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Greeny World Domination 023
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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
Presents:
"One Hand Clapping"
by Spanky McDougal, Sir!
PART II
Reunion
The Siamese goons dragged me into a closed room, strapped me to a chair,
and left. I was bruised and battered after flying back to L.A. in a pet
carrier, but something told me that the Boss wouldn't care too much. I
figured that he would be in soon, after a small wait to make me sweat. I was
sweating. The Boss isn't much to look at, a small, nondescript man, but he's
sharp as a tack with as much soul. He's the kind of guy to break every bone
in your body slowly, all the while giggling and telling you the one about the
Invisible Man in the women's crapper. A real sweetheart. Sure enough, the
lights dimmed and he walked in. He didn't waste much time, he never did, and
he got right to the point.
"Jeeeeezus, Armand, what the hell happened to you? You used to be the
best. We were kind of concerned when you walked off last year and told us all
that we'd never find you. We wouldn't have, either, but you leave a trail of
alcohol shortages a Presbyterian could follow. Shit. You used to be the
best! What happened to you? You look terrible!"
"Hale...." I muttered through cracked lips smeared with banana. Hale and
his goons had laughed themselves silly while they super glued bits of rat hair
on me and passed me through customs as a lowland gorilla. One of these days,
I swore I'd vent his spleen for that.
"No shit, Sherlock. That's why I sent him after you, toremind you that,
without you, nuts like him are what we have to unleash on the Opposition.
Such a fate even the evil empire doesn't deserve. Goddamn little runt gives
me the creeps. Well, I'm a busy man and you need to get cleaned up. What the
hell is that anyway? Rat hair?" I nodded my agreement, vowing to split the
bastard like an overripe banana. "Well, you look like shit. The gorilla bit
again? Ha. Yeah, well get cleaned up. Tomorrow you're going to meet up with
your team for the Tierlich enterprise. It's on again, and I'm afraid that
Hale would just scare the shit out of the Opposition. Tomorrow, five o'clock
sharp. Sharp, dammit! No booze! None! If you touch a drop, I will let Hale
work you over like a blue collar on overtime. You'd better stay sober...."
I was frog-marched up the steps to my old apartment by Guido and Nunzio,
who made sure the back of my aching head was intimately acquainted with every
corner of every hardwood stair. They tried to stuff me in the icebox of my
room, but my steel tipped orthropedic shoes convinced their foreheads of the
error in their ways. After they left, I opened up the liqueur cabinet in my
room, not really expecting to find anything. It was a nice room, decorated in
some sort of sawdust theme. There was a bed without a mattress, a table
without legs or a top, and, of course, a little diesel refrigerator screaming
its head off in the corner. The pilot light burning on top didn't boost my
confidence in its ability to keep liquor cold. I didn't need to bother, all
the bottles were smashed and filed to wicked points. Hmmm. I pulled out
ceiling tilesand climbed up into the rafters, pulling the acoustic tile up
after me. After I replaced it, they wouldn't be able to shoot me through the
door. It's an old habit I picked up at summer camp. Mom and Dad did ship me
off to the queerest places...
I woke up from a dream about the counselors smearing us with whipped
cream and shoving shaving cream down our throats. Ugh. It was about five
o'clock, I guessed, from my beard. I climbed down, rather surprised that my
room hadn't been demolished. I guess the Chief wanted to give me a chance to
recover before opening me up as fair game. I showered and shaved, drank some
orange juice, and went back to sleep. At about nineo'clock, I scrambled down
the fire escape, eschewing the stairs. I spotted a wino in front of the
lobby, whereI paused to look at the crest of arms. The Force used to be
positioned on the thirteenth floor of the Drake hotel, which was hell for the
room service. Recently, we had taken over the entire building, explained the
bellhops with body armor. I snuck up behind the boozer and smacked him in the
back of the neck with a brick. He went out like a user after a bad trip, and
I appropriated his rat piss wine. It tasted like Everclear with Kool-Aid, but
I didn't care. I wandered in the front door, swilling like there was no
tomorrow. As far as I was concerned, there wasn't. Guido and Nunzio were
waiting for me, and one grabbed my arms while the other smashed my bottle over
my head; it was my turn to go beddie-bye. I woke up chained to a chair
illuminated by a single, swinging light bulb. Hale and company were in front
of me, along with the Boss and some characters I didn't know.
"Goddamn it," I quipped, rather piqued, "let me the hell out!"
"No. Did I say no booze? Did I? I FUCKING WELL DID! NO! WE NEED YOU
SOBER!" The Boss seemed a little annoyed. I thought about offering him some
win to calm him down, but then I thought better. Besides, I thought, the
bottle is broken. He continued, "Anyway, this is your team. The bottom of
the barrel, but then so are you. This is Crusher Bruiserson, you muscle. He
represents the Sweden/Norway/Denmark part of the alliance." He indicated a
slab of flesh I had taken for some mad scientist's idea of a joke. The guy
was at least seven feet tall, and even his muscles had muscles. It emitted
the queer base groaning sound that shook my bones, and I realized that it was
talking.
"Ya, ah am Crusher, son of Bruiser, and I vill kill any pig dog voman-man
testicle-less vhoreson who tries to hurt you." The guy looked like Conan the
Barabarian with a steroid I.V.
The Boss pointed to a man in a bowler hat and three piece suit, doing a
flawless fandango. "This is Bob, a Man of a Thousand Faces from the Land of a
Thousand Dances." As I watched, the man (?) stuffed his clothing and hair
into a soft, shapeless bag, and pulled out a blond wig, tight dress, and lots
of padding. The fandango melted into a waltz, and a confused Crusher
Bruiserson was being paraded around the room by a female version of himself.
I had only seen one person like this before, Twitchyfeet Malone, a famous
assassin. Famous because the only person he evr killed laughed himself into a
Mac truck. These people were all masters of disguise, but not a single one of
them could stand still for more than a few seconds at a time. The Boss
indicated a final man, a nondescript blond guy in a windsuit. "This is Dave,
your AA counselor. Do what he says, or Hale gets the job. If Hale gets the
job, we tell Crusher that ou-yay ot-gay is-hay ister-say regnant-pay. Capice?
I could imagine what that slab of meat would do to me. "Yeah." I
shuddered. The next few months were not going to be fun. The Boss started to
explain what we were supposed to do while Dave gave me some inspirational
literature and a pep talk. Fuckin' A.
End of Part II
Next: New Beginnings
GwD Command Centers-
Chaos (806)797-7501
SysOp-Seth The Man (Mission Control)
GridPoint (XXX)XXX-XXXX
SysOp-Transderm-Nitro (First Conquest, don't know new number)
Federation Slayers' (806)799-1184
SysOp-Big Red Fed
The Starchy White Boy BBS (806)842-3270
SysOp-Fastjack (Down until May of 1994)
Light My Fire (806)795-4926
SysOp-Ailanthus
The Snake's Den (806)793-3779
SysOp-Diamondback
The Siege Perilous (806)762-0948
SysOp-Longshot
Brazen's Hell (301)776-8259
SysOp-Brazen (Eastern Outpost)
copyright (c) 1994 by Spanky McDougal, Sir! of GwD Inc.
GREENY world Domination Task Force copyright (c) 1993 by Lobo
All rights reserved
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