The Bone Beast

I finally met the Bone Beast today. I'd heard about it from other Adventurers but I never really gave it a thought. The thing is enormous, about the size of a semi truck. It's just a mass of Calcoid parts, all jumbled together. When it needs legs, it forms legs; when it needs arms, it makes arms. It's hard to just watch the thing without going crazy.

Then I heard the music, if you can call it that. My ears have been numb to normal sound since my days as bass player for "Ample Supply of Rusted and Disappointing Loot." (We rocked but there wasn't really a market for a band that sang about being disappointed back then. Maybe we could start it up now). Matthews described it as "atonal, flute-like, unearthly music," before he ran off. All I know is what I saw terrified me.

People who were listening to the "song" were doing just like the other guys said, immediately turning into Calcs. The goddamned clanky sons of bitches were just leaping out of the skin of the these people. And they just started dancing to the "song," like they didn't have a care in the world. It creeped the hell out of me.

I, well, I ran too. Too many Clankers.

Dirtbike Jumps

I've been doing lots of dirtbike jumps lately, since there ain't been a lot of clanky activity. Matthews declares them "badass" and I can't deny it. They are definitely badass dirtbike jumps. There's an art to it, and it helps with business. Like they call up an Adventurer and he comes flying into town off of a conveniently placed ramp. You have to place those ramps yourself, though, so you try not to let the clientile see you setting them up.

It's hell on the dirtbike though, I've gone through like three. Cost of business.

Not 'Blogging' for a awhile, guys

The dirtbike sped along the winding lane.
I saw the ledge and knew what must be done.
I took fierce flight but it was all in vain.
Jonesy Sawbones, zero. Gravity, one.

My leg was splintered right above the knee.
The bike burned bright, flames rising to the sky.
I was prepared to let my soul fly free
And go fight Calcs in the Great By-And-By.

But look! An ambulance! Oh, welcome sight!
I knew that I would die another day.
But doctors said I could not ride or fight
Or do anything awesome. What dismay!

Not being able to do what you love
is like a Calc hoarding a precious Glove.

-

Not gonna update because I think I'm accidentally writing poetry on account of the meds. I'll have to make sure later.

Hard Day

Hell.

I try to keep up with something -- this blog, for instance -- and I forget about it until something really shakes me up. Sometimes you just gotta say what's on your mind, you know?

So I was doing my thing in some filthy Calcoid dive, taking with me a fellow hunter who's been coming along more often lately.

While we were cleaning out a room, out of NOWHERE, this lone Calc jumped out and bit a huge chunk out of Donovan's arm. He screamed out, and I looked over, seeing a most terrible secret revealed.

Donovan's very flesh had been peeled back, and underneath, I could see the arm of a Calcoid!

He had been one of those filthy mongrels in disguise all this time!

He was probably trying to lull me into a false sense of security and planning to dispose of me once I trusted him enough to let my guard down.

The terror in that THING'S eyes as I smashed its head in with my trusty bat was almost believable.

I'll give it this, it was strong for a Calc. It took me a lot of swings to settle the matter with any real finality.

It makes me sick to think I called it friend.

I don't know how I'm going to break it to Mrs. Donovan that her husband was a Secret Calc Infiltrator.

Controversial Tactics

So I'm in the shop after a typically shitty haul, and some of the boys are having a rather loud argument.

I walk over to see what's going on, and I find out there is apparently some debate going on, about setting up "Trap Dungeons" for Calcs.

The process is pretty simple, actually: someone puts some rare items or gold in a dungeon filled with trap mechanisms, and sure enough, the Calcs rattle in like vultures to a corpse. Once the Calcs are caged, the owners of the dungeon sell the right to kill them to some sissies who are too afraid to hunt Calcs on their own.

I will be the first to say it's not sporting, but I also think its God-damned awesome.

Think about it: it's about time someone made some real money off of killing Calcs, and they don't deserve the respect we afford more noble creatures such as deer and boar.

I only wish I had the resources to start a dungeon myself.

I know who you are

That stupid son of a bitch went too far this time.

I was leaping down the stairs after I got a call from the DA who said he had Calcs in his closet, and the rest of his house.  I had The Bat strapped to my back, I hopped on my dirtbike and I was ready to go. Then I noticed my tires were flat.  Slashed, actually.  And the engine had a spray-painted Calc face on it.

Only one asshole would pull this kind of shit and it's not a fucking Calc.   Calaveras. That Calc-loving son of a bitch would do anything to slow me down.  He's all about getting the Calcs full rights and putting restrictions on killing those assholes.  Like we're gonna run out of Calcs. I swear that asshole is like one step ahead of me.  He's probably a Half-Calc, like that bitch from "Psycho."

And yeah, I just wheeled the bike to the service station, grinding the rims. It was too heavy to carry.