#o shet

You know, seeing the Eastwood's as souls and shit is interesting. But have you ever considered

As the Isle O’ Hags only hazardous waste disposal facility, A.M. Industries had always been a bustling, busy place.

High above the processing floor, Adrian Miller’s boots trod heavily and with purpose upon the catwalk. He scanned his surroundings with as much of an eagle eye as he could muster. The foreman was not searching for anything in particular, he was simply making his rounds as usual.

A sharp whiff of a sour, rotten odor nearly took Adrian by surprise. It was not a foreign smell, in fact the foreman recognized it immediately. Caustic washing had begun in the facility.

A.M. Industries began its life as an offshoot of Hailfire Peaks Oil Refinery with Adrian among its first few employees. First encountering this foul odor was one of the most potent memories of his career; the choking gag noise he made upon his first encounter would probably never leave his memory. Now, the reek simply made him chuckle softly.

Toxic waste was an unavoidable part of the fuel refining process. Though dangerous and unpleasant, the job of treating it for disposal had to be done and that job was delegated to the facility that now bore the foreman’s name. Caustic wash waste turned out to only be the beginning, however, as requests from all over the Isle began to trickle in—sewage came first, closely followed by surplus explosives. As the once single-purpose facility grew, so did Adrian’s position on the management ladder. Once a pipe fitter with a knack for oxyacetylene, Adrian fought his way up the ranks to his current position as foreman... though it was not unusual to see him on the floor among his reports, torch in hand.

The catwalk creaked lightly as Adrian neared its end and began his descent into the office. Those responsible for the smell glanced up upon hearing the noise, then returned to their task, relieved that the foreman saw no need to bark an ill-tempered order. After all, Adrian was not exactly known for being a kind or patient man.

-

“O’Malley!”

The voice over the radio was sharp, frustrated and not one that Kevin O’Malley ever wanted to hear from the foreman. The Jinjo fumbled about his belt to retrieve the receiver at his side.

“What up, boss?”

“O’Malley, please come up to the cable room. I need to discuss something with you.”

-

Adrian awaited the Jinjo at the back of the cavernous chamber, dimly lit by the flashlight he held up to a handful of cables. His face was only visible in the dark when nearby LED indicators illuminated, leaving his safety vest and steel-toed boots hidden from view.

When he heard the door open and Kevin tread towards him, the foreman grumpily stated, “O’Malley, we have a problem.”

Kevin’s eyes drifted to the distal end of the wad Adrian clutched in his gloved hand. Each cable had been cleanly severed and the insulation around them had melted, as though the bundle was slashed with a hot knife. “This does NOT happen by accident.” Adrian then gestured to the neat label affixed to the board from which the damaged cables originated.

SECURITY CAMERAS — OUTDOOR

Kevin nodded in agreement. “Er—... yeah this ain’t right, but this damage isn’t too bad. We have plenty of heat-shrink tubing and I can have it all soldered up good as new in an hour.”

Adrian sighed heavily. “The repair doesn’t worry me, O’Malley. What concerns me is the deliberate, selective damage. Someone doesn’t want to be seen.”

-

Strapped securely in their safety harnesses, Jarvis and Kevin climbed the ladder to the top of the smokestack. The rabbit, being the nimbler of the two, hopped upon the grate first, followed by his coworker.

“You’ve had the boiler locked out, right Kevin?” The rabbit inquired, suddenly quite worried about being blasted sky-high by a gust of steam spouting from the stack.

The Jinjo laughed. “I wouldn’t drag you up here if I didn’t, Jarv.” He casually tossed his brushes onto the grate. “Now come on, Miller’s gonna have an aneurysm if he doesn’t get his grates cleaned.” Kevin brashly threw a stiff wire brush at Jarvis.

Silence took over for several minutes.

Jarvis lifted an ear. A whooshing noise had become audible.

“You hear that, Kevin?”

The Jinjo continued to scrape the grates as he replied, “Nah, what was it?

Jarvis sat back on his knees. “A whoosh. Sorta like an airplane.”

Before Kevin could respond, he himself heard the noise. It was at the base of the stack. The creatures exchanged looks, then peered over the edge.

The Winkybunions had arrived.

“A foul place, this factory is.”

“Quiet, Mingella, we won’t be long. Foul yes, but useless wrong! I’ve scoped it out for several days, its potential for us is worthy of praise. The Isle O Hags has no pollution, if we get this place, we have our solution.”

Jarvis looked over at Kevin. “She spoke in rhymes.”

Kevin stated back. “Dude, that’s what you’re worried about? She‘s been stalking the Industries for who knows how long!”

The rabbit shrugged. “Dunno, man, the rhymes are pretty weird.” Jarvis lifted his ear once more to listen to the conversation.

“We’ll find the boss and negotiate, if he backs down that would be great. After all we have more power than he, in a matter of minutes this place is for me!” Gruntilda cackled. Mingella simply nodded in approval.

High up on the smokestacks, Jarvis turned to Kevin. “We gotta find Miller before they do.”

Kevin chuckled. “I would LOVE to see them try to take AM Industries from him. This place is his baby. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t thwack the witch upside the head.” The Jinjo looked at their handiwork, satisfied. “This is fine. C’mon, let’s get to the Depot. Maybe we’ll see them fight.”

-

“OVER MY DEAD BODY!” A furious Adrian banged his fist on his workbench. His roar and metallic bang echoed off the walls of the Repair Depot.

Mingella rolled her eyes. “Perfect for our plan, this place is! Too safe it is, but a problem that isn’t.”

The foreman stood back, hands in the air. “PLEASE quit the broken English. I can barely understand you.”

“Don’t yell at my sister, you grumpy jerk! If you don’t agree, we’ll make it work. You have no choice in this matter, try to stop us, your head’ll be on a platter!”

Adrian sighed sharply, then swiftly turned around, tore his flint lighter from his belt and swept the acetylene torch head from its rig. In one swift motion, as though he’d done it thousands of times, he threw the fuel valve open and lit the torch. It blazed, sooty smoke from the reducing flame nearly blackening Adrian’s lighter. The foreman brandished the torch in front of him like a shield. “Get out of my factory!”

Gruntilda backed away—not in fear, but rather surprise. “Mingella, please deal with this pest. I’ll go and tackle all the rest. Mr. Miller, we will do as we please, get used to the name Grunty Industries!” With that command, Gruntilda fled with a terrible cackle, leaving Mingella alone with the foreman.

An indignant Adrian glared fiercely at Mingella. “I don’t know what your plan is, and I don’t care. Now kindly take your disgusting sisters and leave.” His grip on the torch, once firm and confident, was beginning to falter. Sweat dripped from his neck. One knee wasn’t far from giving out. He didn’t want to show it to the witch, but Adrian was petrified.

“Combative and uncooperative you are!” Mingella flipped her book open. “The perfect spell I have for a hot-tempered boss.”

Before Adrian could bark at her, he noticed a crackle of energy coalescing in her free hand. As Mingella’s spell grew, Adrian realized just how poorly matched he was. Still, he lifted the torch to the witch’s eye level, its flame still blazing before him, though it quivered as he began to tremble.

Fully intent on at least giving Mingella a savage burn, he rushed in, aiming for her face. If he could just damage her eyes...

His flames barely licked the tip of her nose before the spell she threw knocked the torch from his hands and into his chest.

From there, it was all a blur for Adrian.

His throat and chest burned and behind them his vertebrae made a terrible crackling sound. Every pop came with a pang of discomfort. All of his senses were being stripped away. As the pain in his back and jaw grew to a blinding, borderline electric sear, Adrian could barely stay conscious. Staying lucid would allow him to fight back, but letting himself pass out would mean he wouldn’t be aware of this ordeal. He let himself go limp.

It all happened so fast.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out.

Adrian’s consciousness returned in slow, plodding stages.

Pain was the first to return. His neck ached with an intensity that seemed disproportionate to his body. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from uttering a single sharp, distressed yelp.

As that cry escaped him however, he noticed that he didn’t recognize the way his teeth fit together. Confused, he felt around gingerly with his tongue. Of all things, the witch seemed to have given him a mouthful of dreadful canines and a jaw that opened far enough to make him worry that his mandible would unhinge from his skull. Adrian’s inspection only stopped when he became aware of a sweet, garlicky and metallic smell.

His head shot up.

Garlic was not an odor any welder wanted to smell. Did the witches knock over an acetylene cylinder? He looked around, but did not spot anything that could have leaked. The torch he’d held was nowhere to be seen. When he began to hyperventilate, however, it became apparent that it was indeed acetylene that he smelled.

That’s my breath.

As he made the connection, his heart began to pound.

That is not my heart.

The last of Adrian’s senses to return was his hearing, and with its return came Mingella’s dreadful voice.

“Finally, awake you are!” She stopped repeatedly striking him with her spellbook—Adrian was correct, the pounding was indeed not his heart—and stood before him. “Important instructions I will give you. Guard our factory you will, an—“

Suddenly overcome with rage, Adrian lifted his head off the floor to snap, “OUR factory?!” He spat. “What gave you the idea that my facility is yours?! Was that the purpose of your dreadful spell?!” As he barked, he became acutely aware of how much he towered over Mingella and how odd it felt to be able to articulate his neck so much. He realized at this point that he was definitely no longer human.

“Grunty Industries this is, and a welding torch you are. Fused you with your own weapon, I have. Protect Grunty’s gold and fight off the bear and bird, you must!”

“That makes no sense.” Adrian snarled, partly in an attempt to convince himself that this was all a terrible, albeit tremendously lucid dream.

“All the sense in the world it makes.” Mingella tapped her tome against Adrian’s side. Instead of the soft thud he expected, the foreman heard a muted, metallic clunk.

Adrian could no longer take the suspense. He turned his head.

You... turned me into a welding torch. Adrian thought. Of all things. As he looked himself over, his musing continued. Clearly you’ve never seen a welding torch before.

“A threatening name, “Adrian” is not, but your new name, “Weldar”, is.” Mingella turned her back on him.

Not really. Weldar thought, but felt it may be better to hold his tongue for now. You’re quite lucky I haven’t figured out how to use this body, because I would love to roast you alive.

Weldar simply laid back down and watched out of one eye as the witch took off, soaring upon her broomstick out of the Repair Depot. Her final triumphant cackle made him cringe.

-

The first night was dreadful.

Weldar spent most of the time trying to find a position in which to sleep. Every time he managed to get comfortable, he would grow restless. Another new position. More restlessness. As a person, Adrian had always had a restless leg that wouldn’t ever be comfortable, but now, he wasn’t sure what to move. Near dawn, the foreman reached an epiphany: human behavior doesn’t work. He had to think differently.

Using his neck, he pushed himself upright. Immediately his nausea subsided. For the first time he could see just how much he towered over the room. It was unsettling. Weldar rested the coils of his neck between his regulators in an attempt to make himself smaller, closer to where he used to be. He nestled his head atop the pile of coils.