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Greeny World Domination 022
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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 I
The Beginning
It was only about a year after I "retired" from the force that they
started tracking me down. They just don't let people like me walk off like
that, I guess. I staggered into the foyer of my hotel, trying like hell to
avoid anyone who looked like they had a bill for me. I had been on the beach
all day, doing my damnedest to put myself in a tequila coma. It was pretty
damn hard to find tequila in, well, wherever the hell I was, Philippines
probably, but I was good at that kind of thing. I stopped my financial
observations to notice the rather shapely legs of the waitress in the dimly
lit bar off of the main lobby. I only glanced for one testosterone-filled
second, but it was a second too long. The door ape had spotted me coming in,
and was moving to intercept. He was a good guy, not too bright, and the kind
to know when to stay bought. Makes me wish there were more politicians like
him. I made sure to tip him real well, so he took good care of me, even when
I was too drunk to wet myself properly. "Mistah Armand, you alright? You
shouldn't drink outside like that, the locals roll you chop chop! You want me
to get you a good drink from the bar?"
Why not? I ordered up two fingers of Everclear, neat, and he sauntered
off, looking puzzled. I wondered if the bar actually stocked the stuff.
Probably. As he walked away, he tossed some words of warning over his
shoulder. "Mistah Armand, someone short and rude was looking for you. Maybe
a bill, eh?" Oh shit. He didn't know it, but he had saved my bacon then.
That bastard Hale was after me again! When I "retired" from the Force a few
years back, he'd sworn that he'd be the one they sent after me , even if he
had to do it on his own time. Bastard probably did. Short and rude, yeah,
that was Hale. I wandered up to the desk, slapping down some greasy,
counterfeit bank notes to cover my tab, and asked if there was any mail for
me. I knew there was. The desk clerk handed the box to me after checking my
ID. The ID was for Elvis Costello, the fixer's idea of a joke, but this guy
had no concept of the greats of comedy. I shook the box, relieved to feel the
comforting weight inside. I had mailed the Mac 10 to myself a few weeks back,
so I would always have access to it, even if my room was searched.
I climbed up the fire escape, since I didn't trust elevators, and stared
at my door. The doorman was right. The rose petal I always keep propped on
the bottom of the door was moved. My door had been opened. Not likely the
maids, half of them were in the VD clinic and the other half were doing their
damnedest to get there, what with cheap "bedwarming" services and all. No, it
was probably Hale or one of his goons. The goddamned little elf wouldn't get
away with it this time! I reached over to the firebox and pulled out the
spare clips for the Mac 10 I had substituted for the fire extinguisher a
little over a week before. I had left the ax and the hose just in case, but
they wouldn't be needed today. I grabbed the trash can, and emptied it into a
smoky fire I lit with a back issue of cosmo and my Boy Scout firestarter. I
always knew the connections to BS central would come in handy. They're like a
covert army, and those Eagle Scouts are better than the Green Berets. I
pulled out my trademark Pez dispenser, lit its head on fire for good luck, and
popped one of those flaming Prozac pills down my throat for better luck (I
never use candy, the prescription drugs pack more of an offensive punch. I
know a guy who once took down a pack of Nazi attack dogs with a box of
Halcion). I jammed the trash can over my head, and burst into my room.
The maid looked up from the vacuum cleaner past her hairy legs and over
her even hairier chin, but she didn't have to blink before I was all over her,
shoving Pez into her throat and thumbing every happy pill I had into her
system. That stuff is pretty nasty in large quantities, and she had enough
coursing through her veins to stop a sex-crazed rhinocerous on bad acid.
Pretty soon, she couldn't even track her eyes, and the medecine started to
congeal on her breath. I dragged her over to the bathroom cubicle, shoved her
head into the toilet and yelled, "Talk! Talk, goddamn it or I'll flush you
down this thing!" Her answer, after the Prozac and throat burns, was a gurgle
and a string of drool, but I was well practiced in the ways of mood altering
drugs. I quickly deciphered her answer, and pulled her head out of the drink
and, coincidentally, the pipes and all four walls of the cubicle. She was
indeed Hale's goon, and the sharpened end of her mop had my name on it.
As I was pulling her body out of the bathroom, I heard a chuckle behind
him. "Well done, Armand, the flaming Pez was a nice touch." Hale! I spun
around, spraying lead with the Mac 10, and demolishing every picture, speaker,
potted plant, and TV screen in the room. I missed Hale completely. I had
made the same goddamn mistake I had made the last time, forgetting that the
midget queer was only three feet high! Hale returned fire with a highly tuned
Curly routine, and I remembered only too late how good he was at it. The only
defense was a standard #3 Moe act, but I had never bothered to learn it. By
the time I was face down on the floor, bleeding and humiliated, I wished to
hell I had. I managed to get up, but Hale had a portable CD player and the
opening bars to "Achy Breaky Heart" strated ripping through the room. I
didn't stand a chance with my low C&W tolerance, and I was on the floor again,
screaming the antidote ("Call Me Al") at the top of my lungs. It didn't help
because two twin goons connected at the shoulder strutted in and banged me
around until my fillings were loose.
"You should not have left us, Armand! The Boss is not pleased, and he
wants you back! They say you are the best, but I think I have proven how much
better I am. Hmm. I have no idea why the Boss might want you back, but it
might have something to do with the Tierlich project. Guido! Nunzio! Take
this slab of meatout to the car." The Duo of Destruction, one on each arm,
marched me out to the car like some out of tune drill team. On the way, Hale
practiced his degree in the Dark Side of Chiropracty on my shoulders. Such
pain I had felt only once before, when my frat brothers convinced me to chug a
bottle of Mad Dog and then pumped my stomach with a vacuum cleaner. On the
ride to the train station, they sealed up the back seat and then the
blackhearted bastards started pumping Indigo Girls into the back whilst a
pleasant rendition of Beethoven echoed in the front seats. Over the strained
chords of "Walking in Memphis" I noticed that the two Italian meatloafs were
Siamese twins. So we were an equal opportunity employer now, eh? Well, at
least I would get to see Cindy and the girls again...
End of Part I
Next: Reunion
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 to the guy in the woods (the woods are green!)
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