“Don’t Worry About It”
…said someone right before the ceiling caught fire.
The hangar trembled with laughter, shouting, and the whine of power tools being used in ways they definitely weren’t designed for.
Socket was mid-swing on a steel beam like it was a jungle gym, welding torch clenched between her teeth. Tumbler had parked himself inside a smelter vent with nothing but a hammer and an oven mitt.
And Freak… well, Freak was dancing.
“I said two turns, Telly, not three!” Freak yelped, ducking just before a spring-loaded arm snapped out of a socket and flattened a crate of safety helmets. “We’re building a death machine, not a percussion instrument!”
Telly’s voice echoed from beneath a console. “But it sounded like a banjo—worth it!”
The S.L.A.G., Gnolaum, loomed in the middle of the chaos like a sleeping giant with a really good dental plan. Its jet-black plating gleamed under the overhead lamps, with the iconic smiley face across its chest grinning wide and completely deranged.
Inside the cockpit, Wendell sat strapped in, flipping switches and tapping the console.
“Uh…Freak?” his voice crackled through the comms. “The panel just blinked at me and made a ‘boing’ noise. Was that supposed to happen?”
Freak popped out from behind the S.L.A.G.’s left knee, goggles half-fogged. “Absolutely! That means the hydraulic flux regulator’s calibrated to your personality. Boing is a good thing!”
“…Right.”
From behind a sheet of steam, Nibbles appeared holding a coil of mismatched cables and half a peanut butter sandwich. “I re-wired the movement controls again. Should be 80% smoother. Or at least 40% less leg seizures.”
“I’ll take it,” Wendell muttered.
Socket dropped down beside them, soot streaked across her cheeks like war paint. “Oh! And we added a fire-suppression system inside the legs!”
Wendell perked up. “Really? I’m not totally sure what that is, but I mean, fire is bad in here, right? Soooo…awesome.”
“It’s technically just six seltzer bottles strapped to an air hose,” she admitted. “But it is refreshing.”
“…Right.”
The team gathered as Freak proudly pulled a dusty tarp off a side table. Laid out was a collection of cobbled-together gear: a massive I-beam sharpened into a four-edged war club, and what looked like half a hydrogen tank with handles.
Tumbler grinned, puffing on a stubby cigar. “Behold, Wendell. Your bashy thing… and your blocky thing.”
“That’s… that’s a weapon?” Wendell asked, peering through the viewport at the I-beam.
“Four sides of cuttin’ joy,” Freak beamed. “And the shield? Eight inches of former industrial pressure hatch. We had to borrow it permanently from Sector 9’s condemned gas refinery.”
“It still says ‘CAUTION: DO NOT STRIKE’ on it,” Nibbles added helpfully.
“But now it’s just suggestive,” said Socket.
Wendell chuckled nervously, fingers twitching on the controls. “Are we sure this is all going to hold together?”
Freak turned, met Wendell’s gaze through the cockpit glass, and gave the most confident thumbs-up a gnome had ever given.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He clicked the remote.
With a thunderous WHUMPH, the Gnolaum powered up. Vents hissed. Gears spun. And one of the overhead lights exploded in a puff of steam and glitter.
Socket had added glitter. For “visibility.”
The giant S.L.A.G. stood tall, the cockpit lights bathing Wendell in a warm amber glow. He flexed the controls. Gnolaum mimicked the motion, hefting the I-beam club into one hand and locking the pressure-door shield into place on the other.
“Hey Wendell!” Telly shouted.
“Yeah?”
“Swing it at the testing wall!”
“What testing wa—”
CRAAAASH!!
The I-beam tore through the reinforced wall like it was wet tissue. The entire back section of the hangar groaned and sagged as a support beam fell with a clang.
Water sprayed from a burst pipe.
A few crates caught fire.
Tumbler gave an impressed whistle.
Then something exploded in the corner.
“…Was that the coolant tank?” Socket asked, shielding her eyes from the smoke.
Nibbles coughed. “Nope. Pretty sure that was the glitter reservoir.”
A cloud of sparkling doom rained down on them like Tinker Bell’s fever dream.
As alarms went off and Freak stood there, arms wide in triumph, the Gnolaum rotated toward them. Wendell’s voice came through the speaker, half-laughing, half-panicked.
“Guys?!”
Freak turned, glitter dusted and absolutely unfazed.
“Don’t worry about it!”
Author’s Note (from me, Höbin Luckyfeller, of course):
Dear Reader,
I have to admit—writing this little RAT-nado of a story was a joy.
There’s something wonderfully chaotic about stepping outside the main storyline and just letting the TNT crew be… well, themselves. Explosions, ill-advised wiring, and “borrowed” food processors? Just another Tuesday for gnomes with ambition and questionable ethics.
Wendell may never know what really happened outside his cockpit that day (probably for the best), but I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it.
This was for Gibberish’s FFF (Flash Fiction Friday), which Jaime said I could participate in.
Prompts for 4 April 2025
Write about a good day
cavernous closeness
“Don’t worry about it”
A character who is a stowaway
—Höbin Luckyfeller
Official Field Historian, WantedHero.com
(Still trying to get that toaster unstuck from the ceiling.)
Where do I start? The awesome line, "Behold, Wendell. Your bashy thing… and your blocky thing?” Glitter for "visibility?" Putting the testing wall IN the hangar? "Tinker Bell's fever dream?" The toaster stuck to the ceiling? A huge chaotic mess of fun! Thank you for the Friday cheer!
the glitter!! lol