This is just a small writing I thought up yesterday. If it turns out to be any good then maybe I'll write more.
Butch
The names Butch. You may also call me Butch the Butcher, or Clay face Butch, or Butch the Barbaric Beast of Butchery, but that’s a bit lame if you ask me. You can also call me Butchie, that is if you like to have your limbs ripped from your smashed torso and screaming head. To be honest I do not find my given name to be any creative, or in fact, matching with my persona. If you dismiss that little notice about ripping limbs, i’m a pretty nice guy….thing, it, construct, or whatever. By now you should have guessed i’m not your Avareage Joe type person, I’m a C. golem. C as in clever, cunning, and for most of the part,
Clay.
My story is not a long one, but it should be intriguing for all of you dorky-dorky reading types. I live, or better put, exist in a city called Mogrogoth. It’s really just a big tin place, with lots of slums, sewers and suicide tourism. With the most ground level hyper-train rails and the longest air walk-bridge on the continent, it’s a Mecca for guys and gals fed up with life. A little blood splatter on the morning train ride to work or the sight of misanthropes spending twelve minutes in free fall really makes your day.
As far as employment is concerned I work for Don Garderobe, the most malicious and blood thirsty Mafia leader in the under city. He’s also as high as my thighs, so you can say he’s got a Napoleon complex. My employment was invoked by a rather unprecedented event. The ruling government voted the founding of a new Crime fighting agency. The so called Mental Observing and Retribution Order of National Security, a.k.a M.O.R.O.N.S.
These morons, I mean M.O.R.O.N.S basically were mentalists, bub’s who can read other bub’s minds. It’s really simple. With a bit of gene treatment, and arcane magic plus a few cybernetic implants the upper class spawned a thousand and one telepathic golden boys. It’s hard to organize a raid, or to assassinate your ex-wife, when the Fed’s know all your moves right after you thought them up.
There were a few messy months, lots of government raids, and assaults. Tonns of civilian casualties, paired with nasty explosions and a horrifying bills for the damages. There were only a hand full of solutions on the Mafia’s part. Solution one : Use big hitting but
butt-stupid strong arms. The telephats can only detect organized thoughts. This solution was applied with success at first, henchmen got injected with a dummy serum, permanently reducing their intellect. But one of these human shaped Gorillas screwed up big time. He was ordered to assassinate a judge and all potential witnesses around, to beat up a shop owner who refused to pay his "insurance", and to reward a dentist for a job well done. (implanting depleted uranium coronas in the mouth of the Don’s godson) Not suprisingly, the mug killed the dentist, beat up the judge and 23 bystanders, and finally gave the money to the shop owner. After all dummyfied henchmen got
unemployed (shot, stabbed, and poisoned) the Don tried another solution.
Zombies. Undead soldiers. He hired a Necromancer to reanimate the previously assailed dumb grunts. The result : A dumb and rotting army of un useable henchmen, their stench crawled up even to the mayor’s high tower.
And then, as an Adamantine Nail in the Boss’s head, came the final solution. Constructs. Cyborgs and Androids were lame, expensive, and suffered from „terminator complex” way too often. So the Don turned to Smarangadfalast, or Smarty, the brown wizard. He was contracted to construct a series of magical Golems, all bind to the Don’s will by the magical amulet tingling in the boss’s neck. Sadly, M.O.R.O.N.S was disbanded after one of the telepathic knuckle heads found out that high ranking City officials were being bribed by the Don. The government deemed the agency corrupt, and recalled the Telepathic licenses to save it’s own hide, the now unemployed mind readers got the Dummy treatment, just in case. The Don happily sold the serum’s recipe for a not too hefty sum. Everybody was satisfied, except for Smarangadfalast, my creator. He accidentally got shot seventy four times by a hay wired police drone, he knew too much.
As for me, I was the only Golem he created. He outfitted me with everything a massive engine of destruction needs. Ugly face, the lack of nose, deformed lower lip, big bulky hands, and eyes blank as a canvas painted by a blind guy lacking arms, legs and teeth. He made me pretty tough if I do say so myself. I am impervious to bullets, fire, cold, ordinary and basic magic weapons, bathtubs, kitchen sinks, rhinos and kryptonite. He got me a nice little intellect too, probably copied some of his own, and spiced it up with a bit of blood thirst and weird humor. Too bad he couldn’t add that final touch. I can’t speak. Not a peep, no sound, nada. That’s why I write this journal instead of making an audio log…
and the illsutration:
Thats Butch right there, made him myself, in flash 8.
So. tell me your thoughts and feelings!
Pwetty please.
