Mechanical Maniacs: Back on the Beat
Plus 'Maniac Mechanica!'

By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell

The Vacation Job (Or... Wait, what?)

Lemme just say, right now, that I love Las Vegas. Love it. The atmosphere, the lights, and the fact that it remained largely intact during the course of the War because it didn't see any major fighting. Oh yeah. LOTS of reasons to love Vegas.

I also like drinking in Las Vegas. Seriously. I try not to gamble, especially these days when I have next to no cash, and I've never been much of a fan of 'gentlemen's clubs,' so all that really leaves in Vegas is drinking and eating. Don't get me wrong, the food is fantastic, but I'm a borderline alcoholic, so I have to go with the drinking as my favorite.

Additionally, I like the shows in Vegas. Some of them, you don't even have to pay for. Wander down the Strip as night falls, and you'll see dozens of attractions, ranging from choreographed fountain displays full of color and high-flying H2O to mechanical scenes of wizards fighting dragons. There's even a few pirate ships, a massive Egyptian procession, and the M&M Factory, which is a colorful, fun filled sugar rush all its own.

What I DON'T like is being BROKE in Vegas. Being broke in Las Vegas is a lot like being a eunuch in a brothel. I'd apologize for the somewhat racy nature of that particular joke, but then again, I don't care.

We'd been granted a few weeks of down time after all of the paperwork and medal-awarding that came after the War. I'd like to say right now that I, personally, didn't recieve any medals, although I believe the entire team, if not everyone in the world, qualified for a Purple Heart. Cassandra got one though, and I got to accept it for her since she's not awake, so that was kind of neat, but still depressing as hell. Shadowman had gone off on his own somewhere for god knows what reason, and Snakeman, Geminiman, Magnetman and Sparkchan had all decided to go do their own things as well, and I really couldn't be bothered to ask what that might entail.

So, when Needlegal, bored out of her skull one day, suggested that she, Top and I go to Vegas, I really didn't have any objection. It was something to do, at least. We took a plane, which was less than fun for me because of the fact they always stick me in 'Cargo' when it comes to flying, and we touched down in the city at about noon on a Friday. Prime time for Vegas. We even managed to catch a bus bound for one of the finer hotels with minimal fuss.

And then we started hitting some rough patches.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but you can't bring your vehicle into the hotel with you."

Needlegal cocked an eye at the valet. "Say what now?"

"I think he means Hard," Topman said.

"Yes, I'm afraid your vehicle is going to have to go into the parking garage," the valet affirmed in that snooty valet voice.

"Aw, come on!" I grumbled. "Th' joke abou' me bein' big an' heavy's been done ta damn death!"

Needlegal just shrugged. "Can't be helped," she sighed, handing the valet something. "Be careful with him, now."

"Absolutely, ma'am."

Topman looked at me, a smile barely contained behind his look of concern. "Uh... we'll meet up with you later?"

"Mark my words, pointy, yer gonna PAY fer this," I growled.

"Yeah, but it'll be cheaper than a hotel room," she smiled. Thinking back on it, I couldn't argue with her about the price point, at $2.50 a night instead of $75, but I don't think I'm alone when I say that sleeping in a cold, concrete parking garage does not seemingly have anything to reccommend it.

The valet, still oblivious, took my hand and led me around the side of the building and down into a labyrinth of open spaces and parked vehicles. We eventually came to an empty space with a 'B3' painted on in, and he herded me in between the lines.

"This is goddamn humiliatin'." It really was. What was worse is that every time I tried to sneak out of the garage, one of the hotel staff would just shoo me right back into my parking spot. Now I know how Speed Buggy felt some days.

It wasn't until Topman actually came to get me about an hour later that the staff actually allowed me INTO the building. I gather there was some fairly heavy explaining he had to do, but, for the moment at least, I seemed to be allowed where the people were.

The fact that when he came to get me, he also brought my admittedly minimal luggage was not a good sign. "According to Needlegal, you're going to have to sleep out here," he had told me. Normally, I get along great with the Boss's sister. Today, however, she was taxing my nerves.

Top and I finally stepped out onto the hotel's casino floor at about 5ish, and I remember hitting a nickel slot machine (because it's what I could afford) in an attempt to scare up some funding for the trip at large. I knew that if it came down to it, Top would be generous and pay for my food, but I always feel bad about taking the little guy for granted.

I switched machines a few times, usually when I found myself up a few bucks, and managed to raise about thirty dollars in three hours. I decided then to cut myself off lest I lose the precious little cash I'd acquired, and went prowling around looking for my fairly distinctive teammates. Topman was an easy find. He was the short guy with all of the security guards around him that kept asking him if he was old enough to be in the casino. Needlegal, on the other hand...

It's both incredibly easy and frustratingly difficult to pick Needlegal out of a crowd. Her hair these days gets arranged in such a way that, unless you see her from a specific angle, you could mistake her for a human. Of course, that's only from about the neck up, because the rest of her is plain-as-day armored robot. A fair amount more feminine than the original Needleman build, to be sure, but still a figure that says 'I mean business' more than anything. Still, I'm a big guy, and in a crowded casino, the tops of people's heads are about all I can see.

After four cases of mistaken identity and recieving a phone number I had no idea what to do with, I gave up.

Around this time, my elbow informed me that now was an excellent time to use all of the years of training I'd put it through and find myself a drink. My brain agreed with my elbow, and my legs set off in the direction of a bar on my brain's orders. When viewed from an outside perspective, it might have been a little odd to watch, but I couldn't say for sure.

Now, I'm a bartender, as you may know, and I consider myself to be a pretty good one, all things considered. I talk with people, I do requests, I even sometimes get into all the 'flair' stuff, the spinning bottles and complex throwing that gives bartending a nominal amount of street cred. Sometimes, I even pay attention when I do those things, but I hold to the personal belief that I have detatchable hands for a reason.

Compare this sterling image with the guy who poured MY drink. For starters, I was one of maybe four people at the bar, and this guy took ten minutes to get around to asking what I'd like. All I asked for was two fingers of scotch, and it took another minute and a half to get it from the bottle and into my hand. And then, once the two fingers were gone, I had to wait another five minutes before he acknowledged the fact that I was asking, by this point rather loudly, for another.

If that was me, I'd have fired myself on the spot. I'm sorry, I just hold myself to a higher standard.

I ended up paying for the first two drinks, and then I had another eight. I didn't pay for those, though, because I kept waiting for the guy who thought he was a bartender to turn his back and I'd reach out and grab something that looked interesting, pour myself some, and then sit back and enjoy it after I put the bottle back and waited for the guy on the other side of the counter to stop paying attention again. Toward the end there, I was getting more and more impressed with myself because some of those bottles were getting rather fuzzy, but I could still just reach out and grab them with a careful Hard Knuckle.

"Hey, Hard!" Topman said, grabbing the stool next to me. "You look like you're having fun."

"S' th' damndest thin'," I think I managed to slur, "bu' I never knew jus' how easy i'sh ta get free booze 'n Vegash."

Given the look that crossed Topman's face immediately after I spoke, which could only be described as horror mixed with a heaping spoonful of mourning for the murder of his beloved language, I'm actually certain I didn't say anything NEARLY that articulate. I must have been filching some high quality booze. Or grain alcohol. Y'know, thinking back, I really can't be sure either way. Whatever it was, it was making my head a nice, warm place to be.

I sort of remember Topman convincing me that I should sleep it off, and I only half remember staggering through the casino, and in one case through a craps table. I recall leaving the hotel and entering the garage, and after that I didn't remember much.

Until, you know, I woke up.

First, there was the pain. I was used to the hangover, but it was the general ache in the rest of my body that puzzled me. Also, the SUV that seemed to be attempting to occupy the same place in space/time that I was. It was failing miserably at trying to convince me that it was suppose to be there, mostly because it was fairly flat, and the bits that weren't flat were broken.

I got my feet under me and shook the shards of gas guzzler off, taking only minor note of the fact that my 'designated parking space' was nowhere to be seen. I sought out the cool night air of the desert to calm my headache, and after some aimless wandering, stepped out onto the Strip.

For those who haven't been there, seriously, get off your ass and go. For those of you who HAVE been there, full hangover and all, I want you to know I feel your pain. Bright flashing strobe lights, heavy city traffic, and chattering crowds of happy people are unkind to the men and women whose brains are trying to convince them that no more alcohol should EVER be allowed to enter their body.

Screams of gut-wrenching terror aren't very kind to the wandering drunkard either. But they DO attratch attention, which I suppose is the point, really.

I tried to focus through the headache, and managed to make out something big, bigger than me, in the middle of the street. It was batting cars around like balls of yarn and making noise like the devil's own hellish hosts. Occasionally, it belched streams of fire.

"Awww... lookit th'... th'... wha' th' hell IS that?" I said, mostly to myself, as I started working my way through the exodus of the crowds that were scrambling to get away from its rampage.

Someone in the crowd was kind enough to answer my... well, it could loosely be described as a question. "The mechanical dragon at the Excalibur's gone nuts! It's tearing people apart!"

"Oh, this'll be fun," I grunted. In all seriousness, I really shouldn't have been working on my vacation, but there were people in trouble, and I was sure even in my somewhat off-peak state I could manage this.

Robots in Vegas aren't like robots in other places. There're some ancient animatronic presidents in Disneyworld that have more armor than their comparably old cousins here in Vegas. Seriously, robots in Vegas have armor that amounts to little more than papier-mâché, which made the next ten minutes a rather satisfying adventure in breaking expensive stuff.

Well, that was the plan, at least.

As I got clear of the crowd, I saw the monster in more detail. It was a horrible conglomeration of one-purpose mechanical parts and assemblies. Come to think of it, these things were only ever built for a specific purpose. This dragon, specifically, was built to crawl out from under a bridge, breath some fire, get zapped by the equally robotic Merlin, and retreat under the bridge. How the hell did it get out of the moat, onto the street, and involved in causing havoc?

It blasted me with a jet of fire. It didn't hurt so much as it just scorched the paint on my armor, but it DID get my attention, and I retaliated.

Unfortunately, the fire also left colors dancing across my hungover vision, and I missed the dragon by a hair. Well, no, actually, I missed the dragon by a lot. The Hard Knuckle snapped a nearby fire hydrant in half, sending gallons of water flying high into the sky of the desert night. The water came crashing down on the street, still hot from the desert sun during the day, and misted almost instantly, covering the area in a low fog that clung to my ankles as my hand returned.

Still a bit disoriented, I took a step forward and decided to rely more on the direct method. I threw a punch that sank deep into the dragon's gut, smashing aside all kinds of bits and pieces. The legs holding the beast upright buckled under the strain and it sank down to the ground, turning its head to spit fire at me again.

Really, it was like a hot shower, which was something I needed anyway, but it didn't help that bubbling paint smell that was now starting to waft off of me. Something inside of me told me to step back out of reflex, even though I wasn't really in any danger, and I tried another Hard Knuckle, which actually hit, but due to the shoddy construction of my opponent, continued on and THROUGH the dragon and into a van, which rolled over once before coming to a rest on the sidewalk.

I apprently didn't hit anything important, though, because the mechnical monster reached out and hit me with a surprising amount of force. Even unbraced, I didn't really fall over, but I was rocked on my heels. I responded in kind by grabbing the thing's arm and wrenching it off with little effort.

I sighed as I crushed the thing's head with a solid punch. "Yet another 'n a long line o' sad, sad battles I've fought 'n th' name o' servin' th' public."

There was a mixed reaction from the crowd of people who had apparently been too stupid to flee the rather pathetic rampage.

"Dammit!" one of them shouted, "I bet my last ten dollars on that dragon!"

"Woo!" someone else cheered, "I'm rich! RICH!"

Another voice, one I recognized immediately as my head cleared, rang out over the twin shouts of joy and anguish. "YOU TITANIC MORON!"

"Hiya Needles," I said as she stepped out of the crowd and stomped toward me. She was a little agitated, I think. Topman was close behind her.

"Do you have ANY idea how much money I just lost on you?"

"Er... no?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped short as a confusing look crossed her face. "Uh... you know, I don't known either. I'm not sure I can count that high."

Topman slapped his forehead with one hand. "Oh, this is going to be a loooong vacation."

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To be revisited!
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And now over to your favorite out of character commentators...

Maniac Mechanica!

Hardman: Well, that was a waste of time...

Geminiman: Wow, even YOU admit it this time?

Topman: A sure sign of the apocalypse.

Needlegal: There's one thing I don't get...

Topman: ONE thing?

Needlegal: Why Las Vegas? Also, why make it 'to be continued' effectively?

Topman: That's two things.

Hardman: I like Vegas, so?

Snakeman: So, wait, now all three of you are broke in Vegas?

Needlegal: It would seem so.

Snakeman: And it doesn't bother you that you apprently have a gambling problem?

Needlegal: I don't have a gambling problem. I've got it pretty much figured out.

All except Needlegal: ...

Needlegal: What?

Geminiman: Is anyone else a little concerned about the fact that SHE'S the one who points out what we've learned every time?

Hardman: Yeah, I'm getting there.

Snakeman: Well, all I see is disaster on the horizon.

Needlegal: Why do you all keep looking at me like that?

Topman: Well, until Needlegal's on a twelve step program, we are... the Mechanical Maniacs!

Needlegal: Seriously... what? What'd I say?