The grunts they sit in the bar drinking their favorite beverage. Bhaktah has a slimy texture their large lips love to slurp. The flavor, an acquired taste for sure. Not the cup of tea for many. The brewing process more primitive than on other worlds. More like harvested and mixed. The creature utilized for the acquiring, best left unmentioned. Among tables and chairs, bar stools and filth, the grunts they discuss their affairs amidst their kind. At a minimum, the cover charge is the affairs of a nefarious nature. A desolate moon can be a back alley as well. It’s membership, well guarded.
The loud necromusic fills the ears. The moon dust lies like tablecloths and linoleum adorned. The grunt is unaffected. Their mucous membranes are like an iron shield against the harshest of environments. Their ways just as harsh. They brush off both as easily as their Bhaktah belches. Heavy arms and heavy frames, these grunts do their own bidding. Upon a desolate moon, in the dark side of a galaxy, they brag and stomp, deal and swap their wares to the highest bidder. The bar their hide away within the stars. The dark stars they prefer.
“Did you get’em?” Grunda asked. Sitting on his stool, massive arms resting still on the bar top, he keeps his head down and forward.
“Yup. I got’em,” Taruk smirks, “They were easy. I got’em out back practicing.” Taruk giggles over his mug of Bhaktah.
Grunda turns, grabs, and jerks Taruk at his armor collar. “No signs of tracking? No signs of pursuit? No signs?” Grunda demands.
Taruk leans into the push, face to face with Grunda, “NO! Like I said, it was easy. Easy pickings. No traces. All scanners negative.”
Grunda relaxes his grip, still looking Taruk in his amphibian like eyes, “Better. Otherwise I’ll have them drinking your putrid green blood.” He shoves Taruk nearly off his barstool.
A short pause follows. “I got seventeen of’em,” Taruk reassures.
“Seventeen, huh?” Grunda hesitantly replies. “Ok. Good.”
Grunda peers over his shoulders, scanning the room. Seventeen is a good catch. Any other of these grunts would kill both of them if they knew of their day’s bounty.
Grunda leans into Taruk and slams shoulders with him. “More Bhaktah. This cargo will take us to many moons.”
Grunda and Taruk both grab their mugs of Bhaktah and slam the slimy concoction in a most disgustingly fashion. With their business discussions at a close, they both swivel around to view the rest of the bar in all their glory. Seventeen hijacked was a fortune to be made. Innocence is their product. The younger, the better. This was the pay day they were looking for. They got seventeen of the youngest yet. A grunt’s prize delivery to a waiting client willing to pay massively for the quality they demand. It was done.
Reveling in their doing, Grunda notices the door to the bar opening slightly. He watches as a little hand and little fingers, maybe 3 feet off ground grip the door as it moves slowly open. Not one-quarter of the way open, a small human figure falls to the floor inside the bar entryway. A small human figure, panting, on hands and knees, head down, becomes recognizable to Grunda. He nudges Taruk’s ribs with his elbow and points. The rest of the bar is oblivious.
“Is that…” Grunda asks Taruk and pauses. The small human figure struggles to its feet. Grunda and Taruk’s eyes widen. A small human girl, maybe five years of age they see standing there before them. The girl is dirty with moon dust and her dress gown is filthy. She looks disoriented.
“HEY! LITTLE GIRL! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” Gunda bellows. Suddenly, the bar is quiet as all grunt heads turn to Grunda and then the little girl.
“I don’t know. Where am I?” the little girl quietly says with concern on her face.
“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!” Grunda commands.
“I don’t know where I’m at. I lost my dolly. Can you help me?” the little girl asks Grunda.
“HELP YOU?! SURE I’LL HELP YOU!” Grunda boasts as he stands up. The other grunt patrons continue to watch with slimy gaping mouths. Taruk nods his head.
Grunda walks over to the little girl, his 7 foot plus heavy frame shadowing over her, he grins. “What can I help you with little girl? Do you need help finding your dolly?” he says sarcastically coddling.
The little girl peers up past Grundas knees with a sad pout on her face. “Yes, please, I don’t know where I left it,” she pleads.
Grunda bellows out a huge laugh that sends the whole bar into a frenzy. “HELP HER FIND HER DOLLIE!” one grunt heckles.
“I’m scared. I don’t know where I am at,” the little girl beggingly states.
“Did you lose your mommy and daddy?” Grunda asks.
“Yes. I don’t know how I got here,” she replies. The grunts in the bar whisper among each other at the spectacle.
“Do you miss playing with your mommy and daddy?” Grunda inquires with subtle ridicule.
“Yes. Will you play with me?” the little girl asks.
“SURE!” Grunda explodes.
He reaches down with his massive hands and picks the little girl up. Her frame the size of a doll to him, he tilts her and turns her, saying “Let’s take a look at you. How does a little girl like you end up in a place like this?”
He turns around to the rest of the bar holding her face outward and bellows “DID ANY OF YOU GRUNTS LOSE A LITTLE GIRL HUMAN?!” “I DID! I’LL PLAY WITH HER!” another grunt shouts.
Grunda parades her around the room asking random grunts “Did you lose her?” “How about you?” “Maybe you?” “What about you?” He pauses for a moment looking at the little girl in his hands oddly.
He sighs, lowers his head, rears back loudly exclaiming “WHICH ONE OF YOU SLIMY, GREEN BLOODED, FOOLISH GRUNTS LOST THEIR CATCH?!”
The entire bar becomes quiet again. All grunts either look down or away.
“No one? Well…I guess this catch is mine now,” Grunda proclaims. He looks at the little girl and asks “What’s your name little girl?”
“Peanut,” the little girl replies.
“Peanut? What kind of name is that?” Grunda asks.
“I’m little and small like a peanut,” Peanut answers.
“A peanut? What’s a peanut?” Grunda asks.
“It’s this small thing that you eat…..and….its got a shell….and….inside there’s this peanut that you eat. They’re yummy,” the little girl explains.
“So, inside you there’s a peanut to eat?” Grunda asks.
“No, silly. I’m not a peanut, my name is Peanut,” Peanut replies giggling. “But, there is something inside me,” Peanut continues.
“What’s inside of you?” Grunda asks before he starts poking her with his finger. Peanut starts laughing and giggling with every poke. All grunts look on with curiosity.
“Stop tickling me! Stop! Stop!” Peanut cries between giggles.
“Where is the thing inside of you? I’ll take it out,” Grunda demands.
“I can just take it out if you want me to,” Peanut replies.
“Do it now,” Grunda orders.
“Only if you play a game with me,” Peanut says.
Grunda looks seeringly at her, “What kind of game?”
Peanut explains, “Repeat after me. Say “I”…”
“I,” Grunda repeats.
Peanut continues, “Say “Am”…”
“Am,” Grunda repeats
Peanut continues, “A…”
“A,” Grunda repeats.
Peanut continues, “Bad…”
“Bad,” Grunda repeats.
Peanut continues, “Boy…”
“Boy. HEY! I’M NOT A BOY!” Grunda says angrily.
“Yes you are. You’re a bad boy,” Peanut states.
Grunda pulls Peanut close to his face with his massive hands, leering into her eyes and says, “You wanna see how bad I am?”
Peanut replies with surprise and excitement, “Oh, yes please! Pretty please! With sugar on top! We get to play?!” She starts to clap her hands in anticipation, smiling, singing, “We-get-to-play-a-ga-ame! We-get-to-play-a-ga-ame! We-get-to-play-a-ga-ame! We-get-to…”
“ENOUGH!” Grunda shouts. “Little girl. You’re meat mash!” he ends the verbal exchange.
Peanut looks at him and smiles, swatting her eyelashes, “No I’m not. I’m Peanut.”
Just as Grunda bears down to crush Peanut with his massive hands, silvery sharp blades project out in every direction from the little girl’s body, piercing Grunda’s hands and fingers in a multitude of locations. Grunda bellows out a massive scream. The entire bar moves at once. All grunts either jump back in their chairs or stand up, many backing up into their reactionary battle stances.
Grunda tries to pull his hands apart desperately, but the blades penetrated his hands and fingers in a star shape pattern. Peanut sits amidst the blades, still in Grunda’s hands, and says “What’s wrong? Don’t you wanna play with me? Don’t you like what’s inside of me?”
Grunda becomes enraged. He runs for the bar wall, raises Peanut above his head, and impales the little girl on a large hanging spike. The blades instantly retract back into the little girl’s body and Peanut droops lifeless with the large spike protruding from her mid chest. Grunda retreats.
“Taruk! Help me!” Grunda pleads. Taruk remains jaw dropped and motionless as Grunda approaches him at the bar. Grunda’s hands and fingers mangled, green blood oozing onto the moon dust covered floor. The look on Grunda’s face the opposite of their previous Bhaktah confidential confidence.
“Boss,” Taruk points.
“WHAT?!” Grunda shouts.
Grunda turns slowly in a painful bloody rage in the direction of Taruk’s gesture. The little girl slowly raises her hands, places them flat against the wall, and pushes herself off of her impalement, falling to the bar floor.
“GET HER!” Grunda orders.
Taruk rushes in and grabs the little girl by the leg and swings in an large, powerful arch, slamming Peanut through a table, cracking it with her little body into two pieces. Immediately, he returns the momentum in the opposite direction, swinging her to the bar floor so hard the rest of the tables in the bar shake, knocking Bhaktah to the floor. Again, he swings and smashes, swings and smashes, swings and smashes, determined to meat mash this little girl, this little human, this inferior who dared to play a game with the grunts. Finally, he launches the little girl’s lifeless body with all his might, sending the rag doll across the room, hitting the bar back like an explosion, her frail body falling behind the bar.
Taruk stands there hunched over panting. Mugs of Bahktak lay scattered on the bar floor. Tables and chairs broken in pieces. The rest of the grunts backed up near opposing walls, some having already left.
“IS SHE DEAD?” Grunda shouts.
“Nothing could survive that,” Taruk pants confidently.
“WHO DID THIS?” Grunda turns looking at all the other grunts remaining.
“WHICH ONE OF YOU DID THIS THING?” Grunda demands.
“I did,” a voice says.
“Who said that?” Grunda turns in a circle searching for the source. “WHO?!” The room is dead silent.
From behind the bar, a faint patter can be heard. The bar height to accommodate the grunts is not of the standard. Nothing can be seen. All eyes turn to the bar. A small figure of a little girl comes walking out of the end of the bar. Standing between the bar end and the door to the bar, the little girl says, “I did this thing. My name is Peanut.”
“GET HER!” Grunda bellows. Taruk rushes towards the little girl to grab her again. In mid rush he reaches for her, but with a speed he cannot see, the little girl simply is gone to his vision. He stands up and she is standing on his shoulders. He grabs her and throws her across the room towards a wall, but she simply lands against the wall as if it were a floor, knees bent, both feet and both hands against the wall. She looks up at Taruk, then Grunda.
“Do you like playing games with little girls?” she asks, still suspended against the wall in a launching position. She relaxes, feet and hands slide down the wall, landing in a standing position.
“Where are they?” she asks.
“WHERE’S WHO, LITTLE GIRL?!” Grunda shouts.
“The little ones,” Peanut states.
“THEY’RE MINE! You can’t have them and you’ll never get them,” Grunda brags.
“They’re not yours,” the little girl explains.
“Who do you think you are that you can take what a grunt gets?” Taruk adds.
“I’m just a little girl. A little one like the ones you got hidden,” Peanut returns.
“No. You’re not a little girl. You’re meat mash. We eat you,” Taruk says leeringly.
“Which is why I’m here to stop you,” Peanut says.
Taruk rushes towards the wall, grabs the little girl, and slams her up against the wall with feet dangling. He gets his face close to hers and says, “YOU’RE MEAT MASH RIGHT NOW!” He squeezes the frail body, but his strength the does not budge her bones. He rears back and slams her multiple times against the wall. Grabbing her by the throat, he balls up a tight fist and punches her over and over and over again. He throws her to the bar floor and stomps all of his five-hundred-plus pound mass in such a frenzy the moon dust fills the air.
He finally stops. Through the dust, he sees nothing on the floor. A loud clank is heard as the bar door closes. Taruk turns and sees that all of the other grunts are gone, only Grunda and himself remain. The little girl stands by the bar door trying to reach the beam lock, but she cannot.
“I can’t reach the lock,” the little girl exclaims looking at Taruk and Grunda. They both remain still and stumped.
Peanut turns her back to Taruk and Grunda facing the door. Before their eyes, the little girl begins to change form. Slowly, the little girl becomes a little taller, with longer hair. She is now seven years old. She wriggles her body a bit. Again, a progression takes place, the girl’s body now becomes a young woman, with differing shape, musculature, even different hair color, taller yet. She is now eighteen. She twists at the waist and side to side in a stretching fashion, her back cracks.
“What are you doing?” Grunda asks.
“Wait for it,” the young woman replies.
Suddenly the young woman of 18 years old morphs further. Longer hair yet, taller yet, more musculature, further maturity unfolds. As the growing continues, clothing changes, and additional features begin to unfold. Out of the middle of her back strange appendages begin to appear. Her height reaches six feet tall and armor begins to appear, along with weapons. Her height continues to elongate upward, her girth increases, her musculature and bodily form magnified. She finally reaches seven feet tall, the appendages, two white wings of a span of at least fourteen feet. She stretches her wings and they relax inward. A blade sits in scabbard on each hip. An armor covers her body unrecognized. She reaches for something on her waist and secures her hair into a pony tail. An exhale is heard.
“Now I can reach it,” the woman says.
The winged woman reaches for the heavy alloy slide lock and slams it shut. She turns and says, “Now, how about picking on someone your own size?”
By this time, Grunda has managed to salvage his hands a bit. Grunts do not play. The worst that they can be is what they are known for. The very nature of their race is one of physicality. They are quite nearly 99.99% fat free, most of it found in their saliva, glands, and blood. Their minimum height is seven feet tall and they also average a minimum of five-hundred pounds in weight. That is solid muscle. So much so, their skeletal structure has to support not only the muscle mass, but also the amount of force they can be produced with that strength. Their bones just don’t break, at least not in most circumstances, if you can even penetrate their massive muscle layers. Not only that, but their constitution and adaptation allows them to thrive in many environments, most of the harshest. Their blood and bodily fluids are toxic to many other forms of life, so injuring them is a weapon as well. Hardy indeed. Their confidence and arrogance on a personality level in combination with the above is a meddling not many walk away from. That alone makes their greed and ability to take what they want a troublesome affair.
“Oh! We got ourselves a little birdie!” Grunta says eggingly, “You’re not getting what you came here for, so you might as well just go. You don’t want this trouble, little girl.”
Attached to the armor grunts wear, is an arsenal that augments their natural abilities. Weapons that multiply their own base abilities. Not only is their mass and strength a weapon, add that to a formidable weapon, the combination is deadly. The grunts come from an amphibian race that thrives in the dark. Their evolution began in environments in which matter was comprised of mostly dark matter. Dark matter in its most smallest quantities has a great mass. The weight of elements in those environments is exponentially heavier than in other galaxies. The grunts have literally evolved themselves by pushing their way through the heaviest matter in the universe. You could call that the ultimate strength training and hardening exercise known.
This dark matter produces ore of the same quality. It is the grunt races that cannot only handle living on those planets, but are one of the exclusive races who can actually handle the harvesting and developing of said ore into usable items, such as weapons. The Drundite Hammer is the standard issue weapon of a grunt. Its history spans their evolution, as does their art of wielding such a weapon. Only a grunt would know either the hammer or the art.
Their hammer is not large, the size of its head is proportionate to its mass, optimized in size to pinpoint the force of a mountain into less than twelve square inches of surface area. It does what they say. It meat mashes. One hit not only liquefies tissue, but it also turns bone into dust. Dealing with a grunt, or grunts, is a deadly affair. A specialist is required.
“Well, as I see it, your reputation is already at risk. How many witnessed the great Grunda and Taruk bested by a little girl tonight? My job is already done. But, I’m not leaving here without your cargo, not without the stolen goods,” Peanut continued.
Grunda stood up, motioning to Taruk with a nod, “Sorry….ahhh….Peanut? Was that the name? We just don’t give things away.”
Both Grunda and Taruk, reaching both hands behind their backs, brandished their Drundite Hammers, dual wield is their art. They both instantly assumed a grounding pose and in unison, bellowing an echoing chant as their arms stretch outward apart, their phrasing came together in an instant as their hammers came crashing head to head. In an explosion of sound, the shock wave from the two sets of hammers colliding blew the hideaway bar into a confetti of a trillion tiny pieces, launching Peanut off the ground far into the atmosphere above the desolate moon.
The woman was prepared. From a phased shifted position, she looked down at the mushroom cloud of debris as Grunda and Taruk scanned the sky in slow motion for their adversary. She swung around behind them and whispered into Taruk’s ear, “Did you get me?”
Taruk instantly swung around, hammer in an arc, to find nothing to connect. “Did you hear that?” Taruk asked Grunda.
“Hear what?” Grunda asked as he slowly stepped in formed pattern, on the lookout for this birdie.
“I heard her whisper,” Taruk returned.
“This is not an average bird,” Grunda stated.
“Ok. I understand,” Taruk confirmed.
Behind them both, a voice was heard. “Did you guys think that I would still leave? You still have not given me what you stole,” the birdie sang.
Grunta and Taruk immediately turned, chanting a different phrasing, swinging their hammers straight to the ground, their bellows matching the impact, sending a forward wall of drundite antimatter straight for the bird standing before them. Peanut leaned forward and let out a high pitched scream. The two grunts dropped their hammers and grabbed their ears as the reflected drundite antimatter smashed into them, launching them off their feet, into the air, and onto their backs at least a bar lengths away.
Getting back on their feet and brushing themselves off, Taruk and Grunta saw their delima. The bird still stood in the same place. Between them and Peanut, lying on the ground, their hammers lay. They both looked at each other and sneered.
“Are you guys gonna give up? You know, you could just give me what you stole and be on your way. No one will know you lost your cargo to a birdie except your clients. Which mercy to do you prefer? Mine, or your clients?” Peanut explained.
“You don’t give mercy, nor do we!” Grunta belted.
“Who is your client for the cargo?” Peanut inquired.
“Haha, birdie! You ask too much. Sing no more,” Grunta exhaled.
The two grunts launched forward into a pounding forward momentum for their hammers, each in unison phrasing and bellowing the words of their art of war. Peanut stood there and watched. The massive strength, the strength in mass, the stubborn will of profiting from the innocent. A bully in duet of massive proportion lunging forward in perfect unison, for what?
As Peanut watched calmly, their stride slowed, the swing of the momentum of their arms decelerated, their heavy bellows and chanting become single notes, unstaccto. A long stretched hum was heard as giant fingers reached for hammers. Inches away. Closing. Stop.
Is it a low C note? Maybe an F#? Quite amazing their chants. The tone unique. As the two grunts stood there in suspension, motionless, expressions stilled like a photograph or a painting, Peanut walked through the rainbow light examining their armor, their skin, their form. “Amazing,” she thought.
She picked up one of the hammers and inspected it. The marks of wear, the dull hue of time, the texture ornate in itself. She sighed and picked up the other three hammers. Slowly she walked back to her standing place, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Suddenly, the grunts reached for their hammers, they both caught moon dust in surprise. Their balance all off from the lack of the weight of the hammers, their upper torsos came straight up, their feet out from under them, into the air their bodies went, landing on their backs in front of Peanut.
As Grunta and Taruk lie there stunned, they hear a voice. “Are you guys looking for these?” Peanut asks, look down at them, holding two hammers in each hand held up with elbows bent, shrugging.
Grunta begins, “Give those ba….” Before another word is heard, Grunta and Taruk disappear.
Peanut drops the hammers and turns to take a few steps. Stopping, she pauses.
“Control, this is Peanut. Did you find them?” Peanut transmits.
“This is Control. Yes we did. Thanks for keeping those two busy.”
“You have both of them in dimensional interview?” Peanut transmits.
“Yes. They’re comfortable. A little confused, angry, and rowdy, but safe,” Control transmits.
“How many did you find?” Peanut transmits.
“Seventeen,” Control transmits.
“What were they taught?” Peanut transmits.
“Stabbing by one grunt. We’re pretty sure that’s all. Not sure what the end client wanted them for, but we’ll find out,” Control transmits.
“Ok. Thanks. Let me know when you find out anything,” Peanut transmits.
“Will do,” Control transmits.
“Oh, hey, Control?” Peanut transmits.
“Yes, Peanut?” Control transmits.
“What do you want me to do with these hammers?” Peanut transmits.
“You know where to take them,” Control transmits.
“Gotcha. Of course,” Peanut transmits.
“Control out.”
“Peanut out.”
© Zoltan Blue 2018
Zoltan Blue 