Reincarnated as an AXE!

A tide of darkness has arisen since the arrival into the world of a dangerous sentient weapon known as the Laughing Axe. Cities have burned and a nation has vanished into chaos, all for the cruel amusement of a madman.

Nowhere is safe.

Rumors of the axe's existence have spread into the multiverse and attracted the attention of a disgraced Dark Lord who thirsts for vengeance against his usurpers.

If he can retrieve this weapon and bend it to his will, the future of all free beings promises to be one beneath the heel of absolute tyranny!

But the Laughing Axe must never be underestimated...

__

“Dude, why do you take this shit so seriously?” Anthony asked me. A frown creased his forehead beneath his hairnet as he gave me a look of exasperation.

I wasn’t sure I liked being referred to as “Dude” by a balding fast-food worker in his early forties. Was that ageist of me or classist? Was it both? I hoped it was both. That seemed efficient.

“I don’t,” I replied with obvious insincerity. “I’m just, y’know, dude, sharing an opinion. I’m feeling my truth. That’s what the kids say, right? Feeling the truth? I’m down with the vernacular of the youth.”

I am in fact, not down with the vernacular of the youth. I was cleverly obfuscating the facts with a technique I’ve honed over the years called: lying. I love to lie. When you did it right, lying can be better than sex. In fact, lying about having sex could occasionally be better than having sex itself, unless you were having sex with a liar.

Liars always told you how great you were in bed.

“Okay, you’re living your truth,” said Anthony, “But what does that have to do with who was the best character in the Lord of the Rings?”

“Because you said it was Gollum!”

Honestly, Gollum? That nasty, gimped out analogy for heroin addiction? What kind of moron believed he was the best? I’d always hated that little bastard! If evil were a start-up looking to make a profit for its investors, Gollum was the asshole assistant with access to the passwords. The one caught embezzling funds to pay for his coke and hooker blackout weekends. There were always pricks like him in every major organization.

The first act of any truly pragmatic Dark Lord, was to weed them out.

“Listen,” I said. “There were two things about Gollum’s personality that made him almost tolerable. He was a cannibal, and he was comfortable showing some skin. Very forward thinking, very progressive. He didn’t let other people’s comfort or innate right to exist cramp his style. I respect that.”

“He was funny too!” Holly chimed in.

“Yeah, okay, he was occasionally hilarious. Honestly, I could see myself getting baked with him one night, just so I could hear his unique spin on U.S. politics.”

“Why politics?”

“Because, beneath all the crazy, I suspect Gollum had some strong libertarian values. My preciousss, we thinks regulations that stifle the free market should be strangled like filthy, squealing orcses, Gollum!Gollum!”

“Dude—"

“It was a joke, ant!"

"Anthony," he corrected me, as though it even mattered.

"I wasn't shortening your name," I informed him. "Continuing on, when viewed objectively, Gollum was a pitiful freak. It was obvious who the best character was. Well, to anyone with a brain, that is.”

“Ohhh, is that right?” Anthony asked. He looked a little put out by my words.

Oh, dear, I think I’ve offended Anthony. Not that such a feat was particularly noteworthy; the man had a large ego for some reason, but at his core, he was a sensitive, lost little soul fit for unsure of himself and thus a suitable target for mockery and abuse.

He deserved it.

In a way, Anthony was like a layered piece of candy, as well as a man who clearly ate way too much candy. He was forty-two, and the shift supervisor of the restaurant we were in. He’d earned his rank through attrition; everyone above him had quit, or been fired, or wounded in armed robberies. He was the last man standing, and that made him the boss.

It was a shame, though. Some men can’t easily bear the weight of authority. Anthony wasn’t content with merely being in charge. He also wanted to be friends with his employees. He wanted to be the cool, charismatic, slightly cynical older guy who sat backwards on a chair and dispensed clever quips and great advice. It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

The name of this place, by the way, was Burger Trough.

Yes, it really was called Burger Trough. It was part of a local chain of restaurants destined never to go national; its creator was a failing entrepreneur who’d long ago given into despair and decided to take the concept of fast food to its logical conclusion:

The Abyss.

Burger Trough’s mascot was a deformed cartoon man with the face of an undercooked hamburger, who dribbled ketchup, mustard, and... meat fluids, whenever he spoke. His name was Platey, and children were terrified of him. They didn’t offer kids’ meals by the way; they offered “items and such,” the items being plastic wax figures based on the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, the demented Dutch fantasist known for his deranged paintings of Hell. Collect them all!

Want some quick nightmare fuel? Go to Bosch’s Wikipedia article and look at his profile picture. What did you think? Wow, right? How’d you like to be the back-alley prostitute getting bricked on the chin with that face staring down on you?

Burger Trough's adult menu wasn’t much better. The milkshakes were called “slurps.” The burgers were called “wads.” The French fries weren’t. I think the original idea had been to make them sound alternative and ironic in order to tap into tha youth market that Taco Bell so ruthlessly hoarded, but somewhere along the way, they just stopped caring.

They weren’t being ironic about not caring, either. Like how cool people don’t care what others think of them? It was more like how genuinely suicidal people stopped caring about paying their bills or showering, because they knew it would all soon be over.

That’s just how it was at the Burger Trough. No matter who you were or where you came from, BT was without judgement. Just eat their ‘food’ and ignore the quotation marks around the word ‘food.’ Just do it. Nothing else will make you feel like this! Nothing else will make you feel.

The company motto was, we’re always waiting...

I liked hanging out here.

So, anyway, due to the usual sparsity of customers, Holly the cashier and I were passing the time debating who the best character in Lord of the Rings was. Holly was a nice girl with no obvious mental deformities, aside from a crippling love of vampire fiction.

Ugh. Vampires.

I once tried to explain to Holly that vampires were disgusting parasites that should be destroyed on sight. She laughed, and thought I was being funny. I am funny, so I wasn’t offended. I just happen to think that vampires are disgusting parasites that should be destroyed on sight. I’ve yet to meet one that I didn’t eventually grow to despise. There’s just something about those arrogant C-flaps that put me in the mood for disintegration.

(Please note that I used the word “destroyed” because I have read Bram Stoker’s book, and I am educated enough to know that something that's already dead cannot be killed, only destroyed.)

The debate was fun; we were enjoying ourselves. Holly had a hard time reading Tolkien’s prose, so she preferred the movies. Naturally, that made her favorite characters the elves. “I looove them," she said in a way that brought a smile to my face. I mean, obviously, she would. Elves are immortal, pale, and absurdly pretty. The only thing that could improve upon them in her eyes, was a thirst for blood.

Anthony heard us talking, and decided to join in, because of course he did. “The elves were great, but, when I think of the overall story, I think Gollum’s fate hits me the hardest,” he said, with an absurd level of solemnity. “Through him, it’s a story about loss and addiction. He never even redeems himself, really. The cost of victory was high.”

"Does that mean getting the ring and burning alive in lava counted as an overdose?" I asked him.

"Huh?"

I think Anthony's intent was for Holly to stare at him with widened eyes and realize that he possessed deep insight into the narrative of the trilogy. It didn’t work, though. Holly was too busy thinking about the elves.

“Yeah, Tolkien with the hard-hitting social commentary,” I continued. “If he hadn’t settled for being an Oxford professor, I bet he could have been in the Wire.”

“What?”

“You know, the Wire. He could have played a cool police detective, chewing on his pipe while saying stuff like: In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Unfortunately, his hole had been built in West Baltimore, and thus it was a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with used syringes and an oozy smell.There were large white packages stacked against a wall, and in a hobbit-hole, that meant cocaine.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, dude,” Anthony said.

“Dirty word,” snorted Holly.

“Dirty, indeed,” I said in agreement. “Although, in all seriousness, I preferred Sauron.”

“Sauron was the bad guy!” Holly said, in faux shock.

“He was just organized. Everyone else on Middle-Earth was a stoner weird-o. Sauron was basically your roommate with the good job, who expected everyone to use the chore-wheel he designed.”

“He really didn’t really do much,” Anthony said. “I mean, yeah, he sets the plot in motion, but other than that, he’s pretty static. Wooo, big floating eyeball. Scaaaary.”

“Anthony, have you even read theSilmarillion?”

“Of course!”

“Then you know, it’s not really the story of the origins of the world, and the birth of the elves, and the battle for the fate of Middle-earth, or any of that stuff. It’s really the crappy story of a talented guy named Sauron, probably Ron by his friends, and how he was surrounded by a bunch of worthless megalomaniacal coworkers while in the service of Morgoth, the biggest toxic narcissist who ever lived. It’s the story of how Ron was forced to wage war against the natural order of the universe. And how he almost won!”

“Uh-“

“Ron finding a pathway to success, only for his insane boss to not only claim credit for his achievements, while failing spectacularly at capitalizing on his servant’s innovation, while also getting his ass kicked by a big dog with a grudge, illustrates the dangers of having an incompetent leader.”

“I’m not actually sure if that’s how it goes—

“PICTURE IT, ANTHONY. Picture being the hardest working servant of darkness, honored and set above all others by your mistress.”

“Uh, Morgoth was a guy—

“Why did Catastrophia, Lady of the Void, favor me, a lowly human being, over her collection of demons, mutants, dark spirits, fallen heroes, and dragons? Because I had what the old folks call gumption! I

"You do?"

"I do! I’m innovative, I’m hardworking, I once read a book on economic theory, didn't finish it, still made the attempt, and I’m not afraid to try untraditional paths to power! Because that’s what humans do, Anthony. We work at things until we master them, and then once we’ve mastered them, we dominate our environments.

“Your D&D campaigns must be intense!” said Anthony.

“Pathfinder, and yes, they fucking are! Anyway, I’m just saying, I understand exactly what Ron was going through. You want the best and the brightest to serve you, but you can’t get someone too intelligent, or they’ll try to overthrow you, so you have to work twice as hard to compensate for everyone else being an idiot. Plus, all the paranoia and the fair-weather friends.”

“What does any of this have to do with Sauron?”

“Aren't you paying attention? Ron was stuck in a cycle of failure! Every success he ever enjoyed was stolen from him, and every defeat gradually ripped bits and pieces away from him, until the only thing he had left was the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.”

“The ring.”

“The ring! He started out powerful and beautiful, and then inch, by inch, he’s made into a wretched, ugly shell of a miserable thing that just wants to blight the world out of sheer hatred. He’s a warning to anyone who’d dare follow his path! The Japanese call it: karoshi. Death by overwork.”

“You make it sound like he should have unionized.”

“Wouldn’t have helped. He was doomed. The poor bastard shouldn’t have forged a ring. Anyone can pick up and wear a ring. You take it off one time to wipe your ass in the bathroom then forget you left it on the sink? Boom! Someone finds it by the faucet and usurps you. Just like that you’re done."

“…what if you just didn’t take it off?”

“Then microscopic bits of shit will incrementally build up beneath the ring, even if you’re a vigorous hand washer, and eventually you’ll give yourself a MRSA infection and die.”

“Okay, I am officially lost—

“Just take off your ring before you use a toilet, Anthony! Do I really need to say this to a fast-food worker?”

Anthony was quiet for several long moments. Then, he said, “You, uh, put a lot of thought into this, huh?”

“Not really. Good sanitary habits don’t require a big brain.”

“You know, I don’t know why I put up with you, buddy. Why don’t you—

“Anthony, go sit in your office and stare blankly at the wall until it’s time to go home,” I commanded him. “Get me a refill before you go, though. And an Apple pie. I want an apple pie! I’m not paying for it, by the way.”

“Not a problem, I’ve got you covered,” he said, his eyes blank, his tone dazed but friendly.

“Don’t care, off you go,” I said, shooing him away.

“Did you know vampires were a symbol of sexual panic in Victorian England?” Holy asked, while leaning ont the counter.

I had grown bored with the conversation, but I liked Holly, so I placed into her mind the idea that I was listening to her, and that we were engaged in a fun discussion about which Dracula was sexier: Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee. While she babbled away happily with a phantom image, I took a seat in a nearby booth, and stared at the city through the windows of the restaurant.

The hex I’d placed on the building did its job nicely, driving away any potential customers, and leaving me in peace. It was selfish of me to demand this place serve me exclusively, but selfishness was my most glaring flaw, and therefore it was no flaw at all. I’m a king and kings always get what they wanted. That was natural law in effect.

It was good to serve no master.

Well, except Catastrophia, that was. But only up to a point. She might be my goddess, but that meant fuck all when you were an evil overlord. I had plans. Her continued silence during my banishment spoke volumes about how useful she really was. Luckily, I had no issues with being self-reliant.

Look upon me, my fellow humans. It’s me, normal ‘ol Danny Marsh. Humble consumer of burgers and such. I’m not worth a second glance, am I? I’m just another average, ordinary background character. I probably don’t carry enough in my wallet to be worth mugging.

Jeez, what a dork!

Look upon me, lowly humans. It’s me, Luminous, the Scarlet Hand. The Six hundred and sixty-fifth Lord of the Night Lands, and the only human to ever claim the title.

I’m less famous for enjoying burgers, than I am for having people who displease me set on fire. Whatever, flame grilled is flame grilled.

Right now, I was down on my luck. It was fine, though. Such things happen to everyone. What mattered most was that I was planning my comeback. In my Blackened Tower, on my blackened throne, there sat a usurper surrounded by a court of traitors who let me deliver them victory after victory, only to throw me away like a plastic ring into a sea turtle preserve.

Honestly, good for them. Coups are hard to pull off, and they’d clearly put a lot of work into it. There was no need for me to come roaring back for vengeance, just yet. Being back on Earth, living the life of an everyday commoner with godlike magical power and the wrathful soul of a tyrant, this was good for me. I was getting to know myself, once more.

Honestly, I didn’t even mind not having to make decisions all day, every day. It was nice to sleep in whenever I felt like it. I was enjoying my time away. When I was ready, I’d return.

And when I did, I would rain dark fire upon the heads of my betrayers. I’d rend them into exquisitely portioned, still-living columns of ever-burning, ever writhing flesh. I’d enslave their precious loved ones and have them rake the earth with their maggot infested hands; hands that would squirt out stinking pus-blighted fluid in putrid streams of green and red, every time their swollen digits so much as twitched.

This would continue, until maddened by pain and desperate for relief, they gnawed off their own fingers.

And on their final day of judgement, as they clawed at the hem of my robes, and begged deliriously for either my forgiveness or their deaths, I’ll kneel beside their broken forms, stroke their blistered, infected flesh, and gently whisper:

“Nope.”

That was going to be a beautiful day.

But first, I needed to find that fucking axe.