Novelltråden

[Zack]

Jag har postat denna i en annan tråd också.

Den är sjuk och sepe, läs ej om ni inte har sjuk humor.

STORY

20:58 Äggsull (Zack)

Det var en vanlig dag hemma hos Nordh, Nordh badade med kattin och pappa Nordh matade djuret i källaren. Då, utan någon som helst anledning skrek lillasyster Nordh till. Ajdå tänkte Nordh (Ja, han kan tänka...), hon har fastnat med näsan i kylskåpsdörren igen... Jävla flensskalle... Han sprang ut i köket och såg till sin förvåning att hon faktiskt inte hade gjort det, hon var inte ens där. Bara en lapp, en mörk liten lapp. Nordh plockade upp lappen och gick till sin kompis Kifär Fajles för att förstå den. Deras sammanlagda IQ lyckades efter många om och men att komma på vad det stod(Nästan...)

"Jag har dinn sster nordd, gå tell stora bärget i skonengred klokan två i natten"

21:10 Ibito (Ebeeto)

Efter att ha läst lappen några gånger, utbrast Kifär:

"Det är en shoppinglista! Vi måste handla allt på listan annars kommer en häxa!"

Nordh slog Kifär i bakhuvudet så att han förlorade talförmågan och skrek sedan:

"Jääva Kifäj! Du e ju djum i hjuvet!"

Nordh tittade en extra gång på lappen och sa självsäkert och triumferande:

"Njån har kidd-nappat syster Nordh! Vij måste jädda hon!"

Kifär försökte säga nånting men bet av misstag ett djupt hack i tungan och började blöda ymningt samtidigt som Nordh drog honom med sig ut genom ytterdörren för att hitta sin älskade syster.

[22.25] Sörnlou Metronooome (Barnet from da street you knows)

Nordh slängde upp Kifärs klena kropp på ryggen och hoppade upp på sin evighetsmaskin

"en makalöss manikk!!" utstötte Nordh med ett dreggel och drog iväg.

Plötsligt hörde dom något som liknade svenska bakom sig,

det var pappa Nordh som slitit sig och nu var på väg rakt emot dom med feta kliv!!

Kifäj kastade sig i ren hjälplöshet ut i diket, flaxandes som en sepe.

Nordhs stiliga ekipage närmade sig en jävligt hård hög med tallbarr. Plötsligt bländades han av ljus innifrån skogen.

22:49 Löwe (Zacks bror)

Den tjocke Nordh staplade in i skogen lite skakad efter sin fars brutala anfall, väl inne i skogen fann han till sin stora förvåning en flaska med mjölk som lös med ett grönt lockande sken. Nordh skulle precis till att dricka en slurk av den gröna mjölken då han hörde Kifäj bakom sig. Kifäj undrade lite korkat varför den ack så tjocke Nordh hade lämnat honom i diket.

Nordh reagerade inte på Kifäjs fråga då han ändast stod och stirrade in i sörjan som låg i flaskan. Kifäj frågade än en gång: Var för gick du bara!

Denna gång lite högre, Nordh reagerade med att skrika: Jääva Kifäj, gä fan i min flajska!

23:02 Ägg (Zack)

Kifäj blev ledsen och gick hem. Nordh tog fram sin flaska och dregglade på den. Ut ur tomma intet kom en mycket kvick och vältränad man, det var allas vår Hagman som valt att delta i denna saga. Hagman var trött på daltandet och tog Nordhs flaska och använde sin kopiösa muskelstyrka för att slänga den åt helvete varpå Nordh skrek

"Majj präsioos mjjöölk!!!"

Hagman ruskade om vår fete lille vän och skrek att han var ful och sepe. Nordh accepterade och började leta efter sin choklad som han hade gömt i kalsongerna ett par dagar innan när...

23:12 Bengzing (Ebeeto)

...han kom på att han faktiskt bantade.

"Meh!" skrek han. "Vij måste leta eftej Jessica nu!"

Hagman gick med på att gå med det lilla sällskapet i jakten på Nordens syster. Men bara om han först fick känna Kifäjs korta, smala och skrynkliga men ack så välformade penis i sin stjärthålelse. Kifäj skrek och protesterade och sa att Hagmans stjärt var den allra sista platsen han ville insticka sin lilla snopp i. "Meh! Fack jo fö fan, Kifäj! Nu ska dju knujja Hagman så han hjälpej oss!"

Kifäj drog ner sina turkosa mjukisbyxor och började påsätta Hagmannens bakre kroppsöppning med kraft och kräm. Hagman skrek av njutning och ropade högt:

"Åh, pappa! Jag älskar din kuk i min stjärt! Åh, pappa, knulla mig! Jag är din lilla hor-pojke!"

Kifäj började känna sig lite illa till mods där han stod och torrjuckade mellan den långe pojkens vältränade skinkbitar, men fortsatte tills akten var fullföljd.

"Nu kan vi gå!" sa Haugis med ett brett leende på läpparna.

"Bja! Nu skja vi hitta Jessica!" skrek Nordh och började guppa vidare tillsammans med sina nya, och gamla vänner, till SKönningareds högsta berg, Skönningaberget.

23:27 Zernlo (Gatan barn)

Vägen till berget ledde över en bro. Alla visste att under bron levde djur, lika störda som sepiga. Kifäj skickades fram för som lockbete och det dröjde inte länge förän dom hörde uggiga ljud från bron. Hegrejjus uppenbarade sin fula nuna. Med ett utomnormaliskt skrik kastade han sig mot den stackars Kifäj-pojken! Men Haugman var minsann lika listig som vältränad och stjärtpippad. Ur fickan slet han upp en bit kartong med krafs på.

"nu vet jag hur vi ska komma över bron!"

23:43 Lövet (Zacks bror)

Haugman tänkte att dom kanske kunde bygga en flotte som flög över bron då den såg lite fallfärdig ut. De tog Nordens tandpetare och körde ner den i kartongbiten, satte ett löv som segel på den så att den skulle få någon form av fart. De två kvarvarande av skaran, dvs. Nordh och Haugman skuttade upp på "flotten" och stod i cirka trettio minuter. Denna gång var det den ack så lidande kifäjs tur att tänka en ytterst liten men betydelsefull tanke, Man kanske kan sätta en motor av nåt slag på den så att den kommer nån stans...

Nordh skrek än en gång: Jääva Kifäj! och fick ett "lätt" utbrott och kastade en måttligt stor sten på Kifäjs öra så att han fick lunginflamation och dog av blodförgiftning.

23:59 Ägg (Zack)

Kifäj kom inte till himmelen, men inte heller till helvetet. Det var värre än så. Han var i Guntorp. Kifäj vandrade runt på måfå för att hitta en väg ut. Efter en stund när de två solarna gått ner och den sista och största solen lös med en klarblå lyster över landskapet hörde Kifäj röster. I en liten håla i den mörkaskte delen av Guntorp såg han både Wajkenhuult och Hallon-Ballon. Han skrek ut sin smärta och spydde bakom ett träd. Hallon-Ballon sprang fram till Kifäj och slog honom med Ödets spjut och Kifäj förvandlades till ett spöke. Han hade då förmågan att kunna "teleportera" sig mellan världar(Gratis rymdfärjekort). Han påbörjade sin resa till Hagman och Nordh.

00:10 Ajbajtå (Ebeeto)

Kifäj åkte i lastutrymmet på en rymdfärja i flera år. Han överlevde genom att äta sin egen bajs och fick sällskap när han målade glada munnar på sina pungkulor och hade långa konversationer med dem. Han blev skäggig och gammal och när han äntligen kom fram till den vanliga världen (Guntorp ligger 15 dimensioner bort...) så hittade han Nordh och Hagman döda i varandras armar. De hade frusit ihjäl när de försökt sälja svavelstickor till förbipasserande. Nordh hade med skakiga fingrar plockat upp en svavelsticka ur asken och dragit den mot plånet. En varm låga hade blossat upp och han såg bilder ur sin barndoms julaftonar. Smörgåsskinkan från Willy:s låg på en papperstallrik och de trasiga vinflärrorna låg sprida över golvet. Pappa Nordh misshandlade Mamma Nord med sin träsko medans Jessica och Kittoffä satt ihopkrupna i den nedurinerade hörnsoffan och grät. Han hade tänt alla stickor tills både han och Hagman frös ihjäl i en stor böghög av död.

Kifäj ville inte tro att det var sant. Han ville själv bara dö, om detta var vad som fanns kvar av hans vänner. Kifäj bet sig själv i benet och förblödde.

Då vaknade Norden och Hagmannen upp.

"Haha, fan vikken lättlujad bög! Han tjodde vi var dööda!" skrek Nord med uppspelt röst.

Sedan turades de om att tömma pungen i Kifäjs dubbelt döda lik och fortsatte sedan att gå mot berget. Innan de visste ordet av, så var de framme vid foten av berget.

[00:31] Lucky motherfucker (Nått sepe vi hittade på gatan)

Dom vandrade hand i hand upp längs vägen mot toppen, gnolandes en gammal ungersk jude-visa för att lätta upp den värdelösa stämmningen. Den sista biten fick dom krypa på alla led, Hagman (den listiga och vältränade) kröp först. Nordh fick Hagmans vältrimmade bak rakt i fejset och utbrast:

"Ditt bög" sen kröp dom vidare.

När dom nådde toppen fick dom syn på ett, enligt Nordh som var feg och dålig, ett väldigt läskigt tält framför sig. Men Nordh fick ett så in ihelvetes ryck att han sprang rakt fram till det lilla tältet och kastade sten på det.

"Vad i kukens namn håller ni på med!??" hördes en ljus röst från andra sidan tyget.

00:50 Looweee (Zacks Bror)

Det var den ytterst arge eremiten Ulf som satt i sitt tält och ejakulerade över sina blommor som han vårdat av hela sitt hjärta. När han väl kom ut i ljuset skrek han: Fan ta er era horungar! Jag ska knulla er i näshålorna! Hagman som hade blivit kåt igen efter sitt senaste åk sprang fort fram till Ulf och skrek: Ta mig! Jag är en villig Haugis! Nordh som inte var riktigt lika kåt som Hagman sprang och gömde sig bakom en sten som var lika stor som Nordhs ena fot.

Ulf som hade satt igång med att knulla Hagman i näshålorna skrek åt dom att ta den smala lilla vägen som liknar en efterbliven hund och sedan gå till vänster för att komma till en stuga där det väntade en present.

01:04 Köta-Köes (Zack)

Nordhs bror Robin som hade tröttnat på att se på Oprah och Magnus och Myggan hade efter tio minuters vandring kommit ikapp allas våran Nordh och kastat en ganska stor banan på honom. "Va fan" utbrast Nordh och bankade skiten ur den fule mongoliden.

Ett stenkast därifrån kom kifäj på att spöken inte kan bita sig och förblöda. Han började därför ett nytt "liv" där han sålde grodögon till en gammal gubbe som gillade kinky.

Hagman hade fullt upp med näsan och Ulf. Ulf ejakulerade vilt i näsan och dog sedan med ett leende på läpparna. Hagman knullade sönder Ulf och följde efter de två krabaterna. Han kom fram till Nordh som hade fult upp med att banka Robins huvud mot en sten. Nordh tröttnade när Robin sa att han skulle säga till mamma och spottade honom i ansiktet varpå han fortsatte på vägen.

01:15 E-ek Mengeus(Ebeeto)

Nordh, Hagman och Kifäj gick på vägen tillsammans hand i hand och sjöng musikalsånger, precis som de gör i "Trollkarlen från As", Nordhs favoritmusikal. Kifäj sjöng fel och Nordh blev rosenrasande.

"Ditt bajn!" skrek han och slog Kifäjs lilla pojkhuvud så hårt att hans ögon ramlade ut och hängde i två trådar.

"Det gör ont!" skrek Kifäj, med vissa talproblem då hans ögon kladdade fast i munnen.

"Meh! Sjuta gjina, jävja bög!" skrek Nordh och sparkade Kifäj i skrevet.

"Det gör ont! Snälla sluta!" skrek Kifäj.

Då slutade Nordh. Under tre minuter. Sedan fortsatte han att sparka, slå och misshandla sin bästa vän.

Nu var de äntligen framme vid toppen av berget. Där fanns ett spökligt, skrämmande, ondskefullt, hjärtestannande, elakt, nattsvart slott där en sepe-skadad fitt-gubbe bodde och satt och drog tarzanar hela dagarna. Jessica satt där utanför och pillade på sina kulor.

Några buskar gnufsade och en hel pluton av Amerikanska avrättnings-soldater hoppade fram som ur en övergravid mutta.

"Die, muthafuckas, die, you knows!" skrek de och sköt ihjäl Nordh, Kifäj och Hagman utana att tveka.

Våra hjältars resa slutar lika abrupt och omoget som den började. Alla är döda och hela världen gick under 2000 år senare då ett massivt kärnvapenkrig utbröt.

Snipp snapp död, så var sagan slut, you knows.

[Dee]

Jag har en bra, om ingen redan skrivit (orkade inte kolla) iaf:

En kille satt på sitt rum och läste en porrtidning. Då kommer hans lillasyster in.

Hon pekar på en snopp frågar:

"Vad är det?"

Han svarar:

"Det är en svan."

Hon pekar på pungkulorna och frågar samma sak.

Han säger:

"Det är svanens ägg."

Systern pekar på håret och frågar:

"Vad är det där?"

"det är svanens bo."

På natten vaknar killen av att det gör jävligt ont i underdelen.

Lilla systern kom in med tårarna i halsen.

"Jag försökte klappa svanen, men den spottade på mig,

så jag bröt nacken av den, knäckte äggen och brände hans bo."

[D-link]

Ok, bidrar me en uppsatts jag skrev i skolan för ett tag sen...

En kråkas berättelse

Sakta flög den ensamma fågeln iväg från sin gren i det torra trädet. Vinden tog tag i dess vingar och lyfte den högre och högre upp i den kalla höstluften. Den stackars ensamma kråkan var den enda som sett allt, hört allt och förstått allt det hemska som hänt.

Hanna var som alla andra tjejer på högstadiet, hon kollade på killar, hon gick alltid upp alldeles för tidigt på morgon för att få på sig det billiga smink hon alltid tog på sig innan skolan skulle börja. Hon var precis som alla andra tjejer i hennes klass. Det var dock något som saknades i hennes liv, hon hade aldrig känt sig behövd, hon hade aldrig känt som om någon verkligen tyckte att hon var det mest underbara som någonsin hänt världen, hon var helt enkelt inte unik längre, hon var bara en blek kopia av alla de andra tjejer som försökte uppnå de orealistiska ideal som ställdes på ungdomarna. Hon var vilsen även om faktiskt var precis som alla andra. Betyder det då att alla ”normala” tjejer är vilsna? Vet dom inte vad dom vill, vet dom inte var dom står och vet dom inte varför dom faktiskt beter sig som dom gör?

När väckarklockan ringde den morgonen ville Hanna snabbt stiga upp ur sin varma och sköna säng. Visserligen visste hon att detta skulle bli en alldeles särskild dag eftersom det nu var upp till bevis, idag skulle hon visa att hon faktiskt inte var som alla andra, idag skulle de minsann få se, idag skulle de förstå att hon inte var någon kopia utan ett unikt exemplar. Ingen skulle lägre titta bort från henne eller helt enkelt inte se henne över huvud taget, efter denna dag skulle alla veta vem Hanna Borvashov var.

När regnet började falla tog Hanna på sig den nerstoppade tröjan och drog snabbt kapuschongen över huvudet. Hon hade idag bestämt sig, efter den här dagen skulle hon inte längre behöva stå ut med den iskalla mobbing hon så länge hade behövt utstå. Hon visste egentligen inte hur det var att inte vara mobbad eftersom i hela sitt liv, efter det att hon anlänt till Sverige blivit mobbat för att hon helt enkelt inte såg ut precis som alla andra tjejer som i hela sitt liv levt i Sverige. Hon hade kommit hit då Tyskland varit som starkast och hennes egna land Sovjet legat i ett klart underläge, tack och lov blev det nu så att de allierade och sovit faktiskt vann kriget men det kunde naturligtvis inte Hanna och hennes familj veta då de flydde från sitt hemland. Hanna hade faktiskt då hon tänkte efter aldrig känt sig riktigt trygg, i hela sitt liv hade hon varit tvungen att frukta för sitt liv, hon hade aldrig kunnat slappna av utan hon kände jämnt en djup rädsla för att när som helst bli nerslagen och inte vakna upp innan hon befann sig i himlen.

Rädslan steg allt efter det att hon började komma allt närmare skolan. En ensam fågel flög bort från sin gren då hon närmade sig den övergivna skolgården började. Sakta fick den luft under sina vingar och långsamt att flyga iväg. När Hanna vände sig om såg hon ingen men hon tyckte ändå att hon kunde höra fotsteg som långsamt närmade sig henne. Hon snabbade på sina steg men tyckte ändå att stegen bakom henne kom allt närmare.

Smärtan som kom från slaget kunde inte beskrivas med ord, det var egentligen inte i ryggen det gjorde ont utan en decimeter längre in, i hjärtat. Det hade pågått så länge nu, den fysiska smärtan kände hon inte längre, hon hade lärt sig att kontrollera den. Det gällde att fokusera, att inte se dom stora blå bölderna som skulle skapas där knytnäven träffade, det gällde att inte se läraren som stod tre meter ifrån och lugnt drack upp sitt kaffe, det gällde att inte se. För såg man, då började man gråta och grät man, då gjorde det ännu ondare, och gjorde det tillräckligt ont, då såg man.

Hanna blev ensam liggande på skolgården och hon hörde hur dom nu kom allt längre bort. Försiktigt reste hon sig upp och försökte borsta av dammet från tröjan. Nu, i efterhand gjorde det ont, det gjorde det alltid men aldrig när dom slog, då såg inte Hanna. På vingliga ben gick hon mot dörren och innan hon vände sig om såg hon en ensam skata flyga iväg från sin gren. Den såg så majestätisk ut när den sakta seglade upp bland molen, så vill jag bli en dag tänkte Hanna, fri som en fågel.

När Anders för tredje gången svarade fel på om x var lite med tolv fick läraren ett utbrott. Hon reste sig hastigt och skrek att om han inte omedelbart gick ut klassrummet skulle hon själv se till att det skedde. Anders kunde inte annat än sakta resa sig och gå ut med läraren tätt i hälarna. En av killarna tog chansen.

- Äckel! Jag pratar med dig din jävla idiot! Hanna, är du döv eller?

- Vad vill, svarade Hanna med en osäker röst.

- Jag vill bara veta varför du är så ful? Hela klassen skrattade.

- Jag vill bara veta varför du aldrig kan ta och bli normal, varför måste du jämnt hålla på?

- Med vadå, undrade Hanna

- Ja, att bli slagen såklart! Kan du inte bara lägga av med det, återigen skrattade hela klassen.

Sakta började det, hon visste att det absolut inte fick hända men kunde inte förmå sig att sluta, sakta började hon att se. Se de grinande ansiktena som stirrade på henne med hånfulla miner, se Douglas självgoda min när han nu äntligen förmått henne att gråta. Hanna tog tag i sina böcker och sprang fort ut ur klassrummet. Länge hörde hon hur alla där inne högt skrattade och skojade med varandra.

När solen åter igen reste sig sakta över horisonten nästa morgon tänkte Hanna samma sak som tidigare, idag skall de få se, efter idag kommer ingen längre att skratta åt mig.

När läraren nu på det gamla sedvanliga viset öppnade dörren vällde klassen in i rummet som genast fylldes av bänkskrammel och höga läten. Sakta gick Hanna in och satte sig på en stol i den nedre delen av klassrummet vilket gjorde att hon som vanligt blev sittande helt själv. Några av pojkarna verkade titta på något strax nedanför fönstret och en av dom utbrast efter en stund att ”Aldrig, de kommer ingen att våga”. Douglas vände sig med en min som bara ondska kan visa mot Hanna och sade.

- Det finns en fönsterkarm här nedanför Hanna, jag slår vad om att du aldrig vågar gå på den mellan fönstren.

- Varför skulle jag göra det, frågade Hanna.

- Hehe, ja, inte vet jag, men om vi säger såhär då, om du vågar gå mellan fönstren här på utsidan lovar vi att aldrig mer mobba dig, kalla dig dumma saker eller slå dig, ok?

Efter noga övervägande tänkte Hanna att det här kanske kunde vara vändingen som hon så länge hade väntat på, kanske skulle detta innebära den förbättring av hennes liv som hon så länge hade drömt om. Så efter en stunds tänkande beslutade hon att ”jag gör det, det spelar ingen roll hur farligt det än kan vara, jag gör det i alla fall”. Hon reste sig sakta upp och närmade sig det högra fönstret. Nu log inte längre blickarna utan var nu fulla av förundran och en fråga varför. När hon nu stod på kanten och kände vinden som sakta ökade i hastighet och piskade som nålar i hennes ansikte började hon försiktigt att vända sig om. Klassen samlades runt fönstret och alls fokus låg just nu på Hanna, bara Hanna, ingen annan. Det kändes härligt, men samtidigt konstigt eftersom hon aldrig hade känt så här förut i sitt liv. Med fumlande steg rörde hon sig sakta ned för väggkanten tills hon kände den smala listen som gick mellan fönstren. En kråka sågs sakta sätta sig på en gren i det närliggande trädet. Hon rörde sig sakta åt vänster för att komma närmare sitt mål. Blåsten ökade och hon kunde hörda hur bladen fladdrade i vinden. Hon började nu närma sig och om bar någon sekund skulle hon känna hur handen omslöt fönsterkarmen på andra sidan och hon skulle vara i säkerhet. Hon tittade ner och såg hur marken där fem våningar ner verkade röra på sig. När vinden tog tag i Hannas kropp var det som om tiden stod stilla. Löven rörde inte på sig och klasskamraterna kunde inte få fram ett ord. Den tutande bils läte liksom försvann in i ett dunkel och försvann. Hanna kände hur hon helt viktlös föll allt närmare marken och hon bad tyst en stilla bön.

När huvudet träffade det gamla cykelstället där nere på marken verkade det som om inget annat existerade. Blodet började sakta att rinna ur det gigantiska hål som hade skapats strax under ögonen. Hannas liv gick inte att rädda. Ambulansen kunde inte annat än att stoppa in hennes sargade kropp i en av de många svarta plastpåsar som de tagit med sig. Ingen ville någonsin mer tala om varken Hanna eller vad som drev henne till denna aktion. Hela händelsen lades åt sidan och det verkade som om ingen visste något, ingen hade varken hört eller sett något. Varken lärare eller elever visste något och i tidningen följande dag beskrevs händelsen som ett självmord.

Sakta flög den ensamma fågeln iväg från sin gren i det torra trädet. Vinden tog tag i dess vingar och lyfte den högre och högre upp i den kalla höstluften. Den stackars ensamma kråkan var den enda som sett allt, hört allt och förstått allt det hemska som hänt.

[Ebeeto]

Nej, nu känns det som att man skulle kunna återuppliva den här trevliga tråden. Detta gör jag med början på en liten berättelse på engelska som jag skrev nyligen, när jag inte orkade med att inte göra någonting... Läs den högt i huvudet med en Max Payne/Bruce Willis i Sin City-röst, typ...

The Assignment

By Ebeeto

When I got the phone call from Jerry, it was like a sixth sense told me something wasn't right. He sounded calm when he told me to bring a car to the train station down town. No crack in his voice. No disturbance. No nothing. That made me feel like it was the calm before the storm. A def toned warning about what was lurking ahead.

I pulled the Mercedes up outside the station, turning off the engine and leaning back in the leather seat. Waiting. The Colt 1911 in the glove compartment made me feel safe. A false safety. Someone could come out from the shadows and kill me on the spot. Even alerted, I couldn't handle if two people ran up on me. I opened the glove box and put my hands around the cold steel. I hid the gun in my jacket, hoping to have just increased my chance of survival in case of a heist.

I wasn't used to the feeling of being unsure. Working as a driver slash body guard slash something someone with money wanted me to be, I often had a concrete goal set. Pursuing it, following a dotted line, and cashing the money in the end. No surprises. Maybe that's why this assignment felt different. All I had to do was to park the car at the train station and wait. Waiting is never good. You're not sure what to expect, and expect the worst. Then you convince yourself that the worst scenario possible isn't very possible and you end up being incredibly sure about everything, and that only makes you loose your grip on the situation.

I removed a cigarette from it's perfectly fit space in the new package and lit it. Smoking didn't take any stress or pressure away. Not anymore. It was just something I did. An old habit. Nasty or not, all habits are bad. You always gotta be able to change your way of living in a world like this. I guess that's what I wasn't able to. I was the old breed of man. Not used to the speed and currents constantly changing.

I had been sitting there for 10 minutes when Jerry came running from inside the station. Down the stairs, suitcase in his right hand, gun blazing in his left.

- I told you not to fuck with me, you fucking jerk off mother fuckers!

He was in an adrenaline rush from the anger and pressure. I started up the engine and unlocked the doors. Jerry ran towards the car while randomly firing bullets at the gates of the train station. He stopped at the passenger side of the car.

- Open the fucking door, man! he yelled to me. My hands are busy!

I leaned over and opened the door and my italian companion got in.

- Pedal to the metal! he yelled while rolling the window down.

I geared up and the dark vehicle screeched down the road with gunflames lighting up the night from the passenger window.

[Drewek]

Nej, nu känns det som att man skulle kunna återuppliva den här trevliga tråden. Detta gör jag med början på en liten berättelse på engelska som jag skrev nyligen, när jag inte orkade med att inte göra någonting... Läs den högt i huvudet med en Max Payne/Bruce Willis i Sin City-röst, typ...

The Assignment

By Ebeeto

When I got the phone call from Jerry, it was like a sixth sense told me something wasn't right. He sounded calm when he told me to bring a car to the train station down town. No crack in his voice. No disturbance. No nothing. That made me feel like it was the calm before the storm. A def toned warning about what was lurking ahead.

I pulled the Mercedes up outside the station, turning off the engine and leaning back in the leather seat. Waiting. The Colt 1911 in the glove compartment made me feel safe. A false safety. Someone could come out from the shadows and kill me on the spot. Even alerted, I couldn't handle if two people ran up on me. I opened the glove box and put my hands around the cold steel. I hid the gun in my jacket, hoping to have just increased my chance of survival in case of a heist.

I wasn't used to the feeling of being unsure. Working as a driver slash body guard slash something someone with money wanted me to be, I often had a concrete goal set. Pursuing it, following a dotted line, and cashing the money in the end. No surprises. Maybe that's why this assignment felt different. All I had to do was to park the car at the train station and wait. Waiting is never good. You're not sure what to expect, and expect the worst. Then you convince yourself that the worst scenario possible isn't very possible and you end up being incredibly sure about everything, and that only makes you loose your grip on the situation.

I removed a cigarette from it's perfectly fit space in the new package and lit it. Smoking didn't take any stress or pressure away. Not anymore. It was just something I did. An old habit. Nasty or not, all habits are bad. You always gotta be able to change your way of living in a world like this. I guess that's what I wasn't able to. I was the old breed of man. Not used to the speed and currents constantly changing.

I had been sitting there for 10 minutes when Jerry came running from inside the station. Down the stairs, suitcase in his right hand, gun blazing in his left.

- I told you not to fuck with me, you fucking jerk off mother fuckers!

He was in an adrenaline rush from the anger and pressure. I started up the engine and unlocked the doors. Jerry ran towards the car while randomly firing bullets at the gates of the train station. He stopped at the passenger side of the car.

- Open the fucking door, man! he yelled to me. My hands are busy!

I leaned over and opened the door and my italian companion got in.

- Pedal to the metal! he yelled while rolling the window down.

I geared up and the dark vehicle screeched down the road with gunflames lighting up the night from the passenger window.

Titta mamma, Bajs!

[Crice]

Master of Puppets

Characters:

- 'The Shogun' [Assassin]

- Walter McCarthy [CIA agent]

- Mia Smith [CIA agent]

- Jiro Ito [Japanese crime kingpin]

- 'The Raccoon' [Dutch crime kingpin/'The Shogun's' former mentor]

- Jack Morash [Read and find out ]

Prologue - The Plot That Started With A Twist

"Defecting?" asked a raspy voice - followed by silence. The scaly-faced man circled around his victim, his mind calculating options intensively. "No," answered the woman in the chair, her golden locks swiftly following her forehead when she rotated her well-shaped head some degrees to her left. "It wasn't about defecting - I could have defected, but what good would it be?" soon followed another line of words, having quite an impact on the military-dressed man on his feet. A menacing grin crept over his face until it fully overcame him, evil intentions displayed to its full array in his long-nosed facial features. "So - why'd you do it, my love?" the man uttered to the woman, speaking every Håller med till 100%! very slowly, as to let it sink in deeply before carrying on. She did not even budge, a smile even found her way over her face next, only hers was not as menacing as it was self-confident, even cocky, if you will. Her tone of voice was, although, just as threatening and sly. "I just wanted to piss you off before I killed you," she spoke, delievering the last sentence the tenfold medal-awarded general would hear. From his position, perched atop a grass-covered hill some three hundred meters from the room where this quirky conversation would unfold, the hired assassin could feel the impact of the explosion, the heat it radiated and the utter commotion it started. Emerging out of every barrack nearby, soldiers in groups of five or six scurried over like burned ants to the main building, now laid to the ground after the hefty explosion. The fire was soon to be put out - but Humpty Dumpty had fallen, and all the King's men could not put him together again.

Part I - Chicago, Chicago, That Toddling Town...

The current nest of 'The Shogun', Chicago, the well-known metropole pearl in the state of Illinois, a city with many a suburbian society nearby, and with issues like any other could-be-a-nationality city of its size. It had suffered its share of corruption, depression and grief, much like any other city, and had experienced great events leading to happiness, easily comparable to any random city in the United States, where you chose to name the parts of the great piece of Tellus 'states' rather than 'countries', and where you chose to put one man in charge of an entire nation almost as big as Europe. Such thoughts were, of course, for wiser men to consider, and although they at times crossed the renowned assassin's mind, he put no great work in to give them much time. For the entire time he had spent here, his abode had been a shack perched atop an apartment complex, an establishment not dignifying anyone but someone desperately in need of space of his own, yet unable to obtain it in a more natural way. That explanation was not too far-fetched. For the mostpart of his life, 'The Shogun', unable to in actuality remember his own real name, had stayed in places like this shack, using them generally for shelter, to hide himself from the bombardment of heavy rain, or simply a place to spend the remainder of the time until the airplane took off from the runway, letting him out of a city whose inhabitants he had slain for money. It did not bother him, he was indifferent to it. Waking up had always been easy for 'The Shogun', no matter where he was. He knew he had a job to do, so there was not much of a choice anyway. His primary objective, a fairly simple task, would be to locate a nearby pay phone and make a call to Colombia, namely Bogotá, and his mentor there. They had already agreed on that, and the hitman was now left with the thin time span of ten minutes to find a pay phone. He got into character, and hurried off the building, down a flight of stairs fittingly situated nearby, reaching street level within seconds. Here, he was just the every-day by-passer, clad in a suit displaying a boring life in the suburbs with a wife cleaning rooms and chugging Valium while the kids where in school pledging allegiance to the country that would deform them. The American Dream incarnate - a grey suit and a bored look. If only people could see past that contrary, the hitman would be able to find not a safe haven in this world. Luckily, that ability was rarely seen within people, and the fragility was washed away when everyone was indifferent - or was it? Step dismissed step and took its place, leading the lanky figure, the embodient of 'The Shogun', over the street, soon guiding the hitman to the pay phone in the street corner - its metal hull sprayed to a state not recognizable with grafitti, displaying the local 'tags' with bold openness, the words quite rude, yet without impact on the citizens walking by every day. The reciever was forced off its hook, finding itself in the tight grasp of 'The Shogun', who inserted a few coins into the machine, dialing the long number to the cell phone of his mentor - soon acknowledged by a familiar "Santiago?!", the name his old mentor has used since 'The Shogun's' birth. Santiago Vespucci, he was called for some reason, some connection possible to link back to Amerigo Vespucci - somehow, and under drugged reasoning. "Si. So, I finally call you - bawl," came the quaint snap of the hitman, his mentor turning silent for a long while, only to retort seconds later. "Yea', yea' - patience, Darwin is still on top, hold ya' horses, let the turtles pass, hold the fuck on," the elderly man bellowed, now making it far too obvious that he was high. However, the hitman had nothing but utter respect for the old man, so he awaited what was coming with much anticipation. "Alright, muchacho, here goes, so get 'em ears open and wax-free," announced finally Cesare, loudly inhaling something, letting out two coughs afterwards. "There's 'dis CIA guy - Walter McCarthy, who wanna' see ya'. He's doin' it on behalf of the system trolls, 'dey need someone taken out, some Bobo clowns movin', uh, dope o' whatever, all that drill shit," sassed the old man, showing little respect for the man he was talking to - respect that initially was not there, so it was all in order. "I see," mumbled the firm voice of the younger man, hearing the signs of impatience that were the old man's humming on the other line. "Good for you - now I must be on my way, I promised Carlos I'd meet him for a deal at noon," came the declaration of Cesare, but 'The Shogun' interrupted him brashly, speaking quickly with the knowledge of that the old man would soon hang up no matter what, "I still don't know where I'm to meet him!" stormed the assassin, and the old man chuckled profusely. "You won't meet 'im, muchacho - he'll find you, and you'll meet 'dat way, if you can, uh, call it meeting! Peace, humble blessings and excellent clam soup I wish you, Elvira," grumbled the elderly man before a self-explanatory 'click' filled the void. End of story. Across the street, unbeknownst, of course, to the assassin sat a man dressed in a Polo sweatshirt, khakis and Ray Ban wrap-arounds, sipping an espresso at the local eatery. He was shielded from the morning sun under a purple-coloured parasol. In full tranquility, he had watched the man in grey placing a call, and he knew very well what it was about, being he was Walter McCarthy - the Central Intelligent Ageny agent. He studied 'The Shogun' with much interest, and having bugged the pay phone earlier, he could hear every Håller med till 100%! the two men said. It all went by his plans, and it was time to have a little chat with the assassin, mano a mano. Leaving a sizable wad of dollar bills at his table, the CIA agent stood to his feet, throwing his bomber jacket over his shoulders and getting in motion, steering his steps in the assassin's direction as he dodged random people walking him by. Ten years of field training had made him the perfect tail, able to follow everyone by any cloak, stalking by either day or night - although still, dark nights were the easiest. What he had not brought into his calculations was that 'The Shogun', without having gone through any field trainings of any kind, was twice the better stalker, and acknowledged his tail at once. This could be a trap, so he angled his arm slightly, readying it to pull his Beretta, without it being visible what his intentions were. Losing some speed in his walk, not obviously spooked, but actually, the hitman turned around, and found himself face-to-face with the agent, who had stopped as well. People walked them by, but they were frozen, both of them eyeing the other as they approached each other, the two men not letting anything get in the way if a shooutout would take place. "Julius?" called the agent all of a sudden, and the hitman shuddered, unable to comprehend why he was called by that highly peculiar name. He froze to a full stand-still, now making it clear to the agent that he was armed and not in the mood of taking any bullshit - which was fine by him, because he wanted to get down to business, pronto. "I've never heard that name before," replied the assassin, eyeing the agent, who beamed widely. "Well, get used to it - c'mon, I know this great café, let's get a few donuts and some coffee to go," implied the agent, motioning for the newly found killer-for-hire to come with him. Casually, the two crossed the streets, both of them in reality totally at their toes and ready to draw and shoot to kill if anything went haywire. Comfortably enough, however, they were soon seated in silence at the café, two cups of coffee on the table before them. Agent McCarthy held his signature smile on his face still, his muscular body hood leaned over the table just enough to get comfortably close to the espresso cup. The 'to go' part of the plan had, for some reason, been scrapped, so they would speak here, rather than in the Government vehicle, which probably was bugged in the first place. The agent was playing ball on the Director's court, but higher instances need not necessarily be involved, or so the reasoning went. The puppeteers' reasoning. Completely out of the blue, the agent did an attention-demanding clearing of his throat, cleaning it from phlegm and the likes. "So, you're on big-wig ground now - for starters, yes, you are to work for the American Government. Yes, you are to kill threats to America that have slipped out of our hands, mostly juridically, and no, it's not sanctioned by the President," spoke the agent quietly and firmly, his former pasted-on kindness washed away by a mental tidal wave. Indifferent, or so he appeared, 'The Shogun' blew lightly on his coffee, as to cool it down before taking some of it into his mouth, swallowing shortly thereafter. "I understand, and it's no problem," promised the renowned killer, giving a sage nod to confirm his statement. The agent was very happy with this answer, and shone up once more. "Good! That's the spirit - then, lemme' go through the details," he exclaimed, and 'The Shogun' prepared himself to listen to what was to come.

"First of all, 'Shogun', your codename is Julius - J-U-L-I-U-S. Your last name, should anyone ask, is Crockett, and I have arranged with proper passports and such like, so entering other countries is no problem," began the briefing to the big plot that was about to unfold, with 'The Shogun' as the lead role. "You will travel around to some different countries, clearing out highly dangerous targets - dangerous to our fine country, that is, got it?" soon followed the next part of the instructions, and the hitman nodded his head yes - it was all loud and clear. "Good. Your first target's actually not a foreign case. It's Jiro Ito, big key player in the 'Buddha Connection', laundering counterfeit cash in Japan, moving it back to America and getting it cleared out with all laws on their side. Guy's too smart, but he doesn't see this coming," clucked the agent hissingly, keeping eye contact with the ice-cold hitman, sitting next to him with an emotion-less face and his ears wide open. "Uh, anyway, he's your first target, and he'll be havin' this big feast in New York tonight, at the Roosevelt Hotel on Madison Avenue in 'The Big Apple - all his gook friends'll be there, havin' a ball and getting themselves drunk, a perfect event to strike," explained so the agent later on, watching 'The Shogun's' reaction - that never came. A bit angered by this, the CIA agent nodded his head to himself, looking down to the table clothing. "Alright, you got the first target all briefed, get to work and contact me when you're done - you'll find a way," came the final sneering lines of the agent before he tipped his head the assassin's way and disappeared down the street, having left a big wad of cash at the table, cash that the hitman quickly put in his pocket for later use. He had it all clear to him, and was ready to get to work.

Part II - The Worm In The Apple

With the Boeing jet swiftly taking its passengers through American airspace, 'The Shogun' sat dwelling in his seat. Flying First Class was all-comfort, and he owed it to the Government, amusingly as it may well seem. Miles Davis tunes escaped out of the muffled earphones, saxophone intertwined with drums and the voice from the man regarded as the coolest man ever alive. It was sheer enjoyment - pure thrill. Also, it would take the assassin's mind off the task at hand, something quite hard to achieve, as his mind often wandered off to plots and the making of them. Suddenly, a well-known quake took the passengers by surprise, and they were told to fasten their seatbelts as the plane drew nearer JFK Airport in New York City.

Meanwhile, a red Ferrari, its hull reflecting the mid-day sun, pulled up to the airport main entrance, and behind the wheel sat a female, a pair of Police sunglasses covering her eyes from the surrounding world. After scanning the nearby location with her gaze, a cellular telephone was picked up out of her pocket, where upon a few digits were pressed on its interface. The woman let the Sony model telephone connect with her ear as she listened to the 'beep... beep... beep' it made, continuously, until a male voice answered. "'Zis is Gregori," the voice informed her, and she retrieved a notepad and a pen from her glove compartment, starting to scribble something onto the blank paper. "It's Mia," she responded, and a pleased chuckle could be heard in the other end. "Mia, my Mia - it's been years, how come you call me now?!" asked the thickly accented Russian happily asked her, seemingly relieved to hear from her. The female scribbled something new in the notepad, throwing a glance to the airport entrance, where a man clad fully in grey exited through the automatic doors, accompanied by a stream of people. She cursed under her breath, quick to get the engine started once more. "Listen - I need a few C4s to go, as well as some silenced shooters - H n' K," she rapdily said into the cell phone, and the Russian made a pause before retorting; "Of course, just come by," he replied, and Mia hung up, watching the man in grey jump into a taxi vehicle further ahead. Quick as the wind, Mia switched to the highest gear and put herself behind the taxi, tailing it carefully, always remembering to keep plenty of distance between herself and the cab. Who was she? Mia Smith, or so her codename went - CIA agent and prior to that, police officer. She had been the best student in all of her classes since grade school, and while she never cared for boys and Barbie dolls, she was one hell of a fighter, and mastered ten different martial arts at the age of eleven. She was the kind of person you sent in for the top-most important assignments, because she was the best. Now, her mission was to make sure this Jiro Ito assassination went well, and she had an invitation to the party, as did 'The Shogun', due to a leak in Ito's inner circle, arranging so the two names would be on the guest list, a list that never was personally looked through by Jiro Ito in the flesh, anyway. As a matter of fact, the list said her name was 'Mrs. Mia Crockett', making her out to be 'The Shogun's' wife, and apparently a guest of honour. However, 'The Shogun' himself had yet to be informed of all this, and that was the reason to this entire stalking. Subsequent to an all-round New York stalking, the Ferrari of Mia's slowed down, an imitation of the taxi car that now stopped by Central Park. This seemed a tad strange to the female agent, but she would play by his rules, not given a wide array of options. All of a sudden, after the cab had driven off without the male assassin, he turned around on his position across the street, and suddenly eyed Mia's face. She was paralyzed, and watched as he gestured for her to come with him. He was good. She pushed the door ajar, defeated. She resigned to his competence, crossing the street that would lead her to the park. These streets were filled to the brim with people, so the park would be a nice refuge, if some quiet space could be found in it. Suddenly, the hitman approached her, and she stopped on her way over to him. "Who are you workin' for?" he hissed, letting his nostrils inhale her smell, something that she found a bit odd. "McCarthy sent me, I'm after Ito too," confided the lady, and 'The Shogun' frowned. "I prefer one-man jobs," came his just as hissing counter-statement, and the lady flashed a grin his way, seemingly attemtping to somehow seduce him. It would not work. "Aw, but I won't be in the way. Besides, I've got two invitations just waiting for us - we'll make a pretty duette," coaxed Mia, knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the CIA-hired killer. "Mrrrm... you're screwing with my plans," roared he back, almost sounding like an upset canine while talking to her. Whatever plans he had were indeed meddled with and crushed, and adapting to new ones when his would be sufficient was hard for the assassin. She brooded what he had said for a while, but would not throw the towel in yet, this was hardly competition. "Well," began the lady, "Ito's of top-concern to the CIA, doll, and they simply won't let it go wrong. Come on, wipe that angered face off, I've got plans," reassured Mia, and the two soon entered her red Ferrari, rocketing off to a place where they could plot, plan and get some gear together.

First Hit - Jiro Ito Bites The Dust

http://img55.imageshack.us/img55/7214/01jiroito4db.jpg

In the banquet hall of the Roosevelt Hotel in Midtown, happy couples danced the night away as alcoholic beverages filled their bellies. It was indeed a good night for the socialites of New York. In the spacious alcoves of the grand hall, various VIP guests sat in private lounges, getting the finest of catering from sparingly dressed waitresses, all for the one thing that mattered tonight - satisfaction. The biggest bug in the location - Jiro Ito - sat atop a golden throne in the middle of the room, eyeing his guests as a medieval king may without a doubt have eyed his citizens, should he ever have invited them to a feast. There was a private alcove prepared for him and his entourage for later on that night, but for the time being, he was fine perched atop the scene, with the all-Asian band singing surf rock tunes to which the carless couple caressed each other and swung. While the glasses were filled to the brim, security was also tight as a beggar's wallet, and everywhere were big, Asian men in white suits and sunglasses, keeping ear-phone contact and ushering a select few away from the party. Other, whose name were engraved on the sacred guest list, were let inside, and would hurry over to gain contact with other luckies from the neighbourhood, or maybe go to taste the sweet wine served by the well-mannered waiters in white. Red flares were eventually exploding from blue balloons dangling from the ceiling, and every time one did, a shimmer of golden rice would rain to the floor, making the party cats mirthful and enjoying their time twice as much. Every detail was so genuinely thought out, that it ensured a success for the host of the night - the prince of the party - Jiro Ito. In one of the countless bars, each managed by a hip young gun whose forté was to juggle bottles, sat 'The Shogun', casually inhaling smoke from a cigarette and watching the party unfold. Next to him sat his for-the-night-only wife, and the two mingled like the others, only their conversation stood out since they discussed Ito's demise. Suddenly, the music grew louder, and Jiro found himself dwarfed by a group of acrobats that had conquered the grand scene, executing death-daring moves, as the band started playing circus-esque tunes. Jiro stood from his throne, clapped his hands at the acrobats as to encourage them - and disappeared down from his position. Two big men immediately joined up with him, and he was escorted into a sealed-off alcove, guarded by two big men in white suits from outside. 'The Shogun' watched this take place with much interest, thinking to himself as the doors closed. Mia snapped, moving off her seat. At first, the experienced hitman was shocked, but he regained composure with great speed, following her. "Damn," gasped the lady, to 'The Shogun's' great surprise, "they know..." Unable to comprehend what was going on right before his eyes, 'The Shogun' put his arms to Mia's shoulders, maneuvering her over to the wall, where he pressed her up, ushering her to stay silent. "What - exactly - do you mean?!" queried he the female CIA agent, and she clasped her teeth together, hissing, "About the bombs," whispered Mia, three words that would draw the hitman's mouth ajar. Never had he been instructed about any bombs in this plot - did the CIA plan on bringing down the entire hotel? This was lunacy, in his eyes. "I see," rationally answered 'The Shogun'. It was just as well, he could not drivel on about asking her any more regarding the bombs, what was done was done - he needed to focus on what needed to be done to get them both out of this and Ito dead. "Well," came the first Håller med till 100%! of a long decision, "we will have to take Jiro out while he's still here - so, let's poison him, you brought it, right?" queried the hitman, and the female agent nodded, flashing her lipstick, where the poison was hidden. A smile overcame the facial features of the man, and he let go of her. "Excellent. Now you find one of those cocktail waitress outfits, I'll wait - and watch - in the bar," barked he out, and she acknowledged his orders with a sage nod, admiring his ability to think so rational in tight situations like the one they currently faced. While she scurried off to the ladies' room, he positioned himself in the bar once more. "One Jacky D's, bartender."

Walking by the nose-powdering women lined up in front of the mirror section of the room, Mia positioned herself at the most distant mirror from the entrance door, unpocketing her makeup set and getting to work, in reality only waiting for a waitress to walk in the door. With the knowledge that her male counterpart would keep everything in check outside, Mia felt way more relaxed, and so she focused solely on her task when a blonde waitress entered the ladies' room. Blonde, as opposed to Mia's black hair, but it would be no big problem. Reflections in the mirror displayed which booth the lady chose, giving Mia an opportunity to use the booth next to the waitress'. Swiftly, she swung the door closed, locking it. The lady agent was now situated in the booth next to the waitresses', and knew she had little time before this was all blown to hell, so she laid down on her stomach and crawled into the neighbouring booth, luckily without being seen at first. When the woman inside did see her, Mia put a hand to her mouth, charged a lethal blow to her neck and heard the familiar 'crack' when her neck broke. She sat the waitress up on the bowl and undressed her, putting her own clothes behind the waitress as to hide them from other visitors of the bathroom. Soon, her disguise was complete, and she snuck back into the adjacent booth, the waitress' still locked from inside. Yep, she still had it - now it was time to poison the big bug's drink.

From afar, 'The Shogun' sat in his Aviators, watching his plan take place. Mia now swaggered around the grand hall, dressed in the petite dress that was custom for the waitresses. Surely, some of his instincts found her interesting, but currently other matters held his mind captive. As she strutted over the floor, some 'penguin-suited' young man reached for her bottom, squeezing it firmly, and 'The Shogun' could see how she snapped at first, although she with much speed regained her former swaggering movements, and the young man giggled to his friends. After some time, Mia reached the alcove door, and the guard standing by it eyed her firmly, not concealing how his glance wandered off to her chest. Finding his incompetence a wee bit amusing, the hitman took a drag on his sizable Cohiba, enjoying the site of Mia entering the alcove. From there on, she was on her own - he could not aid her with any fire. Those were some tense three minutes, but as the female CIA employee strutted back out, a smile crossed 'The Shogun's' face. Quick on his feet, he saught the exit, and was soon a long distance away from the Roosevelt Hotel, well aware of the to him non-important fact that he had left Mia behind. She would be okay, he had to admit that he hoped.

Part III - A Call From The Home Team

With the first key player of the 'Buddha Connection' out of the CIA's way, a few dozens of drug dealers granted immunity under his wing could be arrested, and the busts were not few that same night. Sure, it smelled conspiracy all the way to Indochina, but what could anyone do about it? In a quiet motel room in some hick town in upper New York, 'The Shogun' sat biding his time, knowing very well that the Central Intelligence Agency had his whereabouts planned out, and knew just what to do. It did not bother the assassin, being under surveillance, because he knew that he could shake them if he wished to. In front of his bathroom mirror, 'The Shogun' stood in nothing but a white towel wrapped fully around his waist, shaving the three-day stubble off his chin and cheeks, careful not to leave any marks of clumsiness in his well-polished face. He had recently enjoyed an ice-cold shower, and was ready to retreat back to his bed, where he would be sitting in his suit, awaiting Håller med till 100%! from the CIA. To his great surprise, however, he would find Mia in his bed, dully browsing through a TV magazine, and he gasped for air at first, something he had never experienced throughout his entire adult life. The pretty lady looked up at him, now casually dressed in a blouse and jeans, rather than the attire she had been sporting last night. She smiled warmly at her former counterpart. "You do look better without the stubble," she teased him, stretching out on the bed as she tossed the magazine aside, eyeing his torso nonchallantly. "Enough playing around," exclaimed the hitman, "what's my next assignment? Ito's dead - I'm wasting time up here," hissed he back at her, and she smiled sweetly, completely and brashly ignoring his straightforward words. She might as well have trimmed her nails. "Your next assignment? Wow, no beating around the bush here - well, it's Ito's second-in-command, moving cash through Amsterdam Harbour. A fairly small establishment, yes, but they move it in small boats to trick Coast Guards all over," declared Mia, and the assassin sat down on the side of the bed, nodding his head to show his acknowledge. Hoping that Mia would from this point stay out of the picture, he picked up one of his white shirts and slid into it, the towel still around his waist. Mia watched him, smiling slyly. "Well, cowboy - I enjoyed working with you, good luck," she quietly said, soon standing up to walk through the door. 'The Shogun' paid little attention to her, concentrated on getting himself dressed. He knew very well that he would get all the instructions he would need upon reaching Amsterdam, so he simply gathered his belongings, leaving the weapons behind, and got himself going.

Part IV - Tell Me Again 'Bout 'Em Hash Bars...

Amsterdam - the capital of Holland, The Netherlands, and a city with a reputation for being 'dirty'. This was 'The Shogun's' childhood hometown, he grew up at a local brothel, and knew these streets in and out. Whoever this target was, he would have no chance to escape 'The Shogun' on foot on these streets. In a way, albeit feeling a sombre feeling since the city, in the assassin's eyes, had gone downhill, it was good to be home. The, in comparison to other European cities, rather petite city of Amsterdam was the perfect hideaway for various criminals, being the government had never truly cracked down on the crime rate. In a way, the legal narcotics brought a lot of tourists, so why ruin a great thing? It made the government money, and while criminality was inevitable, money was what it all came down to in the end. Money, and how to make it. Swiftly moving through customs, the hired murderer found himself in the big lobby of the airport, crowded to the extreme with people, most of them carrying bags of various labels. Here, no one would be able to spot the grey-haired killer, who was disguised in a white Mickey Mouse tee-shirt and a baseball cap - all to make him look like the everyday tourist, a facade so far from reality it would make most people laugh. He was waiting for his 'transporter', the man sent from CIA whose job was to provide him with the gear he would need to finish his assassination assignment. The man would carry a bag similar to his, the two would collide with each other, and they would take each other's bags, 'The Shogun' walking off with the weapons. It was a genial plan, and one that would assure access through security gates. After some scouting, the assassin spotted his 'transporter' ahead, and the two made eye contact, walking focused towards each other. Soon, they collided with their shoulders, and after some apologies, they grabbed the other one's bag and took off - the assassin leaving the airport and hopping into a nearby cab. After unzipping the sports bag still within the tight rear of the vehicle, the hitman found a computer inside it. A lap-top. He unfolded the screen, only to find an image on it. The image displayed a face he knew far too well. The face of an individual whom he had met here in Amsterdam. The facial features of the man who had been his mentor, who had taught him every little thing there is to know about the noble art of assassination - it was the face of 'The Raccoon', with a slight bit of text underneath it saying 'Target #2 - Location: Amsterdam Harbour, Administrative Building'. The hitman put the computer back in the bag, swallowing hard. That very man on that very image had been the long-time assassin's only friend. They did not keep in touch anymore, but killing his only friend was still a big task to ask from the young hitman, not to mention the fact that 'The Raccoon' was an elite murderer himself, most likely able to kill 'The Shogun' in the blink of an eye. Were the two going toe-to-toe, there was no telling how badly beaten up 'The Shogun' would be. But, a contract remains a contract, and the hired killer had to fulfill the mission, because being a target of the CIA is no good situation, either. As to save himself some time of immense pain thinking about his old mentor's death, the taxi passenger swallowed once more - and then spoke; "Take me to the harbour," came his murmuring, and the taxi driver said something incoherently.

Second Hit - Student Versus Teacher

http://img153.imageshack.us/img153/9767/01theraccoon4bk.jpg

For what seemed like an eternity, the taxi cruised through the not-too crowded streets of Amsterdam, its sombre passenger sitting in the rear and feeling the torment his brain ghosts delievered. From an emotionless point of view, this was a very good opportunity the young hitman had to slay his teacher. He could simply tell the security that he was an old friend of the probably retired hitman, and give him a name which the elderly man would remember, be let inside and stab the old man in the back. However, he would not do that to the only man he ever had respected, so he decided to be fairly straightforward all the way. All out of the blue, and to the theorizing assassin's great surprise, the chauffer cleared his throat and started babbling. "So, eh, wha' you doin' in, uh, Ams'erdam?" came his query, and the hitman cocked an eyebrow instantly. "Vacationing," he lied, and the driver fell silent with suspicions of that he had just been the ear witness to a big lie. Not that it was any of his business, anyway, but he found it an interesting hobby when lacking others, getting to know the passengers' errands in Amsterdam, his beautiful home city. The passenger's real assignment was too confidential for anyone's ear, though, so the driver should not put himself down. After a while, the taxi came to the final halt, and the fair was paid. Now began sheer and utter pain. Heavy on his steps, the hired assassin approached the gates surrounding the facility. Two guards stood by the gates, eyeing the visitor curiously. As he came close enough, they extended a hand each to stop him where he stood, quick to frisk him, only to indeed find weapons on his person. "What the hell is this?!" they asked him in Dutch, a language the assassin fluently handled. Feeling no need to disguise himself, the assassin retorted; "I'm here to see 'The Raccoon'," in English, causing the two guards to widen their eyes a little. The gates swung open, and he was given the weapons back. The harbour, a big establishment, yet obviously not fitted to move big loads around the globe, was a fairly good hideout for a renowned super assassin, and the younger student could only assume that was the reason to his mentor's moving here. It was time for the ultimate showdown, both pupil and master knew so, and inside his head, 'The Shogun' knew he was being watched by his old master, from somewhere on these grounds. If the old man wished to fight him, he would come forth, and if he declined, the young man would never find him. Step followed step, and the killer-for-hire had reached the main building, housing among other things the administrative areas, so he entered it, expecting to hear a lot of noise upon doing so. To his great shock, there was not a soul in line of sight, so the assassin stopped and pulled up his silenced pistol, knowing this was a setup of some kind. This was a floor filled with office cublicle, orifices containing water perched atop pidestals hear and there, serving as water machines for the day-to-day office slaves dedicating their otherwise family life to making money for a major corporation. It was nuts, and the reason to the hitman's freelancing. Suddenly, 'The Shogun' found himself pacing down the corridor leading to the various office cubicles, inspecting their contents, and was not little surprised when he found his old mentor in one of them, smoking what looked like a 'blunt', and smiling widely. His hand motioned for his former pupil to enter the cubicle, and the young man blatantly obeyed, obtaining the identical obedience he used to have. A sly grin overcame the old man's face, and he crossed his legs. "Welcome home," commented the old man, and 'The Shogun' put the baseball cap he was wearing on the office desk, to the great amusement of the elderly gentlemen, seemingly. "Thanks, master," the young man replied, still using the term that was custom when he studied the art of death from the old man. 'The Raccoon' nodded his head to acknowledge the respectful tone his student had, and inhaled deeply from his cigarette. "You sure outweird me - callin' me 'master' minutes before you are to take my life," chuckled now the old man with a frown, his wrinkled facial features turning even more twisted as he let out a cough. In shame, the young man bowed his slightly, the craning making him look like an embarrassed dog. Snapping, the old man stood from his chair. "Well, well, well... you know me, I'm a sucker for old-school fighting, so bring it on - this won't be no walk-in-pop-the-sucker-walk-out job - earn your cash!" exclaimed the used-to-be teacher, readying himself for the coming fight, taking a kung fu stance, and the younger man in the Mickey Mouse tee-shirt did the same, soon delievering a blow that the old man dodged and returned with a clean hit in 'The Shogun's' stomach. A blow inflicting much damage, but also a blow that the man quickly recovered from, using the side of his palm to strike towards the drug-smoking assassin, who found himself delayed in the evasion, thus recieving a lethal blow directly to the side of his neck. He squealed at first, staggering backwards - but a peculiar smile could be find adorning his not to well-trimmed face. Understanding that the dust was over, the new-generation hitman approached his mentor, somehow trying to aid him in his torment. However, the old man reached for his '40s model gun, positioned in his waistband, and pressed it to 'The Shogun's' forehead. The smile was now blown away, and replaced by a frightened grimace. The man stuttered when he spoke, and 'The Shogun' was paralyzed by this strange behaviour of his usually so tranquilized mentor. "I... I'm fucking... dy-dyin'!" shouted the old man, blood now streaming from the side of his mouth. The old man had slain so many, and teased death so many times, and to accept the fact that it finally was his moment was nearly an impossibility. This much compassion the young hitman had never experienced in his life. The fact that he had killed his mentor for money made him sick, and he wished he could somehow help the elderly man, throw it all aside and run away. Life, however, was not that easy. "I'm so... fucki... fuck... fuckin' pr-proud... of you," cried the old man, removing the muzzle from his killer's forehead. Without making a sound, the assassin retrieved his gun from the office desk and walked out of the office cubicle. Hit number two was done, and it was time to hunt number three down - whoever that was. The fact that 'The Raccoon' was dead seemed to bother the killer less and less, and by the time he was let through the gates by the startled guards, he was all calm again, calling the cab company from a nearby pay phone. Minutes later, it stopped just by the hitman's positon, and he entered its rear, picking the computer up from his bag once more. A new image was now visible on its screen, this one displaying an elderly man dressed in white holding a cigar at what looked like a party. Surely a surveillance photo of some sort, but that was now what caught the assassin's attention. What did creep him out was that it was the face of Adolfo Gamorte - a man who some years ago had big plans of such weird things as world domination. He had an entire shadow organization under his thumb, and 'The Shogun' just so happened to be one of the minions going around the world and executing threats to this organization - named, simply 'The Zealots', a clear reference to the freedom fighters of pre-historic Egypt, struggling for the liberty of the Jewish people, a people seemingly tortured at many occasions throughout the years. The text underneath said 'Jack Morash - Target #3 - Location: Stockholm, Sweden'. After reading it through, 'The Shogun' simply shut the computer off and cleared his throat. "Eh, take me to the airport," hissed he, and the taxi driver nodded his head.

Part V - In The Dragon's Lair

Grand Hotel - the finest Stockholm had to offer. Surely, it had its flaws just like any other major business, but the way it concealed it was over-the-top. This very hotel was the basis of operations for the 'Buddha Connection', highly unbeknownst to anyone in the world but the CIA and those involved with the connection. What even less people knew that on top of the 'Buddha Connection' chain-of-command, one would find Adolfo 'The Turkey Strangler' Gamorte, now going under the name Jack Morash. This highly nefarious playboy-turned-super villain-turned-playboy-once-more enjoyed a flamboyant lifestyle in Sweden, hitting Spy Bar night-time and watching the operations day-time. His organization was not what it used to be, but his visions had been cut down to easier fit reality. It certainly was not as glitzy as controlling the world, but he would pull through. This very night, he sat in the luxurious restaurant known as Gyllene Gaffeln in the native language, or 'The Golden Fork', translated to English. There, he would ingest various kinds of meat, chatting lazily with influential people not only from Sweden, but from all over Europe. In their eyes, he was nothing more but a friendly criminal whose friendship was very valuable, resembling Al Capone a bit. The only strange thing, to people passing by Gyllene Gaffeln, was that it was closed. This was an early night, so the joint should make lots of cash, but they decided to close it. If only they knew why, they would have never asked. The reason was that 'Jack Morash' and his entourage had basically occupied the restaurant, forcing the staff to cater and serve them, and so they did, knowing too well the extent of Gamorte's power and contacts. These strange occurances usually took place once or twice a week, and one day a new waiter had brought the one-eyed villain a two-year old wine, not knowing fully about what a gourmet the man was. Minutes later, he was found in the dumpster outside, filéed in fine pieces. No one had any doubts from that moment - these gentlemen meant business. Tonight, the most important, and not deceased, members of the 'Buddha Connection' were invited, and on the head of the table sat, not surprisingly, Adolfo Gamorte himself. Some Japanese gentlemen sat by the table, as did a few South African and five Dutch. Every man in this room knew very well about Ito's and 'The Raccoon's' demises, and swore to themselves they would not be next in line. This was a meeting of most importance, and the gentlemen around the table cackled like crazy, all while the German at the head of it inhaled calmly from his Jamaican cigar. A sizable one, to say the least. Suddenly, he slammed his fist in the table top, attracting everyone's attention - and he could feel their fear. He savoured it, enjoyed every moment of their quaking awaiting. "We, gentlemen - have a mutual enemy," he started his speech, his thick German accent heavy on every letter. "An enemy not willing to show its face, due to moral rules it's about to uphold, but doesn't!" came his elaboration, and everyone was eagerly watching him now, not even touching their expensive and exquisite food. A pause was made for impression, but the German soon carried on after taking a deep drag on the cigar. "However, partners, we see through our enemy's disguise - we are ready. I will not bore you with propaganda bullshit, but beat the bush, rather than the area around it... we must unite. Kojuwaki-san, you must move your operations from Japan, or..." Gamorte exclaimed, finding himself brashly interrupted by a "Wait a minute!" from the Japanese businessman with a pair of thick glasses before his eyes. The man nabbed a napkin from the dispenser, wiping his mouth nonchalantly, apparently paying no respect to the German mastermind. At once, the German sneered back, "What is it, Kojuwaki?!", to which the Japanese clasped his jaws together and hissed at the evil genius, "I'm - not - moving - shit," in a fierce manner. While most of the men around the table gasped for air, the German smiled viciously at the courageous man sitting there with an angered facial expression. Slowly, Adolfo nodded his head. "I understand, Koju'... well, too bad - that's about five hundred thousand lost for us," he calmly stated, and Kojuwaki nodded his head proudly. "Including all those fucking rings you wear on your fingers," elaborated soon the German in a far more malicious tone, and a gun could all of a sudden be seen in his hand. When he fired it, however, no muzzle flash could be seen nor explosion be heard, instead a dart flew out of its barrel, hitting Kojuwaki straight in the eyeball after crushing the glasses. Agonizing screams filled the void in the grand dining hall, and Adolfo tucked the gun away, snapping his fingers to some nearby goons who dragged Kojuwaki into the kitchen where they would finish the painful process with him. The men started babbling like crazy around the table, so Adolfo wildly slammed the hand-made table top again with his closed fist. "Gentlemen, I've not adjourned the meeting," said he in a threatening manner, and the men fell silent, turning their eyes to the German's persona. "Well, with that piece of dog shit out of the way, I can continue," said the German in a relieved fashion, and the suit-sporting men all nodded along. "I have obtained some CIA recordings - the assassin is coming here tonight," came the declaring words from Adolfo's mouth, and the men smiled with him. "My contact in the CIA will help us get rid of him - Mia Smith," explained he further to the gentlemen, who still bobbed their heads up and down. Little did 'The Shogun' know that Mia played her piano with Adolfo's notes, and that he soon would find himself set up - once more.

Part VI - The True Puppet Master

Touching ground violently, the quaky airplane began taxing in to Arlanda International of Sweden, several shaken passengers on board. The captain began babbling on about the pleasure it had been for him to fly them, and that he hoped they'd come back. 'The Shogun' would most likely not be given much of a choice. Shortly after landing, the airplane came to its final halt, and the passengers were allowed to leave it, 'The Shogun' in the middle of the crowd swiftly. Minutes later, the 'transport' to him was finished, and the hitman was carrying his 'bag of tricks', loaded with weapons and other nifty items. Grand Hotel was his main lead, so he was heading over there, hailing a taxi outside the airport and climbing into the rear of it quickly. It was a one-hour drive to inner Stockholm, and that would be plenty of time for the assassin to check the lap-top in the bag. Apparently, there was a folder on the detoskop entitled 'Read'. 'The Shogun' obeyed, double-clicking the icon and watching the folder opening itself. Inside were three .txt documents, labeled rather aptly 'Associates', 'Hideouts' and 'Background'. Starting from scratch, the hitman clicked 'Associates' and saw black text on white background spelling out every name of those involved in the 'Buddha Connection'. How this would be of any use he did not know, so he clicked it away, going for 'Hideouts', which apparently was a list of 'Jack's' different hideaways. There were a few marked "[Frequently Used]", and among them was an 'Old Military Base in the Västerås woods'. 'The Shogun' now checked 'Background', and started to read lazily about his target's life, or what was known about it. It seemed the German had a long military background, and was in fact to this date a great friend of many German military big wigs. Surely, this had granted him some further success in moving the counterfeit cash and the drugs, or so the hitman assumed. This was one of the biggest and most expansive operations the assassin had seen in his life, and there was no doubt - Adolfo Gamorte was a genius. Suddenly, the cellular phone in 'The Shogun's' pocket started vibrating - for the first time ever someone had called him. He froze at once, slowly picking it up from his pocket and bringing it to his ear. "Speak," he hissed. A familiar, female voice could be heard. "This is Mia", it happily announced, and 'The Shogun' mumbled something incoherently, sounding a little like an angered dog once more. "What do you want - I've got work to do," angrily spoke the hitman back. "So do I, 'Shogun'... see you soon," her voice mockingly chuckled, and a 'click' reached the hitman's ear. The fact that she knew his codename, rather than 'Julius' scared him, and he now understood something was wrong. Suddenly, the taxi driver turned around, and faced his passenger. He then took a direct left with the cab, driving into the woods all of a sudden. Everything dawned to the killer-for-hire. Mia had been selling him out all the way - all the hits he had done was with Adolfo's permission to do so. All the time, he had been playing the German's game. Now it would soon be over, unless he repelled. Quickly, he withdrew his silenced handgun, putting two slugs in the neck of the driver, and then threw himself out of the door, taking his bag with him. While the taxi hit a pine tree, the hitman lay on the ground, a gun in his right hand and a bag in his left. He stood to his full length, brushing dirt off his suit - when he heard the sound of guns getting cocked. Out of the woods stepped around ten men, circling around him. A particularly big man, dressed in a uniform approached the assassin, smirking mockingly. "Mr. 'Crockett', I assume," he laughed, and delievered a blow into the hitman's ribs. Fighting for air, the assassin staggered backwards, where another soldier sent a knee straight into his back areas, rendering him paralyzed, and he fell forward, only to be picked up by a new man and punched brashly in the face. Soon, all the men joined in, gathering around him and kicking him wherever they could reach. A few had poles in their hand that they used to beat the assassin senseless, and it dawned quickly to the hitman that he was chanceless. He pretended to be unconcious, something that worked incredibly well, because the leader of the pack ordered his men to stop, and two hefty soldiers picked their victim up, carrying them with him to wherever they were heading. What 'The Shogun' was not aware of was that they were going to the old abandoned military base now manned by Gamorte and his organization. Several barracks were filled with men, and it was Adolfo's headquarters, after he had started paying the right people off so no one would bother him. The guards, as well as the taxi driver, worked under the German, and the plan was to throw the assassin into the dungeons and let him rot there. If only it had been that simple. While being carried, the assassin reached for one of the guards' guns, able to angle himself so he could reach it since said guard carried him by his arms. He did not hesitate, but put two slugs in the back of the very same guard, and all hell broke loose. The two who were the quickest to draw soon had bullets in their back, and the leader himself picked up his walkie-talkie, only to find it did not work when a bullet pierced through it and then hit him in his head. Another soldier, trying to run back to the base had a bullet shot right into his heel, and when all the other men were dead, 'The Shogun' knelt down to this man, holding his head up by his air, and he smiled devilishly to the frightened soldier. "Where - is- Gamorte?" hissed he, and the soldier breathed heavily and quickly, obviously very nervous. He swallowed a couple of times before answering. "In the... the main building... with that girl wh-who betrayed him," he whimpered, hoping that by telling this he would be spared. The hitman, however, simply grunted and put his gun to the soldier's cheek, and the bullet gracefully pierced through some organs before returning out on the other side. Now, 'The Shogun' was angrier than ever before, and he stepped through the woods with determined steps, the sports bag still in his hand. His sniper's nest would be a grass-covered hill some distance from the main building, where he could easily see into the main building. The landscape below said establishment was astonishing - tents scattered around it, a fence also surrounding the perimetres. However, the sniper protection was rather low, so the assassin sat there awaiting a good opportunity - when the German actually did come in view to the scope, but with him was also Mia, who was dragged in by two men, and seated in a chair. Adolfo started circling around him like a vulture on a cadaver, and 'The Shogun' was unable to pull the trigger.

Third Hit - The Puppet's Strings Cut Loose

http://img163.imageshack.us/img163/7325/01adolfogamorte9us.jpg

"Defecting?" asked a raspy voice - followed by silence. The scaly-faced man circled around his victim, his mind calculating options intensively. "No," answered the woman in the chair, her golden locks swiftly following her forehead when she rotated her well-shaped head some degrees to her left. "It wasn't about defecting - I could have defected, but what good would it be?" soon followed another line of words, having quite an impact on the military-dressed man on his feet. A menacing grin crept over his face until it fully overcame him, evil intentions displayed to its full array in his long-nosed facial features. "So - why'd you do it, my love?" the man uttered to the woman, speaking every Håller med till 100%! very slowly, as to let it sink in deeply before carrying on. She did not even budge, a smile even found her way over her face next, only hers was not as menacing as it was self-confident, even cocky, if you will. Her tone of voice was, although, just as threatening and sly. "I just wanted to piss you off before I killed you," she spoke, delievering the last sentence the tenfold medal-awarded general would hear. From his position, perched atop a grass-covered hill some three hundred meters from the room where this quirky conversation would unfold, the hired assassin could feel the impact of the explosion, the heat it radiated and the utter commotion it started. Emerging out of every barrack nearby, soldiers in groups of five or six scurried over like burned ants to the main building, now laid to the ground after the hefty explosion. The fire was soon to be put out - but Humpty Dumpty had fallen, and all the King's men could not put him together again. 'The Shogun' stood up, quickly viewing the area through his scope. She had blown herself up. The strange this was that she looked just like Mia - but was blonde, and 'The Shogun', due to his skills in lip-reading' managed to understand what they spoke about. Obviously, Mia had somehow betrayed him, and now he wanted an explanation. All of a sudden, an engine roared to life, and in it sat a few men dressed in black suits, all screaming and going wild as the driver drived away from the base. Suddenly, a bullet went through his head, spraying the man behind him with unwanted bodily fluids, and the men rushed out of the car, only to be picked down one by one by bullets from an unseen shooter. The truth was that it was the man on the hill killing them like it was nothing, cold stone displayed in his face. When he zipped his bag again, a lump was in his throat. The 'Buddha Connection' was fully exterminated, but Mia, a woman he had secretly admired, was dead. Maybe she betrayed Gamorte so she could help 'The Shogun' - he would never know. What he did know was that it was time to return home, to recieve the payment for the contracts.

Epilogue - Money, Money, Money

Three o'clock the next day, a yellow taxi pulled up to the very same eatery as 'The Shogun' had spent some time at three days ago. The driver was a hispanic man with a funny little hat, and he spoke in a Spanish-Chicago accent when he asked for the fair. Soon, it was given to him, and a man stepped out of the car, scanning his nearby surroundings idly. In his hand a black suitcase - leather imitation - could be seen, and he entered the quiet café's area with a nod to Walter McCarthy who sat by a corner table, enjoying an espresso as usual. Returning the nod, the CIA agent motioned for the hired killer to come over. A chair was pushed out from underneath the circular table, the hitman taking a seat. "So - you're done," smiled the agent. "Yes," came the hitman's one-Håller med till 100%! response. A pat was delievered to 'The Shogun's' back, but the killer-for-hire simply reached for the agent's bag and took off. It was a usual 'transport', only this time with money rather than guns. The assassin would return to his roof shack, counting the money. One million, two million, three million - four million dollars. It was most likely confiscated money from the 'Buddha Connection', but money was money, no matter where it was from.

Copyright Crice & All That Jazz.

[Ebeeto]

Titta mamma, Bajs!

Tack för den konstruktiva kritiken, din imbecilla fitta.

EDIT: @Crice: Ska läsa när jag inte är bögtrött. Men vad sägs om styckeindelning?

Redigerad 21 augusti, 2005 av Ebeeto

[skribb]

Har för mig att det han skriver är sånt han använder i MafiaRPG eller vad det heter... är väl därför det inte är styckeindelning?

[Ebeeto]

Har för mig att det han skriver är sånt han använder i MafiaRPG eller vad det heter... är väl därför det inte är styckeindelning?

La Cosa Nostra Alliance är ju ett forum i grunden. Styckeindelning ska det vara, din sölkorv!

[Crice]

Orka styckeindelning; vill få era ögon att poppa ut ur dess hålor, ynkliga maskar.

[Benvit]

Fan vad bra du är Crice, F-A-N vad bra du är! *Applåder i massor*

[Crice]

@Benvit: Tack!

Här är en liten Gonzolicious historia skriven av mig och Pikster.

Jag:

[ The Summer of 2003 - Every Road Has Its Beginning ... ]

Indeed. Inside the shady joint sat The Cowboy, flanked, respectively, by Rodney Morash on his right and Eddie Glabbenhaft on his left. The unholy trinity of utter uselessness. Once more, they spent their time inside this dirty joint, downing beer kegs and smoking 'ciggies'. An everyday leisure activity, spare-time killing. Outside this joint was frantic eternity, obscure wastelands on all sides. Roads zig-zagged across the lands, rarely used actually. The desolate tracts were lonely, and would best be preserved in that way. "Fuck," said suddenly Thomas, eyed at once by the young Englishman on his right. Fuck; a good thing to say in a run-down place like the one they were currenly perched inside. Everyone who'd managed to hear this plea for attention shrugged the solemn Håller med till 100%! off, downing more liquor. So, it would proceed - until: "Fucking hell. Rodney - 's my car okay?!" slipped out of Thomas' visage. The British youngling rotated his embodiment a few degress to get a chance to glare out to the place where the fire-apple red El Barracuda stood parked, in actuality a vehicle stolen one year later by a Jewish jet-setter. A swine. "Aye, it's okay Tommy," retorted "Rod" once he found the car standing in its lonesome, mint condition a fact. "Good." The bar's muffled tap-sounds and jukebox tunes came back to everyone's ears, Joey behind the bar returning to his rag and glass. What a waste of talent. Not everyone's a fucking natural born brain surgeon, but no one deserves this. Or that, depending on how the lousy author decides to put it. Yeah, it sure pissed The Cowboy off. One must keep in mind; this was all years before he got ahold of El Rancho, and the drugs and the wealth and the goons. He was still just a proud highwayman, accompanied by his loyal accomplice Rodney Morash and his gun. "Rodney, my man - I'll now go out to prepare the fine lady of the highway. Join me in five," declared The Cowboy in a high-and-mighty tone before he strode out to his red baby. His abdomen would soon be in front of the steering wheel, and he looked to the entrance of the bar. In the back seat lay two bags of grass, Wild Turkey Bourbon, acid, some coke and a little mescaline. All to make this one splendid trip to remember forever and ever and ever.

Pico:

[ Marijuana and Russ Ballard ]

Without further ado Rodney Morash hopped into the vehicle, watching as Carrington revved the monstrous El Barracuda up. Michael Jackson’s soft, almost childish, voice came out of the car radio. “Then won’t ya’ slap my face because I’m bad, I’m bad!” Rodney sang along, tapping his fingers on the wheel and getting shocked looks from Carrington. “… and the whole world has ta’ answer right now just ta’ tell you once again; who’s bad?!” As the tune slowly faded away, replaced with sounds from the roaring engine he stopped, leaning back. The Cowboy didn’t seem all too entertained and offered the Brit some grass to shut him up. Russ Ballard’s ‘Voices’ now filled the void, and as Rodney took a drag of the nicotine stick he recognized the melody. “Oh yeah, this... this is good! I think Russ is one of the most underrated artists ever, whaddya’ say Tom? Voiceees! I hear voiceees!” Rodney yelled, bystanders turning their heads at him. “Yeah, whaddya’ say? Ain’t this guy great?!” he once again asked, awaiting Carrington's answer.

Jag:

[ Cry Me A River ]

Now rocketing across a barren highway, El Barracuda staggered a little as The Cowboy took a drag from a burning roll, containing some green-ish concentrates. This was a great relaxation source, and a prominent one in The Cowboy's eyes. Yes, a conviction and an addiction, but also an enjoyable contradiction. Nixon. No - doesn't rhyme very well. As Rodney cranked the volume up, singing along violently to the merry '80s tune, The Cowboy began smacking his friend all over his head. Shielding himself, Rodney flipped onto the backseat, leaving Thomas alone up front. "Fuck! This sucks! Didn't you bring any Dylan tapes? THIS IS SHIT!" Now with both hands flying wildly in the air, Thomas had lost all control of the automobile, but somehow it still flew gracefully over the marked highway. "Don't look back - look straight ahead..."; thanks for that one, Mr. Ballard. Was a pleasure listening to your voice. Thank you and good bye. The tape hit the road, crushed at once. "No!" said a voice in the back seat. Rodney - the British ball-breaker. Such a pain in the ass, all the time. He started hitting Thomas savagely from behind, forcing The Cowboy to pull over to the adjoining side of the road. The duke-out started, both fighters throwing themselves onto the highway as they threw jabs at each other. The young boy was the natural winner, but Thomas was a drugged up elite fighter, agile and angry. Pretty soon, however, The Cowboy capitulated, jumping back into the car. The engine roared to life, Rodney just barely managing to climb inside before the crazy journey to wherever continued. All quarrels were yesterday's troubles - only the road ahead left to beat the living shit out of.

New "J's" were lit up, new tapes were inserted and new milestones passed. All so until The Cowboy opened his yap, not to inhale hashish, but to speak. "Eh, I'm gonna' pull over - gotta' piss..."

If only he'd knew what a fatal part of life that'd unfold because of these few words, he would have shut up.

Pico:

[ Back In Eighty Forty Nine, In The Springfield County Coal Mine ... ]

Ka-boom. Clouds of dust were quickly created as something near El Barracuda and its passengers had exploded. Carrington fell, basically, rolling down the small hill by the side of the road and landing in a cactus ditch. Rodney hid in the back seat, nervously peeping out of the window. A pickup truck had stopped, and three men were now running over to possibly steal Carrington’s pearl and killing any survivors. In all this mixed excitement and fear Rodney literally wet himself. He gasped; only to moments later cover his mouth with his right hand. “Ye’ stay hear,” he could hear from outside. Wait a second. Thomas always kept a little something in the glove box. Throwing himself toward the front seats Rodney quickly opened the little compartment to find a .357 and two more bags of grass. Retrieving it he stood up, piss dripping from his pants. “Hey, Bobby, we got us a live one here!” someone yelled behind him. Oh no. Fuck no. These hicks were about to blast him to smithereens. Rodney threw himself backwards, out of the car, landing on the hot asphalt. In a split second he rolled over, facing his enemy with the revolver in a steady grip. ‘Blam’. A bullet had gone in and out of his shoulder from where blood now emerged. He screamed, once again rolling around, only this time in terrible pains. “I got him,” the shooter yelled to his two buddies.

No. Fuck no. He could not give up now. Fuck the wound, it would be fixed in no time with some acid. Failure wasn't an option now. What would Thomas say? What would mom say?

Like in a scene straight from a cheesy 80’s action movie Rodney rose, aiming the revolver at his one and only target. The bastard had turned around, probably believing that he had hit Rodney in the heart or something. Thank God that the fellow only had used some useless piece of shit gun. The Håller med till 100%! ‘surprise’ popped up in Rodney’s warped little mind as he, using the gun, blew the redneck’s head almost clean off with one single bullet. The recoil sent him back into the car, but at least he had defeated the inbred swine. Of course his two accomplices turned around, both packing 12 gauge shotguns. This would hurt. Rodney pulled the trigger, pointing the revolver at one of the men. Click. Shit. This must have been The Cowboy’s Russian roulette gun. Great-o.

Jag:

[ Empty Skulls - Empty Bladders ... Whu'? ]

The fly returned up, Thomas' bladder finally emptied. It'd been tormenting to the elderly gentleman but now it was over. Just over the hill, gun shots, screams and general commotion could be heard. Goddamn assilants, they'd taste lead before dawn. Maximally infuriated, The Cowboy climbed over the hill, Daisy safe in his hand. This was a Mexican Stand-Off, the two men aiming at Rodney, Rodney aiming at the two men, and Thomas aiming at... the two men - okay, so it was not an authentic Mexicano Standy-Offizino, but well near enough! The two hill-billies were too frightened to pull any triggers, having yet to calculate what'd happen. Thomas wasted no time, now more a replica of John Wayne than ever. "Got lefty, Rod?" inquired Thomas casually, receiving a low "Yes" from his cohort. All of a sudden, both Rodney's and Thomas' guns fired one bullet each, hitting these redneck retards right between the eyes. The focal points of their very skulls cracked open, sending them backwards so they could join their abused amigo. "Good job, kid - you stood your ground," T.C commented, glaring at his shaken buddy. The Brit was seemingly not highly satisfied with this remark, being he'd almost been killed. No matter, certainly. The cash, around twenty thousand, was collected from the lousy thieves on the ground, their bodies scattered all over the desert. When this tribute to the living was over with, Thomas joined his partner in El Barracuda, the Buick Riviera revving and driving away from the hot spot.

"I was born in a cross-fire hurricane ... and I howled at my ma' through the driving rain ... but it's all right now, in fact it's a gas - it's all right now, I'm Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas ..."

Et cetera, et cetera. The tape recorder spun 'round and 'round, howling out old golden hits to grace the ride. Rodney sat filing his nails, always trying to be quite the looker. Such a waste of time. "Hey, Rod, since those coyotes didn't blast ya' hands off, pass me some acid," demanded Thomas, his lust for those funny cracker-looking sweets extraordinarily powerful.

Pico:

[ I Guess I'll Never Learn ]

In the distance Rodney could spot a gas station, old but not abandoned. He passed Thomas some yum-yum and even took some himself. This shit did great; he didn’t even feel his right arm now. “Hey, stop here. I need new pants,” Rodney whimpered, uncomfortable bouncing in the seat in his cold, wet clothing. Violently nodding, even hitting his head on the wheel, Thomas stopped by the establishment. Rodney grabbed the .357, noticing that it was empty of firepower. “Hey, gimme’ one of those,” Rodney whined as Thomas played around with a couple of bullets. Sharing the wealth with his Brit friend Carrington continued with the acid-procedure while Rodney reloaded his weapon. Showtime. The lonely station had nothing but a counter where some bald fellow sat, browsing through the new number of ‘Slitz’. Rodney cleared his throat, and the man jumped up to his feet. “What can ah do for ya’?” he asked, chewing on tobacco. “I need,” Rodney began, but the man suddenly transformed into a hideous, aggressive bandicoot, the sharp teeth dripping with saliva. “What do you need, Sir?” the monster asked in a warped voice. “Oh my… die, you motherfucker, die!” Rodney exclaimed as he backed off, crashing into a whole section of milk and cat food. He fired the weapon, and the bandicoot died instantly. You don’t fuck with perfection. Wyatt fucking Earp, that’s right. Walking around the counter and into the back room Rodney found some nice threads.

Five minutes later.

Sporting a track suit and a pair of aviators Rodney came out of the gas station, The Cowboy barely recognizing him at first. For safety reasons Rod carried the old clothes with him in case somebody could identify his urine. He threw them in the backseat and joined up with Carrington. “Till Sherwoodskogen!” he laughed, and the car took off.

Jag:

[ The Transformation ]

This far into the tale, one should perhaps have caught a jist of the ominous undertones of the entire ordeal. Have you, punk? Damn shame. Truth be told, there was no holy quest hidden behind this quirky escapade. There was no damsel in distress on the other end of this never-ending road. There was oblivion, the American Dream if you may call it so. Beyond another fistful of milestones lay Las Vegas - "Sin City" - not your mundane city. Of course, a few Irish saints could have a field day in that metropolis, but that was not why this delightful duo were heading there - in time. "Nice glasses," said suddenly The Cowboy, eyeing them closely. They sure were nice. So orange and round. He wanted them. He already sported a pair of black ones of the very same model, but the orange ones were much more pimp-esque! "Aye," Rodney retorted, paying little attention to Thomas, due to the fact that he tried to hold a shard of glass steady as he snorted cocaine from it. "I want 'em," explained then T.C, to Rodney's great shock. He rotated his head, shaking it firmly. Now, here's an amusing anecdote about society... no, I'm kidding, skip this part, it's just to fill this post out. I swear; without El Barracuda, how could Rodney possibly have taken himself to the gas station? Right. Who owned El Barracuda and let Rodney ride in it? Right. All your pimp glasses are belong to us. Swoop. The glasses were perched over Thomas' nose, and he took a good look in the rear view mirror. "They look good on me," he confirmed, handing Rodney his black ex-aviators.

[ Bash The Trailer Trash ... ]

At that very moment [what moment?! DID I MISS IT?!] the hell-red transportation wagon passed by a trailer. A white, cubical lodging solution, properly spacious for a family. Now, an amusing anecdote about trailer people is that they are usually caucasian, usually not very tanned, and usually from Texas. Predjuiced? Bah. "Pull over," commanded Thomas. "Okay," replied Rodney, and Thomas let the wheel hit a leftward angle, causing them to go off-road. One bumpy ride, but only a short distance away was the trailer sited. From inside, a short white man could be seen peeking out of his window, but the blinds were soon closed, and would remain so whilst Thomas and Rodney strode up to the trailer entrance, high as Mt. Everest. Knock, knock. Queeeerk. Who are you?

"This the Cohen residence? We're looking for one... E. Cohen," said Thomas, soon feeling the wind blow on his face as the door closed. How rude.

Pico:

[ Whiskey In The Jar ]

Rude indeed. “Motherfucker!” Rodney shrieked in classic Joe Pesci manner. He kicked at the door a couple of times, and the bastard opened up again. “What do you boneheads want?!” he asked, redneck accent two-kay-three. Then it happened again. The dude became something else, almost an exact copy of Batman. “Well?!” Batman asked. “Ho-lee shit,” Rodney retorted, aiming the gun at the devil’s helper. Click. Click. Click. Click. No friggidy-frigging bullets. Shite. The cocksucker had of course closed the door leading to his sausage-stinking home. As the both visitors walked away Rodney noticed a familiar looking entity almost right under the trailer. A propane tank. Why in the world he kept a propane tank here they would never know, but one thing was for sure. This would be one hell of a spectacle. “Hey, Tom… take cover and shoot that little tank over there,” Rodney commanded. The two bad guys ducked behind El Barracuda, and gripping his revolver Thomas warily aimed at the tank. ‘Blam’. Ah, damn shame. A miss. ‘Blam’; ‘BLADDABOOM’! The second bullet did justice, Cohen’s trailer was sent a few feet up in the air, fire emerging from its every opening. So horribly wrong but so darn hilarious. The crispy carcass of Cohen slid out of a window, totally blemished and a truly sickening sight. “What the hell was in that tank?” Carrington asked as they returned to the vehicle. “Whiskey,” Rodney informed him, choosing not to go on with discussing the subject but rather to smoke some more pot. “And give me my fuckin' sunglasses!”

Jag:

[ Insignificant Interstate ]

With the body count upped a notch, the daring duo returned to their fine ride, skipping over its sides in order to gracefully land well within it. "They're mine now," replied Thomas in a casual tone, starting the engine before they jolted down the nameless interstate highway leading to Vegas. What the hell they were to do there no one knew, but it hardly mattered. Maybe they'd cruise over to Angeltown later on, kill a few bangers and smoke some blunts with the LAPD. Mainly retired acid freaks from San Francisco adventures long gone. Good guys - friends of Thomas', a lot of them. "Well... whaddya' say about that?" quizzed suddenly The Cowboy his friend, not caring about the fact that previous statements had only been in his mind. Rodney shrugged, sipping some bourbon straight from the bottle neck. What a barbarian! "Hey! You filthy fucking whore," hollered Thomas, grabbing the bottle and wrestling it out of Rodney's grip. The Brit simply chuckled, high on grass, coke and weed. What a sick mix, only a weird man would mix those concentrates. "Fuckin' savage, fucking pig... hippie motherfucker," muttered Thomas on and on, the fish flapping in the sea - why flap? It was in its natural element, why not natural habitat?! Fucking fish, Joshua would go apeshit. Poor guy.

[ The Nasal Rape In Hippieland ]

But that was biblical stuff. Things so unrelated to Buddhism it's scary. No bald man in a saffron toga had ever found himself trapped inside a giant fish. Maybe they'd tasted fish pecker, but everyone does. No matter heritage. Strange shudders despite the burning sun. Drug aftermaths? Aftermaths? This was not over yet! A few more whiffs from an ether bottle kept The Cowboy on the alert. Not exactly. He began twisting aggresively, almost steering them down a ditch. "SHAKE IT SHAKE SHAKE IT SHAKE IT BAAABY! Bend over, lemme' see ya' shake a tail feather!" sang Thomas as he managed to maneuver it correctly again. What a nightmare. Death incarnate, so close - yet no reaction, Rodney sniffed along without a care. Good boy, good people.

Then it came. The campfire. The tents. The hippies. It all struck down at once, pissing Thomas off brutally. These barbarians lay on the sand, smoking weed and listening to Pink Floyd. They did need education. Rodney did not care. Fucking swine, a pig. A lying bastard. "Prepare your shooter, Roddy-boy, we have some long-hairs to kill!" shouted Tommy, driving right so he leveled the car's frontage with the midst of the hippie camp. They reacted too late, and El Barracuda drove right against them, crossing their campfire. The hippies jumped out of the way, now mad as hell. Showdown!

Pico:

[ Die, Hippie, Die! ]

Rod’s reaction came when a bunch of light-headed mofo’s began to hit him over the head with sticks. Holy shit, Attila’s Huns had arrived, ready to raid and rape the petite couple in El Barracuda. To his surprise Rodney found a couple of bullets lying in the glove compartment, which he had opened. The hippies still tried to brutally murder him with their sticks, but it would take fucking weeks for that. Yes, time for these lil’ piggies to meet their maker. Six bullets were all now in the .357, and Rodney randomly aimed it at one of his stick-attackers. The skinny bastard flew a couple of feet away, landing in the campfire. The other stick-people backed off, pleading for mercy. Mercy? No mercy for you! Bullet after bullet penetrated their baggy clothing. Thomas and Rodney were evil Nazi Spetznaz-Blitzkrieg operatives and these innocent Jews were all gunned down one by one. In seconds they were all mostly dead or dying, vultures already hovering over the site ready to pluck their eyes out. “Hey, Tom, check their tents!” Rodney yelled as the big birds came closer.

Jag:

[ In The Summertime - When The Weather Is Fine ... ]

Gold! Grass! Guns! Gabressocia! Gnakelsprak! Jan Guilliou! The treasures were countless, and quickly abducted by this looting thief of a cowboy. It was then lugged over to El Barracuda, and packed down in bags along with the drugs. "Come here, my merry man!" laughed Thomas, starting the engine once more. The drug-frenzied Englishman soon flanked his friend, and off to work they went. Back to business - bao bao bao bao...

"Now the bricks lay on Grand Street ..."

...and so do the bodies of the hee-pees... they're dead, DEAL WITH IT! They were probably off to Thailand soon, to pay little kids to fuck them. Like Swedes. Filthy Swedes. God hates Swedes. So do Westboro Church people. Good guys - good Phelpsies. Unaware of where to head next, Thomas turned to his good friend. "Where to, Butch Cassidy?"

Pico:

[ Whack For My Daddy-O ]

Boom! A bullet [Rodney could tell because Rodney is 1337] smashed the windscreen. Throwing a glance one hundred and eighty degrees left Rodney could spot the same old pickup truck they had fought with earlier in this adventure. Redneck relatives, there can never be too many of ‘em. God damn these road pirates! No more mister nice guy. Holding the .357 steady Rodney fired at the truck, from where rapid firepower now came, creating holes in El Barracuda. Rodney squeezed the trigger once again, only this time he shot at one of the tires. Yes! Victory! Success! The pickup rocked back and forth, wheels spinning out of control. Fuck yes. He could hear the suckers screaming as the truck went over the edge of the road, the edge of forever! It hit the ground and flipped three times, sending the rednecks a long distance away. “Wait, Tom. Let’s get down there and KILL ‘EM!” Rodney said, grabbing The Cowboy’s jacket and stealing his sunglasses in the process.

Jag:

[ Savage Steven ]

Once more, looting was on the schedule. Watches, hats, clothes, money and other valuables were ripped off the rednecks' embodiments. Rodney remained safe inside El Barracuda, 'covering Tommy's back'. Such bull, such bull. Soon, however, Thomas came a-strolling back to the vehicle, richer than Richie Rich. That pimp prick had stolen his glasses. He'd return the favour. Oh yes, he would. The engine roared and coughed once more, and a burn-out took place right before the road rodents' eyes. They were soon road kill, rowdy victims of road rage. "You got women, you got women on your miiiind!" sang both men in chorus, now fully pleased with the expedition's out come thus-far.

[ Settlers ]

The next stop would be only a few miles from Vegas itself, and here, they'd meet Cletus Glabbenhaft, an old friend of them both. They stopped inside the lonely saloon, later to be taken over by one Trisha Barlow. Perhaps she even ran it now. No matter! Drink after drink slipped by, all while El Barracuda stood parked outside. Then the Indians came. The fight was a fact, but no matter. "Bye, Cletus," said suddenly Rodney, and Thomas followed suit outside. There, the Indians stood, guns blazing. Jeez Louise...

Pico:

[ Gonna' Make 'Em Pay, Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo ... ]

Damn! It seemed as if everyone wanted to see Carrington and Rodney dead today. Rodney threw himself back inside, and Carrington followed him. Glass shards came from where the windows once had been. Hot damn, these suckers had automatics! Sounded like an AK-47 to Rodney’s fragile little ears. “Cletus, save yourself!” Thomas yelled, and Glabbenhaft disappeared without a trace. Once the shooting had stopped and the bartender had died, the Indians decided to come inside and have a drink or two. Too bad that the two meanest outlaws of Nevada had their revolvers waiting, itchy trigger fingers just waiting to squeeze. Three of the five Indians immediately died upon entering, the other two ran away in different directions. “Shoot them!” both Rodney and Thomas yelled at each other. The Cowboy found one of the Indians’ AK-47, and quickly gunned both Indians down. He the man.

[ Dago ]

A red Ferrari came busting through the desert, sitting in it were Santini La Madonna di Vicenzo-Gaspatre and his bodyguard Carlos “the Cock” Diaz. The Cock as in the animal, that is. Both armed with Desert Eagles they hastily stopped by the bar, exiting the car. “Hey, we ‘da new owner’s here,” Santini remarked. “Carlos, shoot these pezzonovantes.”

Jag:

[ Use Your Illusion ]

Horrible illusions on this deserted highway. Thomas realized he'd fallen asleep behind the wheel, and quickly maneuvered the car away from a cliff section, this sudden quake in the automobile waking Rodney up as well. Hot damn, rarely people shared dreams - but this entire thing was rather special. "Funk-ay," sighed Thomas, now driving back to the highway. Holy shit, this was one peculiar mishap. Rodney had yet to come around, but a little acid would get him back and snappy. Indeed. The car was now only a few miles from Vegas, where they'd cash some scag baron's last check. Or something along those narrow lines...

[ Hey Honkies! ]

One last obstacle. One last step on this flight of stairs. The cops. The Highway Patrol. The vehicle rolled out from behind a nearby cliff, like a snake. Both Rodney and Thomas knew this meant trouble. And lots of it. They'd be sitting in Carson City before sunset. With a rear chock full of drugs, alcohol and guns, they'd be toast. The pigs closed in, not very strange since El Barracuda approached them. What a treacherous fucking kiddy-fiddling asshole! FUCKING CAR! "Rodney - take over!" shouted The Cowboy, knowing he'd impossibly be able to convince this seemingly law-abiding cohort of a vehicle. Thomas hit the back seat, watching Rodney grab the steering wheel. Now, they were heading out to the right smack middle of nowhere, the cop car making a lot of noise as it followed them. "Fuckin'... honky bitches!" Thomas complained, reloading his gun with quaking hands. They'd die... they'd die... they'd die... some big Bubba up in Carson City would be using him for a toilet bowl within the coming twenty-four hours. Ah, heavens! Fucking Rodney - couldn't do a damn thing right. He was a cop! Therefore, T.C returned up, putting the barrel of the gun to the back of Rodney's head. "Get me the fuck away from these cops, or I'll blow your brains out, narc," he hissed menacingly, actually realizing that the cops were losing speed. Wowzers!

Pico:

[ Shooting Rodney ]

“TOM, WHAT THE FUCK?!” Rodney shouted at the madman. No time to think. He had to give himself up to the long arm of the law. Hitting the brakes he turned the wheel as much as he could and jumped out of the spinning car, leaving Thomas alone in the mishmash. A motorcycle police had now joined forces with the car, and the two vehicles stopped a few feet away from Rodney’s landing position. “Git’ ‘em up!” one of the cops yelled, waving a Beretta 92F in Rod’s direction. Damn, these boys had to chill. “I said—” the same cop began before shooting Rod in the right arm... the right arm; again! Ouch! Rod hit the ground, catching his breath. Oh my, that hurt. But he couldn’t give up now; they were so close to eternal holiness. “That the best you can do?! Huh?! A shot like that and you’re supposed to be the ‘serving and protecting’?” Rodney mocked. “Fuck you! I can swim!” the cop replied, shooting Rodney in the arm again. Ah, for fuck’s sake, thank God that retard only could come up with decent flesh wounds. The motorcycle cop now came, cuffs in hand. “Whadda’ we gonna’ do with this guy, Paul?” he asked his partner. “Take ‘im to the station and tie ‘im up. Get the leather and chains ready, and, uh, the horse, too…” the partner ordered. Once again Rodney let out a what… the fuck?

Jag:

[ Lonely Rider ]

With El Barracuda solemnly rolling down the hill, The Cowboy jumped back to the front of it, grabbing the wheel. The swine were after him, not that their weasle engines would give them much momentum. No, T.C had the upper hand, and would use this to his advantage. Peeling out into frantic oblivion, El Barracuda criss-crossed around in the desert until the tail was shaken off. It then steered back towards the spot where the pigs had busted Podman, to the Englishman's great relief. The bike pig was shot in a revolver driveby, the handcuffed Morash jumping into the back seat. "Thadda' boy!" clucked Thomas, and they were off. Crawling over the rocky hill came now the Highway Patrol car, but they were way out of their league now.

[ Got Coke Up My Nose To Dry Away The Snot - So Viva Las Vegas! ]

Las Vegas. Dazzling. Fabulous. Uncontrolled. Eternal. Joyous. Dazzling. Did I say that?

El Barracuda allowed every glowing neon light entity to refelect itself on its sides. The sights were amazing, grand casinos, classy people - nice music. Coming from the tape recorder. They had rented a suite at Caesar's Palace, one of the crème de la crème sin establishments. And, wow, it looked fantastic. Towering above the Vegas skyline, its neon signs mocked everything below it, spewing out light and flashes. Wowzerinos. A hot car, wanted by the police, came rolling up to the valet parking, one of the young boys eagerly accecpting the keys.

Pico:

[ Bananas ]

Oh, the not-so-healthy casino adventure that soon would be repeated dozens of times. Stepping out of the bullet-riddled El Barracuda Rodney drew a lot of attention to himself; the bloody right arm of his track suit jacket seemed to be a real attraction. He and Carrington first went to a hotel room, where Rodney cleaned the wound and had a change of clothes, now wearing a nice suit instead. They had some mescaline before going downstairs, the corridor seeming to be devoured by hideous fags all dressed up like bananas. No, don’t think that way. It’s only other guests. When you have finished reading this sentence, some poor kid in Africa DIES and you simply sit there, fat fuck, stuffing donuts into your mouth and adding more fat to your already oversized body. Shame!

Make your donation today.

Jag:

[ Gerry The Gambler ]

In every gambling joint, there must be a loser. The Caesar's Palace had Gerry McVicston, a true asshole and the worst better ever. His horses usually died from heart attacks in the right smack middle of the tracks, his chips were usually fake replicas and his craps games were... crap.

But this is all too sane! The Cowboy took a big bite from the luscious donut, shapely sized and munchy. Crumbs spewed out of his oral orifice as he spoke, his voice muffled immensely. "Rod, we're almost outta' cash," stated he, gazing at his accomplice. The Englishman simply kept his pace up, nodding slowly as he inspected the bum of a nearby bystander, a lady in her twenties, a looker. A "Mamma Frisco-a, that's-a un-a-believable-a!" kinda' chica, with a round and full bottom. Groping was naturally out of the formula. Almost. Rodney's hand reached her buttocks, grabbing hold firmly. A scream echoed throughout the narrow hallways, coming from the devotchka. Now running down a dream, never woulda' come with me, were Rodney and Thomas, jumping into the elevator and speeding down to the ground floor, where swingy jazz played and the cash was burned to crap. These dealers shat upon the chests of the common tax-payer, they were whores in the dealers' eyes. Whores about to throw away cash rather than gain any. Thomas could read their minds, being Crypto-337 had taught him such nifty things during his last trip to Tellus. The minds said "My, my, my, my Sharona! When ya' gonna' gimme' some - TIME - SHARONA?!" - surprisingly enough. They had a knack for it, it was in their blood. Steal, rape and rob these whores. These hookers. These white trash office slaves. Make them pay for their arrogance. Make them pay for their white collars. The dices flew from Thomas' open fist, showing the wrong numbers. Another hundred dollars lost to the Nazi in charge of this casa. Then, Thomas spotted Gerry. A round man, shaped like a Jewish pig-looking teenager from some hick-town came a-strolling down the red footing, his tie all messed up. He had an "L" in his forehead, carved in there by the Devil of all Games. The perfect victim.

Only minutes later, Thomas and Rodney were sited in an alley, holding Gerry's head up as they smacked the unholy be-Jesus out of him. They'd abandon him there, having stolen his every last cent, plus his fancy Rolex watch. Just another man stripped on The Strip.

Pico:

[ Raped Sausage Dog ]

”Tom... I need something to eat,” Rodney muttered, gripping his scrotum as he threw Gerry one last look, the man's face all purple and swollen. Damn, they couldn't leave him there. Maybe he could use a night snack, too. So a minute later they had Gerry sitting in between them, looking terrified. The Cowboy drove around a while, eyeing every possible restaurant in their way. El Barracuda stopped outside McDonald’s – a hamburger or two would be nice. Helping Gerry inside Carrington took a seat by the entrance, Gerry lightly tapping his fingers on the table. Rodney fixed his hair while standing in line. Nice girl at the counter. Blonde. Big tits. Nice body. “HEY!” he yelled at her upon pushing the man before him away. Horny Rod. “I’d like your – I mean, I’d like a big… vanilla milkshake,” he continued. God damn. Keep it cool. Play it cool. “Y-yes sir…” the girl responded. “Do you want anything else?” Smiling Rodney placed his hand on the counter, touching hers. “I want… a Big… Tasty. With fries. Three large sodas… Coke. And two cheeseburgers to go with that,” Rodney once again said, still keeping his eyes fixed on her. Damn broad! Couldn’t she notice the wounded little boy that was Rodney in this very moment?! Couldn’t she wipe away his tears of blood and comfort him forever?! Couldn’t she understand that he said ‘I want to fuck you’?! Bah. Humbug. Paying her he shot a glance at Thomas and Gerry, Thomas caressing his groin as two ladies walked by. Gerry had to be asleep, or something. Not a single sign of life. Oh, good. The meals were ready. Rodney grabbed the tray with food and beverage, making his way through the crowded floor and placing it on the table on front of Carrington, who immediately grabbed the Big Tasty.

Jag:

[ Lecturing ]

Weird and wonderful reminiscences. So many faces, so many souls. In this despicable fast food eatery sat dozens of natives – as well as outsiders – munching away on their speedy food. Not a care in the world. They were apathetic. Total aliens to the world outside and the current and enduring onslaughts transpiring in other nation states. How could one take pleasure in a fine repast sitting like this, watching these negligent whores? One could not. Rising up, T.C made it no hush-hush that he was about to bellow something. Indeed. ”Listen up, you fuckin’ pigs!” shouted Thomas, his fists ascending. "While you’re stuffing your plump faces, kids are dying in Africa! You motherfuckers!” he yelled, attracting everyone’s attention. Gerry took off now, with his tail behind his legs like the faggot dog he was. Rodney was too shocked to react. Only seconds after this flare-up, personnel came to usher T & R out of the joint, against their wills. Thomas had crossed the edge, but Rodney managed to smuggle the delicious food with him. They’d seek up El Barracuda, scramble inside it, and scoff. Then, they’d somberly bring life to the engine and roll off.

[ Dealer ]

The next place where they’d impede was a confined drug dealer’s dwelling, a public housing in an apartment complex, reasonably off-target for narcs and sniffers state-wide. The man’s given name was Fred Sisco, in fact the brother of a ‘San Fran’ dealer Thomas banded with during the ‘70s in ‘Frisco. Times long gone - passing to leave room for new eras of confrontation and mayhem. No matter, certainly.

Knock, knock, knock. Queeeerk. The flap swung open, Fred’s visage clearly discernible before the two men now. ”What the fuck do you want?!” inquired the man in a worried voice, obviously not with his and Thomas’ deal in mind.

Pico:

[ Living After Midnight ]

With a swift kick the door cracked open, smashing into Fred’s jaw and sending the poor fellow a few feet away from the two meanest motherfuckers west of… the wild east? Whatever. With guns blazing they almost ended Fred’s career, leaving him by the door in a dying state while turning the place upside down for any goods. A suitcase with twenty dollar bills. Nothing more. Bah. Carrying the suitcase Rodney slowly followed Carrington outside, leaving Sisco trapped in his own apartment. The two men hopped into El Barracuda - wait, where was El Barracuda? The car had disappeared!

Jag:

[ The Times, They Are A-Changin’ ]

Just an additional man added to the evaluated body count. Vegas had stolen The Cowboy’s kicks fully now, and he only wanted to get out of this crazy conurbation. Yes, the cash was filched, and so were Fred’s drugs. Ailing things to do a departed man, but no matter certainly. El Barracuda now rolled away from the apartment block, both of its passengers relatively glum. No more of the fuel once powering this municipality. The suckers ran this joint these days, dealers and criminals, whores and pimps atop the vast pyramid of supremacy. Fucking ignominy. After some tuning, Thomas managed to revivify the radio. Some cheap ‘70s channel DJed by a retired acid freak. No matter, certainly.

“Now you’re on your own … like a complete unknown … like a rolling stone!”

Indeed. No communication in this auto, according to the grapevine. The two sat stiff in the car, twisted on downers. Fa, fa, fa, fa, fa, fa, fa… sad songs… everybody’s turn! Fa, fa, fa, fa, fa, fa… et cetera, et cetera. How despondent can two lives get? “You’re now leaving fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada” the grand sign declared. No matter. Feeling like a monstrous reincarnation of Victor Jara, Thomas pushed his fortune, and the speed. Now began El Barracuda criss-crossing. No matter. The pigs would most likely catch up with them and dispatch them over to Carson City for anal cavity searches and lock-uping, but whatever. They had fooled cops before on this journey, they could do it again.

“We’re Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, we hope you’ll enjoy the show!”

Fuck yes.

---------------------

Väldigt Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas-inspirerad. Ett klart mästerverk.

Redigerad 21 augusti, 2005 av Crice

[Alpha]

Otroligt bra skrivet Crice... *tappar ciggaren från munnen*!!!

[Crice]

Otroligt bra skrivet Crice... *tappar ciggaren från munnen*!!!

Bah... hälften är Picos arbete, jag har inte hjärta att ta emot allt beröm själv.

[kattälskaren]

Denna började jag med för 18 sekunder sen

Karl skulle hem från skolan och tog en genväg när han såg en mystisk skugga i gränden

-Vem är du? Frågade Karl.

-Jag är varelsen fårn dina hemskaste mardrömmar, sa en läbbig röst.

Karl såg sig omkring och såg en gammal cykel som låg på marken. Han hoppade på den och cyklade iväg. Han tittade över axlen och varelsen kom närmare och närmare tills den rörde Karl, allt blev svart och Karl vaknade upp på sjukhus med ett brutet ben och psykisk chock.

[Frenzy]

Denna började jag med för 18 sekunder sen

Ett klart mästerverk!

[Crice]

Humpy-bump.

En liten Gonzo-berättelse av yours truly;

I had spent the entire day in the bar. John, the enchanting bartender had supplied me with infusion and chatter. I quite enjoyed his company, despite his habitual nose pickings. They were quite consistent, and pissed me off unbearably. Oh, no matter. He was a ‘Nam veteran. Personally, I’d spent the latter part of the ‘60s imprisoned for refusing to go East in order to be put in a plastic bag for the moron President’s childish war. Obviously, I did not disclose this to John. He told me about the time he spent in Viet Cong camps, stories resembling The Deer Hunter to an atrocious amount. The Russian Roulette part was left out, but otherwise it was fundamentally the same thing. Enthralled, I scribbled this down on a napkin, handed to me munificently by John himself. We would squander the oncoming two hours in this way, he telling me Vietnam stories as I wrote them down. It was an illuminating fashion to spend the nocturnal hours. So we’d carry on until my companion for the night realized he had a family entity to come home to. I gave him my cell phone number, tipped him richly for a nice chat and bounced. I’d return to my press-rented suite, where I’d take place before my typewriter and write these stories down in bold typography. Black on white, they looked gory, yet exquisite. I emptied some Wild Turkey bud vases before I comprehended my calamitous need of instantaneous shuteye. It had been a day of no small endurance waste, so I could probably spend the coming thirteen hours in unvarying siesta. Had it not been for the fact that I had agreed to congregate with George Cresthaw the next day. George was an old acquaintance of mine, retired CIA spook and heavy drinker. A good guy, no doubt. We’d spent the ‘70s together, just subsequent to his sequestration from the Central Intelligence Agency. Unofficial retirement, of course, being you never effusively leave their prying eyes. I had in fact found wire taps in his house, but decided not to enlighten him, since George was one violent bastard who still knew his old superiors’ whereabouts. He’d saved my ass back in ‘San Fran’, but that was all off-record and a shady incident, all in the times of yore.

Somewhere around six in the crack of dawn, I woke up. The source of my awakening was my cellular phone, lying on the nightstand right next to my bed. I rapidly picked it up, bringing the contrivance to my ear as I tried to discern the voice speaking to me. It was George. “Hõla, compadre,” spoke my old friend, to my immense elation. Not some dumb prank caller had phoned me, but this old accomplice and dear comrade of mine. As I reached for my bundle of Marlboro non-filtered cigarettes, I answered George in the telephone. “George, good to hear from you,” I told him, sticking the cigarette into its vessel before I set fire to the last part of it, prior to putting it amid my lips and sealing them. This old loonie would surely want me to follow him somewhere, to seal some shady six-key coke deal or help him distribute some armaments to some Puerto Rican clients of his. But no, I was erroneous. “Hey, sunshine, where are you lurking? Personally, I’m perched atop a lovely pool lounge overlooking the Miami skyline. The Cubans are gonna’ hold the race at 4 PM, thought you’d like to come,” he elaborated. I, myself, had found refuge in Fort Lauderdale, doing a little job on corrupted policemen and a suspected rape sufferer of the police force. Naturally, I’d much rather sip Piña Coladas with George over in Miami, but this piece of job was not fully completed, and I had found myself rather spellbound by the whole ordeal. “Fuck no, thank you kindly – I’m held up by a pig investigation, fucking swine couldn’t keep their hands off some Haitian hatchling, I can’t join you over there,” I dismally informed my collaborator, earnestly very sad over the entire thing. “Too bad,” said George, “I told some Cuban chicas about you, they were really turned on when I told ‘em ‘bout your ‘Brown Revolution’ pieces… yea’, man, they were politically interested. Bright and beautiful, can you ask for more?!” Oh… how he teased me. That comment pretty much sealed the deal for my part. I told him I’d be right over, hung up, and scampered down the hotel flight of stairs. Well outside, I handed a juvenile valet my valet voucher, and off he went to fetch my chic car. I drove a Buick Riviera, a ‘60s model. Very nice car, I still have it, actually. No matter. At that moment, I felt a dominant drug abstinence. I needed to get hold of my concentrates and substances, veiled securely in the luggage space of my fine auto. Before I knew it, the adolescent valet boy came driving in my car, stopping just by my position. He handed me the keys, and off I went. It would be a protracted, good drive down to Miami – but who the hell is in any hasten? Quickly, I cracked open my trusty glove compartment and extracted some hashish. Driving with my knees, I produced my pipe and put the concentrate into the wooden device. I then set fire to the whole shebang and inhaled deeply.

“I started singing ‘Bye bye, Miss American Pie!’ Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry … them good ol’ boys are drinking whiskey and rye, singing ‘This will be the day that I die!’ …”

I’ve heard Madonna made a cover on that song. Bullshit. That bitch should stick with her whorish bubblegum pop, not put her oar in fine American songwriters’ business. To think, Chapman read ‘The Catcher In The Rye’ when he had executed America’s last hope. He left Dylan behind to deal with shit, but perhaps it was best so. Mr. Tambourine Man never let Japanese hogs captivate him and put their sinister spells over him. Thoughts like those crept down my mindways, en route to Actionville? What was there really to do about it? I’d listen to my old tape records, letting the ‘Stones, The Beatles, Dylan and Jefferson Airplane poise my way down. For the majority of this anomalous excursion I’d have a hash conduit stuck between my teeth, and other drivers would tilt eyebrows. I had spent a lot of time down South, really, but Miami was too searing for me. The weather conditions made me dispense sweat, and as long as I wasn’t poolside in some exclusive hotel resort. George, on the other hand, cherished the weather. Hell, he’d decided staying here all year would be fastidious. But he was too young, he said. Bullshit. I knew better than to believe him. Not that I ever mentioned it, naturally. Enough of this non-important crap. I pulled up to George’s hotel only forty-five minutes before the race was due to start. The crazed man stood in the lobby, overwhelmed with joy once I finally showed up. He wanted us to rush to the race. Fuck no! “Hold your stallions, you fiend! First, we must misuse the Sunshine Acid!” I informed my colleague. At first, he was hesitant, but the initial doses made him play along. To assume, we were sited by the stern of my Buick, only flippantly concealed on the hotel parking lot, chewing substances given to humans from Bog himself. Fuck, if the pigs rounded us up now, we’d be toast. Climbing into the car, the twosome of us were soon off to witness this absurd oh-so-spoken-of contest. Mahalo.

Redigerad 22 augusti, 2005 av Crice

[fabian]

Ni som känner igen P-C:s historia från pcgamer så tror jag att det ni menar är Månadens Brev i nr 90 (Juni 2004), där står det en liknande historia.

Skulle också vilja fråga Crice hur gammal du är?

[Weener]

Crice hur fan orkar du?

Visa dem för din engelskalärare så lär du få MVG inom loppet av 3 sekunder.

[Crice]

Crice hur fan orkar du?

Tycker det är skitkul att skriva.

@fabian: Femton.