Discount Dan

The gunslinger wore a beat-to-shit leather duster and a silver breastplate crisscrossed with dual bandoliers studded with shotgun shells. Looped around his neck was a frayed gray noose and dangling from the end of the rope was a small Winnie the Pooh plushy, which was battered and bloody. The man’s hair was short and brown with a spattering of gray at the temples, but his eyes were hidden behind a pair of steampunk goggles and the lower portion of his face was obscured by a black bandana.

The barrel of a gilded blunderbuss protruded over one shoulder, and he had a leather holster slung low around his hips, holding an old-timey revolver. He carried neither firearm, though. Instead, he wielded an oversized foam anime sword, the “blade” leaning against a spiked pauldron strapped on over the top of the duster. And I don’t mean it looked like an anime sword. This was an actual foam anime sword—like one of the props cosplayers would bring to Comic Con.

Except he carried it with deadly intent. The way the demon’s face kept drifting toward the weapon made me think it was wary of the foam blade.

The gunslinger’s other hand was empty, but he wore a heavy golden glove that reminded me of a medieval version of the Infinity Gauntlet, except—and this was the real kicker—instead of infinity stones, there were dice affixed to the knuckles. A red D4 on the pinky, a green D6 on the ring finger, a blue D8 on the middle finger, and a golden D10 on the index finger. Arcs of electric blue lightning sprinted over the surface of the gunslinger’s metallic hand, and it crackled with power just waiting to be unleashed.

The man paused briefly as he moved past the hallway where I was bravely cowering.

His eyes flicked toward me, lingering for a long moment. It felt like he was weighing me. Judging me. The weight of his gaze, of his sheer presence, seemed to press down on me like a hand.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was raspy and rough, as though he’d forgotten how to speak and was trying it out for the first time in ages.

“Dan?” I answered, as much of a question as it was a statement. “Dan Woodridge. From Cincinnati,” I added after a beat.

The gunslinger grunted and nodded, as though I’d imparted some profound truth, then dipped his fingers into a pouch at his belt. He pulled out a silver metal token and casually flipped it to me with his thumb.

I snagged it from the air, holding it tight like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

“Dan Woodridge from Cincinnati,” the gunslinger drawled in that same gruff tone, “if you value your life, stay back and use that. The Flayed Monarch will not hesitate to kill you.” He paused, tense. “Hopefully this will all be over before it comes to that.”

Without another word, he turned away and refocused on the demon, who was still some sixty feet or so away. The terrible pressure of the gunslinger’s gaze vanished and suddenly I could breathe again. I could think and move. I cautiously opened my hand and peered at the silver coin the man had gifted me with a small ember of hope igniting in my chest.

That hope deflated some when I saw what the coin actually was.

Not a coin at all. Not some mystical amulet of great power.

It was a Pog Slammer.

Like pog, pogs—the circular, cardboard tokens that had been all the rage in the late ’90s. I’d played pogs as a kid and I remembered having a slammer not so different from the one in my hand.

On one side was a cheesy, holographic snake wrapped around a grinning skull and on the other was a picture of a birdcage containing a bulbous-headed canary with the words Unflippable Sanctum engraved around the outer edge.

I ran a thumb over the snake and skull, then traced it around the raised lettering. A faint thrum of power seeped off the slammer, sending a jolt of energy racing along my fingertips and up through my arm.

A much smaller version of the yellow, eight-bit pop-up appeared above the coin.

Super Slammer of Shielding

Rare Artifact

Type: Reusable, Daily

Uses: 2:00 Minutes Remaining

Time Until Reset: 12 hours, 13 minutes

The Super Slammer of Shielding is a rare magical Artifact that summons a mostly impenetrable dome of arcane power, capable of protecting all those within its confines from physical, arcane, and elemental attacks.

The Super Slammer of Shielding can be used for two minutes per day, though those minutes and seconds do not need to be consecutive. The timer resets at exactly 12:00 AM Newfoundland Standard Time (NST). Why Newfoundland Standard Time? Because fuck you, that’s why.

To activate the spell, throw the slammer against the floor and recite the forbidden Arcane Incantation: “Let’s Pog!”

To deactivate the spell, simply pick the slammer up and utter the sage words of old: “That’s so ’90s!”

This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke.

Slammer still gripped tightly in my hand, I shot a look at the gunslinger, who had made his way to the center of the conference room, partially positioning himself between me and the blister-red, four-armed monstrosity.

“I just want out,” the gunslinger said, sounding exhausted to his bones. He extended his gauntlet, palm up in expectation. “All I need is one more Seal. Just the one. Give it to me and I’ll fuck right off. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want to fight you. Just give me what I want, and you can go back to the Pit on the 999th floor and do whatever the hell it is you like to do. Eat kittens. Skin puppies. Watch endless reruns of My Little Pony. I do not give a single shit. It’s none of my concern.”

The Flayed Monarch cocked its head to the side as though carefully considering the words. It was impossible to read its face beneath the obsidian mask, but to me it looked almost intrigued.

“Perhaps there is a deal to be struck.” The Monarch’s reply sounded like a legion of off-key voices all speaking at once, each slightly out of sync with the others. “The Researcher has stifled me for too long,” the creature continued. “The bounds of my kingdom chafe. You want the stone. I want the Gauntlet. We both want to leave. To be free.” He extended a long taloned hand. “But we shall never be free of each other until we are free from this place. Let us work together, yes?”

The gunslinger snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure the Researcher would just love that.”

The Monarch growled, the rumble of an angry lion resonating from deep inside its chest. “The Researcher is an old fool, and his purpose and function were obsolete a thousand years ago. Ten thousand years ago. He is a relic of the past, not a reflection of the glorious future that we could forge together.”

The creature’s legs clicked softly as it edged forward.

“That’s plenty close enough,” the gunslinger said, raising the anime sword from his shoulder. “One more step and I’ll cleave you in two.”

I listened to them go back and forth, holding my breath and not moving so much as a pinky. I was basically following Jurassic Park rules at this point. I doubted the demon had the same ocular weakness as a T-Rex, but it was worth a shot.

“Surely, there’s no need for that,” the monster crooned at the gunslinger. “Violence doesn’t serve our purposes. Think about it, Marcus. You and I both know his power is already stretched thin. So very thin. He might be a god in this place, but not even a god could stop us if we put aside our petty squabbles.”

“I’m not sure I’d call them petty,” the man replied. “You killed Lisa and cut off my hand”—he raised the metal gauntlet—“and added one of my eyes to your collection.” He gestured at the tentacle cloak.

“Small things when weighed against the value of freedom,” the Monarch said as though the litany of offenses were water under the bridge.

“Let me put this plain,” Marcus growled. “I would rather drown on floor two hundred and seven in a pool of dog vomit than work with you.”

Although I couldn’t see the Monarch’s face, I could almost hear it grin behind the obsidian faceplate. “Perhaps I will grant you your wish before leaving this place—”

Then, in the space of an eyeblink, the demon shot forward like a bullet, its blade blurring through the air.

Khopesh met sword in a clap of thunder and a reverberating clang that sounded for all the world like metal. Golden sparks and sizzling arcs of red electricity spit upward. The monstrous force of the two weapons unleashed a ripple of power that exploded outward, snapping another of the nearby columns in two. The energy blast also hit me square in the chest like an invisible mule kick, effortlessly hurling me back down the hallway.

I landed on the ground with a thud and fought to pull in even a single gulp of air.

My already aching ribs were on fire now, and it felt like something might’ve broken inside my chest. Part of me just wanted to lie there and die quietly, but ten thousand years of primal survival instinct wouldn’t allow me to give up quite so easy. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I regained my feet and retreated further down the hall.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have far to go, and now I was trapped between a rock and a pair of unspeakably powerful demigods working out years’ worth of repressed anger issues.

If I didn’t do something, I was going to die here.

I still had the Slammer in my hand, and though it seemed asinine, I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choices. I spiked it against the carpet like a football and belted out the words, “Let’s Pog!”