I mean, I figured the moment would go big.
I just didn’t know how big.
What actually happened was way crazier than anything I could have imagined.
The Sack had become its own thing… a juggernaut… occupying that rare air reserved for the great firsts of history…
The first fart.
The first “don’t let me catch your ass in the streets!”
The first shot between Han and Greedo.
The Sack was all of that and more.
It had become a multiverse cultural event… a time marker… The kind of event where you knew exactly where you were and what you were doing when it happened.
Freeze frames from the moment were plastered all over the Wormhole and already being sold on merch. In an instant, I had become the de facto symbol of a non-existent rebellion.
? UPYOURSKRIVLAX! was trending.
Of course, not all of the crowd was happy.
Demonstrations erupted as well. Some protesting the ruin that Krivlax and the ISL had wrought across the multiverse, and then there were the other protestors.
The ones with glowing neon signs featuring ball sacks hanging behind diagonal, red slash circles. It looked like the Ghostbusters logo if the Ghostbusters logo featured a hairy nutsack instead of a ghost.
These protests were spearheaded by GETM. Galaxians for the Ethical Treatment of Monsters.
They claimed to be a group of concerned interstellar citizens who found it ’revolting’ and ’inhumane’ to castrate these perfectly-viable, bloodthirsty behemoths.
Oh. And the madness didn’t stop there.
The viral moment brought out all of the fringe crazies and conspiracy theorists. There were rumors that I was Krivlax’s bastard love child.
Still, others thought the league was scripted and I soon would be tag-teamed with Blady in a surprising heel-turn the likes of which the WWE had never seen.
But probably the wildest thing of all was the tinfoil hat talk about ’The Prophecy.’
A legend that foretold ’one’ who would restore balance to the multiverse—separating ’good’ and ’evil’ with his blades.
It was all complete bullshit if you asked me.
----
The strip was eerily quiet. No distant screams or concussive blasts. No war cries or creature squeals. Nothing indicated on the map.
ME: The monsters are unusually quiet today.
COUNT BASIL: Leaf.
ERNI: Perhaps, they too, have been exposed to the clip. Perhaps, your special… talent has been communicated across the monster ecosystem.
We followed a tactical approach vector to the orb, while scoring some loot from equipment trunks.
Items Acquired:
Phantom Feint Play.
Create a momentary holographic duplicate to distract enemies.
Shield Repeater.
Extends your shield to protect nearby allies.
Med-Kits x2
As we threaded through the casino wreckage, I pondered the Scrotalux Gems’ origin.
ME: Do you suppose a wizard made them? Like a wizard with a ball fetish?
ERNI: I hadn’t considered such a scenario, but I can’t rule it out either.
COUNT BASIL: Leaf.
It still didn’t make any sense… why would the multiverse’s most precious magical resources be hidden inside monster nuts?
And, who knew about this?
Apparently… no one.
All Blink and Gill could talk about was the unprecedented nature of my sack. In the 341 prior Slayer Bowls, no one had ever attempted such a move.
Of course… they weren’t even aware of the target.
It seems the Veil-Rift Visor did more than allow me to see monster junk, it also unlocked my blades’ ability to penetrate the… ’Invisi-Ball Plane.’
Yep, that’s what I have coined as the technical term for it.
Though, ERNI preferred ‘Interdimensional Loin Sheath.’
Whatever.
It’s the invisible, protective plane where monster nuts actually exist. Kind of like a… ’cough’… cosmic glory hole.
And, for some reason, the universe bestowed this special gift upon me. I alone could pierce the ‘Ball Breach.’
The Veil-Rift Visor was the difference.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
It was a key to unlocking monster nads.
As if I didn’t already have a big enough target on my back.
The ISSN feed showed a montage of pathetic copycat attempts. It was a regular ’Sack Hunting Follies’ showcasing warriors catching L’s in a myriad of painful and embarrassing ways.
“We’ve had quite a few warriors try to pull off the same… maneuver that ‘The Sacker’ has become known for,” Blink explained.
Gill tugged at his collar and reported. “These attempts were… unsuccessful.”
The warriors ran in with confidence, valiantly raining blows on the crotches of various monsters.
And then for each, there was that moment… that—Oh shit! I am totally fucked!—moment of clarity. The realization in each of their eyes—one-by-one—as they discovered the futility of their attacks.
The only mercy was the speed of their deaths. They weren’t embarrassed for long. They were too busy being bitten, clawed, gutted, torn in half, gored beyond recognition, or incinerated.
Then, there was Blady’s reaction…
….which went viral for all of the wrong reasons.
A reporter caught him, flat-footed, creating this gem of a soundbite: “I never needed a sack before, and I don’t need one now!”
It was the first crack in his armor. His image was all over the wormhole, branded forever with the meme caption—
”Never needed a sack.”
I knew he was enraged, but couldn’t show it outwardly.
The media also hounded Krivlax for a statement, to which he waved clenched fists and barked, “No comment!”
Silence meant I had him rattled. I was in both of their heads.
G would be so proud.
I hoped he was looking down, watching us. And I hoped he was forced to wear an airy toga with cupid wings… because he would hate that.
----
We finally found the monsters… or they found us… as we trekked through the skeleton of the Luxor—an ashen snapshot of our hubris.
The map clicked with an audible pulse—a little mod I’d crafted, using the WAV file from Hudson’s motion tracker in Aliens.
As the red dots proliferated on my map, I could imagine his squirrelly voice…
”There’s movement all over the place!”
The blinking dots approached in an umbrella pattern—all closing in on us via converging vectors. The sonar click got faster as the red dots flashed, getting nearer.
ME: Incoming!
COUNT BASIL: Leaf!
I could hear the click of their claws or whatever the hell they were. They were skittering towards us like an army, leaping over roulette tables and slot machines.
The beating sonar was drowned out by the CLACKING scrape of their pincers against metal and stone.
Mission: Kill Monster Mob
Targeting Mode Active.
My tactical view auto-activated as the first creature flew right at my visor.
THWOMP!
I clubbed it to the ground, watching it skid across the floor.
It was a crab… translucent and techy.
Cyber-Crabs. Level 5.
It whipped around as it righted itself, snapping its claw-tips.
It was the size of a briefcase. It circled, flicking its vibrating, fluorescent antennae.
The others approached from all angles, skittering down walls and over gaming tables in an endless clattering of shells.
All of them, spiky. Popping razor sharp claws. Glowing eyes staring at me from stalks.
And they were crusted over with old transistors.
The leader looked fresh off a three-way with a hot tub of epoxy and a box of circuit panels.
“Was there an orgy at Micro Center and no one told me?”
Count B flexed his shredded ‘Scrotaluxed’ vines, ready to rumble.
The crab leader launched straight towards me.
SHIIING!
I drew Slice and Dice, blades switching to plasma, as I sliced upward in an X pattern. The air crackled with ozone.
SKOOICH!
The cyber-crab flew apart in quarters.
Badass moment.
Time for one of my one-liners:
“He caught a bad case of crabs!”
Count B flung two cyber-crabs, unamused.
COUNT BASIL: Leaf.
SKOOICH!
I sliced another crab in half.
“All seafood - Half Off!”
COUNT BASIL: Leaf.
KRAAKZZ!
I rocked another crab with a electro-knuckle punch.
“Shell-shocked!”
COUNT BASIL: Leaf!
“You have no sense of humor.”
Interestingly, the Veil-Rift Visor wasn’t targeting ‘crabsticles.’
ERNI and I reasoned it was because crab nuts were too tiny to serve as host for magical gems.
We felt our theory had scientific merit.
Either way, the crabs didn’t give a shit about that or our newfound fame. They leapt and dove with a frenzied ferocity.
I carved the bastards up. Flipping. Criss-crossing my blades, swiping and slashing with a lightning-quick ferocity that felt new and electric.
SKOICH! SHLICK! SHOOIK!
I cleaved them in half, gashing shells, and sending pulpy crab bits flying. Their antennae wriggled on the ground, flashing like discarded glow sticks after a rave.
Count B held his own. He snatched up two of the crabs by their arms and used them as biological nunchucks to clobber three more.
COUNT BASIL: Leaf! Leaf!
He was having a hell of a time… until two of the cyber-crabs tore off their top shells, like someone pulling grenade pins. Their bodies hissed.
SSSSSsssss…
ME: B—!
Too late.
BAA-BOOOM!
The crabs exploded, sending us flying.
COUNT BASIL: Leeeeeeeaaaf!
ME: AAAAAAAUUUUUGH!
WHAM!
We crashed down on a poker table, crunching right through the green felt, smacking hard tile below.
Despite the taste of blood and some likely fractured bones, the armor had protected us from the blast. I looked up. More crabs raced our way, all of them reaching towards their shells, ready to pull their ‘pins.’
These were goddamn ‘suicide bomber crabs.’
SSSSSsss…
“WATCH OUT!”
We rolled out of the way as—
DYOOM! THOOM! BOOM!
—crabs landed, detonating like grenades.
VYSSSSSSS!
Jagged, metallic shrapnel rocketed out from each explosion. The sharp, molten bits struck my armor, nicked my jaw and Count B’s vines.
A blue splatter of hot crab blood sizzled on my chest—boiling atop my Invisi-Built forcefield.
Count B got hit as well – the bubbling liquid scalding his leaves. He retracted them with a yelp.
COUNT BASIL: LEAF!!!
Up close, we noticed his vines were shrinking. So were my muscles.
“Oh shit.”
We were losing our powers.
The nut magic was wearing off!
I didn’t have time or space to get at the Scrotalux Gems.
The crabs kept coming. Wave after goddamn wave.
Our plan of “kill them all” quickly morphed into a “time to bounce” plan. I called up a Nova Charge from my playbook and armed it.
ME: Hang on, B!
I threw the charge into the cluster of cyber-crabs.
ME: Bullseye!
We sprinted, diving in slow-mo trailer shot style, landing behind an overturned blackjack table as—
KA-BOOOOOM!
A massive explosion rattled the casino floor. A fiery shockwave sent flaming tech crab bits in all directions.
As the smoke settled, the aftermath was revealed. The force of the blast spot welded a large cluster of the crabs into a twisted “Death-Mech” art installation.
More crabs approached from the shadows. I scanned the piles of steaming innards and broken shells. There was a decent path toward the orbs.
ME: Let’s go!
COUNT BASIL: Leaf.
SHIIING!
We hacked our way through a tunnel of wounded crabs. They twitched and clawed along, dragging half of their briny innards through gaping shell holes.
Normally, I would have done the humane thing and ended their misery. But, you know what…?
Fuck their misery.
We bolted through the gap, Count B batting down flying creatures from the rear.
We darted through the Luxor’s gaming floor, weaving between rows of machines as the army of suicide bomber crabs gave chase.
They were right on our ass. Leaping. Tearing their tops off. Blowing the fuck up.
KA-BLAM! KA-BLAM!
Each explosion pelted us with more shrapnel as the blasts flung us forward, taking out chunks of floor, and sending slot machines flying.
I checked the map. The orbs were in the next room.
ME: Almost there!
I busted through double doors into what had once been a music theater. The two glowing orbs hovered center stage—beneath a partially collapsed ceiling. Spotlight rigs and steel tresses had fallen, creating a dangerous netting of metal and wires surrounding the orbs.
“Really? A Platforming Puzzle?”
The crabs clattered in behind us.
I scrambled onto the stage and dove onto the netting. Count B swatted away as many as he could, but there were just too many. They were closing in—from above and below.
We were out of options.
