This is complete nonsense, and it's kinda fun. Anyhoo.
-LESS APPROPRIATE THAN MY USUAL FARE. PREPARE FOR THE PUERILE!-
Let's do that, only with gophers.
Meatball’s thoughts were interrupted as the ground came rushing at him. Oh, right. I was gonna do a can-opener. I must have missed the pool. He spread his arms and legs instead. Oh well. I can still set the record on land with a belly flop.
He hit the grass with a crunch. There was only a millisecond of pain before the world went black. By the time he finally regained consciousness, his muscles were stiff and his STEM was empty.
Gotta make sure to hit the pool next time. He stood up to inspect the damage.
It was disappointing. The grass and its roots had absorbed most of the shock. There was a vaguely-Meatball-shaped crater, but it wasn’t very deep, and he doubted he sent much soil into the air. The previous splash record-holder had won - this day.
Meatball frowned when he heard a new sound. It took him several seconds to find the source: a white sphere, many times his size, was plummeting towards him. A meteor? That was impossible, those were destroyed long before they could hit the shell.
He held up a hand to stop it from hitting him, but then remembered his empty STEM. With a shrug, he decided to hold his ground anyway. It wasn’t like him to run from a challenge, even when failure meant death.
The enormous sphere hit him, forcing his arms and legs to bend, but it bounced back with surprisingly little effort. Meatball cocked his head to one side in confusion, but then noticed the many dimples on its surface. He knew this object, even though golf was for pussies. The size of the ball didn’t impress him; it just convinced him he’d fallen into the world’s biggest pussy at play.
Meatball folded his arms and waited. Before long, he heard the hum of an electric engine approaching from the direction the ball had come. An enormous golf cart crested the hill and bore down on him.
“Wha’ be this?!” the driver screamed in a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent. He was scrawny even by normal standards, and definitely too small to warrant such a huge golf cart. “I missed?! I never miss! Glasgow-dammit, I been bewitched!”
The cart transformed as it drew closer, mechanisms flipping and particles rearranging until it became a giant golfer robot - complete with flat cap. It drew its putter from the bag and walked towards it ball. “First time ah’ve had ta settle fer an eagle… oh, who’re you? Did you stop me ball? Waitaminnit, DID YOU MAKE A DIVOT ON ME GREEN?!
Meatball gave the driver his squintiest sidelong glance. “Golf is for pussies.”
“Tha’s it, ya wee wanker! FREEDOM!” The robot swung its putter down to smash Meatball, but he skipped out of its way. The golfer rained blows down, doing impressive damage to his course but never hitting Meatball. “Ya don’t stamp yer divot an’ now ya addin’ strokes to me round! I’ma flatten ya proper!”
“What’s the point of using a robot?” Meatball asked. “Were you so terrible at your terrible game you had to make a robot to play for you?”
“Shaddup, dunderheed!” The golfer-zord’s swings became even more frenzied. “Mebbe I was born ta love th’ game but didn’t ‘ave the muscle memory fer it! Why shoul’ that disqualify me from playin’?!”
“I’m not sayin’ you can’t play,” Meatball corrected. “Buildin’ a robot ta do your work is somethin’ a pussy would do, and golf’s for pussies. You’re overqualified.”
Meatball jumped and let the shell’s gravity pull him towards the cockpit. Metal shutters clanged closed before he could enter, and the robot swatted him back to the ground. He rolled to avoid another swing from the putter.
“Whaddya know, ya ‘roided-up runway-prancer?! I bet yer golf balls’re more like them hippo food-marbles! FEED THEM HUNGRY HIPPOS, YA BANGER-BANGER! Now why don’tcha go oil up’n stuff yer thong fer the swimsuit competition, ya superficial git?!”
“Maybe I will, with your robot’s nuts ‘n bolts!” Meatball dashed for the robot’s left foot. “We’ll see after I break you apart and bury you in 18 different graves!”
“Oh, wanna try yer hand at th’ game after all?” the golf ranger tried to shake the bodybuilder off his robot’s leg. “Now who’s th’ pussy?!”
“Still you. I’m just gonna give you the pussy burial you deserve.”
“I appreciate th’ sentiment, but once I kill ya, don’t count on bein’ stuffed, greased up, and put on display fer all eternity! I ain’t got ‘smuch free time’s your meatbound arse!”
The impromptu duel continued for several minutes with neither combatant getting an advantage. The short, scrawny golf-engineer would have been easy pickings if his mech weren’t as good at fighting as it was golf. Plus, Meatball had already exhausted his STEM, giving him a further handicap.
This wasn’t anything to complain about. The world was a harsh place, and it only got better as it got harsher. If he wanted to see the next great thing, he’d need to be able to survive at least this much. This was what it meant to be Eugene.
Eventually, Meatball managed to destroy one of Caddy the Decepticon’s knees. The robot toppled over, and once prone, Meatball knew it was only a matter of time. While it thrashed and flailed valiantly, Meatball dismantle the right shoulder and jam the left with scrap from the portions he’d already ruined. If he was an engineer worth his title, then the robot would have self-repair protocols, but Meatball wouldn’t give the golfer time.
To his surprise, the wannabe scot was waiting for him on the mech’s chest when Meatball got up there. The engineer had a bag full of normal clubs, and upon seeing Meatball he drew one.
“There can be only one!” He screamed as he charged Meatball. He swung the club at Meatball’s neck, but it only bent around his frame. “Gah, me four-iron! Ye’re lucky I didn’ come prepared fer a fight, ye’d be starin’ up me battle gown!”
Meatball was stunned. He didn’t reply.
“Don’t you be thinkin’ ah’m done, I got thirteen more for ya’s!”
“I take it back. You’re not a pussy.”
The golfer paused drawing his second club. “Eh?”
“I thought I’d have to pull you screaming out of your pilot’s seat, but you rushed out to face me. With a full set of people-sized golf clubs, no less. You do love this game. You tried to play it the right way. In the end, this robutt’s as much a tool as those clubs are. I misjudged you, and maybe I even misjudged golf a little bit. Sorry.”
A tear formed in the golfer’s eye, but he quickly wiped it away. “Tha’s alrigh’, laddie. No damage done! Well, cept to me bot and me green, but…”
“Oh, right.” Meatball scanned his surroundings until he found the spot where he landed. He took a mighty leap off the robot and trudged through the ruined grassland to reach it. “Let’s see, ‘stomp the divot down…’” he retrieved as many usable strips of sod as he could and stamped them onto his crater.
“Wha’s yer name, lad?” the golfer called.
“Meatball. And you?”
“Ah’m Scott. pleased ta meet ye.”
“Same here,” Metaball frowned as he stomped. He’d made a friend, but now he was gonna be bored. What should he do? “Is the city close, Scott?”
“The city?” he chuckled. “No, lad. Even someone tough as you’s gonna need weeks ta get there. Ya want a ride, though? I can get ya there in no time.”
“If it’s not too much trouble. I mean, I’d owe you one. I guess I already sorta do…”
“Ferget it, the bot’ll mend itself and I’ll get Alan’s mopey ass on fixin’ the green. I gotta warn ye, though. The closest part o’ the city’s gonna be a long drive, even fer me bot. Can ya ‘andle the g-forces?”
Meatball was confused for a moment. Oh, not a vehicle drive. Golf drive. I get it. “Challenge accepted.”
The golfbot took 10 minutes to mend itself, once they dragged its missing limbs back into place. Its nanocomponents refused the broken pieces, and it was back on its feet soon after. Scott climbed inside and had it generate a special transportation ball with shock absorbers all around the passenger compartment at its center.
“There any particular part o’ the city ya need to be, lad? I can only hit a few spots from here, and I cain’t get ya all the way up t’the shell.”
“Anywhere’s fine. Alan’ll take care of me once I’m back.”
“Alrigh’. I shouldn’t miss, but if I do, take care o’ them muties n’ monsties. Y’know how the wilds c’n be.”
“I do. Don’t worry about that. It’s been a pleasure, Scott. Good luck with your game.”
“Thanks Meatball! ‘member ta brace yerself once it closes behind ya.”
Meatball shot him a thumbs-up and climbed in. The ball and smaller passenger compartment slid closed, and Meatball braced himself against the circular walls as he felt Scott place him on the tee.
“Fore-tee-FORE!” came the muffled shout, and then Meatball flew. There were several seconds of intense weight, enough to make even Meatball wonder if her might be crushed. Once he could breathe again, though, he smirked. Easy.
As he sliced through the sky, Meatball felt like he’d forgotten something.
Carl from Caddyshack, Meatball has failed you and your greenskeeper. The hell is going on here, anyway? This might explain it, but prolly not very well.
No comments:
Post a Comment