Promotion by Pressure Washer: A Skelcon’s Very Bad Plan
This Snout Spout short story begins with him just trying to get home. Instead, a desperate Skelcon with a bruised ego and a terrible plan steps into his path on a narrow Eternian ledge. “Promotion by Pressure Washer: A Skelcon’s Very Bad Plan” is a short clash of bad timing, high-pressure upgrades, and one warrior who really should’ve chosen a different battle.
The Patrol Was Over. The Trouble Wasn’t
Snout Spout just wanted to get home.
The trail wound along the cliff face in a thin, uneven line, stone on one side, sky on the other. Far below, the trees of Eternia were a soft green blur. His new upgrade hummed softly in the pack on his back—valves tuned, pressure lines reinforced, every gauge at perfect levels.
Man-At-Arms had called it “a significant increase in output.”
Snout Spout translated that as: more paperwork if someone went off a cliff.
He trudged on, boots grinding grit, trunk swinging slowly with each step. His shoulders ached in that familiar way that meant the patrol was done and his body had already decided the day was over.
A Bad Day on a Narrow Ledge
That was when a lone Skelcon stepped into the path.
It emerged from behind a jagged pillar of rock, skull mask tilted down, bone armor clattering softly as it moved. The empty eye sockets behind the mask fixed on him with the flat, tired focus of someone who’d already had one argument too many.
“Look at that,” it said. “A fire hydrant with legs.”
They stared at each other on the ledge for a heartbeat. The path wasn’t wide enough for both.
Snout Spout sighed through his trunk.
“You can move aside,” he said. “Or you can find out what happens when I’m tired and angry. Your choice.”
The Skelcon’s grip tightened on its bone axe. It looked him up and down, from metal trunk to water pack.
“Ah. Snout Spout,” it rasped, voice scraped raw. “The Royal Family’s palace pet.”
So it knew him. That usually meant nothing good. And palace pet wasn’t even accurate. Pets got days off.
The Skelcon’s jaw bone clenched.
Skeletor called me useless, it thought bitterly. Said I was only good for polishing bone and carrying torches. Then he sent me to guard the ledge. Patrol duty is for the weak-hearted.
It lifted the axe in one hand, shield in the other, pointing it at Snout Spout’s chest.
“If I bring you back,” it said, more to the air than to him, “he’ll give me my rank, my privileges, and maybe—maybe—stop threatening to turn me into a matching end table.”
Snout Spout looked at the axe. Then the mask. Then the sheer drop to his left.
“Just step aside and let me pass and I won’t humiliate you,” he said.
The Skelcon laughed once—a dry, humorless sound and ignored Snout Spout’s threat. It tilted its head, voice dropping to a rough, conversational tone that didn’t match the axe at all.
“You know,” it said, “among us there is a saying: ‘A warrior must choose his battles.’”
“Sound advice,” Snout Spout replied.
“I did not choose this one,” the Skelcon said. “But here we are.”
Clash on the Cliff
It moved first.
Bone flashed in a tight arc. Snout Spout’s axe was in his hands before the thought finished forming, haft catching the strike with a sharp clack that rang off the stone walls. The force of the blow shuddered up his arms.
The space was too tight to step back without stepping off into the sky.
They moved along the narrow line of the ledge, weapons colliding in quick, efficient exchanges. This Skelcon wasn’t sloppy. Each strike was measured, each step calculated, every inch of movement pushing Snout Spout toward the worst angles on the path.
“Slow,” the Skelcon observed between blows. “You’re slower than the stories.”
Snout Spout grunted, pivoting, driving his shoulder forward to break the rhythm. Their feet skidded; gravel rattled off the cliff.
The Skelcon’s skull mask angled fractionally, reading his footing, his trunk, the position of the water pack. It feinted high and then slashed low, catching Snout Spout’s shin. Nothing serious. Pain flared, sharp and clean.
“He said your mind is fragile,” the Skelcon added, almost thoughtfully. “And easy to crack.”
Snout Spout’s grip tightened on the axe.
“Did he,” he said quietly.
The Skelcon went on, axe circling lazily now, hunting for psychological openings.
“When the Horde rebuilt you… did you scream with the man’s throat or the metal mouth?”
Those words hit harder than the axe. Snout Spout’s breath stuttered once in his chest. The wind at his back felt suddenly colder, the drop more present. The upgrade pack hummed, a low, waiting thing.
He looked at the Skelcon for a long second.
“That’s enough,” he said.
The anger was old. Familiar. He let it settle into his hands.
He broke contact and drove a boot into the Skelcon’s chest, knocking it backwards. Then Snout Spout stepped back half a pace—just enough to free the range of his trunk.
The Skelcon lunged to capitalize, axe thrusting forward.
When the Upgrade Kicks In
Snout Spout turned the valve—all the way to full.
The pack’s pitch climbed with a hydraulic whine. Pressure built in an instant, a familiar tension sliding through the lines.
He lowered his trunk.
The Skelcon saw it too late.
The water hit like a solid wall.
One moment the Skelcon was advancing, blade forward, shield up in a practiced, confident guard. The next, its entire world became a deafening roar—sound slamming off the cliff face, folding back on itself—and a force driving straight into its chest—”Nobody said anything about fighting an open fire hydrant!” was his last coherent thought.
The shield slammed back against its ribs. Clawed feet tore at stone. The Skelcon’s spine jolted as the blast pinned it upright and shoved it backward.
“—hhhHRRRAAGHH—” Whatever came out of its mouth wasn’t language.
Snout Spout planted his feet, every muscle braced, trunk locked on target. The jet was a tight, supercharged white stream. The impact point on the Skelcon’s shield frothed with spray.
Rock dust mixed with water in the air and the ledge glistened.
“Ooh… this upgrade works nicely,” Snout Spout noted, as if he weren’t pressure-washing someone off a mountain.
The words never reached him.
Claws scraped at the ground, feet tearing furrows, every inch gained immediately stolen as the blast shoved it back again. The path was narrow; there was nowhere to sidestep, no cover to duck behind, just a slow, grinding catastrophe looming behind him.
Water hammered bone and leather. Droplets flew off horns and pauldrons in ragged arcs. The skull mask rattled against its face, jawbone chattering with the vibration.
Under the roar, there was another sound: stone fracturing.
One Skelcon’s Very Bad Plan
It risked one glance down.
The ledge behind its heels ended in nothing. The world fell away into open air and treetops far below. Pebbles dislodged by its sliding feet bounced once, twice, then vanished.
Panic sharpened every movement. Claws dug into the rock. They slipped on the wet surface, leaving long, useless streaks. The shield arm shook, muscles burning, shoulder screaming under the relentless weight of the blast.
“Stop—” it managed to choke, voice ripped apart by the water. “STOP—!”
Snout Spout adjusted the angle a few degrees lower, pushing the center of mass back toward the torso. More control. Less chance of the Skelcon flipping and tumbling end over end into the void.
On the receiving end, it was a different story. For a heartbeat, there was only wind and the sickening lurch of its balance tipping the wrong way. It threw its weight forward on instinct, toes scraping for purchase, shield shuddering as the torrent tried to peel him straight off the ledge.
Bargaining with the Blast
“Fine, you win, I concede, I surrender, I resign—I’ll switch sides, I’ll carry your gear, I’ll clean your armor—just stop!” it tried to yell, but the plea shredded itself in the spray.
The blast did not care. It drove on. Every step back was treason against its own survival, but its legs couldn’t hold the line anymore. They shook like bad scaffolding, tendons shrieking.
“I just wanted a little respect,” it thought wildly. “Maybe a chair that wasn’t broken. Maybe a skull mug with my name on it.”
Through the roaring water it caught one last glimpse of his opponent: the metal trunk, the steady stance, the utterly unimpressed eyes.
This was a bad day, the Skelcon realized, as another inch of rock crumbled away behind its foot. And this was a very, very bad plan. Promotion by pressure washer—what was I thinking?
– Copyright © 2025
If you’d like to see Snout Spout on a day when he’s doing his actual job instead of pressure-washing Skelcons off cliffs, check out my other short story: “First On Scene.”
About These Toy Figures
This short story was inspired by a toy photography scene featuring:
- Skelcon — Portraying one of Skeletor’s bone-clad foot soldiers from Masters of the Universe, by Mattel Creations. In this scene, this unlucky Skelcon had one mission: bring an impressive offering back to Skeletor to reinstate his honor and rank. Instead, he picked a fight with the wrong trunk on the wrong ledge.
- Snout Spout – Featured here in his Mattel Creations Masterverse. Snout Spout now serves the Heroic Warriors as a firefighter, wielding his powerful metal trunk to unleash high-pressure water jets—perfect for disasters, burning buildings, and, occasionally, overconfident Skelcons.
