No Rest 4 Wicked Botniks Chapter 4

Bobby Malone #3: Lightning Reflexes

Tyler B. Morrison

Sep 02, 2023

Available for iOS and Android

NO REST 4 WICKED BOTNIKS

CHAPTER 4 Bobby Malone #3:

Lightning Reflexes

The cigarillo was thrown: Russian on first, to catcher Bobby Malone. 8-ball, corner eye pocket.

But maybe God did love Bobby. Because somehow, by outrageous luck, he reached for the projectile and plucked the fiery tube safely out of the air, bare inches from his face. It was a stroke of grace or pure magic shamrock.

Bobby paused for a long moment before using the other man’s cherry to light his own cigarette. And puff it good. He smiled.

After enjoying that long drag and exhale, Bobby stomped away the remains of the Russian’s makeshift projectile. Then Bobby found himself using his old negotiator voice from back in the Tarrant City Metro days, calm and confident, soothing but firm. His cigarette drooped cowboy-style from his lips.

“Like I said,” Bobby began. “I’m a P.I., and I’m here for two things: Irish, and information. I’ll pay generously for each. But I’m not leaving til I’ve had ‘em both."

The Golem unit took two more colossal steps toward him and pointed the rotary cannon right at his chest. “Disarm. Disarm,” it ordered lifelessly. Like its massive chain-gun, the rab’s six photoreceptors were all now pointed at him, and they all flashed a warning Red.

The anonymous bartender rubbed his head, then crossed his arms and spat again. “Well, it’s like I say: ‘Bar. Is. Closed.’” He nodded toward the botnik thug.

The Golem-III pressed closer in response, its humongous rifle barrels butting up against Bobby’s chest. “Disarm,” it repeated. “Disarm. Disarm. Disarm. Disarm.”

“Sure thing, fridge,” said Bobby. He clasped his cigarette for a good huff and puff and then let it return to its casual droop from the side of his wily grin.

Then, in almost comical slow-motion, he placed his hands back into the deep pockets of his trench coat. With equally exaggerated carefulness, Bobby withdrew them to produce two items. He held each up high in the air for the bartender and bot to inspect.

In his right hand he held what the Germans called a kurzdrehschrotflinte. It was his rusty trusty Rothbauer—a four-shot all-steel saboted slug revolver. The Rothbauer was more than capable of denting the jumbo robot. It’d put holes on the other side too.

But the bartender was squinting at the item in Bobby’s left hand. From his expression, Bobby could tell the man had no idea what he was holding. Good.

It was a funny little device, to be fair: long, thin, and translucent. The object looked like it was formed from some crystalline material. Its shape made you think of a pen, or a blade maybe, or even a syringe.

The bartender pointed to the device. “Shto eto takoye? Shto eto?” he said.

Bobby kept his eyes focused on the botnik at his side. It was about to make its move.

"What is that?” the bartender demanded, this time in Plain Meric.

The Golem’s massive joints creaked as it bent and reached its arm down and across to the giant gun in Bobby’s right hand. Slowly but surely, the botnik’s menacing claw was about to close its vicious grip around the Rothbauer. After that, any attempt at resistance would be over before it began. Bobby’s night would be over, for good.

But a split second before he was disarmed, Bobby twisted aside and brought his left hand up in one lightning-fluid motion. He stabbed and shattered the botnik’s nearest eye, shoving the EMP spike as far as it could go up the camera tubing. The sound box exploded in pain, a beautiful noise, just like the pleasant crunch of the botnik’s lens excuse for an eye.

The spike filled up with blue-white light, then detonated. Azure sparks showered out of the gouged-out ommatophore. A wave of energy rippled through the botnik’s hull and crashed into the electronic viscera within. And like that…

Bobby snapped his finger.

The Golem’s rotary cannon started spinning ominously for all of two Mississippi as the rest of it shook violently. Then the whole thing tumbled backwards in a thunderous collapse. It lost almost all power before it even hit the floor.

More blue sparks bubbled up like blood from the ruined botnik’s eyes. Then the machine fizzled out into stillness and silence. Finally. Bobby let out a small sigh of relief, then hurried to make his next move.

The bartender was trying to grab something from under the counter, but Bobby had already closed the rest of the distance during the botnik’s final moment of agony. So he had the big ol’ Rothbauer trained right on the bartender’s skull. “Dropit,” he commanded softly.

Baldie did so, and kicked it ten feet away before he was even asked. Bobby glanced over. Oh, hello there.

The gun Baldie had been reaching for was a Sino-Corp AP-56, popularly known as a “Kung-Pow.” It was an ultracompact Chinese SMG, almost as small as a machine pistol, but a hell of a lot nastier. That piece right there made old-school Uzis look like peashooters.

Bobby’s eyes flickered momentarily, almost boggling, as he thought of just how many bullets he had just avoided. Then he put his game face back on.

“Gee, thanks,” Bobby muttered. He straddled one of the stools, took off his hat, and lowered his right hand so that the handle of the Rothbauer rested on the bar top. The shotgun revolver’s massive barrel was still pointed up at Baldie, Bartender-Anonymous, Esquire.

Bobby Malone continued smoking with his left hand. He rested his elbows on the bar top and eased most of the tension in several muscles: his neck, his shoulders, and his back. Some bones cracked.

He grinned for a moment, enjoying his victory. It would take a blind, deaf epileptic to miss brain from this distance. The bartender understood that as well as Bobby.

“So… What’s your name?” asked Bobby, his voice deep and dark with barely restrained violence and exhaled smoke.

“Dmitry,” the man grunted, arms stiff at his side.

“Alright,” said Bobby. “Hmm, Dimka, is it? Dimmy the Dummy. Hmmm...”

Bobby’s lips quirked, expanding his already large grin. Bobby took in a lungful of nicotine and slowly blew out a thick cloud of smoke straight into the other man’s face.

Bobby Malone stared cold-eyed at Dmitry, who stared back, panicked.
Bobby chuckled darkly. “Well,” he said. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”

END OF CHAPTER 4.