I dodge-rolled out of the way of the flaming knife-riddled car, and this time it worked. Finally.
“Look out!” I yelled back to my companions.
All the Karjok along my back groaned as I rolled over them.
Sync and Soldier Boy Steve dove clear just in time. The flaming car hurtled down into the tunnel I’d just constructed, buying them time to get out.
Dull thuds and bird shrieks echoed from inside the tunnel, and the gunfire stopped.
Good. Maybe we slowed them down.
Players surrounded us, each of them garbed in various kinds of kitchen attire and wielding culinary weapons. They battled one another, building walls and fortresses simultaneously, hopping around, shooting, stabbing, cooking, or throwing food and countertop appliances at each other.
I didn’t have the time or the safety to ask questions, and I doubted that flaming car had taken out all the Godfeathers, so I deployed my rickshaw. “Get on!”
Sync and Soldier Boy Steve, both still covered in Karjok like me, climbed on board.
I ran down the street as fast as my Speed stat would allow, weaving between Players and paraphernalia from whatever nightmare game we’d just happened upon. “Sync, what’s going on? Is this another game mash-up?”
“Like I said,” she replied, “every time I hack something, it messes with the AllVerse.”
“I told you I felt a shift!” Silas shouted.
Sync scanned a Player as we hurried by. “My scan says they’re ForkKnife Battle Royale Players.”
“ForkKnife?” I yelled at no one in particular.
Players dressed as sous chefs hurled flaming knives at waiters, who scrambled for cover. Meanwhile, busboys built kitchen walls to take cover behind, then they constructed stoves and countertops, building their ever-growing kitchen higher and higher.
The ongoing battle royale obstructed roads, and Players struck cars from Lüber, Zany Taxi, Heed the Speed, and any other vehicle-based games that got in their way, reducing them to collateral damage. Many of them crashed into the structures, all of which originated from SimpCity 3.
The chaos in this place was worse than the Painbow Seven area in Seaboard City, and judging by the sophomoric-yet-censored insults being hurled around, twice as toxic.
“The Godfeathers are following,” Steve announced calmly while he fired his rifle behind us.
THUMP. Thump-thump-thump.
A stray knife thumped into the side of the rickshaw, followed by a few shish kebab skewers.
“We’ve gotta get outta here, Sync,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“You’re gonna love this…” she teased. “Back to Seaboard City!”
I groaned. We’d journeyed all this way just to be redirected back to where we’d started. Classic gaming at its finest.
Go here, grab the super-secret all-powerful plot device, then return to where it all began and fight the big boss. I checked to see if I could build anything while operating the rickshaw, but, of course, I couldn’t.
“Battle Royale! Let’s go, you lazy sods!” yelled someone with a British accent. “That chicken is so raw it clucked at me! Pressure is healthy, now go and cook!”
I glanced over to see a rugged blond-haired man atop a pedestal in the center of the chaos, barking comments at the ForkKnife Players. Despite his pale skin, he wore the attire of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh, complete with a traditional gold-and-blue headdress with tails that draped down in front of his shoulders, a long skirt/loincloth thing, and plenty of gold adornments.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Above him, a name and exclamation point floated for all to see.
| Gordo Rameses – Level 90 NPC |
| ForkKnife Pharaoh and Executive Chef |
Players frequently came to him for objectives and targets. He’d give them directions, always in the same intense manner, and they all replied, “Yes, chef!” before running off to fulfill his mandates.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I lamented.
Sync shouted above the din, “Now that a combat game has spawned, we don’t have much time before—”
“Over there!” Gordo Rameses pointed a gold-and-blue striped scepter that matched his headdress. It had an ankh at the end of it. “Your sashimi is so forking raw, it’s running away on a rickshaw! Move it!”
Dozens of ForkKnife Players directed their attention toward us, then pursued us with kebab guns, knives, and flame jets.
“—before that happens!” Sync hollered.
A battle theme rose in the background of the world, one composed with pots and pans clanking instead of drums to fit the ForkKnife gametype. I fled the area down the roads, dodging oncoming cars amid the fracas. Frantic chefs, line cooks, waitresses, and busboys charged after us like a food-themed zombie movie.
Steve remained propped up on the back, still covered in Karjok, still firing at our pursuers. Any time he took a hit, the Karjok deftly healed him, so he really didn’t have time to bleed.
Sync, also still coated in Karjok, dodged knives and rotten tomatoes hurled with gusto, several of which hit the rickshaw, but didn’t do any significant damage.
I no longer had the mental energy to express how passionately I hated everything about this. All I could do was focus on the goal ahead, not Duat’s Kitchen behind us.
“Oi! On your flank!” Silas hissed.
I glanced over to see a sous chef building a ramp alongside me to fire down at us.
“That’s not good!” Chancellor Hachem yelled. “You’ve got more on your other flank!”
True to his word, busboys did the same, closing in on us from above.
Gordo Rameses drifted close by on his pedestal with folded arms, judging every move his chefs made. “I’ve seen better runs in a baby’s diaper! Are you just gonna let your quarry get away? Catch them!”
“Yes, chef!” the sous chef shouted as he began to build even more furiously.
I tried to speed up to ditch the sous chef and Gordo behind us, but to no avail. Gordo Rameses’ floating pedestal had no problem keeping up.
“Hey humans… how many flanks do we have?” asked a female Karjok.
“What the shell kind of question is that?” I countered.
“Because there are more Players over there, but I’m not sure if that’s a flank or not,” she continued.
“Flank steak!” Gordo Rameses bellowed. He still floated alongside us on his pedestal, but he didn’t try to attack. “Sirloin. Ribeye. New-York-forking-strip. It’s all so raw, it’s practically still mooing!”
“Not sure it matters,” Dennis replied from my leg. “We’ve got enemies on every single one…”
“For the love of Neptune, do something!” I shouted at the Karjok. “Don’t you have a squidload of weapons just sitting in your inventory?”
“Oh, yeah!” Chancellor Hachem replied, then he hesitated. “Well, they’ll lose value if we use them…”
A stray knife wedged into the side of my well-sculpted glute.
“Ahh!” I screamed.
“Rump roast!” Gordo Rameses declared. “Now, that’s some Certified Anubis Prime Beef!”
I ignored Gordo’s… compliment? …and hollered at Chancellor Hachem, “They’ll lose all value if we’re dead, you moronic cephalopod!”
Dennis ripped the knife out of my glute and slapped me to heal the wound—also on my asp. “That’s no way to talk to the chancellor!”
Definitely a new ultimate low for anyone keeping track: literally getting spanked and chastised by an angry alien octopus.
“That’s right, cooktopus!” Gordo Rameses declared. “Tenderize that beautiful bum meat!”
…while fleeing the Egyptian video game version of a popular TV chef.
“No, no, Dennis. He’s got a point.” Chancellor Hachem shook his head, which also shook mine because he was on it. “I think we can chip in a bit more than we are, truth be told. Karjok! Assume Formation Omega!”
“I don’t think we made a plan for Omega, Sire,” Fredrick grumbled.
“Oh, siren’s scales,” he replied. “Just get the guns and blow them away!”
All at once, the Karjok slithered off all three of us and onto different parts of the rickshaw, equipped weapons from their inventory in their tentacles, and fired at will and, seemingly, at random. Everything from bullets to lasers to pulse blasts to rockets shot out from us like we were a rolling armory.
The ForkKnife Players broke off and built more kitchen structures to shield themselves from the merciless onslaught. One guy actually forged a fully functioning walk-in freezer and jumped inside it.
Silas remained on my shoulder, “Ah, the full might of the Karjok is truly a sight to behold!”
He wasn’t wrong. I wished it had been plan A—or Protocol Alpha—instead, but I wouldn’t complain now. They didn’t seem to have any marksmanship skill or coordinated plan, but with thirty Karjok firing everything from full-auto machines guns and RPGs to high-tech sci-fi weapons in every random direction, they got the job done.
“Don’t let ’em get away! Blow the wheels off that crappy rickshaw!” a New Jersey-accented voice yelled from behind us. It sounded familiar, and I realized it was the Barn Owl guy. He must be their leader or something.
In response, two Godfeathers flew into view above me.
“Take them out, take them out!” I roared, and all the Karjok fired into the sky.
Rickshaw Riot chapters will be posted every weekday. If you don't want to wait, follow us on Patreon:
https://www.patreon.com/collection/1588880
break--Royal Road. They call us the Critical Hitters.
In the desolate desert of the North American Sector, the government harvests the Soul Energy of siblings Eos and Maxima in secret.
When their powers attract the attention of a dangerous criminal organization, their routine lives are shattered. Eos and Maxima must search for freedom and the truth about their past as hostile forces close in.
The answers they seek lie behind one word—!
Occam's Favor
A grizzled ex-mech pilot is drawn back into the Everwar, a decades-long conflict raging across Jupiter’s moonscape.
This time he refuses to fight alone, bringing a crew of misfits and a mech powerful enough to rewrite the war itself.
is a can't-miss power-scaling mech series. Read it now!
------
Dungeon Crawler Carl Audio Immersion Tunnel for Soundbooth Theater, and he's the lead writer for the Dungeon Crawler Carl Role Playing Game.
