Grieva, I wanted to continue the Oddworld Inhabitants thing of making a "Journey" word with "Odd" in there somewhere. Thanks for noticing.
Here's the first chapter.
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CHAPTER ONE
The rumbles of the MeechCo Producing factory stretched across the surrounding lands. The great structure dominated the formerly green landscape where Mudokons had once resided, blighting their lands with the stench of industrialism. The native creatures—Scrabs, Paramites, Elums, and Fuzzles—fled from the darkening wave of corruption that seemed to spread from MeechCo like a fume.
Once their Intern workers had completed construction of the massive structure—so big that it dwarfed even RuptureFarms—the Glukkon leader had called in the captive Mudokon slaves from their pens roundabout. Forced to toil at machinery, as had many slaves before them, they could only sweat and hope that Abe would save them, too.
Lord Fragg, the Big Cheese Executive of MeechCo, had quite the brain on his shoulders, unlike most of the other Glukkons before him. He had the money to waste, and he spent it wisely. None of his Sligs were Worker-class, all were Armored Big Brothers. Instead of processing up Paramites, Scrabs, Gabbits, Mudokons, splinters, or anything that his predecessors were fond of using, Fragg decided it would be a brilliant idea to look for Meeches.
Many had scoffed at his scheme. Meeches? they laughed. Meeches went out with Molluck and RuptureFarms. Where are you going to find Meeches?
Instead of listening to their mocking, Fragg had one of his top Vykker scientists, Humphrey the 3rd, calibrate a listening device whose range was more than a hundred square miles. It couldn’t listen in on conversations, but it could detect the exact frequency of the heartbeats of the long-thought-extinct Meech beetles.
Fragg revealed his discovery to no one. All he ever let go were the bags of Meeches, sliced and served frozen with plenty of sugar and flavorings. They sold like wildfire, since the Glukkons hadn’t eaten Meeches for thirty years, since the fall of RuptureFarms, but despite the demand for them, Fragg was determined not to go out the way Molluck had. Molluck had given in to that demand, and had made his products nearly extinct.
As a backup to his plans, he also sold the traditional kinds of food: the Scrab Burgers, Paramite Pot Pies, and other such goodies that Glukkon families bought every day. His gatherings were a blight to the natural environment around MeechCo, but with the traditional Glukkon love for the environment, he simply didn’t care.
After all, Abe had been dead for years. He’d blown up in the PulseCo explosion…And that hideous creature Munch hadn’t been seen in an equally long time, not since they’d released the Anti-Gabbit toxin into the air. They were nearly the only “natural heroes” that Oddworld had ever seen, and since they were dead, Fragg felt quite pleased with himself.
The time of the industrialist had come.
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Lord Fragg sat in his little swivel chair, staring at a computer screen as he did most of his waking day. Unlike most Glukkons, who had seen fit to have Sligs do every simple task for them, he’d not been content with his lack of arms and had paid Vykkers to lengthen his real legs with robot parts, allowing him to use his hands for working purposes—such as tap buttons, tie his shoes, and light his own cigar.
The words on the screen were nearly the same as ever, except that his total income kept going up and up and up, which was pleasing to him in the extreme. $1,213,453…$1,213,454...Nearly a dollar per second, which was quite a good rate—$360 an hour.
He twisted his chair around to face the Vykker standing quietly behind him. “Isn’t this whole thing just delicious?” Fragg chuckled. “Not even Molluck could’ve dreamed of this!”
Humphrey III was dressed—an interesting fact by itself—in a suit of expensive material which could supposedly take anything short of a Powderkeg and survive, with a Snuzi gun holstered in his belt. Though diminutive and spindly, he was an excellent shot and fine scientist. He shrugged with each set of shoulders. “If you say so, Lord Fragg.”
The Glukkon sneered. “Will you cut it out with the If you insist thing, Humph? Show some real emotion for once, huh? You’re a multi-millionaire, for heaven’s sake!”
“And that means I have to get overexcited with every statement?” the Vykker asked dryly.
“No…” Fragg sighed. “But you could at least act as if you were excited that you were getting a hundred dollars an hour.”
He went back to reading words on the screen, inwardly fuming. Humphrey might have a great brain on his upper set of shoulders, but he was not a conversationalist.
Without warning, the door behind him flew open, and a BigBro Slig rushed into the room, all four legs moving doubletime. Fragg swiveled around in his chair to face the enforcer.
“Lord Fragg!” the soldier gasped out, leaning on the doorframe for support. “There’s a Mudokon causin’ trouble!”
Fragg folded his arms across his buttoned suitcoat. “How many times have I told you not to just barge in here without even knocking?”
“But…but the Mudokon, sir!”
The Glukkon waved a hand. “Shoot him.”
The Slig looked thoroughly nervous, a most unusual expression for such a feared thing as a BigBro. “Uh…that’s just the problem, sir. He’s, uh, inside the factory! He’s setting bombs all over the place!”
Fragg slammed a fist down on the table beside him. “Dkrnwwzz arkrzzz strnn!” he cursed in Old Sliggish, and Humphrey winced. “There’s only one Mudokon I know of that could manage to get in here and set bombs.”
All three—the Glukkon, Slig, and Vykker—said the word at the same time, as if it were a curse: “Abe!”
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