“What?” I asked, flatly.

He threw an arm in the air dramatically and let it flop.

“Gone. My liquor store, gone. My wife’s lingerie, gone. My wife, gone!”

I fuzzed out, suddenly gripped by memory again. My mother had left us, and my father and I were still standing in front of the door she had just slammed in our faces. The fighting, and what my police sergeant father had to do to keep me out of trouble because of it, became too much for her.

On the day it happened, I was almost twelve, and all I could think about was how bad my next birthday was going to suck without her. My father turned from the door after it closed and looked down at me with deeply sad, but gentle eyes. “We’ll get this figured out, Tyson. Just you and me, don’t worry. I won’t give up on you son. We’ll figure it out.”

Mr. Sada snorted, clearing his sinuses and snapping me out of my memories. He paused, then tilted his head to look at me. “I got scared and did that natural shopping thing, and I ordered a bunch of that mudcrete shit for the whole campground, and BuyMort just took every mortie in my account and these little monsters showed up. I have nothing.”

I blinked at that a few times and settled my hands on my hips. “Well. Sell some of the stuff in that closet.”

He kicked at me, not gently.

“Fuck’s sake man, let me grieve for a minute, would you?” An arm covered his face. “I gotta at least go through it. See what I need to keep.” Then he sat up suddenly and fixed me with a cockeyed stare. “You! You gotta go find something to sell! Something at the campground. You said Hobb has it under control here?” A crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by a shout from Hord, and a rapid series of three gunshots. They sounded like forty-five caliber to me.

I shook my head and started walking out, but he shouted behind me.

“I got you that ammo you wanted though! It’s on the end table in the entryway!”

The door slammed shut behind me and I stormed downstairs to the entryway. On the end table was a small cardboard box with cut flesh-tape that was sitting open. Inside sat two bright red shotgun shells.

He asked for a ‘couple’ of shells. The bastard.

I stewed in my bad thoughts for a few seconds, but then just grabbed the shells and left. Two was better than none, and I slipped them into the magazine of my stubby shotgun, then pumped a shell into the chamber. I detached the golf cart and left, reversing rapidly, and hurrying to the campground. There was an idea I had been mulling over, about a potential source of income, and this seemed like a good time to explore it. I glanced at my phone to see that Molls had disconnected, which I took as a good sign. It had to mean that I was doing the right things, and that freed her up to pursue her own investigation into our new potential oppressors.

With positive thoughts, I entered the campground and sped past Phyllis and Doofus lounging in the shade. I headed to my least favorite part of the entire facility. The Joshua tree forest to the south, where the east and south fences met. Spider City.

Spider City was a large area of closely rooted, untended Joshua trees that were nestled into a corner of the campground’s wrought iron fencing along a long abandoned walking path. It was nothing but them, the fencing, and the open areas between trees that dripped with webbing.

I shuddered as I approached. It was the one place I never went, with good reason. Bits of trash littered the area, along with thousands of webbed insect corpses. The webbing hung thick, its own ‘keep-out’ sign.

Occasionally some idiot kid or dog would rampage into the area without realizing what it was, but they never made it more than a tree or two deep before realization set in and they fled. Mr. Sada had been after me for years to clean it, but fuck that. There were black widows in there, I wasn’t screwing around with that.

As I approached the forbidden zone, I was better prepared than most. I had personally mapped out the natural boundaries. The area was lost, there was no point in trying to take it back, but I had clearly demarcated the border. Small cardboard signs stood in a semi-circle around the zone, connected with dayglow red string. The new maps even had that corner and forest webbed over in the graphic, with a little cartoon spider menacing the guests while holding a ‘keep out’ sign. I had gone to great effort to warn the public about this little problem over the years. This was a no go zone, a keep out area.

Mr. Sada wouldn’t let the gum chewers tell the guests directly at check-in, but that had been a long fight that I still almost won. Spider city was sovereign. Undisturbed. Its own nation state. Until that day when I found myself in great need. We needed money for more goblin d’jhz, and this was the only idea I had.

The area was once a lovely walking path through a Joshua tree forest and had been part of the elder focused mobile home park that had come before the campground. Their budget had fallen out for some reason or other, probably some trust fund vampire business tactics. They changed owners several times, and during that painful process before the bottom of the barrel that was Mr. Sada and his campground, the walkway had gone straight to pot. No yard work meant no one to battle the spiders.

Eventually the residents all learned to stay out, nobody liked shaking spiders out of their hats and jackets, and the area became a military victory for the arachnids. Their inexorable march to reclaim the planet for themselves was present at the Happy Trails campground.

Seriously, this is their world, we’re all just on borrowed time.

So the area began with a single, oversized Joshua tree. It shined in the afternoon sun, thick gobs of webbing hanging from its limbs. Beyond that was the first row of trees, where I would never dare march, even under threat of death.

But this first tree was approachable. I stepped over the protective string barrier, itself wrapped in webbing, and stepped into the lair of the enemy. My skin crawled as I avoided long, quivering strands of filthy webs. It was a disgusting amalgamation of dead bugs, dead shrubbery, and wind-blown trash. When I pointed at the Joshua tree and said, “BuyMort, I’d like to sell that,” I honestly didn’t know what would happen. But I stepped back and waited for the pod, and when it arrived, it scanned the tree and then blinked. I got an error message.

“Parts of this property are owned by Mr. Sada. Sale of non-owned portions will now commence. See Mr. Sada for more information on this property.”

I nodded and the pod began selectively warping away portions of the webbing and Joshua tree. A piece of glittering cellophane garbage warped away, as did an entire portion of fresh webbing. The pod swung around the tree with terrifying efficiency, warping away items of value.

When it was done, I backed carefully out of the area and returned to the safety of the golf cart. I was careful to check myself just in case and shuddered at the possibility of an unwanted passenger. Or a dozen.

Purchase: Textile. Earth spider silk, spun webbing. Rarity, uncommon. Quality, pristine. 1246 morties dispensed.

Purchase: Textile. Earth spider silk, spun webbing. Rarity, uncommon. Quality, good. 545 morties dispensed.

Purchase: Textile. Earth spider silk, spun webbing. Rarity, uncommon. Quality, damaged. 87 morties dispensed.

Purchase: Livestock. Earth spider, Orb Weaver. Rarity, common. Quality, good health. 2304 morties dispensed.

Purchase: Livestock. Earth spider egg, Black Widow. Rarity, rare. Quality, good health. 840,000 morties dispensed.

None of the rest of it registered. There was more. Even the trash was worth a fraction of a Mortie here or there. But that black widow egg was the shining jewel on top of my pile of treasure. That viscous little creature and it’s viscous little unhatched offspring had just saved us all.

An ad popped up. To the left and right periphery of my vision cascaded mountains of golden coins while in the center sat a friendly looking shop, in front of which stood a man in a black tophat and matching full-length suit. Big top music played lightly in the background.

TIRED OF LOSS? SICK OF NOT KNOWING WHAT PRICES YOU ARE SELLING FOR? WHY NOT BECOME A BUYMORT AFFILIATE? AS ALL SMART SHOPPERS KNOW, BUYMORT AFFILIATES KEEP MORE OF THE VALUE FROM EACH SALES TRANSACTION, AND THE MONTHLY SUBSCRIPTION FEE IS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE FINANCIAL WINDFALL A SMART SHOPPER CAN ATTAIN. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? SIGN UP TO BE AN AFFILIATE TODAY!

Most of what the ad did was explain in detail how many morties I had just lost out on by failing to perform my latest transaction as a BuyMort affiliate. All it took was a monthly fee to avoid the BuyMort broker fee, by becoming an official part of BuyMort. My recent idea about the spiders had made me almost a millionaire in the space of a few seconds, but if I had made that sale as part of a BuyMort affiliate, I would have made forty percent more.

Getting an affiliate account jumped up on my mental to-do list, but it would have to wait. I had Gobbs to manage, and tenants to secure. Now that I had morties in my account, I felt empowered. The militia and their crazy alien benefactors didn’t worry me so much anymore. Phyllis and I’d kick their asses if they came calling. The sale of a spider egg had saved all our lives for the time being, but I really needed to get better at making morties if we were going to make it much longer.

The sale spun my mind about BuyMort a little bit too, as the livestock category was new. I was under the impression BuyMort was anti-slavery, but it looked like spiders didn’t count as people. Dogs and ravens, sure, but not spiders.

That made me think of the bug monsters that had been sent to attack me, and I noticed a theme. I also viewed Spider City with a new type of respect. This was a gold mine if I tended it correctly. I would have to make sure the Gobbs stayed out when they got around to building their wall around that part of the campground.

The first thing I did was get the hell away from the spider infested area. Back to the less webby parts of the park, where I could keep the spiders at bay with a broom. When I was in sight of Phyllis’ trailer again, I stopped the cart and clicked on my BuyMort icon.

HELLO FRIENDLY SHOPPER AND WELCOME TO BUYMORT – WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY SOME FRIED MYRLOCK TODAY?

I ignored the message and instead thought of bandoleers. In an instant an array of shapes and sizes appeared, all with a rainbow of color options beside them. I could choose one that was hot pink, another that was entirely invisible. I mean, the disclaimer made it clear that it wouldn’t make me invisible, but it itself was. There were bandoleers made for pets, for fish, for five-armed swordsmen from Alpha-Centauri. It was a mess of options. I sighed.

“Got anything that’s just for humans?” I asked.

The display changed at once, replacing the selections with human-only merchandise. I scrolled through. There were a few good options but ultimately I purchased an oversized bandoleer that would fit over my starfish suit and made sure it came loaded with plenty of triple-aught steel buckshot (Nice spread, nicely dead. Gunny’s Premium all-ethically-sourced-steel Buckshot. 60 morties per 60 rounds. 4.3 stars). Within moments, a pod delivered my package and I groaned when I realized I didn’t have a knife to cut the weird gummy flesh tape.

I pulled up BuyMort again and got back to browsing. And let me tell you something, when it came to blades the multiverse was a very inventive place. The selection that appeared came in every shape and size, and every conceivable use. There were knives for cooking and chopping, knives for fighting, knives for gardening and starting vehicles.

One knife claimed to disinfect and heal wounds. A claim that I found quite dubious.

But the one I settled with was a reasonably priced belt-hung, six inch general purpose camp knife. The ebony composite handle was slightly thinner than the blade, and it slid easily into and out of the strapped in place sheath. Or so it said, I couldn’t tell, because it came in a cardboard box and I had no knife to cut through the unreasonably tough flesh tape.

I kicked the box and an ad popped into my vision.

BUYMORT PRIME – SELF-OPENING BOX SERVICES. FOR 100 MORTIES A MONTH YOUR BOXES WILL OPEN THEMSELVES FOR YOU! WOULD YOU LIKE TO PURCHASE THIS PREMIUM LIFE OPTION NOW?

“Fuck off,” I muttered, shutting it down. I couldn’t believe they’d found a way to monetize box-opening. Then I sighed and nodded. Yes I could.

I loaded my boxes up into the cart and drove the rest of the way to Phyllis’ trailer. She was still parked out front and was still smoking a joint. It looked like a new one, but knowing her, she had a healthy stash around here somewhere. She didn’t have a knife I could use, but when I held up my packages, she happily slashed the tape for me with her mech hand. It had the ability to add a sharp edge to its fingertips as needed.

I clipped the belt knife in place and tied the leg strap. The bandoleer I snugged in place around my chest and Phyllis giggled at me.

“Very Rambo, dearie. What are you doing with that pea-shooter?” She asked with a sudden scowl. The TV in her mech was paused, a bored looking psychic face waiting for her to return.

I hefted my freshly loaded shotgun and slung it too, snugging it in place at the small of my back. “We don’t all have fusion cannons, Phil. It’s the best I got, and I think it’d work well against the little green guys back at Mr. Sada’s anyway. Thanks for the hand!”

I raised my hand in thanks and got back in the cart. Had to adjust the shotgun, but it worked well enough. The cart still said it had a good charge, but I was looking forward to getting it plugged in. I didn’t want to have to leave it at Mr. Sada’s, now that I could use it freely until he left. Felt like he might somehow ruin it or take it back if I did.

The cart zipped me down the road to the new fortress that Mr. Sada’s place was becoming. The mud walls had progressed, and I hadn’t even been gone that long. The sun was barely starting to set, and when I glanced at my annoyed psychic phone, it told me the time was just past six pm. Once the cart was parked and plugged in, I went to go see Hord and check in on the Gobb situation.

From what I could see of the outside, he had done a good job getting the little green bastards in order. Apparently, they were very hard workers if you threatened their d’jhz. But when I entered the kitchen, it was to a minor brawl.

A particularly large Gobb was arguing with Hord, chattering in the language they used. Hord was responding and holding his ground, but the Gobb was up on the counter, sticking a hand in Hord’s face. Hord was gripping the last two bottles of d’jhz and refusing to acknowledge the aggressive Gobb in his face. He just lifted his chin and shook his head again. I slapped my hand on the counter, and everyone in the room turned to stare at me.

“What’s the problem here?” I demanded, scowl on my face.

The Gobbs all exchanged looks and then the big one turned to face me. He approached, his sharp teeth on display. A single long, knob-jointed digit pointed at me and his mouth opened to speak horribly broken English. “No d’jhz, no work!” He croaked. The rest of the Gobbs in the area nodded and crossed their arms, angrily forming a barricade in the kitchen.

“There’s still d’jhz, Hord is holding two bottles right there!” I waved an arm. The Gobb glanced back but waved a hand dismissively.

“Two bottles!” it croaked. “Need more for job! Much more!”

I scowled and nodded. “So you’re upset that we haven’t ordered more yet?”

The big Gobb glanced around and blinked, but then quickly returned to my face and nodded. “Yes! Need more d’jhz!”

I shoved my way through the crowd of little green men and took both bottles from Hord. He gave them up willingly but scowled and followed me as I returned to the big Gobb standing on the end of the counter. I thrust both out to him, and when he reached for one, I pulled it back. “You make the rest of them get back to work, while we order a new pallet of d’jhz, and I’ll give you both bottles for yourself.” Then I raised my eyebrows at him and held out the bottles. “Call it a bonus.”

It felt like low hanging fruit, corrupting the leader of a labor dispute by bribing him over his fellows, but it worked. He snatched both bottles and tore the cork from the first, before jumping down from the counter, chattering in his own language. The other Gobbs around him shrieked and ran, each heading off to some task or other. Hord sighed in relief and leaned against the table.

“That no last. There no d’jhz, they break stuff!” Hord was insistent.

I raised my hand to calm him. “I got the morties, Hord, we’re fine. Let’s order a new lot of the stuff now, and then you’re in charge of managing the Gobbs.” I patted him on the shoulder and nodded as he calmed. “There you go, see, no problem.”

“Gobbs known for killing and selling bodies if not careful, boss.” Hord shook his head seriously, but his bizarre forehead swung back and forth and distracted me.

“Oh we’ll be fine. They just need to build a wall around the place. How much d’jhz do we need to finish?” I asked, motioning toward the basement. There was plenty of open space down there, and it seemed like a good place for Hord to be able to defend the shipment of d’jhz, no matter how big it ended up being.

Hord scowled deeply at that. He began muttering to himself as we walked down the stairs, and when we reached the bottom he stopped and looked up at me. “Wait, what kind of shift you want? I like two-four-two.”

It took some explaining, and plenty of pointed questions from me before Hobb could fully explain what that meant, but at the end I understood the basics. Two-four-two meant the Gobbs received one bottle of d’jhz every two hours of work, then every four, then every two, and the pattern repeated until the job was complete. I still wasn’t quite understanding what the d’jhz was, or why the Gobbs were so gaga for it, but I got how this worked.

You control the d’jhz, you control the goblin work crew.

They wanted it more than they wanted to break and steal all your stuff, and possibly you if you weren’t careful. So we ordered up a whole new batch of d’jhz, on Hord’s specifications. It cost a pretty mortie, but it was well within the new operational budget.

When the pod arrived to beam in our purchase, it first flashed holographic lines on the floor, and we moved away. Then the rainbow beam dazzled us, and we were looking at a mountain of d’jhz. Hundreds of bottles were packed in close on a double-tall pallet.

The bottom of the pallet was basically an open faced wooden box, and the top of it was just piled with more bottles, in stacks. The bottles were all forged to fit into each other, with a small indentation on the bottom of each making room for another on top of it. The entire concoction was wrapped in a very thin layer of what looked like skin, stretched out to make wrapping tape.

It looked horrifying and smelled worse.

Once it was cut loose and torn off the pallet, I bunched it up and threw it in the corner near the shelf Mr. Sada and I had worked on the day before. Then I went into the bathroom and washed my hands, trying very hard not to think of Mr. Sada’s dead wife in the tub.

It didn’t work. My mind threw the blood and gore of her in the tub at me, and then transplanted the blood over to my hands as I washed them, and suddenly I was a kid again, washing at my knuckles to get the blood off them.

This time, it was in a dojo of some sort. I started visiting those, pretty shortly after my mother left us. My father decided on some unconventional diagnosis and treatment, and it involved fighting adult martial art experts. I was hesitant, but my father insisted, and the instructor goaded me into it. So I broke his hand in the fight, and cut my knuckles up significantly.

It had been quick too, I know that part even through the fog of memory because the poor bastard I beat kept saying it, in the background, to my father. From the point he was poking and teasing me, to the point he was clutching his hand and I was waiting to find out how much trouble I was in seemed like a heartbeat.

By the time I finished with my own hands and returned, the instructor was still talking to my father, in the main dojo area. His own broken hand was wrapped and he was holding a bag of ice to it. I sat quietly in a chair by the door and waited to leave, listening as my father spoke to the man.

“I don’t know, Sarge. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before, he just knows when to move, and how. There’s no real technique to his fighting that I can identify, but his ability to inflict harm is obviously not in question.”

Mr. Sada’s hot water heater finally caught up with his extensive piping system and the water became hot enough to mildly burn me and bring me out of my own head. I remembered the gobbs running around upstairs and dried off my hands to get back to work.

When I returned, Hord was arguing with the big Gobb again, in their strange language. The big Gobb was on the stairs, to be equal height with Hord, but the argument was clearly not going his way. This seemed like easy water for Hord to tread. He pointed at the pallet and then pointed upstairs, and the big Gobb stalked away with a frown. As I approached, Hord turned and gave me a thumbs up. “They working!”

I clapped him on the back and smiled. “Good work, Hord. Now you keep em on whatever shift you think is best, I trust you. This is your job.”

We went up to the kitchen counter, where I created a small drawing for him using one of the campground maps. Mr. Sada had boxes of em. I showed him where the wall needed to go, with gates. The mansion would be finished first, to give us a place to hole up that night if needed, but the entire campground was slated for the upgrade.

They were going to build the wall twelve feet in height, with a broad walkway on top, and several points of access from inside. All of this was being done using a quick setting mud-crete construction item from BuyMort, which was extremely reasonably priced.

Of course, Mr. Sada had only purchased the service for his own mansion. More construction items and Gobb squad time awaited payment, already set up for me in a BuyMort ad. It was getting to know me and Mr. Sada a little too well and realized there was a profit margin in helping me clean up his messes.

After I had established and paid for literally the entire project, I still had over six hundred thousand morties, and I couldn’t help but think about how much more Spider City had in store for us.