BLOOD WHEELS BLOOD WHEELS BLOOD WHEELS
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
The smoke-riddled air of a rust-orange sky rang with the chorus of ten thousand marching acolytes, all chanting in uniform bloodlust as they pumped their leprotic arms into the air, waving bayonets, machetes, and skeletal effigies. A bleached sun beat down on their bald scalps and withered torsos—all while they stormed down an arid stone canyon flanked with rusted chains, barbed wire, and countless age-old gibbets filled to the burst with petrified corpses. Mutant double-headed buzzards flew circles high above the thunderous procession, cawing and thirsting for the carrion that was soon to be left in the wake of an inevitable massacre.
But even their flock was disturbed by a brand new noise. Birds, bats, and spiked lizards fled in every which way—just as an enormous mountain of metal roared its way down the canyon. Most of the acolytes split their march down the middle in order to make room for the infernal automaton that was rolling up the center of the canyon. A few minions of lesser strength fumbled one step too many, and they could only scream in horror as the gigantic rusted plates of tank treads rolled over their writhing figures, spilling their blood into the age-old crevices of the calcified bone highway.
The machine was massive—more continent than vehicle—with five stories of roughshod metal bulkwork stapled together to form a mobile ziggurat of warmongering malice on treads. Upon its forward bulwarks—spread between massive gun turrets and fire-breathing canons—the still-twitching bodies of paraplegic enemy tribesmen were impaled bloodily on spikes, their eyelids sewn shut and their chapped lips forced to moan nothing more than their own funeral dirge in between the groans of the dinosauric war barge that ferried them forward into the burning sun. Marching along the outer deckplates of the humongous tank, mohawked goons in leather armor led rabid wolves on leashes—each equipped with steaming miniature rocket launchers that had been surgically fused to their shorn canine flesh.
The already-vibrating air sang with a mix of moans, barks, and chants as the infernal contraption made for its destination: a thick wall of rust, spikes, and more spikes at the very end of the earthen chasm. Before the massive tank and its accompanying infantry, there lay the south side of an immense fortress, scaling a hundred feet tall and painted with zombie warthog iconography. Battle-readied warriors and scantily-clad amazons lined the ramparts, sharpening crossbows and tightening the springs of ballistas armed with nine foot long arrowheads. They fearlessly faced the coming invasion force, waving torches and chainsaws in a show of brazen intimidation.
This did not lessen the approach of the war ziggurat—of course—and the vehicle approached the wall of its target with ruthless aggression. Issuing a loud mechanical groan, the topmost portion of the tank opened up like a flower—with metal panels unfolding to expose the mother of all artillery guns that lifted upwards on a rotating dais. As the massive launcher aimed towards the head of the canyon, the perforated barrel extended outward—notch by notch—until it stretched twenty feet, brimming with sparks. A group of no less than two dozen virgin maidens dressed in fine purple silk robes knelt in prayer on either side of the phallic weapon of mass bombasticism—their arms and legs connected to the control panel via tubes that fed purified blood intravenously to the lubrication compartment of the primed mechanism.
Just then, a horned helmet kissed the amber deathlights of the bloody afternoon. The warmongering chant on all sides of the canyon echoed with even greater fervor, heralding the appearance of the ziggurat-tank's esteemed pilot, general, god-king and deathmancer. He wore a helmet grafted together from the skulls of twenty different animals—all predators. Horns protruded outward from the base of the cap, fitted with tiny propane tanks that emitted tongues of flame between each surly breath he produced. His shoulders were girded with pauldrons that contained blood-etched gargoyle intaglio, from the jaws of which dangled the spines of slain enemy fetuses that clattered like windchimes. His breastplate was a rusted mosaic of profane curses carved in acid from no less than two hundred dead languages. His legguards contained spikes with impaled baby skulls, and he wore a codpiece fitted with a strategically placed hedge trimmer lined with flickering christmas tree lights.
As he approached the exposed cockpit fitted to the topmost artillery cannon, a handful of the bleeding virgins pawed lovingly at his legs, but he shrugged them off—choosing instead to wave his arms in answer to the acolytes cheering him—and his mechanical masterpiece—from the lower canyon highway below.
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
At last, when he was done waving, he turned his masked head towards the pilot's nest and gestured a slitting throat, followed by an obscene gesture. The mechanics nodded back, then jerked on the braking system. With a loud bass guttural groan, the war ziggurat grinded to a stop. Flecks of bone and stone sprayed against the walls of the canyon as the vehicle faced off against the enemy fortress wall looming ahead. A hush fell over the armed crowd—aside from the unfortunate torsos impaled on the frontmost spikes of the machine. A few bullwhip lashes from the patrolling goons silenced them, and soon the glorious god-king was grabbing a condenser microphone attached to an array of guitar amps via barbed wire audio cables.
He propped one foot up on the throat of the enormous artillery barrel and fondled it suggestively as he spat towards the enemies facing him and his army. His voice crackled monstrously through the sound system, sending thunder and threats in every cardinal direction from that soon to be monument to holocaustal supremacy.
“Unbaptized bastards of Lilith!!! Whores and cuckolds suckling at the taint of unholy cowardice!!! Your day of eternal gelding has come!!!”
He ritualistically beat his chest, causing the spines and leather strips dangling from his necrotic armor to rattle.
“Behold!!! Feast your putrid cataracts and despair!!! For I am King Damnedmageddon the Turgid!!! Feaster of dragons!!! Slayer of ragnoceroses!!! And beholden to the pallid bone keys of the Underhowl!!!”
The shirtless army flanking the machine cheered in one accord, waving their bayonets and spears and bone clubs.
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid smiled—exposing teeth crafted with solid gold plating, each bicuspid studded with skull gems. “Your unrighteous days of plundering the plaguefarms of Lesser Vomitton have come to an end!!! I shall paint the sky red with your entrails and leave a scent that will send wolves into a nauseated rage long after your castrated grandchildren have died out in shame!!!”
The enemy guards upon the ramparts looked non-pluss'd. They stood at the ready, aiming their long-ranged weapons and vats of boiling oil at the impending charge below.
The God-King wasn't finished. “Say your final prayers to your maker!!! For he is about to be enslaved by your destroyer!!!” With one gesture, he ordered the mechanics to rotate the cannon towards the inner seam of the fortress wall's portcullis, threatening to blast it down with one shell. “Let it be known—from now until the death of all songs—that the one supreme warrior capable of eliminating the long-hated Swinocalypse Tribe was none other than the vanquisher of betrayers! Killer of demons and valkyries! KING DAMNEDMAGEDDON THE TURGID—”
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztttt!!!
A shower of sparks.
A plume of smoke.
And—just like that...
...the whole entirety of the tank ziggurat went dead. Every engine. Every mechanism. Every turning gear and throbbing piston. The entire canyon surrounding the parked hunk of metal filled with an awkward hush as the flanking infantry murmured in confusion. Even a few of the impaled paraplegics turned their heads, squinting curiously at the untheatrical silence.
“Augh! Bloody hell!” one engineer cursed, wrestling with several throttles and even resorting to kicking the contraption. “Figures it'd go hooroo now of all times! Rusty drongo!”
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid blinked at the cockpit, then at the fortress wall. Clearing his throat, he held a gauntlet'd hand over the mic and leaned towards the engineer. “Kevin? What's going on, bud. Speak to me.”
“Sorry, god-king... eh... penishead... whatchamacallit.” Kevin lifted his visor, revealing thick glasses. He waved a lazy wrench at the sparkling console. “Bloomin' machine is proper rooted! Don't make a lick of sense, though. Supposed to be fit as, but it's takin' the piss something rotten!”
“Well, fix it, Kevin!” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid hissed, helmet rattling. “You're embarrassing me in front of the whores and cuckolds of the swine goddess!”
“Bloody oath! Can't be havin' that now, can we?” Kevin shrugged. “You ask me, bossman, the problem's in the core of the junk. The power source decided to sod off for some reason. Y'know what that means...”
“Oh for crying out—” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid nearly facepalmed. He cleared his throat and spoke into the mic, wagging a finger toward the fortress walls. “Just you wait right there, hellspawn of plague harlots!!! Your hour of disembowelment is at hand!!!” He cut the sound and pivoted about in his bulky armor. “Uhhhh... uhhhhhhh...” He handed the device to one of the bleeding virgins. “Here. Hold this for a sec. Thanks, darling. Kevin!”
“On it!” The mechanic was already opening a hatch and crawling down a ladder chute into the inner guts of the machine.
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid followed after him—although he had to ram himself a few times to fit through the hole with his offensively large pauldrons. At last, he climbed down, joining Kevin in the steamy underbelly of the tank's inner chamber. There, sweaty old men with foot-long beards sweated and toiled in the boiling heat to rotate steam valves and yank levers and other anguishing busy-work. After a spelunking crawl through industrial hell, Kevin and King Damnedmaggedon the Turgid both made it to the centerpiece of the tank ziggurat's engine core: a large egg-shaped container fused to a gazillion wires and steampipes. There was a brilliant light source from the oblong chamber, and it fluctuated with rainbow light and a faint pink aura.
“Well, what are you waiting for?!?” the god-king barked. “Open it up and check on the power source!”
“Right away, your honorable dickheadedness!” Kevin climbed to the top of the machine, turned a few valves, and lifted the top cap off the “egg” to reveal a soft heavenly light from within the apparatus. “Oi!” he hollered into the thing as King Damnedmageddon the Turgid leaned over and peered down. “Ya filthy bludgers! What's the big idea?!?”
The chamber was bigger on the inside than on the outside, and to the post-apocalyptic viewer it resembled a large pink bedroom filled to the brim with lavender pillows, plush cushions, satin sheets, and terry cloth bed blankets. The walls were lined with motivational posters, equine portraits, and happy cat pictures. An mp3 player was playing lo-fi beats with vaporwave visual accompaniment. What's more—there was an herbal tea set and coloring books and—not one, but—two Switch Lites equipped with Animal Crossing and Super Smash Brothers.
Then—in the center of this luxurious womb of chill—there sat two fuzzy cat-sized ponies. One blue and the other lavender. And—instead of cuddling cheek to cheek—they were squatting with iron-wrought pouts, forelimbs folded and backs turned to one another.
“It's all her fault!” Starlight Glimmer grunted. “She refused to accept flying kites as an acceptable adult pastime!”
“Yes, well, she refused to take back what she said about Trixie's clinical phobia!”
“Trixx, a fear of wheels is not a clinically-proven phobia! It's a superstition!”
“Hmmmph!” Trixie upturned her nose as her sorceress' cap fell over her angry eyes. “Well, you would be afraid too if you heard it being chanted all of the time!”
“Why does everything always have to be about you?!” Starlight grumbled. “I'm trying to have a normal conversation but then you always have to butt in with the weight of your own stupid baggage! And then you have to speak in the third pony as if to rub it in!”
“Well, excuuuuuuuuuuse Trixie, princess! The Grreat and Powerrful Trixie is far too awesome to relegate herself to the first-pony! And don't you lecture me on dissociation, socialist!!!”
“Oh, it's on, now—!”
“Sheilahs! Sheilahs! Please!” Kevin waved his wrench. “Don't make me climb in there and tie your clackers together! In case you haven't noticed, we're about to have a blue with the warthog dipsticks!”
“She started it!”
“Trixie wasn't the one who started it! Also, she's hogging all the crayons!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Ladies... ladies...” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid waved his blood gloves and sighed, leaning into the top of the cuddle chamber. “Look. I know it's tough. Being cooped up in here with each other's personalities. Cutie Quarantine isn't easy. But this really means a lot to me! Like... I just took a loan from the bank...” He rubbed his head through his skull. “... … …friggin' heartburn is killing my insides like a motha...”
Starlight frowned and pointed at Trixie. “Can someone please convince this know-it-all here that flying kites isn't just for babies?” Her starry eyes glistened with bittersweet passion. “It's a magical and majestic experience meant for all to enjoy! It speaks to the craftspony and meteorologist at heart...”
“I don't know much about flying kites.” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid smiled sweetly from under the calcified rim of his skull helm. “But I know a thing or two about friendship. And you two are the sweetest and most lovable gal-pals I know! Why else would you be able to power up a rumbling metal deathmongerer on wheels—”
“Hisssssssssssssssssssssssssss!” Trixie bristled.
“Treads! Treads!” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid nodded at Kevin. “I said treads!”
“Too right!”
“You empower righteousness on tank treads. And that makes you special. That makes you... magical.” The god-king gestured sweetly. “Now... won't you please make up? For me? Pleeeeeeeeeease?”
Starlight kicked at a pillow, shrugging. “Well... I can't force her to like kites...”
“She may be a socialist...” Trixie also shrugged. “...but she's no psychologist.”
“Doesn't take a doctorate to know that you're my best bestie.”
“Awwwwwwww... Trixie loves you too.”
“Come'ere, you silly wizard.” Starlight reached for Trixie.
Trixie enfolded Starlight into a close hug.
The two mares rubbed cheek to cheek, smiling and giggling. Their laughter summoned ethereal butterflies and rainbows from the hidden soul stones of the cuddle chamber, and soon the fuzziness itself was too much to look at. The aura brightened until the men up above and outside could scarcely behold it without going blind.
“That's it!” Kevin sputtered, already re-sealing the cap to the top of the egg. “Make sweet, ya sissies!”
Soon, the engine room surrounding the core lit up. The machine hummed to life, and the faint echoes of cheering warriors warbled in from the canyon outside.
“Piece of piss!” Kevin slapped the glowing metal egg and nodded to the god-king. “Right! Give it a burl, mate! Tug on it but don't love on it!”
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid exhaled with relief. “Okay. Okay...” He lifted his helmet up high enough to slap his own cheek a few times, murmuring: “You can do this. You can do this. Just remember what Oprah said.” He practiced a breathing exercise all the way back up the ladder chute.
At last, he re-emerged atop the ziggurat, flanked by bleeding virgins and serenaded by cheering warboys.
“Ah-ah-ahem...” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid picked up the mic yet again. The amp speakers crackled to life as propane flame shot out from his helmet's horns. “Vile heretics of the Age of Blood Dust!!!” He pointed an angry finger at the patient defenders of the fortress ramparts. “Quake with fear in your cowardly goat orifices!!! For your final retribution shall lie open and flowing like a used concubine drenched in gangrene and—!!!”
Bzzzzzzzzzzttuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...!!!
The death ziggurat powered down once more.
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid's whole body drooped, his seething face aimed towards the sky as the speakers let out an effeminate high-pitched whine. He clenched his teeth, shook all over, and finally stomped his foot down like a toddler. “... … … … ...peestains!”
Turning about-face, he hung the mic on a random triceratops skull and shimmied back down the chute. Marching past steamworks and old men, he found a confused Kevin scratching his head with a wrench, standing beside a dormant metal egg.
“What the heck, Kevin?!?” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid shrugged flamboyantly.
“Bugger all if I know, boss!” Kevin wheezed. “They just stopped snugglin'! No cuddles—no clankers!”
“Shoulda friggin' stayed in law school...” The god-king unscrewed the bolts, lifted the cap, and stared down into the cuddle chamber. “Girls?! What gives?! I thought we were vibing just now!”
Starlight and Trixie were both staring up like cats at the bottom of a fluffy, fluffy well.
“Well, we were, but—”
“Trixie demands peanut butter crackers!”
“It's for her tummy!”
“It's for Trixie's snuggability factor! But also for Trixie's tummy!”
King Damnedmageddon the Turgid nodded. “Okay okay. We'll get Kevin right on it—”
“Sod off! I ain't no bloody gopher—”
“We will get Kevin right on it.” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid flexed and unflexed his muscles, continuing to peer down into the cuddle-egg. “... … ...anything else?”
“Uhm... actually...” Starlight fidgeted, blushing slightly. “...if you could manage a packet or two of fruit snacks?”
“The princess themed kind!” Trixie insisted with a snort.
“Well, any-themed kind, really. Just...” Starlight leaned in to snuggle Trixie. “...fruit snacks get me feeling nostalgic for sleepovers of old. Not that I'm subscribing to a 'little' lifestyle or nothing, but sometimes it just feels... very relaxing to get in touch with one's younger self and—”
“Switch screen protectors!” Trixie frowned. “Trixie doesn't want to scratch her precious Nintendo while paying mortgage to Tom Nook!”
“Oh! Right! What she said!” Starlight beamed. “I rock a wicked Chrom in Smash!”
“Like Tartarus she does!”
“But make sure—” Starlight cupped her fuzzy cheeks with her hooves. “That it's specifically for the Switch Lite! Most Gamestop employees are minimum wagers who won't bother to ask which one you need!”
“Assuming that they're still open!”
“Are you kidding?! It's the apocalypse! They at least have curb-side surface!”
“Peanut butter crackers. Fruit snacks. Screen protectors.” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid nod-nod-nodded. “Got it. Now will you please fuzzinate?”
“Cuddle puddle!” Trixie pounced.
“Weeeee!” Starlight rolled in invisible hay.
Their giggles lit up the egg which lit up the engine which lit up the machine which—
Clang! The god-king slapped the lid shut. He nodded at Kevin. “You got all that?”
“Meh.”
“Good enough.” Invigorated by the hum of the tank, King Damnedmageddon the Turgid climbed back up to the top of the ziggurat, grabbed a mic, and hollered towards the ramparts once more: “Kiss your... deformed lizard children one last time because... the... th-the death worms of the decayed god of skull panthers has arrived to... throw his hammer of doom down on your sunburnt genitalia and... and... … ...blood wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
“Blood Wheels!!!”
The engine died for the third time, showering sparks.
“Press F!!!”
“Press F!!!”
“Press F!!!”
“Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid stomped up and down in place. Virgins yawned into their blood-tubes and rocket dogs scratched their ears as the god-king yanked the hatch door clean off its hinges and dropped back down the hole—or at least he tried to. His pauldrons got stuck in the entrance, so he tore them off and kicked them several times with a spray of fetal bone fragoments before taking off his bulky breast plate and diving comically headfirst.
Landing in the engine compartment, King Damnedmageddon the Turgid performed a command roll and sprinted for the egg. Snarling and heaving and foaming at the mouth, he flipped the lid off and...
...pitifully whimpered into hug box.
“Girls... girls please...” A sniffle or two. His helmet was crooked, obscuring tearstreaks. “For once in your cute, cuddly lives? Could you just... would it kill you just...???” He gestured wildly towards the heavens above the engine room's ceiling. “The warthog bastards!!!”
“Jee... I don't know what's wrong, Your Majesty...!” Starlight spoke—her voice muffled as she vocalized nose-deep into Trixie's blue chest fluff. “We're cuddling as hard as we can!”
“Platonically, of course.” And Trixie's eyes took on a steely glint. “Now don't get any ideas. We're not powering a nuclear bomber.” A snort. “Plus, Trixie knows this doesn't have a 'sex' tag.”
“But... it... ehhh... guhh... smuhhh...” King Damnedmageddon limped backwards from the egg, shrugging with more and more limp motions. “... … ...I don't get ittttt!” He whimpered. “The cuddles! It's supposed to be powering the death ziggurat and stuff!” He kicked childishly at the ground. “It's beyond warranty and everything too...!”
“Oi, bosso...” Kevin shuffled back in with several lengths of fabric drooped over his forelimbs. “I think I've got somethin' heah that'll make this whole situation nut out.”
“Buh?”
With a proud smile, the mechanic held up the articles in question. “Striped socks! One for each of the Sheilah's legs!” Another gesture. “And hoodies! Extra soft! Extra felt for them namby-pamby horse-hugs!”
“Ooooh!” Starlight called up from inside the chamber. “Can I have the black one? Looks edgy!”
“Hmmmf! Trixie is already wearing her magic cloak!”
“Come on, Trixx. Play nice.”
“It's hot enough as it is down here!”
“I'll give you half my fruit snaaaacks!”
“Fine! Toss Trixie her swell hoodie!”
“Good onya!” Kevin dropped the articles into the compartment. “This should fuel the snuggles right up!”
“Are you... quite sure about that?” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid asked, squinting.
“Something something barbie, mate!”
“Eh, whatever...” The god-king waved, slapped the glowing egg shut, and climbed back up the chute. “Better now than never. I'm paying those virgins by the hour too.”
Once atop the ziggurat, he wasted no time. He gestured to the cheering warboys and reached for the artillery cannon's firing mechanism.
“Those stupid socks had better work or else next raid I'm hiring a kiwi.” King Damnedmageddon the Turgid cleared his throat and spoke once more into the mic: “BEHOLD!!! With the... newly-enhanced power that is within my righteous possession, I shall punish you, unholy spawn of Lilith!!!”
The warriors atop the fortress' battlements readied themselves, gripping spears and turkey slicers.
The god-king smiled from helmet cleft to helmet cleft. “Let the eternal metal rapening begin!!!”
He pulled the trigger
POWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!
The artillery cannon did not only fire.
It exploded.
The entire tank blossomed like a hydrogen bomb, throwing shrapnel and rust and virgins in all directions. The canyon itself split into a million pieces, with shrieking warboys and rocketdogs sailing for the heavens. When all was said and done, the dust settled to reveal an enormous crater standing in place of the ravine.
In the center there hovered a lone metal egg—glowing with rainbow and pink butterflies—resonating with the giggles of two mares deep within.
The vultures came back, circling above the fresh carrion left from the bodies of King Damnedmageddon the Turgid and his unfortunate underlings. All else was still.
Along the ramparts of the fortress, one warthog cultist leaned back, casually brushed at her Amazonian mohawk, and looked calmly at her companion.
“So...” Bored fingers drummed along a rusted railing. “...you see that latest episode of Beastars?”
