132 lines
8.1 KiB
Plaintext
132 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 II
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Reunion
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The Siamese goons dragged me into a closed room, strapped me to a chair,
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and left. I was bruised and battered after flying back to L.A. in a pet
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carrier, but something told me that the Boss wouldn't care too much. I
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figured that he would be in soon, after a small wait to make me sweat. I was
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sweating. The Boss isn't much to look at, a small, nondescript man, but he's
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sharp as a tack with as much soul. He's the kind of guy to break every bone
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in your body slowly, all the while giggling and telling you the one about the
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Invisible Man in the women's crapper. A real sweetheart. Sure enough, the
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lights dimmed and he walked in. He didn't waste much time, he never did, and
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he got right to the point.
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"Jeeeeezus, Armand, what the hell happened to you? You used to be the
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best. We were kind of concerned when you walked off last year and told us all
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that we'd never find you. We wouldn't have, either, but you leave a trail of
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alcohol shortages a Presbyterian could follow. Shit. You used to be the
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best! What happened to you? You look terrible!"
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"Hale...." I muttered through cracked lips smeared with banana. Hale and
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his goons had laughed themselves silly while they super glued bits of rat hair
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on me and passed me through customs as a lowland gorilla. One of these days,
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I swore I'd vent his spleen for that.
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"No shit, Sherlock. That's why I sent him after you, toremind you that,
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without you, nuts like him are what we have to unleash on the Opposition.
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Such a fate even the evil empire doesn't deserve. Goddamn little runt gives
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me the creeps. Well, I'm a busy man and you need to get cleaned up. What the
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hell is that anyway? Rat hair?" I nodded my agreement, vowing to split the
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bastard like an overripe banana. "Well, you look like shit. The gorilla bit
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again? Ha. Yeah, well get cleaned up. Tomorrow you're going to meet up with
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your team for the Tierlich enterprise. It's on again, and I'm afraid that
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Hale would just scare the shit out of the Opposition. Tomorrow, five o'clock
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sharp. Sharp, dammit! No booze! None! If you touch a drop, I will let Hale
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work you over like a blue collar on overtime. You'd better stay sober...."
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I was frog-marched up the steps to my old apartment by Guido and Nunzio,
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who made sure the back of my aching head was intimately acquainted with every
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corner of every hardwood stair. They tried to stuff me in the icebox of my
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room, but my steel tipped orthropedic shoes convinced their foreheads of the
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error in their ways. After they left, I opened up the liqueur cabinet in my
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room, not really expecting to find anything. It was a nice room, decorated in
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some sort of sawdust theme. There was a bed without a mattress, a table
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without legs or a top, and, of course, a little diesel refrigerator screaming
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its head off in the corner. The pilot light burning on top didn't boost my
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confidence in its ability to keep liquor cold. I didn't need to bother, all
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the bottles were smashed and filed to wicked points. Hmmm. I pulled out
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ceiling tilesand climbed up into the rafters, pulling the acoustic tile up
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after me. After I replaced it, they wouldn't be able to shoot me through the
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door. It's an old habit I picked up at summer camp. Mom and Dad did ship me
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off to the queerest places...
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I woke up from a dream about the counselors smearing us with whipped
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cream and shoving shaving cream down our throats. Ugh. It was about five
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o'clock, I guessed, from my beard. I climbed down, rather surprised that my
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room hadn't been demolished. I guess the Chief wanted to give me a chance to
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recover before opening me up as fair game. I showered and shaved, drank some
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orange juice, and went back to sleep. At about nineo'clock, I scrambled down
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the fire escape, eschewing the stairs. I spotted a wino in front of the
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lobby, whereI paused to look at the crest of arms. The Force used to be
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positioned on the thirteenth floor of the Drake hotel, which was hell for the
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room service. Recently, we had taken over the entire building, explained the
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bellhops with body armor. I snuck up behind the boozer and smacked him in the
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back of the neck with a brick. He went out like a user after a bad trip, and
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I appropriated his rat piss wine. It tasted like Everclear with Kool-Aid, but
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I didn't care. I wandered in the front door, swilling like there was no
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tomorrow. As far as I was concerned, there wasn't. Guido and Nunzio were
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waiting for me, and one grabbed my arms while the other smashed my bottle over
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my head; it was my turn to go beddie-bye. I woke up chained to a chair
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illuminated by a single, swinging light bulb. Hale and company were in front
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of me, along with the Boss and some characters I didn't know.
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"Goddamn it," I quipped, rather piqued, "let me the hell out!"
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"No. Did I say no booze? Did I? I FUCKING WELL DID! NO! WE NEED YOU
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SOBER!" The Boss seemed a little annoyed. I thought about offering him some
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win to calm him down, but then I thought better. Besides, I thought, the
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bottle is broken. He continued, "Anyway, this is your team. The bottom of
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the barrel, but then so are you. This is Crusher Bruiserson, you muscle. He
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represents the Sweden/Norway/Denmark part of the alliance." He indicated a
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slab of flesh I had taken for some mad scientist's idea of a joke. The guy
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was at least seven feet tall, and even his muscles had muscles. It emitted
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the queer base groaning sound that shook my bones, and I realized that it was
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talking.
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"Ya, ah am Crusher, son of Bruiser, and I vill kill any pig dog voman-man
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testicle-less vhoreson who tries to hurt you." The guy looked like Conan the
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Barabarian with a steroid I.V.
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The Boss pointed to a man in a bowler hat and three piece suit, doing a
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flawless fandango. "This is Bob, a Man of a Thousand Faces from the Land of a
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Thousand Dances." As I watched, the man (?) stuffed his clothing and hair
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into a soft, shapeless bag, and pulled out a blond wig, tight dress, and lots
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of padding. The fandango melted into a waltz, and a confused Crusher
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Bruiserson was being paraded around the room by a female version of himself.
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I had only seen one person like this before, Twitchyfeet Malone, a famous
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assassin. Famous because the only person he evr killed laughed himself into a
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Mac truck. These people were all masters of disguise, but not a single one of
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them could stand still for more than a few seconds at a time. The Boss
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indicated a final man, a nondescript blond guy in a windsuit. "This is Dave,
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your AA counselor. Do what he says, or Hale gets the job. If Hale gets the
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job, we tell Crusher that ou-yay ot-gay is-hay ister-say regnant-pay. Capice?
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I could imagine what that slab of meat would do to me. "Yeah." I
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shuddered. The next few months were not going to be fun. The Boss started to
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explain what we were supposed to do while Dave gave me some inspirational
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literature and a pep talk. Fuckin' A.
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End of Part II
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Next: New Beginnings
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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
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