trash werewolf meet trash witch
Jul. 11th, 2021 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
10_20_15_5_50Loathesome lunchboxes. Battlebots. Little shits. Tinshits. Toaster terrors. Pseudo-scraplets.
There were a lot of names for the small, swarming clockwork constructs that tore appliances apart in order to build new members of their mob. They weren't exactly aggressive, since they hadn't actually attacked anyone, but they were insatiable; if left unchecked, they would've gutted half of Housewares and savaged every toy with a winding mechanism before spilling out to dismantle each vending machine, scooter, and car between their numbers and the wide world beyond Walmart. Deena Johnston, her Assistant Manager, and their crew of talented, eccentric employees, probably would've been able to handle the clockworkers on their own.... but Sam had been happy to help. Darnell had been with her at the time, and although he'd also been happy to help, he didn't seem to have quite as much fun as she'd had. Then again....
...Darnell hadn't had the privilege of seeing the Assistant Manager take a fucking forklift as its weapon of choice. Sam had had a fantastic time, leaving with a new love of Houston, generous new friends, arms slightly sore from smashing, a lifetime supply of chicken nuggets (with some wiggle room permitting the occasional ice cream cone or coffee) and the knowledge that whoever had created the first little shit was still out there, somewhere, possibly making more.
The infestation that had alarmedand offended Deena was bad, insofar as it did several thousand dollars' damage, but it could've been much, much worse. The clockworks could've financially crippled families, students, normal people, anyone who couldn't afford to have their car totalled outside of an explainable, insured accident, and they could've crippled or killed people outright by cutting out some function---like breaks, or signal lights!---of a car in motion. The clockworker was unlucky, or irresponsible, or bastardous; the creator of a problem which could be a problem for other people, at any time. The silver lining of the potentiality of this problem was slim, but not insignificant, and obvious to anyone who knew what Sam knew only as 'the phone rite.'
Four phonebooks from different cities, open to the help line pages; a very small bottle of red wine; a windowless room with four corners, one for each phonebook; a phone. That was all anyone needed, though Sam also sat with a piece of scrap paper on which she'd written which numbers corresponded with which letters when dialing, just to spare herself an 'oops,' if she could. The skin-witch drank the wine as quickly as she could, since it was sample-sized and cheap, not exactly to be enjoyed, and started to spin the bottle, taking a digit from the largest-font help hotline in whatever book the bottle pointed out. Ten digits in, it was time to spell out her problem.
SMALLCANNIBALISTICCLOCKWORKCONSTRUCTS - 762552266422547842256259675 2667878287
If someone shared her problem, their phone would ring. If several someones shared her problem, one of their phones would ring at random. If she were lucky, whoever had a ringing phone would answer it, despite the absence of any call display. If she were really lucky, that someone would be Deena, or Darnell, or the Assistant Manager, because the clockworks weren't a problem for anyone they weren't a problem for three years ago.
The phone rang, and Sam held her breath.
There were a lot of names for the small, swarming clockwork constructs that tore appliances apart in order to build new members of their mob. They weren't exactly aggressive, since they hadn't actually attacked anyone, but they were insatiable; if left unchecked, they would've gutted half of Housewares and savaged every toy with a winding mechanism before spilling out to dismantle each vending machine, scooter, and car between their numbers and the wide world beyond Walmart. Deena Johnston, her Assistant Manager, and their crew of talented, eccentric employees, probably would've been able to handle the clockworkers on their own.... but Sam had been happy to help. Darnell had been with her at the time, and although he'd also been happy to help, he didn't seem to have quite as much fun as she'd had. Then again....
...Darnell hadn't had the privilege of seeing the Assistant Manager take a fucking forklift as its weapon of choice. Sam had had a fantastic time, leaving with a new love of Houston, generous new friends, arms slightly sore from smashing, a lifetime supply of chicken nuggets (with some wiggle room permitting the occasional ice cream cone or coffee) and the knowledge that whoever had created the first little shit was still out there, somewhere, possibly making more.
The infestation that had alarmed
Four phonebooks from different cities, open to the help line pages; a very small bottle of red wine; a windowless room with four corners, one for each phonebook; a phone. That was all anyone needed, though Sam also sat with a piece of scrap paper on which she'd written which numbers corresponded with which letters when dialing, just to spare herself an 'oops,' if she could. The skin-witch drank the wine as quickly as she could, since it was sample-sized and cheap, not exactly to be enjoyed, and started to spin the bottle, taking a digit from the largest-font help hotline in whatever book the bottle pointed out. Ten digits in, it was time to spell out her problem.
SMALLCANNIBALISTICCLOCKWORKCONSTRUCTS - 762552266422547842256259675 2667878287
If someone shared her problem, their phone would ring. If several someones shared her problem, one of their phones would ring at random. If she were lucky, whoever had a ringing phone would answer it, despite the absence of any call display. If she were really lucky, that someone would be Deena, or Darnell, or the Assistant Manager, because the clockworks weren't a problem for anyone they weren't a problem for three years ago.
The phone rang, and Sam held her breath.
