The Less Interesting TimesWhen Knowledge and Technology Invade

2008/03/19 Weaponless: The Troubled Pilot

The doors to the kitchen burst open and spewed the man in the brown flight suit onto the unsanitary floor among the aisles of rusting pans and pots. He felt for his elbow, the one that struck the floor, when he noticed the unusual order of cleanliness present and picked himself up off the floor as fast as he could.
“Lance, Lance…” Said the burly man in the dark suit. His entourage, gorillas with a similar function to his, waited outside for the time being. “Why do you have to make trouble?” The man continued.
Lance put his hands on the metal cooking workspace and pushed himself up. Then he thought about what he just did and brushed his palms against each other. “Bobby, I swear I have the money. I just need one more trip to get all of it.”
“You missed your deadline, Lance.” Bobby was turning a small device over in his hands, looking at it.
“I sent you a–“ Lance started again but Bobby continued over, ignoring him completely.
“What is this thing?” He said, propping up the thing he held with two fingers. It was a device about the size and shape of an ancient flint-lock pistol. It was, however, slightly thicker than the age of sail weapon you would need to break into a private collection to see and its two major parts, handle and barrel if you wish, were jointed with a circular cylinder the size of a fist.
Lance leaned back on a sink, checking for a less filthy spot before he did so. “It’s an electromagnetic air burst shock gun,” He said with the cocky air of knowing something Bobby didn’t.
Bobby was not the kind of man who liked that sort of attitude and it was easy to see that from the face he made as he chucked the weapon into the nearest trash disposal bin, letting out a short “Whatever.”
Lance forced himself not to move but he couldn’t stop the look on his face from giving away his feelings regarding the disposal of the only barrier between the outside world and personal bodily harm. “Fuck you,” He said coldly.
“Well, that’s not very nice,” Said Bobby and moved closer, staring at Lance across from the other side of the cooking platform. “And now I think it’s time to show you our boss’s displeasure at your lateness.”
The pilot also moved forward and leaned on the edge of the table, very careful as to where he put his hands. “I think you underestimate me, Bobby. Because there is one thing I can do you apparently don’t know.”
“And what amazing feat of skill can you perform to help you now?”
“Orbiter Cooking.” Lance smiled. That was the moment Bobby smelt it but it was too late. The pilot had already leaned back and pushed the button. The stove above which they were bending over burst into flame. Green energy and immense heat erupted in an instantaneous mushroom inferno. Bobby was left yelping and holding his face. Lance pulled down the nearest frying pan from the overhead hangers and brought it down on Bobby’s head as hard as he could. The thug crumpled onto the still burning stove, singing himself on blackened metal before sliding down to the mucky floor.
He saw Bobby’s two right-hand men storming in through the double doors and fished out every knife from a table top canister. He held one up in a threatening manner and turned to them. They stopped in place, looking down at Bobby and up at him. They were probably also contemplating, besides the new turn of events and the gross assortment of cutlery present in the pilot’s hands, the grimy surface upon which their own leader was now laying unconscious, blood trickling from a nasty cut on his scalp. Lance smiled.
“I did all of this with a button and a pan. Imagine what I could do with these,” He said. When he noticed the uncertain looks on the men’s faces he added, “Yes, you may take him and leave.”
And they rushed to do so. As they were carrying Bobby out, trying to flee from Lance’s effective range as soon as possible, he shouted after them. “And tell the boss I’ll get him his money and I don’t need reminders!”
The doors slammed shut once more and Lance looked at the knives he held. There was a wooden cupboard across the floor from him. He closed one eye and took careful aim before launching a blade at it. The throw was clumsy enough; the knife impacted butt first and cluttered to the floor. Lance giggled and returned the rest of cutlery to their appropriate resting place. He turned off the stove and headed for the trash disposal. He pulled back his sleeve as he kneeled near the cover. Sending his arm in, he twisted his face as it came into contact with unknown slimy horrors of the most sickening depths.
“Fuck damn it,” He exclaimed. Orbiter cooking was anything but clean. But his weapon was in there somewhere.

Posted in From the Writing Desk by Eran with 3 comments.