Zeros snapped back to reality, closing the memory file exactly at the moment Blindy screamed again.
He was sitting at the bar, wobbling his glass and staring at the waitress—co-owner of the bar and native of Doce ‘s planet—Tresbola.
A member of a species in which nature, for whatever cosmic joke, decided that three breasts were standard equipment.
Blindy, marinated in moonshine to the state of “brain offline, full idiot mode,” leaned forward and exhaled:
“Look at ’em… all three of ’em, baby…”
Tresbola didn’t even turn her head.
She knew this type: bold only until the first punch.
Blindy grinned stupidly.
“Let me just… touch a lil’… pam-pam—”
Zeros tried to warn him—slowly, without enthusiasm:
“Idiot, don’t. She’s fast as lightning…
Although… y’know what? Do it.
Entertain me for once, you brainless parasite.”
Inside Blindy’s skull, the process Zeros called “alcoholic worship ceremony” was underway. His brain was running ninety percent worse than usual—and his usual function was already ninety percent dysfunction.
He was probably imagining warmth, softness, tenderness—illusions of paradise.
And then—
WHAP!
The hit to the groin landed like a freight platform speeding out of hyperspace.
The world vanished.
Sound vanished.
Colors vanished.
Half a second later:
BAM!—a second strike, straight to the face.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Blindy could handle darkness.
He could drink in the dark.
Sleep in the dark.
Fly through dark space.
Hide from problems in the dark night.
But pure, absolute, metaphysical darkness gave him an allergic reaction of philosophical proportions.
“Shit… I hate philosophical darkness,” he thought from somewhere far away.
Light returned suddenly.
Cruelly.
His face lay on the bar’s sticky floor, reeking of spilled lubricant and assorted bodily fluids.
His groin throbbed.
His cheek burned.
A heavy boot nudged him in the ribs.
Above him loomed Zeros—cold as the Universe’s apathy.
“You deserved that.”
Blindy groaned, rolled onto his back, squinting against the neon.
“Nah… I… regret nothin’.”
He lay there for a second.
“…Alright. I regret a little.”
Tresbola cracked her knuckles, towering over him like a three-breasted goddess of righteous vengeance.
She placed a hand on her chest and said sweetly:
“Mi amor, shall I bring you some ice? Probably muy doloroso.“
Blindy moaned and waved a limp hand.
Zeros sighed—deeply, doomfully—already debating what to do with this walking hazard known as Blindy.
“One day,” he muttered, “I might ask her to finish you off for good.”
Blindy tried to smile, but pain twisted his whole face.
“You… prolly ain’t never seen moves like that…
That some high-level shit…
Ain’t in your Kama Sutra trainin’…”
Zeros slowly turned his head—the slow, mechanical turn of a droid who wishes he had a self-destruct option.
“Blindy…
you are exactly…
as you said yourself five months, four days, three hours, ten minutes, and thirteen seconds ago.”
Freezing pause…
“A meta-fuckeristic moron.”
Blindy collapsed instantly—but squeaked happily:
“Hey! That’s my word! I made that shit up to sound smart!”
Zeros nodded, stepped over him, and returned to his table, leaving his companion on the sticky floor.
“And that’s exactly why it describes you perfectly.”