By that point—
Zeros had reached Blindy.
Who was glued to the HOLO-SCREEN—
watching DWE: Droid Wrestling Entertainment.
On-screen, metal bodies slammed into each other,
sparks flying,
crowd roaring,
bets flashing in neon overlays—
commentators screaming:
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—
IN THE CHROME CORNER—!”
And right at that moment—
Zeros stepped directly in front of the screen.
Blocking everything.
“Get up, you rotten sack of pork.
We’ve got jobs.
We move now.”
Blindy was already halfway into a full-scale alcoholic worship ritual.
His vision had degraded by at least seventy percent.
His tongue had stopped cooperating entirely—
but his lips still attempted communication:
“Yyyou… piss off… I’m waaatchin’…”
He squinted at the holo-screen.
“Shit, let’s throw YOU into gladiaroid fights…
win some cash…Genius… right?”
Zeros didn’t move.
“Those fights are garbage. Rigged garbage.
Built specifically for degenerates like you.Get. Up.”
Meanwhile—
T.8.0.0 had seated the new customers
and began listing Doce’s signature drinks
in the same tone usually reserved for sentencing:
“Acid Blessing. Galactic Stream.
Radiation Compote. Mold Aroma No. 3.
Liquid of Unknown Origin. Bar Sediment.
Tears of the Trash Moon…”
Blindy suddenly lashed out—
his arm sweeping across the counter—
glasses, plates, part of the bar itself
crashing to the floor in a violent cascade.
The crowd gasped.
Blindy bit his own tongue mid-yell:
“NO!
I. AIN’T. GOIN’!
I. AM. STAYIN’. HERE. DRINKIN’!”
Zeros’ fists tightened—
metal fingers cracking with a sound
that made the Stinky Four collectively forget how to breathe.
But T.8.0.0 continued the menu.
Unbothered.
Relentless.
“Royal Waste. Imperial Drain.
Premium Toxic. Pride Double-Sorted.
Archivist Bum Nectar. Mold’pony Single Batch…”
Zeros calmly lifted a round table.
Blindy shut his eyes—waiting for impact.
But instead—
Zeros hurled it sideways.
The table smashed directly into a high-stakes card game.
Chips. Cards. Money.
Everything exploded upward.
The players roared in unison
and instantly descended into a full-contact brawl—
grabbing whatever they could,
including each other.
Still—
T.8.0.0 had not finished.
“…And also, our most signature signatures…”
A slight mechanical hum.
“…Mind-Melter. Pray-for-Your-Liver.
Deluxe Hemorrhage. Breath of the Dump.
Drunken Apocalypse. Meat Panic.
Terminal Soul…”
Blindy staggered to his feet.
Forward.
Back.
Forward again—
like his Drunk Walking Codec™ had frozen mid-execution.
“I! SAID! NO!
GO TO H-H-H-HELL—!”
The crowd trembled.
Loudjaw snapped his teeth and shrieked:
“BOYS—WE GOTTA GO—!”
But T.8.0.0 remained perfectly calm.
“What about…
Warm Touch of the Third?”
Silence answered.
“Triple Mammary Extra Strong.”
Still silence.
“Perhaps… Chest Elixir of Pain.
Though I would recommend…
“Las Tatas Hardcore.”
Bug-eyes raised a shaking hand:
“C-c-can I… g-get… T-Trash Heaven…?”
T.8.0.0 nodded. Slow. Certain. Then raised a metal thumbs-up.
“No problema.
Our royal selection.”
A brief pause—soft mechanical whirring…
“I will return shortly.”
And he walked away—
like a machine heading to execute a target…
but in reality—
just to bring a drink.
At that exact moment—
Zeros lifted his hand
and flicked Blindy square in the forehead.
A perfect red circle bloomed instantly.
The astral third eye of stupidity.
Blindy shut down on the spot.
Zeros slung him over his shoulder
like a sack of unwashed rags—
and, without asking anyone,
started toward the exit.
The crowd parted—
tables and chairs dragged aside—
like the sea opening before Moses.