and walked on, trying not to hear the man's final screams. She pushed through the whirling winds that howled and roared in her ears, that unrelentingly attacked her exposed skin, her sapphire eyes scanning all the time for any sign of Farmer fucking Brown. She was terrified of the scene hidden all around her, and of what might be happening, or already have happened, to her bar. And being terrified made Bert angry. Very angry.

And to think that all of this had escalated from what was a budding peace treaty. Ain't that just the way, she thought. You can't have nice things in the Waste, like peace and quiet, or living to an old age. Because Farmer Brown was a bastard, and a genuine turd. She couldn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and she doubted she could so much as push him over, let alone give him any air. But his theory on Can't Be Buried, his thoughts on how to improve the local economy, were interesting. They sounded damn well plausible, even though she disagreed strongly with his methods. But methods could be changed, couldn't they? With sufficient negotiating, and bullets. Negotiating with bullets, maybe.

But looking around, it seemed that the only options that hadn't been blown off the table by the storm were to find Farmer Brown and broker a new peace, or find Farmer Brown and kill the bastard - which would at least create a temporary peace, in the sense that there'd be nobody left to fight that day. It was possible, now that she was considering it, that she might be able to convince Sir Robert - who would logically be the next lord of the fort - to follow in similar footsteps to Farmer Brown, but without all the violence and Taxation. Even slight improvements to the economy could bring in a better class of customer for Smack-dab, not to mention a better class of adventurer - unlike the Phoenixes and Terrances of the world. But that would require removing Brown from the picture, and of Sir Robert surviving the battle.

Well, it seemed that no matter what, she needed to find Farmer Brown. He was key to ending all of this madness one way or another. And she had a more than a few strong words for the hulking great bastard, and plenty of bullets if it was to come to that. So it's convenient, then, that at this moment, as her raging thoughts twirled back into images of violence, that she felt the ground shake.

If a mug was resting on a table, its liquid would have rippled. Then, after a short moment, it would have rippled a second time. Bert guessed that it might be the weighty attacks of Farmer Brown and his stupid weapon. Hell, it could even have just been the titan taking a few steps. She paused, waiting for the ground shock a third time. She followed back to its source, right hand closed tight around the handle of her pistol.

And she saw him. Or, rather, she saw the silhouette of him. It was obvious who it belonged to. Nobody else in Can't Be Buried would have a silhouette such as his. It rose from the ground like a statue of truly biblical proportions, great stony muscles clearly defined even through the shifting haze of the dust storm. Gripped in the arms of this behemoth was a long, thick pole with some kind of anvil strapped precariously to one end, large shadowy chunks dripping from it as it lifted from the ground.

Bert swallowed hard and clutched her weapon a little tighter, her Bertrage wavering for a moment. If she could barely kill Hurl, what were her chances of fighting a Being like Farmer Brown? And with one hand completely non-functioning, too. She let out a slow, nervous breath, focusing her attention on the silhouette before her, trying to clear her head of the whistling winds, and the screams that they bore. She didn't have a choice. It was either talk to Farmer Brown now and risk getting into a one-on-one gladiatorial death match that was gratuitously rigged in favour of her opponent, or let the Battle for Smack-dab play out and risk the ultimate destruction of everything she knew and loved in this stupid Waste.

The choice was at least clear, if not easy.

She marched forwards, into the maw of the beast, to talk to a man-god who hated her, and potentially, to shoot the man-god who hated her in the head. And for some reason, all she could think about was just how fucking hard it was going to be to clean up all of this mess after the storm moved on and the battle ended. That, and the annoying sound of Phoenix's voice singing a stupidly catchy Waste tune by the name of "Sliced up in heaven".

Brains are weird.

* * *

Somewhere on the other side of Smack-dab, Phoenix ducked clumsily under the wide swing of an axe made from glued-together kitchen knives. He had lost count of the number of dungarees-wearing assholes he'd had to fight off since the storm hit, but quite frankly, he was losing everything. His hat was long gone, as was his beloved rifle. He was fairly certain he also had more grenades at the start of the fight, and an extra throwing knife. But he still had his wits, at least, and plenty of grenades in case those failed.

The she-bandit with the knife-axe swung at him again, screaming a high-pitched banshee wail of a cry. It was a garbled mess of clichés, pertaining to Phoenix's soul, blood, heart, eyeballs, and with particular detail, his testicles. Deciding that he was happy with how intact each of these items currently were, he continued to avoid the attacks, looking for an opening in the bandit's defences so that he could slip his Waste Beast tooth knife somewhere inside and jiggle it about.

Phoenix had no idea where his starry brethren were, nor Bert, nor even Smack-dab itself. He could barely see a few feet in front of him before the boiling dust snatched away his vision, and it was beginning to make him feel slightly ill. Was he still in his starry line, or had he strayed completely into the Farmy forces? It would certainly explain why he was encountering so many enemies and so few pals. But then, how was he ever supposed to go back to the front line? He didn't even know where it was, let alone which direction was currently considered 'front'.

The bandit came in again, determined this time to dismember his member so that he would remember her, if he lived through it. Which it didn't sound like she wanted him to do, so really, Phoenix felt she just liked saying "member". Anyway, she was attacking.

Phoenix stepped inside her swing and grabbed the shaft of the knife-axe, pulling it in close to his body so she couldn't do any harm with it. At the same time, he brought his Waste Beast tooth knife up and drove it through her dungarees, feeling the sharp tip slice through bone and flesh as though it were only the flesh part.

"Lautilda!" a voice cried somewhere in the storm. "Lautilda! I need to talk to you!"

Phoenix cocked his head, listening. Who was Lautilda?

The woman in his arms (and knife), not quite dead, croaked some kind of response through the blood pooling in her mouth.

Then a figure materialised directly behind Lautilda. He was a pudgy little bald man with a very recognisable rifle clutched in his fat little greasy, dirty bandit fingers.

"Lautilda, thank goodness I found you," he said, apparently unaware of Phoenix standing behind the woman whilst, and this could not be stated enough, holding a knife in her belly. "We need to talk about ... us. I know it's a bad time but I just, I just can't hold my tongue any longer. I want to get married, Lautilda. I want to get married and run away together."

Lautilda gargled on her own blood.

Phoenix could see the life fading from Lautilda's eyes, and the tears brimming at the edge of them. Uh oh.

"Lautilda, I know your father doesn't approve of our union, but I say to hell with him!" the pudgy man continued, walking closer so he didn't have to yell as loudly. "Who is he to stand in the way of true love?"

Phoenix felt Lautilda's weight begin to shift as her body lost its strength. He bent his knees slightly and tensed his back muscles, desperate to hold her up. He felt the knife cut slightly higher into her stomach as her body slipped down an inch. Everything was spiralling so very quickly out of control. What are you meant to do when the bad guys have a good guys moment? Especially if one of them is about to die. Namely, because of you.

"Lautilda, my darling of darlings, light of my life, let's forget being bandits. Neither of us want this awful life. We can run to Second Edin, start a new life. Maybe open that cafe we always talked about."

Lautilda slipped slightly more, and Phoenix felt blood creep its way beneath the fingers currently holding her from collapsing entirely. He was losing grip, fast.

"What do you say, my love? Will you marry a poor soul such as me?"

The pudgy bald man was close, now, getting down to one knee, the rifle still clutched in his thieving fingers. But Phoenix's grip was slipping faster than his concept of reality after taking too many bonkerberries. Soon, she finally gave way. Phoenix's fingers slipped off her clothing and gravity took hold of her paling, limp figure. She fell to the ground at an incredibly slow, almost comedically awkward rate, the impossibly sharp edge of the Waste Beast tooth knife slicing her from belly up to her neck. It caught for a moment on her chin, forcing the knife out to the left and opening the side of her skull to the world. The dead figure of Lautilda then split very slowly in half before her lover's eyes, with the sound of someone pulling two sticky sponges apart, and fell finally to the ground in two distinct halves. Phoenix was left standing over her corpse, her fresh blood on his clothing, and his knife and hand smothered with red.

"Err..." Phoenix said dumbly, glancing at the butterfly steak that was Lautilda the bandit.

The bald man froze in place, face as white as snow.

"So ... if it makes you feel any better, she told me before she died how much she loved you."

He stared at Phoenix, body beginning to tremble.

"I'm so sorry, that was a lie. I just lied to you. She just threatened to cut of my balls and then I impaled her with this knife." He waved the knife, as if it made anything any better.

The man's eyes began to fill with tears. He was trembling quite visibly, now, his hands vibrating at an alarming rate.

Phoenix tried to smile, but it just came out awkwardly. "Um," he said slowly, "don't suppose I could, you know, have my rifle back...?"

And the bald man, whose name Phoenix didn't know, nor would ever know was Arnold, aimed the rifle at his chest and pulled the trigger.

* * *

PHOENIX WHY. 

Remember to comment how much you think Phoenix is an idiot.

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