Blindy remained on the floor—sprawled out like a cockroach so pathetic even death wouldn’t bother feeling sorry for him.
An amazing creature: durability level “radiation keeps a respectful distance.”
But the combination of Tresbola‘s precision strikes, gallons of Doce ‘s cheap poison, and the friendly beating from the Yellow Mashers gang…
finally took him down.
Zeros refused to touch his partner-in-idiocy.
He slowly scanned the bar like a predator deciding who deserved to be minced next.
“Hey, fat bastard… You’ve got, what, six arms?
Means you should have six brains.
Not just one—and even that one defective.”
He shot a contemptuous glance at T.8.0.0
“You already have a cleaning bot.
His job is to clean the floor.
So he can clean up this trash too.
Not my damn problem.”
Doce , long accustomed to Zeros‘s domestic toxicity, didn’t even turn around.
Still simultaneously pouring, wiping, counting, cooking, cleaning, and vibing, he said:
“Not a problem… I’ll put it on your tab. Ꞩ5119.99.”
Zeros ignored him.
Doce grabbed his debt ledger with one hand, a pen with another, put on his three-lens spectacles with a third—and began to write.
The other nine hands continued working like a tiny bartender carnival.
“So… your total debt,” he drawled slowly, reviewing it,
“comes to two million three hundred seventy-two thousand one hundred nineteen… and ninety-nine c-bucks.”
Zeros froze for 0.003 seconds.
He turned his head 47 degrees—so slowly and terrifyingly that the entire bar counter instinctively shifted away.
Even the bottles.
His voice came out cold, like death wearing metal slippers:
“How many c-bucks, you motherf—?”
By that time, Doce had removed his glasses, placed them gently on the shelf beside the ledger, and with another hand casually produced a shotgun.
Just… in case.
Though everyone knew—useless against Zeros.
“Muchacho, relax,” Doce shrugged.
“It’s not my fault.
Your buddy loves getting hammered.
And this economía de mierda… crypto-bucks, chingados…
prices jump faster than my ass when I’m nervous.
Hoy a million costs like a starship,
mañana—like the paper you wipe your culo with.”
He lifted the three shot glasses Blindy had just downed, crushed them in one hand—glass snapping into metallic dust.
“I HATE ECONOMICS.”
“Bienvenido al club, chico metálico, Doce nodded.
In the corner, T.8.0.0 obediently activated cleaning mode and began outlining Blindy into a neat little pile—methodically gathering him into a trash bag awaiting disposal.
Yes…
A night at the Three Tits bar was going exactly as usual.
well, you know… that guy’s mom…
A FEW MOMENTS LATER…
as that ancient, time-punched pop-culture trash-meme says—
Zeros stood on the very edge of a construction crane,
at the top of the tallest structure in all of Dumsta.
He stood like he was about to make a leap of faith,
like a glitched-out video-game NPC…
except he wasn’t thinking of jumping at all.
He was looking up.
The sky over Mold’Pony wasn’t a sky—
it was a cosmic wound, slicing the horizon in half.
Deep Throat was already climbing toward the edge of night.
Its massive black body rose over the horizon
as if someone were pulling up a silk curtain of absolute ending from the darkness below.
The bottom half of the black hole had already sunk beneath the world,
and now a colossal sky-arch was rising:
round, bottomless,
like the unblinking eye of a curse—
one that never closes
and never forgets.
Inside the arch churned the accretion disk—
thin, bright, utterly insane.
It glowed as if someone took all the pain of the Universe
and smeared it into a flaming ring.
Every rotation pulsed—
and it almost seemed like Deep Throat itself was breathing:
slowly, thickly,
licking the edges of space with molten matter,
preparing to devour anything foolish enough to drift into view.
And above all that,
Mold’Pony’s trash-ring scraped its eternal dance.
Billions of containers, satellites, ship fragments,
buried advertising drones,
and assorted centuries-old crap
moved in orbit, colliding, shattering,
and raining down in fiery storms.
Burning streaks fell across the city
like searing brushstrokes of someone’s cosmic anger.
Each trail rippled through the atmosphere,
leaving behind long tails of smoke, sparks,
and settling dread.
Zeros stood in the middle of all this magnificence…
in a perfect T-pose.
Completely motionless.
As if someone had just spawned his model into the world
and forgotten to turn on the animations.
He watched the sky-trash punch through the flesh of the atmosphere
and imagined how wonderful it would be if they didn’t vaporize.
If every piece made it down, smashed into buildings, tore up streets, set the city on fire…
and all living and unliving organics on Mold’Pony
merged into a single ocean of flame and screaming.
Ah… what a view, Zeros thought.
And suddenly he felt warm.
Light.
And maybe—just maybe—even a little excited.
And standing amid this apocalypse—
was Blindy.
Soaked, trembling, pathetic,
like a dog more afraid of thunder
than its own reflection in a warped mirror.
And there he was—Zeros—
walking down a burning street,
beneath a sky raining molten trash,
singing:
“I’m slangin’ through the fiery rain,
this moment hits me like a train,
feels abso-fuckin’ glorious…
I’m sooo happy—what an amazin’ day!
Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!”
Yeah.
Real musical therapy.
Gremlins, honestly—I didn’t even know psychopathic droid frameworks
were capable of emotional pressure buildup.
But this little fantasy…
this agonizing, blazing, glorious vision of the end—
helped.
Helped so much he might actually survive another week
without killing Blindy.