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radarrider87 · 2 years ago

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Koopa’s Revenge (A Fanzine Preview)

A preview of my short story for the upcoming “Trust the Fungus” fanzine

The zine is dedicated to saving the Yoshi prop from the Super Mario Bros 1993 movie. Check it out on Twitter @sewerzines or Tumblr @smb93zine!

The soldier breathed deep on city fumes.

Sparks flew off the metal bridge, landing on her boots. She glared at the armored cars beneath her, sailing down the parkway with fungus barriers on either side. An industrial pipe ran over the underpass, stamped with proud block letters.

INTERDIMENSIONAL WATER SHARING. BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE ROYAL RECLAMATION PROJECT.

The soldier gritted her teeth, leaning on the iron rails of the bridge. She could sense the killer instinct all around her, but it was buried deep, slumbering. On the surface, this city was being rebuilt on lies. Its people were moving forward with such meager compromises, making peace with the mammals when they should simply reach out and conquer the other dimension.

A dry, desert wind blew through her trench coat. She closed her eyes and listened again for the beating heart of this place. When she opened them, she knew she would have to face a new reality. She would have to face a future without her beloved leader.

“My general. My king,” she growled, low and fierce, her words caught in the roar of rush hour traffic. “What have they done to you?”

There was the hum of electricity, followed by a scream. Somewhere in those dark alleys, a robbery was taking place by stun stick. The soldier focused on the event. Her forked tongue slid around the inside of her mouth, savoring the taste of fear in the air.

Yes, it was still here—the danger, the grime, the urge to hunt and survive. Miraculously, it had all survived an extinction event. The thought gave hope to her warlike heart, because no matter how many billboards they whitewashed, no matter how many safety mushrooms cluttered the expressway, no matter how nice they tried to make this place, they would never change what mattered.

They would never scrub out the sleaze of Dinohattan.

A lumbering mass of scales and blubber shoved into her, shaking the bridge. The three-horned punk cried out as a metal box fell from his shoulder. It crashed into the streets below, speakers and circuits scattering in all directions. She calmly watched as multiple cars shredded the punk’s boombox, indifferent to his misery.

The punk snarled, pushing a meaty hand against her shoulder. If only he had struck a little higher, he might have been stabbed by the spikes on her coat. No such luck.

“You rotten eggsucker! Get in my way, will ya?” grumbled the three horn. “Ya got any idea how many coins I had to shell out for that rig?”

He pushed again, but she was made of harder stuff. She would never give an inch to the likes of him, a filthy herbivore who had forgotten his place. The only thing he managed to push aside was her hood, which fell back to reveal a black mohawk, flanked on either side by blonde, short-cropped hair. The silver scales on her neck rippled as the muscles tensed, and when she turned her eyes on him—those yellow, slitted eyes—the three horn nearly bolted in fear.

It would have been the smart thing to do. After all, these were the eyes of an ambush predator, judging the distance to her prey.

Ultimately, it was pathetic watching this leaf eater tremble, so she turned those yellow eyes elsewhere. Reaching into her jacket, she pulled a standard issue Game Tracker & Watch from her pocket. She read the display: TIME 400.

“Go crawl back to your nest, throwback,” she told the punk, calmly tucking the device away as the number changed to 399. “I’ve got bigger game to hunt.”

That should have been the end of it, your run-of-the-mill Dinohattan exchange. Two ships, striking each other in the night and going their separate ways. As the soldier turned her back on him, however, she could hear this fool huffing and puffing and scraping his boots against the metal bridge.

“Throwback? Throwback!?” The three horn spat out the word, his three chins quivering with rage. “I’ll give you a good throw... off the frickin’ edge!”

The platform shook. A very large, very angry foe was nearly upon her, but she did not turn to face him. Instead, just before he reached her, she clicked her heels together.

“Too slow,” she said, letting the tech do its magic. The stomper-boots hurled her upward, and years of training gave her control over the flight path. When she landed, her boots slammed into the bridge right behind the charging punk.

“Too clumsy.” Her voice hissed as she grabbed his horns, using a surprising amount of strength to toss him aside. Her prey slammed into the railing, bending the iron bars on impact.

The three horn clutched his head in agony, blubbering curses unfit for hatchling ears. But the soldier had heard it all before—the curses, the excuses, the pitiful begging from creatures too feeble to survive in any dimension. She reached into her jacket, removing a leather glove from its holster. She slipped her hand inside, the leather outfitted with black bolts and wicked circuitry.

This was how she dealt with pitiful scum.

“Too weak,” she declared, clutching the three horn behind his neck, activating the power cells in that glove. Six thousand volts of pure electricity coursed through her prey, frying him on the spot. Wild spasms ravaged his body, and then it was over.

She released her grip, letting the corpse hit the platform with a thud. A prickle of her senses told her that many eyes were watching. Sure enough, a group of wary citizens had gathered on the far side of the bridge.

There was a nervous leaf eater, pushing her egg stroller through Koopa Square. There was a madam in a red kimono and white cybermask, clearly on the hunt for fresh meat. She wasn’t too worried about the punk with the blonde mohawk, his mind as blank as his stare, but that old lady in the blue coat was far more dangerous than she appeared. The lot of them just stood there, gawking, until she glared back with fire in her eyes.

Fortunately, most of these bystanders were a lot smarter than the three horn. They immediately went about their business, leaving the vicious stranger to depower her glove.

All except one, that is.

Dark eyes stared at her from behind the white mask. The soldier raised her hood and turned her back on the woman, but even then she could sense that lingering presence. Even as she moved through the crowded markets, she knew the madam in red was close behind. She traveled deeper into the city, just to be sure. Neon lights crawled up the Lizard Lounge. Sports fans hollered inside Bullet Bills, but through it all, she never lost track of her stalker.

Perhaps this woman needed a second warning.

A flurry of movement caught her eye. A tiny lizard leapt from the community gardens, carrying a filthy mushroom. A second reptile gave chase, two disgusting compies fighting over the fungus and getting in her way. With a little help from the stompers, she kicked the nearest compy, launching it upward. The creature was little more than a pale green dot, climbing higher and higher until it crashed into a street lamp, sparks flying from its pointed beak.

She breathed out, releasing her tension. Glancing over her shoulder, she could only see the peasants. Their clothing was drab and muted, not a shred of crimson to be seen.

Good. Her warning had been received, loud and screeching.

A voice warbled in her ear. “At long last, our troops are returning from the badlands. Welcome home, child.”

She swung about, her vision turning red. She grabbed the madam by the collar, pushing her against a concrete wall.

Even with her kimono askew and her life on the line, the little woman gave no indication of fright behind that cybermask. The faceplate only covered half of her features, leaving ruby lips exposed, and those lips weren’t quivering. They were smiling.

“Yes... such ferocity. This is good.”

“Not good for you,” said the soldier, pressing her arm tight against the woman. “Why are you following me, trilobyte?”

“Because I agreed with your judgment. This city is weak, filled with bottom dwellers and fungus lovers.” Somehow, up against the wall, the madam was still able to reach out and pat her assailant on the shoulder. Apparently, she had a tough carapace under that kimono. “It needs strength like yours, my dear, if we wish to thrive. Such beautiful strength.”

There was a potent stench on this woman, a blend of moving bodies and stiff cocktails and cheap, spicy thrills. It made the soldier sick. “If you’re looking for a new girl, forget it. I can make my own way in this world.”

The madam chuckled. “Oh, of that, I have no doubt, which is why I wanted to meet you. For you see, I’m not looking for dancers. I’m looking for warriors.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then perhaps you’ll believe my employer—the next leader of Dinohattan?”

A fluorescent tube buzzed overhead. The soldier waited a moment, then loosened her grip, letting this woman and her hard shell slide down the wall. “Explain.”

The madam brushed at her kimono as she spoke. “Never fear. Follow me, and I shall tell you all you wish to know. Before we arrive at our destination, however, I will need to ask you a few questions. First, does the brave warrior have a name?”

The soldier cracked her knuckles. She could see the lights flickering behind that white cybermask, feeding this woman information. “Stop playing games. You already know my name.”

Her new companion gave a little shrug, putting on a shy, modest act. “Of course I know your given name, but as you can plainly see, so much has happened since you left the grid. Even a wise woman must continue to learn, and I wish to learn who you have become.”

“And why should I tell you who I am, grid hopper?”

There was nothing shy about the smile that formed below that mask. It was the honest smile of a killer. “Because your future intrigues me, warrior, and I only wish to help you achieve the greatness that you deserve.”

She regarded the madam in the dying light of Koopa Square. There was a hunger inside this woman that she could turn to her advantage. After years of chaos and bloodshed, the soldier knew the value of allies, but was there time to factor in such a dangerous unknown?

She slipped out her watch, scanning the dot-matrix display: TIME 360.

To hell with it. Her moment was approaching, and twenty koopa minutes into the future, whatever she told this woman would no longer matter.

“Deo. They call me Deo.”

"Koopa's Revenge" will continue in the upcoming digital fanzine, produced by Sewer Zines and a truly super team of artists.

https://smb93zine.carrd.co/#

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