Gord Zajac - Major Karnage

No. He had to keep going. He couldn’t give up. He forced his screaming feet onward. Willed his stiffening joints to creak forward. He squinted his eyes shut, relishing the discomfort. He would make it out of here alive. He would find those squiggly alien bastards that kidnapped his troops, and he would rescue them.

Failure is not an option!

Karnage hugged the straitjacket to his chest, trying to warm his shivering hands. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. Karnage repeated his comrades’s names as he marched on. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. It became his mantra, his reason for being. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. He could hear their voices cheering him on with each agonizing step.

“You can do it, Major!”

“Damn right, Cookie.”

“You got the cojones, sir!”

“You got that right, Velasquez.”

“You’ve got it in you, sir!”

“Amen to that, Koch.”

“I’ve got faith in you, Major.”

“Is that you, Heckler?”

“You bet your ass it is, John.”

Karnage grinned. Now he knew he was hearing things. Old Heckler hadn’t spoken a word in years. Not since that day in Kandahar, the worst day of—

The War!

Battle and bullets and flames! Bombers buzzing as they fly overhead. Their payloads whining as they hurtle towards the scorched earth. The night sky strobin’ and flashin’ and pulsin’ like a goddamn disco inferno. Debris and dirt and mud and pain and screams flyin’ in all directions. Forward march, soldiers! Forward! Take ’em all! Shoot and fire and kill and die-die-die—

Karnage slapped himself. The Sanity Patch crooned “Citrus Blast” as the visions of battle faded, returning to the black expanse of starry night.

A single flickering light refused to clear from the sky. Karnage stared at it, trying to will it out of existence. It disappeared. Then, a second later, it flashed back. It didn’t look anything like an explosion or muzzle flash. In fact, it looked more like—

Letters! Pink and green neon letters winking in and out of existence. Were they real? Or was he finally losing his mind? Karnage squinted, trying to see them better. The flickering letters coalesced into words. “Upchuck Charlie’s. Good Eats!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the road curved towards the sign. If he’d had the energy, Karnage would have cheered. Step after agonizing step, the sign grew larger before him. His body ached more than ever. On some primal level it believed it was already there. That the mere sight of this sign was salvation enough. He could stop fighting now. Lie down, close his eyes, and—

Karnage let out a short grunt as he jerked himself forward. Keep moving, mister! You ain’t saved yet! You got a ways to go! Don’t give up on me now! Lift those knees!

Karnage’s feet stepped off the road and onto the smooth pavement of the parking lot. The diner was a dark shadow of chrome and mirrored glass beneath the flickering sign. A smaller neon sign hung in the double glass doors of the entrance: OPEN.

A feeling of relief washed over Karnage. Just a few more steps, and he’d be back in the welcoming glow of civilization. His eyes caught a second sign hung beneath the OPEN sign. “No shirt, no shoes, no service!”

Karnage checked his reflection in the glass. His eyes were sunken. His cheeks hollow. The stubble on his face was thick. Karnage buckled up the straitjacket and tucked it into his pyjama pants. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, trying to work out the knots. There wasn’t much he could do about the slippers. He hoped there was enough of them left to constitute shoes. He braced the golf club against his shoulder, thrust out his chest, mustered what he could of his military brace, and marched into the diner.

Inside, the diner was bright and gleaming. All chrome and glass shining off a polished floor of black and white checkerboard linoleum. A blue-haired waitress—whose name tag proclaimed her to be Darla—was sitting at a booth, stuffing napkins into dispensers. A grime-covered short order cook mopped behind the counter. The bell above the door tinkled as Karnage walked in. They looked up and stared. Feeling conspicuous, Karnage gave his straitjacket one last smoothing down before mustering enough saliva to speak.

“Evening,” Karnage said.

“Evening,” Darla said.

“Mind if I sit down?” Karnage asked.

The short order cook loudly cleared his throat. Darla looked at him. He shook his head madly. Darla shook her head back, as if to ask if she wanted him to say no. The cook nodded. Darla nodded back, as if to ask if she should say yes. The cook shook his head. While they shook and nodded their heads, Karnage fished the crumpled wad of Dabneybills from his waistband and held them out. “I can pay,” he said.

Darla looked at the money, then back at the short order cook. He shook his head again.

Darla broke the silence. “We can’t afford to be picky, Charlie.”

The cook thrust a dirty hand towards Karnage. “For gawdsake, look what he’s wearing!”

“The sign says no shirt, no shoes, no service,” Darla said. “Doesn’t say nothing about no straitjackets.”

Charlie scowled. Darla scowled back. They traded facial expressions back and forth, a silent argument raging through the air. Finally, Darla launched a particularly vicious raised eyebrow, and Charlie crumpled.

“He pays up front.” The cook scowled and retreated to the kitchen.

Karnage slid into the nearest booth. Darla gave him a menu. “You want something to drink, sweetheart?”

“Pitcher of water,” Karnage pulled a couple bills free of his wad and placed them on the table. “Orange juice. Salt. Sugar. Baking powder.”

Darla looked up from her notepad. “Baking powder?”

Karnage nodded.

“Okay.” Darla picked up the bills and disappeared into the kitchen. Karnage looked over the menu. Everything on it was branded with Dabby Tabby. Dabby Burgers. Dabby Fries. Dabby Pizza. Dabby Ice Cream. Karnage shut his eyes. This cat was making his head throb.

Darla returned with his drinks and a small saucer full of baking powder. She nodded to the condiments on the table. “Salt and sugar are right there, sweetheart.”

Karnage dumped the orange juice and baking powder into the pitcher. He poured in a handful of sugar and a sprinkling of salt after it. He mixed it up and drank straight from the pitcher. He fought the urge to gulp and took slow sips. He didn’t want to puke it back up again.

“That drink got a name?” Darla asked.

Karnage wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No.”

“You decide what you want yet?”

“You got anything on this menu that don’t got a cat on it?”

Darla pointed to a peeling sticker at the base of the menu. “Well, there’s the zardburger. I don’t recommend it, though. It’s what puts the upchuck in Upchuck Charlie’s.”

“Gimme two of ’em.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Darla took the menu and disappeared into the back.

Karnage took another swig from his pitcher and closed his eyes. He’d done it. The desert had tried to kill him, and he’d given it the finger. He’d made it this far, he could make it the rest of the way. He’d find out what kind of supplies they had here before he headed out again. Get himself a proper canteen and some desert survival gear. Even a plastic knife was better than none at all. He had money. He could resupply this time and do it right. Now all he had to do was find Camp Bailey, and he was—

An eerie static burst into Karnage’s ears. There was something about it that caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end. Something not quite right about it. Something downright…