Nineteen: Chickenshit

Len Bawkman

Level 47 Gallus

Once upon a time, Len Bawkman was a renowned Sergeant Adjudicator in the Gallic Galactic Conquest. But like many grizzled ex soldiers, a series of self-inflicted screw-ups and too much faith in old relationships led to a new, less reputable career, that of a (redacted). Now stuck helping the very (redacted) he once (redacted), Len Bawkman is an eggshell of his former—did you really think I’d let you scan me, you worthless chickenshit? Now turn around and scram, before I make whatever answer you came looking for the least of your problems.

“Seriously Dumbass?” I whispered out of the corner of my beak. “Sergeant Bawkman? A Full Metal Jacket reference?”

“Yeah… I wish I could take credit for that because it is sooo damn good.” Dumbass sighed. “But his name is about as real as it gets. It literally translates to bawk man. I know, I know. It sucks being out pop-cultured on accident by a race that doesn’t even get the reference. This literally may be the low point of my sapience…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “It’s definitely not.”

After I gulped down my nerves, I re-read the tail end of the description. Then I pulled my eyes from the screen inside my head to the very real chicken sitting at the bar in front of me. From the acrid sweet burn in my nostrils, he had to be nursing a tallboy of solvent. Maybe parts cleaner. Or boat cleaner. I think that's used to clean boats with. Whatever it was, it wasn't grandpa's cough medicine..

Yet, despite the accusatory mini bio, Len Bawkman didn’t seem to notice me—or Weevul—for that matter. And to be honest, he didn’t look very impressive either, with more of a Private Joker aura than that of the sadistic drill sergeant he shared a pseudo-name with. He wasn’t tall and broad shouldered like my old pal Drok, either.

He was skinny.

Skinny enough that any self-respecting buffalo wing proprietor would have cried fowl if their chicken guy had dropped a piece of poultry like him off and tried to charge full price. Though he was greasy like a buffalo wing. His once-white tank top reeked of spent fry oil, and his feathers were gray with grime. He wore no pants. I didn’t know if that was normal or not, but who was I to judge? I was wearing a dinosaur leather trench coat, a shirt for a terrible band I had technically been in, and the most egregious fashion faux pas of all time: jorts.

“Well, he doesn't look too unfriendly.” I tossed a glanced at Weevul. “What do you think, pal?”

He vibrated like a Hitachi magic wand and hid behind my legs.

“Oh right. You’re scared of chickens. Eating your entire species and all.” I rubbed him behind his antennae. “Don’t worry. Flap’s got it all under control." Then I added under my breath, "Don’t you, Flap?”

My words rang hollow as I stepped forward and tapped the gigantic bird on the shoulder before ripping my hand away. “Mister… Bawkman?”

He took a drink from his glass. The liquid sizzled as it lingered in the bottom of his beak before he swallowed, then he grunted and turned his barstool to face a monitor on the far wall.

"Okay, I guess we're doing it the hard way." I made a fist and bumped it down on his shoulder several times. It felt like driving my hand into a plate of iron. “Ow! Uh, excuse me? Are you Len Bawkman?”

When he spoke, his voice had two tones, one a low-pitched croak that barely qualified as a whisper and the other a high-pitched squelch that reminded me of an artificial larynx with the pitch raised an octave. “Didn’t you read the ducking scan description, chickenshit?”

“Uh, yeah…”

He growled, “Then you already know I’m Len Bawkman. And you also know to leave me the duck alone, so I suggest you do just that before I make you.”

"So... I hate to be the bearer of bad news, and I know I'm interrupting your drinking time, but..." I chewed on lower bill for a moment. “I can’t leave.”

He actually laughed, if you could call it that. The dull wheeze that crept out of his beak was absolutely terrifying, like a Moog synthesizer was having its way with a theremin. “Hahaha! Hehehe! You can’t, huh? And why is that? You got a death wish, chickenshit?”

“No—”

“No, what?” He rotated an eye to face to me. His body didn't budge a millimeter. “No, you want me to send out a sector wide message that… Russell Crowe is here and his loot is ripe for the… well, I’ll be dipped in hot oil. That certainly isn’t your common first sector Trials gear now, is it? Where do you get that jacket?”

“It says my name is Russell Crowe! That’s some bull—nevermind.” I sighed and adjusted my coat. “It’s a duster, actually. And where I got it is none of your damn business, Len.”

“Call me by my fist name again and I’ll use that duster to blink you into the fourth dimension before you can cry for your nest mother. Now answer my ducking question, accused. Why are you here?”

“I'm here because… Jolene sent me. And I need a pub—”

“Enough!” He stood to his feet, and slammed and fist down on the bar top. I left a dent. “Don’t you dare finish those words!”

“What words?” Weevul said. “You mean public defender?”

New Milestone: Public Defender!

I can’t believe it! Your party has actually found a public defender! Congratulations! You have a legal defense team! You may have picked the worst legal defense team you possibly could have, but you have one. Emphasis on the one part, though he's more like a half if want to get technical. Either way, your odds of surviving the Trials have gone up by half a percentage point. You should celebrate! Just don’t drink what he’s drinking, okay?

Quest Completed: The Best Offense is a Good Defense Part 2

I’m not feeling particularly creative right now. Read the Public Defender Milestone again, put your own spin on it, and pat yourself on the back. Oh, and you have received an Uncommon Loot Cache. Unlike your other bundles of loot, I guarantee this one will have a status chem. It may not the one you need, but it will have one. So, yay…

“Son of a cock! You’ve gone and done it now Jolene, you pesky damn lupine! I told you to keep your ducking dog mouth shut! But no! You get fall down drunk together seven or eight times and suddenly she thinks she can tell everyone my secrets!” Bawkman twisted a quarter turn in my direction. “So, what did she tell you about me, chickenshit? Other than the fact that I am now your public defender?!”

New Public Defender’s Rank: Chickenshit!

Your Public Defendant has a custom rank system. It doesn't do anything special, except for displaying your new rank above your head for everyone to see—and you can't turn it off, by the way. But, you are now a Chickenshit! Lemme see if I can rustle up some paper so you can write home and tell mom all about—oh. Yeah, I forgot about the whole Earth thing. My bad.

I shook the notification away and leaned in close to Len Bawkman. He had turned enough that I could see the side of his beak now, and there was something… not quite right about it. It was… black, not the dull orange I was used to. And the other side of his face emitted a red glow that lit the area in front of him to a dull crimson.

“Uh, because…”

“Because, the chickenshit says! Buck-bawk!” Bawkman drained his drink, then slammed the metal can down on the table, breaking it into a dozen pieces, and sending up a shower of sparks that ignited the remaining vapors into a brief cascading fireball. “Quit wasting my time and get to the ducking point!”

“Because...” I clutched my duster tight around my body, so tight I could feel the bulge of Dumbass’s avatar moving around where it had come out of my inventory down below my belly. “I have something to show you.”

Unfortunately, Bawkman chose that very moment to whip around to face me.

And... he looked like the chicken version of Arnold at the end of Terminator 2.

Some horrific accident had burned his comb to a crisp once upon a time, the thing a mass of red melted flesh. Half his face was silver alloy, and between the two mismatched halves sat a carbon fiber beak as black as night. An entire wing, most of his chest, and the bottom half of his right leg glittered in the low light. And they hadn't been spray painted either. They were all gone, replaced with whirring cybernetics.

“Mother Hen, chickenshit!” He snapped forward and twisted his head, moving his glowing red robot eye so close to mine I could feel the heat coming off the thing. “You really want to waste your last seconds in the galaxy by flashing me your tiny little papilla?!”