Discount Dan

Obviously, I felt like a complete jackass, but when the world starts operating on bullshit Alice-in-Wonderland logic, I figured the best thing to do was just… roll with it, I guess. Or, in this case, throw it onto the ground and scream out a nonsensical ’90s’ catchphrase.

As the Slammer hit, a burst of warm energy bubbled outward in a ring. Emblazed on the ground was a golden circle with a glimmering image of the snake and skull temporarily branded into the carpet. Rising up around me was a golden birdcage, built from shimmering bars of light. A two-minute timer appeared in the corner of my eye, ticking steadily down toward zero.

Hesitantly, I crept up to the edge of the circle and grabbed at one of the bars. My hand passed right through as though it were an illusion. A trick of smoke and mirrors. I thought I felt the slightest tickle of electrical current pass through my palm, but it was so faint it could’ve been my overworked imagination.

Meanwhile, the battle between the two titans raged unabated.

The Flayed Monarch descended upon the gunslinger with a bloodcurdling screech, which brought the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention. Its four arms were a blur of manic motion, the bone khopesh and spinal whip lashing out in a deadly dance. Each time the whip snapped, a burst of bloody red light flashed through the conference room and huge fissures appeared along the walls. Hurricane-force wind howled into the hallway, but instead of bowling me over, it hit the golden birdcage and fizzled without ever even ruffling my hair.

I looked down at the Slammer.

Well holy shit. That was a pretty good trick after all.

The gunslinger effortlessly avoided each whip strike—ducking, sidestepping, even momentarily blinking in and out of existence while he advanced, undeterred. The foam blade in his hands was a whirlwind and, as he moved, ghostly blue flames formed along the edge of the weapon. The Monarch turned every strike and parried every thrust, but he wasn’t launching a counterassault. It was all the demon could do to keep the gunslinger at bay.

Of the two, it was clear the human warrior had a small edge in melee combat.

The gunslinger feinted left and lashed out with a quick jab, then darted right and brought the sword screaming down in a vicious arc aimed at the Monarch’s exposed neck. The demon couldn’t get its blade up in time, but as the weapon struck, the creature turned into a fine red mist and drifted away at the last moment.

The horror reformed on the opposite side of the conference room, completely unscathed by the brutal attack. Now that the Monarch had some breathing room, it raised a hand and muttered a grating incantation that made my ears bleed. Literally. I reached up with a trembling hand and wiped away a streak of red trickling down my cheek. The golden dome was powerful, but clearly it had limitations.

Meanwhile, a hundred crimson spears and swords appeared in the air above the demon’s jagged black crown. The Monarch casually flicked its wrist forward, and the conjured arsenal lurched toward the gunslinger like an artillery barrage.

The gunslinger attempted to blink out of existence, but a fleshy red tentacle, covered in a multitude of eyeballs, erupted from a nearby column, wrapping around one of his legs. Rooting him to the spot. He thrust his golden gauntlet out and a blazing azure dome appeared around him, insulating him from the encroaching army of floating weapons before they could hack him to pieces.

The Monarch’s conjured weapons furiously slashed at the energy barrier, leaving thin cracks in their wake, but they couldn’t break through.

The gunslinger paid them no mind.

Instead, he reached out, and a small black void flashed into existence, just long enough for the time-beaten warrior to pluck something free. He flung whatever he’d retrieved onto the ground outside the bounds of the blue dome. A handful of plastic green Army Men hit the carpet, then immediately swelled in size. In the space of seconds, two dozen hulking green warriors appeared, though their proportions were all wrong. Arms twisted. Legs bent at odd angles. Their faces contorted masks of tortured wax.

“Unrealistically Posed Army Man, reporting for duty!” one of the hulking figurines barked.

“Defensive Position B Fourteen!” the gunslinger bellowed.

“Aye, aye, sir!” the rest of the troops cried in gruff unison, before launching into action.

Without missing a beat, they formed a neat wall surrounding the exterior of the dome and began retaliating against the Monarch’s flying cloud of living weapons. Some fought with bayonets that burned with eldritch green witchfire. Others used backpack flamethrowers to unleash columns of brilliant orange and red fire, burning the bloody weapons from the air.

The gunslinger used the distraction to hack through the tentacle with his sword.

The blade severed the grasping limb in a few quick chops, then the dome vanished as the gunslinger blinked across the room and hurled a javelin of blue lightning from his gauntlet.

The Monarch was ready.

The demon tossed out a plastic red Easter egg, which intercepted the incoming bolt of power. There was a brief flash and the spell disappeared before it ever landed.

The two collided back into each other in a clash of limbs, spells, and blades as army men and disembodied weapons fought a merciless, pitched battle.

A dark cloud formed overhead, and droplets of blood rained down, scorching the carpet, searing the yellow wallpaper, and burning through pretty much anything it touched. Several oversized plastic men got caught in the deluge and were shortly reduced to piles of melted wax, which left an acrid stink lingering in my nose. The scarlet rain didn’t do anything to the gunslinger, though. It rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back, pooling in acidic puddles by his feet.

The two continued to fight with rabid fury, trading blow for blow, but neither seemed to be able to get the upper hand. Even when it seemed like one might prevail, the other always had some new spell or magical trinket ready to nullify the effects.

The ground shook and a forest of deadly, rebar spikes erupted from the carpet—

The gunslinger avoided the attack entirely by leaping upward, then he sprinted across the air itself with some unseen ability.

A barrage of sharpened icicles fell from the churning clouds—

Only to be burned away by an inferno blaze of unquenchable black flame.

All the while, the timer ticked away in the corner of my eye, drawing closer to zero.

Fifty-seven seconds left to go on the arcane shield protecting me…

The Monarch manifested a plain Bicycle playing card—a ten of diamonds—and proceeded to pluck the diamonds from the face of the card and hurl them at the gunslinger as they grew to the size of frisbees.

But the weather-beaten warrior was ready for that, turning them away with a jack of clubs that unfurled and grew into a shield that absorbed the attacks before disintegrating to ash.

The back-and-forth volley was like watching a world-class round of tennis, except they were trading earth-shattering spells and physical blows powerful enough to rip the limbs from my body.

Forty-four seconds left.

The gunslinger lifted a hand and let loose a flare of blinding light from his palm, so bright it seared a purple afterimage into my retinas. When the burst of illumination finally vanished, I watched as he blinked through space and time once more, appearing behind the Monarch with his sword already descending in an arc that would decapitate the monstrous creature if it landed.

But the Monarch anticipated the attack and spun like a top, narrowly avoiding the sword strike. In one quick motion, the monster turned and drove its curved khopesh directly into the gunslinger’s guts. The weapon sliced cleanly through the warrior’s armor like a scalpel, then punched out through the back, the blade covered in slick scarlet. The gunslinger glanced down at the sword with a look of dumb surprise etched into the lines of his weathered face.

His hands groped at the khopesh, but before he could even attempt to pull it out, eye-covered tentacles exploded from the walls and floors. One set wrapped around the gunslinger’s legs, and another wrapped around his shoulders. The tentacles yanked, and the man came apart at the middle, strands of bloody gore and gray intestine dangling out. Then, with an almost casual disdain, the tentacles flicked the warrior away like a piece of garbage.

The man’s brutalized body landed with a wet thump not far from the mouth of the corridor I was hiding in.

I’d seen some shit while overseas, but that? Never anything like that.

It was a death blow, beyond recovery.

For anyone other than the gunslinger.

The warrior had been eviscerated, his steampunk goggles were smashed and hanging down around his neck, and there was blood absolutely everywhere. Somehow, though, he was still alive. Although he probably wouldn’t be for long. With painful slowness, the man reached trembling fingers toward the Winnie the Pooh plushy strung around his neck.

Whatever he was going to do, he wasn’t doing it fast enough.

He turned and glanced at me, his singular gray-blue eye silently pleading for help.

But what the hell could I do?

How could I possibly stop the demon, where he had failed?

The gunslinger had magic. Weapons. A platoon of green plastic army men.

I had a hammer and a Versace bathrobe.

As though finally realizing just how boned he was, the gunslinger finally tore his gaze away from me and looked at the demonic monstrosity languidly moving toward him, as inevitable as death itself. The Monarch seemed to be taking its time. Almost savoring the moment.

Shit, shit, shit. This was bad. Really bad.

I knew next to nothing about these two titans, but the guy lying on the floor was human and had gone out of his way to help me—even when he didn’t have to. As far as I was concerned, that made him the good guy. That and the fact that he didn’t have centipede legs or a tentacle/eyeball cloak.

Thirty seconds left on my shield.

Shit. What am I doing?

Something dumb, that’s what. Something that would probably get me killed.

I took a deep breath, already kicking myself for being a moron.

I squatted down and picked up the Slammer, muttering “That’s so ’90s,” under my breath. The golden birdcage blinked away, leaving me with just over twenty seconds of juice left in the coin. Then, before I could overthink things, I took off at a sprint, Slammer in one hand, hammer in the other.

The demonic creature was closing in on the badly wounded warrior.

If the rough plan I had kicking around inside my skull was going to work, I needed to act now. I muttered a quiet prayer, planted my feet, and hurled the metal token. It arced gracefully through the air, holographic skull glittering majestically as it flipped and toppled. It landed a foot away from the battered and broken gunslinger, and as it did, I yelled the stupid incantation, “Let’s Pog!”

The golden birdcage blazed to life and the timer popped up on the edges of my vision, trickling down from twenty-four seconds.

Twenty-four seconds wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do. The only thing I could do.

The gunslinger didn’t waste the opportunity.

He wrapped a trembling, bloodstained hand around the Winnie the Pooh plushy, suspended from the gray noose, and muttered something under his breath. The stuffed animal began to burn with an eerie red light. A crimson slash appeared across Pooh’s stuffed belly, the two halves of the gunslinger miraculously pulled themselves together, and his skin and flesh began to mend itself.

I’d bought him a few precious seconds, but the healing process wasn’t going quite as quickly as I’d hoped, and the Monarch had turned away from the gunslinger and toward me. There was curiosity in the way the creature cocked its head, almost as though it were noticing my existence for the first time. The demon looked at me the way someone might look at an ant scuttling across a kitchen counter.

“You should not have done that,” it buzzed, anger undercutting the inhuman words.

“Yeah, tell me something I haven’t heard my whole life,” I replied. Then, because I was already elbow-deep in a shit sandwich that was almost certainly going to kill me, I made another bad choice. “Now how’s about you go fuck yourself.” I took another step and hurled the hammer with every ounce of strength I could muster.

The tool—meant to drive in nails, not fight otherworldly demonic beings—somersaulted, end over end, and smashed into the Monarch’s obsidian face. The demon didn’t even try to move or dodge, which was a little insulting. The tool hit with a metallic clatter then dropped harmlessly to the gray carpet without doing any damage at all. Hell, it didn’t even manage to scratch the paint on the Monarch’s faceplate.

I had no doubt the creature could’ve cleaved me in two or ripped the head from my shoulders without breaking a sweat.

Apparently, I didn’t warrant even that much effort.

The Monarch simply lifted one hand and a colossal spiritual weight slammed down on me like a bulldozer. My knees buckled and I hit the floor without offering an ounce of resistance. The pressure squeezed the air from my lungs, then kept right on squeezing until I thought my lungs were going to pop. Blackness crept in on the edges of my vision and tremendous pressure built around my eyes. My heart labored, and I could feel the bones in my chest, arms, and legs grind and break. Magma flowed through my veins and every breath felt like drowning.

Perfect. Not only was I going to die—I was going to die in the most excruciating way possible. My ninth-grade math teacher had been right all along.

But then, just as suddenly as the pain had started, it vanished. The pressure relented.

I gasped, and though I knew irreparable damage had already been done, at least I could breathe again, which was one small mercy. The black receded and I fought to prop myself up on my elbows so I could see what had happened.

The golden birdcage had dissipated, and the gunslinger now stood behind the Monarch; he’d driven his sword clean through the demon’s chest. A jagged black tear, two feet long and a foot wide, had appeared inside the demon’s torso. Through the void in the creature’s chest, I could see a host of odd items. Weapons. Armor. Glimmering jewels. But other things too. Weird things. Things that made no more sense than life-sized green army men or eyeball tentacles.

A plastic Burger Baron crown. A golden figurine of a werewolf. Some kind of trading card with a dragon on the front.

One of those items, a battered bronze compass that had seen better days, tumbled free from the void and rolled across the floor.

“Thank you for your help, Dan Woodridge from Cincinnati,” the gunslinger said. “Should you survive, I will not forget it.”

Something sailed toward me, glinting in the fluorescents overhead. Whatever it was landed on my chest, which sent a fresh bolt of agony racing through my ribs.

Before I could reply or gargle out an incoherent “You’re welcome,” there was a tremendous howl, and another brilliant flash filled the hallway. When the light finally faded and I could see again, the gunslinger and the Monarch were gone. They left behind carnage, destruction, and a huge, charred spot where they’d been standing, but of the two battling demigods, there was no sign.

It was great news, except for the fact that I was still, one hundred percent, dying.

I tried to move my legs and couldn’t.

My organs hurt and it felt like some giant, uncaring god had decided to squash me with an oversized boot.

Then I got a glimpse of the thing on my chest.

It was a slender glass bottle with a blue and black label that had the word Zima splashed across the front. I didn’t remember Zima well—I’d only been a kid and well below the drinking age during its heyday—but I was pretty damn sure their slogan wasn’t “The #1 Bone Healing Juice in the Market! Guaranteed to make your Insides feel like Glimflam!”

Hovering above the bottle was a small square icon—a black question mark on a mustard yellow background. When I examined it closely a prompt appeared, just like with the Slammer.

Zima - Greater Healing Elixir

Uncommon Elixir

Type: One-Time Use

Remember the deliciously refreshing taste of lightly carbonated Zima? Of course you do! Those were the good ol’ days, amiright? You’ll find the newest formula has all the same great flavor but will also regrow your spleen! Or your skin. Even missing limbs if you get ’em reattached quickly enough. Huzzah!

So, kick back a cold one on us, and give your insides a new stab at life!

After reading through the elixir description, I decided I was having a stroke on top of everything else, but at this point I also had zero shits to give.

Everything hurt and nothing in the entire world made sense, except one thing.

The gunslinger had given me this for a reason.

This was my only chance at walking away from the confrontation.

With numb, trembling fingers, I twisted off the cap, pressed the cool edge of the bottle to my lips, and chugged the bubbly and refreshing liquid. It burned a little going down then landed in my stomach like a flash of liquid napalm. A renewed wave of agony rampaged through my body as my bones shifted beneath my skin, but then came absolute euphoria as the pain receded.

The darkness wrapped around me and this time I let it carry me away on a swift, delicious river of blissful endorphins.