Hell

"Would you like to contact tech support" It asked.

"no"., as I continued working. Imagine lovingly crafted hydraulic fittings, rendered useless by a single "o" ring.

Said "O" rings were well over a milennia out of date, and nobody but your's truly had the chuff to roll them from absurdly old stock..
Notwithstanding other skills like being a "near 5000 year old " glorified oil change tech" and "Last real "human" alive".

Anyhow, I dug a fantastically ancient crescent wrench from a pocket, and loosened the fitting, then stuffing a stupidly well bioengeneered bit of plant in there, that immediately sealed up the mating surface.

Suddenly the Amazingly stupid fifteen billion ton war machine was working.


FFS, what a piece of shit. Still, they may let me finish that old Dodge truck I unearthed for this. They did let me keep that M1918 they unearthed, simply because I knew what it was and how it worked. .

And yes, it still kills as well now as it did when it was made. Old M2 AP with proper tungsten-steel cores chops shit up just fine.

All that aside, now that I'd fixed the monster....
I was again, unemployed. Sure, I had nigh upon unlimited credit, could "buy" whatever I wanted, except what I really wanted.

A bit of peace.

Really I wish I'd have been let go. But ~7400 years ago a loving relative had stuck my broken, stroke crippled ass into a cryo chamber.


And now, here I am.

The last man who knows how to fix shit.

Welcome to hell.

I take down a bottle of horribly replicated Bourbon.
The glass I use is at most, five minutes old, and still warm from the foundry. T

his is fine for some of what I try to kill my pain with. Not so with a shitty replicant of Evan Williams.

I gag the sauce down. The fuckers have fixed my cancer, removede innumerable fragements, and tried to set me on a course of "proper diet".

The stack of "dietary aids" shot full of holes by the M1911 I was buried with should have hammered the message home.

The sole thing my long expired brother got tight was burying me with my Colt.

Cryo freezing me with said piece was not what I wanted.

So yeah, far in the future, some fuckwits woke up a less than healthy and surely mentally unstable K-tard who'd been "interred" with a loaded M1911. Yeah, shit did not end well.

The whole
not working" deal, seems if you imagine it, it will work". is a thing now.

So, yeah.. I'm a weapons factory. WHen the fuckbags can catch me, and get me drunk enough.

Really I spend a lot of time fishing...
No really. Earth is pristine, and near uninhabited. I've spent years on the Big Two Hearted(yes, it still exists) catching steelhead from what is left of Superior.

the "humans" now humor my behavior as primitive antics. I laugh.
I could easily kill them all, but that would put the trout down for a while. I've forgotten more about killing than they've ever imagined.

Well, the next engagement will prove this. Maybe they will leave me alone.

One last "push" as they say. The tiny grey mewling masses.

Sure. I see the enemy. Insectoid, hive based. They are just looking for a nest, But...Yeah. Fuck them.

"Here" I imagine. A total matter/antimatter charge. still not understanding why they never came up with same.

It is launched. A kiloton of anti-plutonium, driven by tachions.

The end is massive. I have killed billions of sentient lifeforms, and all I care about is
Can I hit the next Smelt run"? The war is over.

Soon I find myself abandoned on "earth that was". Immortal, indestructable. A terrible weapon forgotten by what my people have become.

And I do not care.


A seven millenia old Mepps spinner is tied on a length of poly-microlinear line. I make a few casts, and relax, beginning the retrieve with a rod made of monofiber laminates, and a reel that is a perfect reproduction of an old Mitchell 300.

And I wait.

The fuckers will need me again. I have already loaded the old bunkers with new weapons.

Eventually they will call.