% $capegoats of the Wholly, Meta-moored Prop$*Ore'pistons

Gutt beckoned me over. "I'd like you to have the honor, son."

I came flying at him like a tennis ball, ricocheting off all remotely solid surfaces. Batman was giving the keys to Robin.

"What do I do!" I exclaimed.

"Just get behind her—name is Heschita—and just twirl her crank for 2 revolutions."

As I gripped her chilly handle, I wondered aloud, "What's gonna happen?"

"It's not loaded with run-of-the-mill shells. Hehe, It'll--" but he spluttered to a halt to caution me of something. "Now I only use this for exceptional purchases. I don't use it for my personal enjoyment. Ever. Understand? DEFCON 1 rarely pops up. In the future we will not use it to go on joy rides or anything so senseless, unless this town becomes rife with monstrosities. Agreed?"

I pondered the contract and decided to reject his offer. Because, let's face it: it defeated the whole purpose of having this doohickey. In fact, it was pathetic. So ridiculous I nearly burst my seams laughing. It wasn't like I could bypass that overkill security system and access it any day of the week I fancied - so the terms and conditions didn't seem to apply.

"I'm not sure why you're laughing," he scolded with a poker face. "This is a humorless transaction. Fix your collar and pick up your suitcase."

"Holy hum-drum heroes, Batman! Are you telling me responsibility can't be enjoyable?" I proceeded to swing an imaginary pen through the air, "The would-be scapegoat hereby refuses to sign under Gutterson's Iron Fist."

His frown touched the bedrock of the deepest abyss. Then he rumbled, "This is bigger than us, but alright. You'll have to learn to play by the rules someday." Then he muttered something dejectedly under his breath, phrases that didn't precisely reach my ear.

"What's the big Deal? Tell me already," I lamented, "Eating my heart out over here."

That might have come off a bit rude. "Since you didn't comply with the terms," he explicitly expressed, "All I'll say is: It'll give us direction."

Well that's inconvenient, not getting briefed, but at least you're not tied to any promises. I pretended to tilt my aim for Gutterson as he stepped clear of the firing range, since the Gatling had some fancy rotational agiliTease inserted within.

"So you're telling me this isn't a gun at all," I muttered. "Should I start calling you Willy Wonka?" But he was onto something: I had no idea how much power or Flavor i was being exposed to.

"The notches you see there by the lever are indicators of each shot-Bundle," Gutt informed. "Spin her twice full, but no more than three. The ratio's a bit sensitive."

I actually paid attention to this part. My grip grew a little clammy. Nervously, I began to rotate the handle while I braced for any smashup. I was surprised it turned light as a baby's rattle. But after the slow completion of the two revolutions, nothing had happened except my partner peeled off a few chuckles, so I stopped & becked befuddled.

"Sorry, gotta swing it a little smoother than that," Batman trained his ignorant sidekick.

"Well in that case," I griped, and raised the handle to the top of its orbit. "Look, Pop, no hands!" and I flung it down with a good amount of velocity.

A string of, "NoNoNoNo!" could faintly be heard over the cacophony of whizzing. Too late -- I staggered back against the burst of light that flooded our sight.

The puff of ammo was far too synchronized to discern individual shots. Where they should have chewed the wall to chump change, the rounds merely punched pockets into the wall as if it was made of dough, throwing up spherical explosions of acute, white-green light. I squinted to count off the holes as they spangled. 1$2<3@4567!!!, 8-9-10-11&*# 2-Welve- thir!teen and I lost count.< p>

It had spun about 3 times around, losing steam as it neared the last cycle.

From the ground, I looked up at my Partner to see what that meant. After he informed me to go faster, the directive on the number of spins totally slipped my mind. Maybe I wasn't so good at retaining information.

Malibu stood there, hands on hips, disquietly marveling at the wounds. "You did it, boy." He turned to marvel at me. "Jolly Roger, you done it. D'you jussdoo what'ver ya want? Your day equal whatyer bowla breakfass tace li'? Orzit whisheverway th'wind blows, whippersnapper?" He didn't slow for proper breaths between speech, causing the words to ooze over each other; a telltale sign that he was disgruntled.

I crawled to my feet, I tried to refute it, but no false claim arrived to redeem me. "You could... say that the machine has a mind of its own."

Stubborn as a sun-baked cow pie," Gut muttered.

My face did feel a little steamy.

"Hermph," he sighed, as I came around the Gatling gun to examine my gaffe. "It probably won't matter in this case, but you could start working on your patience."

That was starting to penetrate my thick skull. Little did I know, I might as well have been the guy at the helm of the Titanic, for all my narrow mind could register was the tip of an iceberg. I could see my face in his uniform that night. 'I'm the captain here; The danger seems clearly out of range, so stick to the course!'

Feeling a bit alarmed, I blurted, "Dishonorable discharge today, but practice makes perfect, eh Cheif?"

"No worries rookie," he comforted. "Take heed though," Dark Knight winked. "The Jokers out there will lock you up and throw away the key for no reason other than that it tickles their pipes."

Talk about a haunting prospect.

Warily, I ventured towards the wall, assessing the craters. There was a pattern. An… impossible pattern.

If you'll remember, Heschita was fastened to the floor. So imagine the 9-caliber chamber, scale it to fit the gun, and keep in mind she can't hardly jiggle a hair while she fires. But the resulting pockmarks did not match up with what a logical observer would assume.

What you'd expect to see would be a simple circle consisting of 9 holes. Every bullet from the 10th should've restarted the chain; sinking back into hole number one, and so on. Never more than nine burrows.

Instead I beheld more than two concentric circles, half still twinkling a faded cobalt. The inside ring was near matching size to Heschita's nozzle. Yet the outer swirl was at least twice that, with holes slanting where they dug in further apart. I then noticed a few shots out of order, irregularly dotting the perimeter; deteriorating into a jagged, encompassing, rectangular shape. And that was hardly the astounding part.

Aligned along the wall shone 8 crescent moons fluctuating of fiery-indigo mixture. They stood inter-spaced, maybe a meter apart, separated at the core by the bullet-Hoops: 4 to the left of the holey Background & well (3.5) to the right. Every crescent was the same length, taller than a man from tip to tail, spanning nearly from ceiling to floor; except for one of the edges was deformed with a drippy bottom-tip.

It was eerie, like staring into a wilderness pond on a starry night; & I do mean the separate colors had taken the shape of pentagons, blasting like a kaleidoscope from one indeterminable point to yet another undetermined outcome, reflections re-coursing with fervor of superNovac ripples.

"How is that possible?" I reflected, enthralled, eyes returning to the 30-something lesions gouged into the surface—not truly of my own will. "The cylinders would have to move, expand, or… or go through a metamorphosis of some kind, DURING the process of firing."

"Contraption doesn't exactly get its fuel source from this dimension," he admitted. "Lends the ability to bend chemical structures on our side."

It was as puzzling, as transcendental as how the universe came into being. What had caused these moons to exist; the Gun which trajected the rounds forth, ore the bullets themselves, creating a reaction as they rammed across the rocky barrier? Could it be me, the shooter? Surely that would be ludicrous: I only cranked a lever, without any idea of the inner gears. But the machine hadn't fired itself... had to be some essence or charge between the sequence, blending. The pair of us yearning for capacity; or perhaps the Elements themselves desiring to have us interact between the environmental Circuits?

I couldn't help being almost envious of my pal. "What the hell did you run into during your stay in the military? In Vietnam particularly?"

"Oh, you dear lamb," he bemoaned. "It's MUCH larger than Vietnam."

"I'm referring to all wars in the Nuclear age," I said, saucily. "Of the Twentieth Century plus."

Malibu nodded. "Let's just say that once upon a time, I was a naive troop. Until the Big Boys wanted to turn over a new leaf with me—not to say that page was healthy." He shook his head gravely. "Back then, I was a reckless junkie: a fool to have wanted to see so much of that stuff." One of his grey-white eyebrows strolled over me sardonically. "Like some guy I know today."

I longed to ask him where he got such tools as that self-assembling box lock, this throwback gun model imbued with unique powers, that…. Freaking INVISIBLE tarp. I wondered if he was connected some third party. Who was really running this show?

"Is it just military, or more like inter-planetary?" I asked.

"You haven't heard this from me," He made clear. "But the stars Themselves never stop singing, and tingling quivers never stop hoping to get drawn into something more intense. You're just not on a Frequency to receive any of those wishes."

I think my teeth fell into my stomach at this point. Despite my basket-case state, I dragged it through my digestive tract and accepted it. "Okay. What's next on the agenda?"

Because my agenda had swelled out of proportion, [apparently into another Dimension] and if I tried to entertain it, I wasn't sure the brain-swelling would come down before national Independence day.

"We adjust a little equation," Gut said.

I scanned the perimeter. "Where?"

He pointed to the moons. "The tunnel drag."