I rubbed my face and glanced at the sky. The sun remained high, signifying early afternoon. That left an entire day to hunt. Trying to figure out where to start my search, I turned my head toward the streets that served as the park’s perimeter and cursed under my breath.
Another of Hephaestus’s Cursed—an Automaton—had peeled off the sidewalk and onto the park grass, heading in my direction. This one appeared female, with long hair, skinny legs, and a pretty busty chest for a monster. For a moment, I even considered letting her tackle me, but I thought better of it.
As the Automaton neared me, I muttered, “It’s not a good time.” I cradled my right hand as shivers crawled over my body, despite the fact that sweat beaded my forehead. “Could you do me a favor, though? Call an ambulance? Also, I don’t have a dollar to my name… so, if you could”—I chortled before I said it—“fork over some cash to pay for the hospital bill, that would be great.”
The Automaton continued toward me, ignoring my plea for help. My burning face reminded me of the meeting with yesterday’s Automaton, and I didn’t plan on sitting against the tree and waiting for a repeat performance.
I scrambled to my feet. “Let’s talk this out,” I said, raising my hands in a defensive gesture—though I wouldn’t be hitting anything with my right hand.
The Automaton devoured the space between us and I kept backing up. Not really wanting to dance with it all day—I loved to dance, don’t get me wrong, but the Automaton wasn’t my type, and I didn’t want to lead it on and break its heart—I had to make a choice.
Decision one: I could fight the Cursed in broad daylight and risk attracting the attention of the police and going to jail and all that hoopla. Decision two: I could channel my inner baby and run away, in the hope that the Automaton was slower than me. If Vegas had odds on the race, I wouldn’t have bet on me. Just some insider knowledge. Don’t say I never put out my neck and risked everything for you.
“Shits on a kabob,” I said. “You really put me in a corner here, Francis.” I didn’t know its name, but it looked like a Francis to me—all business and no play. “Between a rock and a hard place. And let me tell you something, I prefer to be the hard place, not pressed against it… if you catch my meaning.”
The Automaton lunged toward me. I waited until the last second and leapt to the side, barely avoiding contact. Unable to stop its momentum, the Cursed stumbled forward a few feet. I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of its vulnerable position.
Channeling my inner Chuck Norris, I sprang into the air and—
Quick aside for some necessary exposition.
Despite what you may have concluded after a few examples of my now-rusty fighting prowess, I’m actually above average in hand-to-hand or foot-to-foot combat—which is about the only thing I’m above average in. Wink, wink, ladies and gentlemen. Wink, wink. Throughout my formative years, I acquired a black belt in three different fighting styles. Unfortunately for you, my combat record is currently classified as top-secret by the United States military, so I’m not at liberty to tell you about those martial arts. But one of them rhymes with My Don Dough… ish. To phrase that a little more delicately, I’m a badass at kicking shit.
Yeah, maybe I’ve shotgunned one too many light beers over the past five years. And yeah, maybe I don’t work out or stretch as much as I used to. And okay, while you’re being super annoying about it, yeah, maybe I haven’t practiced a jumping back kick in way too long. But that’s not the point. Point is, five years ago, I was really good at it.
Aside over.
—performed a jumping back kick. Instead of my foot connecting with the back of the Automaton’s neck, where I’d meant it to, I kicked its arm right in the tricep. I hadn’t jumped as high as I’d intended. Also, for the sake of total transparency, when I spun in the air, I sort of lost my positioning and aim. All in all, it worked out terribly. I landed awkwardly on my left foot, twisting my ankle. I fell to the ground, and guess which hand I instinctively used to catch myself?
Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. My right one.
So, that was great fun.
I lay on the park grass, trying not to vomit as the pain in my hand screamed at me to stop being such a careless asshole. I actually agreed with it, but the point was moot. What could I do? The past was the past, am I right?
While I was on the ground, wondering if my day could get any more exhilarating, the Automaton introduced its foot to my rib cage. They didn’t get along at all. My body lifted off the ground about four feet and flew sideways, over the cement sidewalk, and into the street. Once again, my right hand took the brunt of my landing. By that point, though, the pain was so intense that my receptors had stopped comprehending it. So, it just went away. I appreciated that, as that was how I dealt with all my pain—dulling it until I forgot it existed.
I rolled onto my ass and sat in the street’s bike lane. Hopefully, one of those super annoying tournaments where everyone rides their bikes and pays zero attention to any vehicles on the road wasn’t taking place. But with my luck, a stampede of overly fit elderly people would mow me down with their ten-thousand-dollar midlife crises—expensive street bikes.
“You know,” I said to the Automaton, which stood on the sidewalk and regarded me with a cocked head, probably wondering why I was still talking, “this could always be worse. I could be
