Flash Fiction Month 2016, Day 1
Challenge #1: Community Mashup.
“A variety of breakfast cereals + nihilistic dystopian setting.” ~distortified
“Fairies and NASCAR” ~Megan1289
It has been eighteen years since the Final War. Eighteen years since the mushroom kingdom vanished into mushroom clouds. In the days before, the races were mere sport: entertainment for spectators grown fat on crunch. Now, the races are survival. An endless struggle between the Coco Tyrants and the Sugar Crazies. Those who gain the approval of the ganglords survive. There is nothing more. There is no right or wrong. No mercy or restraint. No choice.
The wheel burns within my grasp. The pedal screams beneath my boot. Beneath the hood, a dual-linked pair of solvent-quenched shredcannons; in the hold, three hundred kilos of high-octane Frosted Flakes.
The Coco Tyrants want them. The Sugar Crazies want them back.
Our cargo is precious: not merely the most important meal of the day, but the most important meal of all time. Enough sugar and crunch to let all the elves in the Nugget Fields rise up and overthrow their gangmasters. Enough cereal to fill the dust bowl.
Enough too, to make the rig sink just a little low in the ash-dry glittersand of the Fairy Road.
It’s not long before we hear the nitrous squeal of a troll-stoked sandrider pulling up alongside, spiked tyres biting deep into the dunes. A grappling pole snares the window of the cab.
“Give us back the crunch!” bellows Lord Humungoblin, veins throbbing in his tumescent forehead. “Give it back, or I’ll snap, crackle, and pop a cap in yo’ ass!”
Imperator Fairyosa gives him both barrels of the sparklegun, right in the face. Her eyes don’t even drift from the twinkling glimmer on the horizon. Not even as Humungoblin’s body tumbles beneath the rig and splatters beneath its tracks.
The troll in the sandrider stretches forward, struggling to reach the wheel, straining to regain control, but he is chained to the furnace. I catch his eyes for just a second before the vehicle hits a burnt-out wreck by the side of the road. It crumples and rolls, the gas furnace rupturing violently on impact.
“Bah!” yells Impmortan Joe. I hear a squeal of tyres as he swerves to avoid the flaming carnage. “Mediogre!”
The howling engines hang back after that, the crews wary of drawing within range of Fairyosa’s firepower. I try to check their distance in the mirrors, but the glass is cracked from the shootout with the raiders of the oatlands. I take a chance, poking my head out through the window. A hail of gunfire greets me.
It is a leprechaun. A leprechaun riding a hoverstar. I grasp about for my pistol, but in the chaos it has tumbled from its holster and beneath the seat. My fingertips are barely brushing it by the time the green hat and orange beard are leering into the cab.
The leprechaun pushes the barrel of a .44 Magnum through the window. “Do you feel lucky, punk?” he demands.
Giving up on the gun, I grab the handle of the door and boot it open. A single shot rips up through the roof as the leprechaun tumbles from his ride.
It is a small victory, but they have many men, and we little time. If we don’t lose them by the Weetabix Wall, it’s clear we won’t lose them at all.
“There’s always the breakfast bomb,” I put in. The rig was designed to protect its bounty from the Coco Tyrants. It was designed to do so no matter what the cost.
Fairyosa shakes her head. “There’s no time delay on the detonator.”
I shrug. “There’s no time full stop.”
She looks at me, and I think then that we both know. We’ve always thought there must be more to life than just the races and the wastes. It’s only now—coming up to the wall, to the only place where one can stand against many—that we know what it is.
“There.” I turn the rig to point at a sloping crack in the wall. An opening beneath a precarious brick of wheat. “Keep her steady.”
I open the door and clamber up onto the roof, the breakfast bomb heavy in my jacket pocket. Shots ricochet from the metal as I climb, but it hardly seems to matter anymore.
Standing atop the rig as it screams towards the Weetabix Wall, staring at the combined land armadas of the Coco Tyrants and the Sugar Crazies as they trail desperately behind, this mad world suddenly has meaning.
I spray a whole can of whipped cream into my mouth. As the Wall flies overhead, I leap from the back of the rig and trigger the breakfast bomb. Too eager to claim his spoils, it is Impmortan Joe who is right behind. His eyes widen as he sees my plan.
I will die historic on the Fairy Road: shiny and gnome.