“Alright then, you cosmic gremlins…
Let’s start a new story.
And head back to where it all began…”
A neon sign buzzed above the entrance:
THREE TITS
no fists, life hits.The bar was still right where it had always been—
wedged between a collapsed warehouse, an abandoned walker-wash,
and some god-knows-what kind of hole that occasionally coughed up smoke
and profanity in an unknown language.
The sign flickered in neon,
like it was trying to remember
what exactly it was advertising.
Inside, as always, gathered a very particular crowd—
the kind the universe usually sweeps under the rug:
- mutants whose number of eyes, limbs, and joints had long surpassed anything biology would consider “reasonable,” and whose manners had never been installed to begin with;
- space drunks, plumbing the depths of philosophy at the bottom of a glass, only to surface with a fresh existential crisis and a strong case of nihilism;
- mercenaries who came in “just for a drink” and left having gambled away everything—honor, reputation, and, not infrequently, a kidney or two;
- smugglers who swore they were “off the clock,” yet somehow still ended up tangled in Doce’s latest schemes;
- lost tourists dreaming of a cute selfie for INSTAGRIM, only to find themselves featured instead in far more viral posts on X3.space;
The smell was unmistakable—
a blend of cheap booze, rusted metal,
and barely concealed hopelessness.
Behind the bar, Doce polished glasses with six hands.
T-8.0.0 delivered drinks like he was looking for an excuse to kill someone.
Tresbola slid between tables—like the khaleesi of the bar, somehow charming and intimidating customers with the same smile.
And the music from an ancient jukebox rumbled on,
like an old engine moments before it blew.
[A very old space-blues track—JUKEBOX #7—crackled to life, sounding like it was reminding everyone of debts unpaid, chances wasted, and mistakes that could never be fixed]The bar lived its usual life—
loud, stupid, completely insane—
and absolutely perfect for the beginning of a new story.
A story that could only be written by someone officially registered as:
- Author: degeneration level—critical.
- Too late to save.
- Treatment pointless.
- Mandatory therapy—failed miserably.
- Best not to interfere.
- Let him keep writing his bullshit.
[Dick dragged a hand across his face, smearing red streaks with a kind of tiredness that felt less like wiping away dirt and more like trying to erase his entire life.
He exhaled—slow, deep, resigned—
like a man who understood this wasn't rock bottom…
this was the foundation beneath it]Anyway—
Zeros burst in.
Didn’t walk in. Didn’t knock.
He came through like a battering ram.
The door slammed back,
the hinge screamed for exactly 12.4 seconds,
the wood cracked like it had chosen tonight to die.
The entire bar went silent.
Every last whisper.
Every last compressor fart.
Thirty-eight species, eighty regulars,
three hundred twenty eyes—
on average, yeah; some had more, some less, one guy had just one but it was the size of a helmet—
ALL of them turned toward the door with the same expression:
“Oh, we are SO fucked.”
And when they saw who it was—
they froze even harder.
So hard you could almost hear
ten separate sphincters snapping shut at once.
Behind Zeros came Blindy,
scratching the back of his head and yawning loudly—
like he hadn’t just walked into a death bar,
but into his own shack after a long, lousy night.
They walked straight to the counter—
to Doce,
who was juggling:
shot glasses,
bottles,
money,
and, somehow, two of his free hands—
like a street performer distracting you
while pickpockets quietly remove your last remaining dreams.
T-8.0.0 tried to step in their way…
stopped halfway…
turned a full 180 degrees
and calmly walked back,
pretending he had never been there,
had never even come out onto the floor tonight,
and had, in fact, spent the entire evening in the workshop
changing oil or something.
And all three hundred twenty eyes
followed
as two of the universe’s finest lunatics
made their way to the bar—
across a floor that had just become
a death carpet.
They reached the counter.
Blindy automatically raised his hand, already opening his mouth:
“Doce, get me—”
Zeros ignored him completely.
As if human requests passed through a filter labeled:
discard aggressively.
He leaned in toward Doce.
“You fat bastard. You called us. Said there was a job.
So talk—before I get bored
and take your little nutcracker apart bolt by bolt.”
He glanced at T-8.0.0.
The machine froze mid-step—
beer in hand, processor somewhere between panic and meltdown—
then abruptly turned away, pretending he was very busy
serving those people over there, in that far corner.
Doce sighed.
“Chico metálico… always a pleasure to see you.
About the same kind of pleasure as diarrhea after constipation.Yeah, there’s a job.
Just not from me.Garr-Tuun ‘Double-Mass.’
That pendejo’s your client.”
He pointed with one of his free hands toward the far corner of the bar.
There, sprawled out like he owned the place, sat a terrifying lobster-like mercenary—
from the planet Lóng Xiā, colonized by China four one thousand hundred years ago.
Ever since then, the locals had developed a suspicious resemblance
to a seafood menu.
Zeros:
“Tsk.”
Blindy, still trying to order a drink, waved his hand dismissively.
“Yeah, yeah, dick-droid—don’t start, buddy.
I heard they’re decent folks…
even lend you money if you play nice with ’em.You go on ahead—
I’ll just… wet my throat a bit… catch up…”
He didn’t finish.
Zeros grabbed him by the collar,
lifted him like a dead boar,
and dragged him along.