Smoke, Steaks, and Satoshis: Ride the Shockwave

The banksters’ orbital HQ detonates like a goddamn supernova, a nuclear fireball swallowing steel and scales in a roar that shakes the stars. Rex “Coyote” Malone’s got Lysara Vaxx pressed against him in the stolen mech’s cockpit, her bare skin slick with sweat, his hands locked on the controls as they blast out of the blast zone.

The Harley’s strapped to the mech’s back, chrome rattling like a war drum, and the shockwave hits—hard, fast, a wall of heat and force that spins them ass-over-elbows through the void. Rex laughs, a gravelly howl cutting through the chaos, and lights a fresh cigar mid-flight, the hexed glow flaring as he takes a drag.

“Hold on, princess,” he growls, smoke curling past Lysara’s wild grin. “This ride’s gonna kick like a mule.”

The mech’s thrusters scream, fighting the spin, and the HUD’s a mess—“Structural integrity at 12%. Preferred pronouns unavailable.” Lizard corpses rain past them, charred husks of Zylor’s goons tumbling through the black, tails still twitching like they’re pissed about it.

Bitcoin’s free—the WOKE_VIRUS did its job, cracking the Syndicate’s grip and sending trillions back to Earth’s grid—and Rex feels it in his bones: victory, raw and bloody, the kind he used to taste in jungle firefights. Lysara’s clinging to him, half-naked, her torn dress flapping like a rebel flag, and she’s laughing too, a sharp, feral sound that matches his own. 

“You’re a lunatic,” she shouts over the roar, and he winks, cigar clamped tight. “And you’re riding with me, hellcat.”

Earth looms below, a blue-green smear growing fast, and the mech’s hull groans as they punch through the atmosphere. Flames lick the viewport, orange and wild, but Rex keeps the throttle pinned, steering through the inferno like it’s a Sunday cruise.

The shockwave’s still chasing them—debris pinging off the mech, a hail of twisted metal and lizard guts—and Rex spots Zylor’s cane spinning past, ibis head melted to slag.

“Adios, you scaly fuck,” he mutters, exhaling smoke that dances in the cockpit’s heat.

Lysara leans in, biting his neck, and he damn near loses the stick—victory’s sweet, but she’s sweeter.

The swamp’s rushing up fast—New Orleans’ muddy backyard, cypress trees and gator holes glowing under the dawn—and Rex yanks the mech into a dive, aiming for a clearing.

“Brace yourself,” he barks, and Lysara grips him tighter, thighs locked around his waist.

The mech hits hard—thrusters scorching earth, metal crumpling as it skids through the muck, carving a trench a hundred yards long. The Harley breaks free, tumbling ass-end-up into a bog, but it’s intact, chrome dented but gleaming.

The cockpit pops open, steam hissing, and Rex climbs out, cigar still lit, dragging Lysara with him. They hit the ground, boots sinking into swamp slime, and the mech groans one last time—its core, already scorched from the blast, giving out under the strain of reentry—smoking like a spent lover.

The air’s thick with rot and triumph, and then Mama Bastet steps from the trees, her leopard-print shawl swaying, Rufus and a posse of cigar-chomping gators waddling behind her. Somewhere in the distance, a faint horn plays ‘St. James Infirmary Blues,’ the notes curling through the dawn like a ghost of New Orleans welcoming him home.

She’s grinning, teeth glinting like polished bones, a bottle of absinthe dangling from her hand.

“Well, fuck me, Coyote,” she rasps, voice honeyed gravel.

“You blew them lizards to hell and back. Thoth’s laughing his beak off up there.”

She nods at the sky, where the orbital HQ’s wreckage streaks like a meteor shower, Bitcoin’s salvation lighting up the dawn.

Rex takes a drag, blowing smoke that curls through the swamp haze.

“Told you I don’t do spaceships,” he says, jerking a thumb at the Harley, half-submerged but badass as ever.

Lysara’s leaning on him, dress in tatters, green eyes sharp with adrenaline.

“He rides his way,” she says, smirking, and Mama cackles, tossing Rex the absinthe. He catches it, takes a swig—bitter, fiery, perfect—and hands it to Lysara, who downs a gulp like a pro.

Rufus lumbers over, a fresh Cuban in his jaws, and drops a charred lizard claw at Rex’s feet—souvenir from the blast.

The gator hisses approval, tails slapping mud, and Rex kicks the claw aside, grinning.

“Earth’s safe, Bitcoin’s back, and Zylor’s a grease stain,” he says, wiping absinthe from his chin.

“Not a bad day’s work.” Mama Bastet claps his shoulder, hard enough to sting. “You’re a goddamn force, cher. Left-Hand Path suits you—chaos and balls, just like Thoth likes it.”

Lysara’s hand slides down his back, teasing, and Rex feels the itch for more—ribeye, bourbon, her—but the swamp’s quiet now, save for the crackle of the mech’s corpse and the distant hum of a world waking up free. He pulls the Harley from the bog, mud dripping, and straddles it, revving the engine ‘til it roars.

“Hop on,” he tells Lysara, and she does, wrapping around him like she was born for it.

Mama Bastet raises the absinthe in salute, gators snapping jaws, and Rex peels out, cigar glowing, leaving the swamp and the wreckage behind.

The shockwave’s done—Rex Malone rode it, smoked it, and came out king.