I had so much fun last week creating the Genre Smash up that I ‘m going to continue and make it a trend. This week Chuck over at Terribleminds has us picking a random TV Trope from TVtropes.org and write a piece of flash fiction on that.

Carnage at the Creek 6

Looks like this week’s challenge will be a fun one. Blood Sport. Ah, images of a Jean-Claude Van Dam doing the splits on two chairs. As for the rest? I only remember that because well, he is that awesome.

Like Steven Segal says,

What is your favorite Blood Sport movie?

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The following is my first flash fiction piece from an assignment given by Chuck Wendell over at his awesome site. I haven’t written in so long that it’s almost painful, but here goes – it has been a long time, and it was definitely worth it!

I rolled up two genres and smashed them together: Grindhouse and Techno-Thriller. Neat combination there. The story also had to feature a rare bottle of liquid, and a pool of blood.

I knew almost nothing about Grindhouse, so I got a hold of two movies, Death Proof and Planet Terror. Both are awesome movies. As for the Cognac in this story, I got the idea while visiting a liquor store waiting to get into a movie with a good friend. Either way, enjoy the read!

Whereas Hans Finds The Achilles Heel Of The Nombies

Where the fuck did they go? He wished for the hundredth time that he had the cash to get those Nubot injections to improve his sight. Payment plan be damned, if he had known that the Nano-robotic cells would eventually replicate and “improve” their hosts, he would have signed up, fuck his credit. Then again, he would’ve been on the other side of this firefight.

Two darkened spots of energy burned into the shelves beside him as he hauled his ass through the aisles ducking the covering fire from the blasters. Glass bottle tops popped like mini rockets as the sizzling projectiles whizzed past, spouts of liquor pouring from the top like a mad kiddie pool.

Ever since the Nubot became self-aware, no one knew what they wanted with their hosts. Hans heard that the Nano-robotic cells controlled their hosts through the spinal cord, sending commands up to the brain. They literally replaced the neural pathways with synthetic nanobotic cells. The hosts obeyed the commands of their symbioses without question once the neural interweb that governed one’s self awareness were overwritten.

They became zombies. Nombies, if you would. Bent on procreating by replication. We may have solved Cancer, A.I.D.S. and Diabetes, but with something far worse. Give us the old stuff back!

The light fixture overhead exploded in a shower of florescent glass and yellow sparks as Hans dived into the nearest aisle to avoid the fire of the three bastards closing in on him.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was it so hard to focus? He tried to breathe through crusty kerchief to avoid the heavy smoke. His sternum felt like someone was trying to carve their name in it, his heart was beating as if he had taken a few bumps and was having a hard time coming down. Only this didn’t have the baby blanket comfort that other shit usually had.

Hans pulled back the hammer on his pistol. Aww fuck, there were no bullets left.

We all heard of zombies as kids, Hans thought. They’re supposed to be slow, dumb, and looking for brains. These men were like the heroes in those movies that Wrestling Federation put out. One man wrecking machines that couldn’t be killed. Complete bullshit there, real here. Figures.

Flickering lights from the dying florescent light danced on an ornate case holding the store’s prized bottle of something or other. No sign of the bastards, but his eye kept coming back to the price on that amber liquid in a silly shaped bottle. Slightly opaque, dreamy with all those fancy French decorations, in a burgundy lock case complete with a golden lock. Hell, for a price tag of $2800, it better damn well come with a safe.

He hurled his empty gun into a nearby display of wine bottles; one bottle fell from the side and smashed on the floor, a lovely purple design on the grey tiled floor. Huh, perhaps that was an omen. He booked it in the opposite direction.

The case imploded behind him, a ball of white energy slammed into the expensive case and the safety glass first fogged up then rained in clumps onto0 the floor. Hans found himself curled into a tight ball. Trust those fucking Nubots to anticipate his move.

Maybe if someone plunged a white-hot poker into his torso, it would feel a bit better than the delicious pain that almost knocked him cold out when he tried to stretch back out. Perhaps what kept him coherent was seeing the open gash where his stomach used to be with greyish purple snaking out of it. The blood fountained from the wound and pooled on the floor.

It reminded him of a decent sausage dish that his old lady always tried to get right. One could not abide by serving sausage in a pasta dish without removing the casings first. After five years of marriage, think that woman would get that?

Hmm. Sausages swimming in Nona’s gravy. He just couldn’t stop it, he retched, and there was his lunch.

Odd, the scent of blood mixed with spices. He looked up from his crouching position to small golden name plate on the floor. “Louis XIII de Rémy Martin. “ Must have been that fancy bottle up there. Great, looks like no one will get a sip of that shit.

Steps came forward, step, step. A crackling shot over his head. Wouldn’t be long now.

He grabbed the broken Louis remy bottle, and the shards of the crystal sliced into his arm like a dull knife. What did a $2800 bottle of cognac taste like anyway? The top of the decanter had been sheared off, and the liquid inside probably contaminated with the splinters of the crystal.

Whatever, those fucking Nombies were going to kill him anyway. He wiped the blood from his mouth, and took a long pull from the bottle.

Goat’s piss probably tasted better. What was that those wimpy bastards always went on about at those wine tastings? Okay, Goat’s piss with floral notes. Maybe some spices? Well, fuck it, he was no connoisseur. Apparently he couldn’t even hold that swill in his mouth when his life depended on it. He looked down at his shirt, and couldn’t believe he had covered it with a fine mist of the premium liquor.

The Nombie crashed through the aisle knocking those cheap vodka bottle aside like a bowling ball. It was now or never, Mother Fuckers.

Hans tossed the crystal bottle in between the Zombie’s legs and was glad for the satisfying crash and spray . He wiped his grin and give the three men the one-finger salute.

“Here, this drink is only for the finer palate.”

The Nombies considered for a moment, then opened fire with their charge rifles. As Hans flew back into he glass case with a force like a quarterback sacked by the Fridge, he saw a gout of flame engulf the Nombie men. A series of small explosions sent the three men and their weapons flying.

One by one the aisles of liquor went caught fire. Soon Hans swore he could see the smiling dragon lick the flames as they wrapped him in a mother’s embrace.

They are not immortal after all, Hans thought.

Burn, fuckers! Burn!

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