Gord Zajac - Major Karnage

“All right, I get it. You’re big. What do you use for cash around here? Never know when you can use some local currency.”

The screen changed, showing Dabby Tabby leaning against a money bag and giving a thumbs up gesture. “Welcome to Dabney Financial Services. Please place your palm on the scanner for biometric identification.”

Karnage placed Flaherty’s hand on the screen.

“Thank you, Dr. Flaherty. Would you like to pay debt, refinance debt, borrow funds, or check balances?”

“Borrow funds?”

“Please enter the amount you wish to withdraw.”

“I can do that in here?”

“Please enter the amount you wish to withdraw.”

“Well, if you insist.” Karnage punched in what he considered a reasonable yet significant sum. The console whirred. A number of thin purple bills emerged from the base of the screen. Karnage grabbed them. The bills felt hot, like they’d been freshly printed. They featured Dabby Tabby prominently on their faces. His arm was wrapped around the shoulder of a man with a long face and pencilthin moustache. The words “In Galt We Trust” ran in a semi-circle underneath them. Karnage rubbed the bills between his fingers. “Is this legal tender?”

“Each Dabneybill is one hundred per cent backed by the Dabney Corporation’s guarantee of—”

The console beeped. A surprised Dabby Tabby appeared on the flashing screen. “I’m sorry. Apparently this vehicle has been reported stolen. Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.” The car pulled over to the side of the road and the engine turned off.

“Guess I’m hoofin’ it the rest of the way.” Karnage pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. The console beeped again. “Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.”

“Like hell.” Karnage reached into the backseat for the golf club. The seatbelt tightened against his chest, pulling him out of reach.

“Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.”

Karnage sucked in his chest and stretched his arm into the backseat. The belt tightened further, digging into his neck. Karnage fought to suck air into his lungs. His fingers touched the cold metal of the golf club’s head. He dragged it forward, then wrapped his fist around the handle.

“Please remain seated—”

Karnage smashed the club through the driver’s side window. The club shouted “Hook!” as the Sanity Patch crooned “Peachy Keen.” An alarm blared over the car’s speakers, drowning out both the Sanity Patch and the club. The monitor filled with a picture of Dabby Tabby covering his mouth in an oops-like action.

“I’m sorry. Apparently the anti-theft device on this vehicle has been activated.” The car hummed. Karnage felt the hair on his head stand on end. “The chassis has been electrified with 200,000 volts of electricity. Please stay clear of the vehicle until an authorized representative can—”

“I dunno which of you is pissin’ me off more.” Karnage snagged a shard of broken glass from the window and started sawing through the seatbelt’s shoulder strap. “The one who wants to fry me alive or the one who wants to blow my goddamn head off!” The shoulder strap gave way. It whipped up into the harness. Karnage pulled the limp waist belt off his lap.

“Please remain seated—”

“Fuck you!”

Karnage tossed the golf club through the window.

“Slice!”

He pulled himself into a squat on the car seat, and launched himself through the broken window. He landed in a tuck-and-roll on the pavement.

Flaherty’s car spasmed and rocked. Sparks flew across its hood. Karnage watched from the shoulder on the far side of the road. He rubbed his stubble-covered chin as the vehicle pleaded with its nonexistent passengers to please remain seated. He imagined Flaherty’s arm flopping around on the passenger seat.

“This is where we part company, Doc.” Karnage saluted. “See you in hell.”

Karnage stuck to the road. The slippers he wore were fine for shuffling through hospital wards, but they’d be torn to shreds on the desert terrain.

The pyjamas were fairly well suited for the desert, though. The thin, loose-fitting fabric would promote air circulation and keep him cool. The golf club made a fine walking stick.

The straitjacket was draped over his head to provide him some protection from the desert sun. The heavy fabric would be a burden, but it would help keep him warm during the cool nights.

The sun was still low on the horizon, but pretty soon the temperature would go up and he’d start sweating. Sweat was the enemy. He currently had no water nor means of getting any. He’d have to do everything he could to keep his body temperature below thirty two degrees. He couldn’t travel for long by day. The heat would kill him. He needed to put a couple of klicks between himself and Flaherty’s car, then find a well-camouflaged spot away from the road to dig a shelter and rest until dusk. After that, he’d get back on the highway and follow it until dawn, keeping an eye out for water and any sign of Camp Bailey. He wished he had a compass or knew what his current Globesat coordinates were. For now he’d follow the highway and navigate by the stars.

His first night in the desert was easy.

The moon was full and bright, lighting up the desert landscape in cool shades of grey and blue. If anyone drove by, he’d spot them from miles away. But no one did. Karnage’s only company was his Sanity Patch, cheerfully singing out notifications as his Sanity Level dropped from Peachy Keen down to Frothy Cream. Occasionally he’d swing the golf club over his head, just to hear its friendly voice yell “Slice” or “Hook.” Once in a while he managed to get it to cry out a triumphant “Bunker Busting Backswing!” But not often. Apparently his sand trap skills still needed a lot of work.

Towards the end of the first night, Karnage found an empty plastic water bottle lying in the gravel beside a half-eaten sandwich still clinging to its plastic wrap. Karnage chucked the sandwich (digestion wasted too much water) and added the bottle and plastic wrap to his inventory.

He found a lush patch of desert brush near a dry creek bed. He dug down with the golf club until he hit damp soil. Water filled the base of the hole. He filled the plastic bottle with his hands, filtering the water through the thin fabric of his pyjama top stretched over the opening. What I wouldn’t give for some potassium permanganate. He chugged it down. The grit in the water caught in his teeth. He hoped it wouldn’t give him the shits.

The shits never came, but by the end of the second night, he hadn’t found another source of water. So he drank his own piss. Just as dawn was about to break, he dug a hole in the ground and used the plastic wrap and water bottle to create a makeshift solar still.

The still worked about as well as he expected, which was not well at all. By the beginning of the third night, the water bottle was barely a quarter full. He gulped it down, then filled the bottle with his piss, and chugged it again. His piss was thick and orange, more like a syrup than a liquid. He imagined the blood in his veins going the same way, slowly turning to mud as the water drained from his body. Muddying up his body. Muddying up his brain.

He couldn’t let that happen. He had to keep his faculties. If he lost his mind, he’d lose everything. Focus, soldier. Stay the course.

The cold desert wind whipped at Karnage’s face. His lips were chapped. His eyelids felt like sandpaper against his eyes. His joints were stiff. Every movement was sluggish. He felt as if he was slowly drying up, like a ball of clay left out in the sun. He wanted to lie down and curl up and sleep. Let the winds pull the last of the moisture from his body, and let the rest of him crumble and blow away.