Gagged, Tagged, Bodybagged
31 Jan 2022Monolith Preacher
[OOC: So yeah, I'm lucky I left off at the end of an arc. I can't say I expected it to take four years for me to pick up the pen again, but sometimes life gets in the way. I've got the next chapter worked out, but I'm starting with a couple of small entries to get back into the swing of things before I fill in the gaps and get the main plot underway. On the off-chance anyone from the old days is still reading, be prepared for something rather different to what you're used to!]I woke up in a fridge.
Actually, that's not technically the whole story. Allow me to explain.
I woke up in a cellophane bag in a fridge with a tag tied to my toe, a bloody rag as a gag, and a rather inventive use of something's tendons tying my wrists together.
I'd been in worse positions, but I'd seen better days. I'd also had better nights. From the fact my head felt like someone had unleashed a round of pack hounds inside of it, something told me I'd had a pretty good night before I found myself in this rather disadvantageous position. I'll have to ask the bartender what concoction I'd knocked up to get me this witless in the first place, but I digress.
Getting out of the bag was the easy part. I just chewed through the tendons on my wrists, ripped the rag out my mouth, and tore my way through my shrink wrap. I blast of cool, recycled air did nothing to help my headache. It did allow me to view my new lodgings, but there wasn't much to see.
The fridge was 12'x12' max, and had five other boys bagged besides myself. A quick look at their lungs told me they weren't breathing. I was tempted to take a proper look and work out whether they were big on the Onionhead, but I didn't have time for frivolities. The door had an inside lock, and that was all I needed. Two hours scraping teeth on the corrugated floor and I'd managed to fashion myself a workable lock pick. Two minutes more and I was out.
The air outside was warmer, but more recycled. There was an iron taint in the air, so I knew I was on a meat wagon. It's funny how words change. Back in the days before interstellar travel, a meat wagon was slang for a cop car. Once people started succumbing to space madness to the extent that entire societies developed an affinity for cannibalism, the name barely counted as slang any more. I didn't care to find out which fine folks had decided to make me an appetiser, so I had to move fast.
From the absolute state of the interior, I could tell this was a Federal ship. That meant it was an undercover job. The Feds were as against meat eating as they were against fun, and they hadn't allowed their populace to consume sacred cows in over a thousand years. Whomever these longpig luggers were, they had a sense of humour.
Regrettably, but fortunately, I'd spent enough time around the Feds when I was getting myself a 'vette that I knew my way around most Fed ships. Once I got myself through a few more rooms, I'd know what hunk of joyless junk I was in and I'd be able to work out which way the cockpit was. For now, I kept low and kept quiet. Considering I was chest high to most folks, they'd have to look pretty far below their belts to work out where I was.
Unfortunately, fate was not on my side. The next room was the abattoir. They had a fully machinated production line in there which was quite impressive, but their hygiene standards wouldn't've passed the merest whiff of an inspector's gaze. It was a shame to see prime cuts stacked on the floor, but the knives were the worst part. You can tell a lot by a person by the way they keep their tools, and these cleavers looked more like steels. I didn't have any weapons on me, but I'd rather die than be seen with a blunt knife. Rust can serve a purpose, but a blunt knife can end your own life.
There were no workers in the abattoir, but there wasn't a wet stone either. Even the machinery was blunt. There was nothing usable, but at least the door wasn't locked. I moved a badly stacked collection of terribly sectioned skirt steaks and heel shanks out of the way, and a few running shoulder barges opened the rusty door.
Finally, I found myself in a corridor. No guards were on patrol, but there was a slight flickering light which was hissing so loud that he almost didn't see or hear the fact a small window was billowing dusty air all over the gaff. Only Federal Dropships had those stupid little windows in the corridor. The fluff was that they were a way to give people on patrol something to help with the claustrophobia, but they were only there as makeshift sniper points if the need arose. Due to this and the lack of beef behind most Federal meatheads, they were made of some of the weakest glass in the galaxy. I was lucky that I hadn't walked in there before we got planetside or I likely would've been floating in the ether all too quickly. That being said, wherever the pilot of this broken heap and I were was probably no more than three minutes to our destination. No reason to be quiet now. No reason at all. I got ready to go Oh Dae-Su on whomever was between me and the bridge as I kicked open the next door and screamed like Carlito at the top of my lungs.
This turned out to be ironically prophetic. By the time I'd finished my little speech, I'd sprinted through the whole of the ship. This meant that my offer of pain to the pilot as I entered the cockpit came out more like a rasp than a roar at the same time I realised to my chagrin that I'd been too busy with my PsyOps to find myself an improvised weapon on the way.
The pilot activated a docking computer, got out of his seat, and turned to face me. If I thought the meat in the abattoir was a state, this man was made of offal. His face looked like it was made of all the offcuts I had failed to notice the absence of a few rooms back. I emphasise the word all. He wasn't an inch shy of seven feet tall, and his smell emanated across the not inconsiderable distance between us with such pungency it felt like my nose had been suddenly stuffed with giblets. His attire looked like it was just enough for modesty with a few extra chains to either hook him up to something or just to keep his tumorous physique from growing beyond its already stretched parameters. He did at least look apologetic, but that might've just been an abscess on his brow. He did not, however, seem surprised to see me.
“For the sake of our chances of finally becoming a cut above our current slice of the pork pie, I shall not tell our fellow boneless that you admitted pain. In return, you will not tell them that I forgot to put a breathing hole in your wrapping.”
Now, a guy like me tends to live as much by his wits as by his ability, but this one took me by surprise. It must have showed, because despite his lack of care about the fact a naked runt had somehow managed to escape his fridge, he did decide to continue talking in a voice so low I could only discern it due to my learning of giant sand worm vibrations back in Degastani.
“I am lucky you did not lose your grading designation to that damned suck hole, although I still think you're not really much above utility grade myself, haha!”
I took a furtive glance at the tag on my toe. Choice. I couldn't moan at that.
“No porky retort? That's not like you, but I guess even you know when we don't have time to sharpen our wits. Quickly, come here and let me wrap you properly. We've got just enough time to put you back before the Feds catch on to our beefy scheme!”
I had to take stock pretty fast, even for me. Somehow, this massive neckless meathead had known me for some time. Apparently we were the same rank in some kind of organisation, and if they were trying to jack the feds then they were obviously pretty chunky. Their plan must've been pretty sound for me to go along with it, but why couldn't I remember?
I had just enough time to come up with the questions before I'd been hauled over a hulking shoulder as the pilot sprinted back to the fridge. I couldn't help but be impressed by how deftly he managed to duck under the doors on the way, but I did find myself inwardly lamenting him knocking over half the carcasses in the abattoir as he looked for more clingfilm.
As he wrapped me back up at a speed of knots whilst remembering to give my nostrils some breathing room, I came up with no answers. I did manage to add another couple of questions to my baffled brain before he shut the door on me and I decided it was time to play dead.
How did I suddenly know so much about meat, and just how long had I been on a bender for?