The moon hung low and bloody over Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe in Riverdale, like it knew something bad was coming.
The neon sign flickered once, twice, then gave up and died. Inside, the jukebox skipped on the same three notes of “Sugar, Sugar” like a broken heartbeat.
High above, a mysterious black drone hummed softly, its red light blinking as it captured every angle, streaming the feed to… somewhere. Or somewhen.
In a booth that hadn’t been occupied a second ago, two figures materialized in a shimmer of impossible light. Jerry “The King” Lawler blinked, adjusting his crown, while Jim Ross straightened his cowboy hat, looking more exasperated than surprised.
“Bah gawd, King! Not again!” JR growled, slapping the table. “This is the third time we’ve been yanked out of nowhere to call one of these interdimensional slobberknockers. First that brawl in the Scottish Highlands, then the Bugs Bunny mess, and now… what fresh hell is this?”
King chuckled nervously, peering around. “I don’t know, JR, but I’ve resigned myself to it. Whoever’s doing this ain’t stopping. Might as well enjoy the show. Hey, is that Archie? The comic book kid?”
Archie Andrews stood in the middle of the diner, red hair glowing under the emergency lights, letterman jacket sleeves rolled up. His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles looked like white marbles. He’d heard the rumors: some blond, shades-wearing maniac had rolled into town in a monster truck made of scrap iron and bad decisions, asking for “the redheaded kid with the guitar and the death wish.”
Duke Nukem kicked the front door off its hinges like it owed him money.
He stepped through the splinters in slow motion, trench coat flapping, cigar already lit, shades reflecting the exit sign like twin hellfires. In his right hand: the Devastator shotgun. In his left: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels he clearly intended to finish after the murder.
“Yo, Archie,” Duke rumbled, voice like gravel gargling bourbon. “I hear you’re the big hero around here. Save the cheerleader, save the world, blah blah blah. Cute. Real cute.”
“Folks, that’s Duke Nukem! The alien-bustin’ legend himself!” JR boomed, his voice cutting through the tension like a hot knife. “This ain’t no wrestling ring, but by gawd, it’s gonna be a fight!”
King leaned forward. “JR, look at the size of that shotgun! Archie’s in trouble—he’s got heart, but Duke’s got firepower! Puppies might not save him this time!”
Archie swallowed. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but this is my town. You need to leave. Now.”
Duke took a long pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, and grinned the kind of grin that had made entire alien species reconsider reproduction.
“Kid. I’ve fought bigger threats than you while taking a shit. You’re about to get nuked.”
Archie charged.
He was fast—football fast, small-town-hero fast. He threw a textbook right cross that would’ve dropped a linebacker. Duke didn’t even blink. He caught the punch in his free hand like he was accepting a friendly handshake, then headbutted Archie so hard the redhead’s feet left the ground.
“Business is boomin’!” JR shouted. “Duke just planted Archie with a skull-crackin’ headbutt! That’s gotta hurt!”
King winced. “Ouch! Archie’s seein’ stars—and not the Hollywood kind! Come on, kid, get up!”
Archie crashed through three booths and a display case of cherry pies. Frosting rained like sweet, bloody snow.
He scrambled up, grabbing a metal chair. Swung it like a baseball bat. The chair exploded against Duke’s forearm. Duke didn’t even flinch.
“Nice try, Opie. My turn.”
Duke fired the Devastator one-handed.
The shotgun roared like God getting a divorce. The slug hit Archie square in the chest, lifted him off his feet again, and sent him pinwheeling backward through the counter. Milkshake mixers detonated. Glass and strawberry syrup painted the wall in abstract horror.
“Bah gawd! Duke’s unleashing hell with that Devastator!” JR yelled. “Archie’s down, but he’s not out—wait, he’s stirring! This kid’s tougher than a two-dollar steak!”
King laughed. “JR, Duke’s treatin’ this like target practice! Archie better call Betty and Veronica for backup—oh wait, too late!”
Archie hit the tile hard, gasping, blood already bubbling at the corner of his mouth. But he wasn’t done. He never was. Riverdale had taught him one thing: you keep getting back up.
He staggered to his feet, ripped a jagged piece of rebar from the wreckage, and screamed—a raw, teenage, everything-to-lose scream—and charged again.
Duke sighed like a disappointed dad.
He side-stepped, grabbed Archie by the throat with one massive hand, lifted him clean off the floor. The rebar clattered uselessly to the ground.
“You got heart, kid. I’ll give you that.” Duke’s voice dropped, almost gentle. “But heart don’t stop bullets. And it sure as hell don’t stop me.”
He slammed Archie down onto the counter hard enough to crack the Formica. Then he reached behind his back, pulled out the big gun.
The one he saved for special occasions.
The ripper chaingun.
The barrels began to spin up with a sound like a jet engine having an aneurysm.
“Slobberknocker city!” JR roared. “Duke’s got the chaingun revvin’! This could be the end for Archie Andrews!”
King shook his head. “Poor kid— from Riverdale High to the highway to hell! What a way to go!”
Archie, dazed, blood streaming from his nose, looked up into the spinning black maw of death.
“Any last words, quarterback?”
Archie coughed once. Managed a weak, defiant grin.
“Yeah… go to hell.”
Duke chuckled. “Already been there. They named a wing after me.”
He squeezed the trigger.
The ripper screamed for three full seconds.
When the smoke cleared, there wasn’t enough left of Archie Andrews to fill a lunchbox.
“Bah gawd! It’s over! Duke Nukem stands tall!” JR declared, his voice hoarse. “What a massacre!”
King sighed. “Well, JR, another one in the books. Wonder where we’re gettin’ zapped to next…”
Duke stood in the ruins of Pop’s, the only sound the slow drip of strawberry syrup hitting the floor.
He flicked his cigar butt into the wreckage, took one last pull from the Jack bottle, and tossed the empty over his shoulder.
“Another one bites the dust.”
He turned, kicked what was left of the doorframe out of his way, and strolled back into the night.
Somewhere far away, a jukebox tried to play “Sugar, Sugar” one last time.
It didn’t get past the first three notes before it died too.
Duke Nukem walked on.
Because in the end, there can be only one badass in any town.
And it sure as hell wasn’t the redheaded kid with the guitar.
The drone buzzed once more, then vanished into the ether.
In a dimly lit bar that existed between worlds—walls lined with flickering portals showing glimpses of infinite realities—a man in a baseball cap and glasses hunched over a holographic screen, watching the feed with a smirk. He might have been the one pulling the strings, orchestrating these chaotic crossovers for reasons known only to him.
The bartender, a shadowy figure with tentacles for arms, slid over. “Another mug of Yuengling, sir?”
The man belched, his words slurring as he raised his empty glass. “More beer over here! Wherever HERE is!”
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