129 lines
8.1 KiB
Plaintext
129 lines
8.1 KiB
Plaintext
GwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwD
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G R E E N Y w o r l d D o m i n a t i o n T a s k F o r c e
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Presents:
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"One Hand Clapping"
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by Spanky McDougal, Sir!
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PART I
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The Beginning
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It was only about a year after I "retired" from the force that they
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started tracking me down. They just don't let people like me walk off like
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that, I guess. I staggered into the foyer of my hotel, trying like hell to
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avoid anyone who looked like they had a bill for me. I had been on the beach
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all day, doing my damnedest to put myself in a tequila coma. It was pretty
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damn hard to find tequila in, well, wherever the hell I was, Philippines
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probably, but I was good at that kind of thing. I stopped my financial
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observations to notice the rather shapely legs of the waitress in the dimly
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lit bar off of the main lobby. I only glanced for one testosterone-filled
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second, but it was a second too long. The door ape had spotted me coming in,
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and was moving to intercept. He was a good guy, not too bright, and the kind
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to know when to stay bought. Makes me wish there were more politicians like
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him. I made sure to tip him real well, so he took good care of me, even when
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I was too drunk to wet myself properly. "Mistah Armand, you alright? You
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shouldn't drink outside like that, the locals roll you chop chop! You want me
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to get you a good drink from the bar?"
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Why not? I ordered up two fingers of Everclear, neat, and he sauntered
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off, looking puzzled. I wondered if the bar actually stocked the stuff.
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Probably. As he walked away, he tossed some words of warning over his
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shoulder. "Mistah Armand, someone short and rude was looking for you. Maybe
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a bill, eh?" Oh shit. He didn't know it, but he had saved my bacon then.
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That bastard Hale was after me again! When I "retired" from the Force a few
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years back, he'd sworn that he'd be the one they sent after me , even if he
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had to do it on his own time. Bastard probably did. Short and rude, yeah,
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that was Hale. I wandered up to the desk, slapping down some greasy,
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counterfeit bank notes to cover my tab, and asked if there was any mail for
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me. I knew there was. The desk clerk handed the box to me after checking my
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ID. The ID was for Elvis Costello, the fixer's idea of a joke, but this guy
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had no concept of the greats of comedy. I shook the box, relieved to feel the
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comforting weight inside. I had mailed the Mac 10 to myself a few weeks back,
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so I would always have access to it, even if my room was searched.
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I climbed up the fire escape, since I didn't trust elevators, and stared
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at my door. The doorman was right. The rose petal I always keep propped on
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the bottom of the door was moved. My door had been opened. Not likely the
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maids, half of them were in the VD clinic and the other half were doing their
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damnedest to get there, what with cheap "bedwarming" services and all. No, it
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was probably Hale or one of his goons. The goddamned little elf wouldn't get
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away with it this time! I reached over to the firebox and pulled out the
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spare clips for the Mac 10 I had substituted for the fire extinguisher a
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little over a week before. I had left the ax and the hose just in case, but
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they wouldn't be needed today. I grabbed the trash can, and emptied it into a
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smoky fire I lit with a back issue of cosmo and my Boy Scout firestarter. I
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always knew the connections to BS central would come in handy. They're like a
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covert army, and those Eagle Scouts are better than the Green Berets. I
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pulled out my trademark Pez dispenser, lit its head on fire for good luck, and
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popped one of those flaming Prozac pills down my throat for better luck (I
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never use candy, the prescription drugs pack more of an offensive punch. I
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know a guy who once took down a pack of Nazi attack dogs with a box of
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Halcion). I jammed the trash can over my head, and burst into my room.
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The maid looked up from the vacuum cleaner past her hairy legs and over
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her even hairier chin, but she didn't have to blink before I was all over her,
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shoving Pez into her throat and thumbing every happy pill I had into her
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system. That stuff is pretty nasty in large quantities, and she had enough
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coursing through her veins to stop a sex-crazed rhinocerous on bad acid.
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Pretty soon, she couldn't even track her eyes, and the medecine started to
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congeal on her breath. I dragged her over to the bathroom cubicle, shoved her
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head into the toilet and yelled, "Talk! Talk, goddamn it or I'll flush you
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down this thing!" Her answer, after the Prozac and throat burns, was a gurgle
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and a string of drool, but I was well practiced in the ways of mood altering
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drugs. I quickly deciphered her answer, and pulled her head out of the drink
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and, coincidentally, the pipes and all four walls of the cubicle. She was
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indeed Hale's goon, and the sharpened end of her mop had my name on it.
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As I was pulling her body out of the bathroom, I heard a chuckle behind
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him. "Well done, Armand, the flaming Pez was a nice touch." Hale! I spun
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around, spraying lead with the Mac 10, and demolishing every picture, speaker,
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potted plant, and TV screen in the room. I missed Hale completely. I had
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made the same goddamn mistake I had made the last time, forgetting that the
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midget queer was only three feet high! Hale returned fire with a highly tuned
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Curly routine, and I remembered only too late how good he was at it. The only
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defense was a standard #3 Moe act, but I had never bothered to learn it. By
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the time I was face down on the floor, bleeding and humiliated, I wished to
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hell I had. I managed to get up, but Hale had a portable CD player and the
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opening bars to "Achy Breaky Heart" strated ripping through the room. I
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didn't stand a chance with my low C&W tolerance, and I was on the floor again,
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screaming the antidote ("Call Me Al") at the top of my lungs. It didn't help
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because two twin goons connected at the shoulder strutted in and banged me
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around until my fillings were loose.
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"You should not have left us, Armand! The Boss is not pleased, and he
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wants you back! They say you are the best, but I think I have proven how much
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better I am. Hmm. I have no idea why the Boss might want you back, but it
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might have something to do with the Tierlich project. Guido! Nunzio! Take
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this slab of meatout to the car." The Duo of Destruction, one on each arm,
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marched me out to the car like some out of tune drill team. On the way, Hale
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practiced his degree in the Dark Side of Chiropracty on my shoulders. Such
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pain I had felt only once before, when my frat brothers convinced me to chug a
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bottle of Mad Dog and then pumped my stomach with a vacuum cleaner. On the
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ride to the train station, they sealed up the back seat and then the
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blackhearted bastards started pumping Indigo Girls into the back whilst a
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pleasant rendition of Beethoven echoed in the front seats. Over the strained
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chords of "Walking in Memphis" I noticed that the two Italian meatloafs were
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Siamese twins. So we were an equal opportunity employer now, eh? Well, at
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least I would get to see Cindy and the girls again...
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End of Part I
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Next: Reunion
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GwD Command Centers-
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Chaos (806)797-7501
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SysOp-Seth The Man (Mission Control)
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GridPoint (XXX)XXX-XXXX
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SysOp-Transderm-Nitro (First Conquest, don't know new number)
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Federation Slayers' (806)799-1184
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SysOp-Big Red Fed
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The Starchy White Boy BBS (806)842-3270
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SysOp-Fastjack (Down until May of 1994)
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Light My Fire (806)795-4926
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SysOp-Ailanthus
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The Snake's Den (806)793-3779
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SysOp-Diamondback
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The Siege Perilous (806)762-0948
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SysOp-Longshot
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Brazen's Hell (301)776-8259
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SysOp-Brazen (Eastern Outpost)
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copyright (c) 1994 by Spanky McDougal, Sir! of GwD Inc.
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GREENY world Domination Task Force copyright (c) 1993 by Lobo
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All rights reserved to the guy in the woods (the woods are green!)
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