Christopher Moore Home Page

The bulletin board is currently closed to new posts. Instead, why not check out Chris' Twitter and Facebook pages? Forum Index -> Fan Fiction Here

Road Rage (Story Tag)

  Author    Thread This forum is locked: you cannot post, reply to, or edit topics. This topic is locked: you cannot edit posts or make replies.
Dave S.

Joined: 29 Mar 2004
Posts: 480
Location: Philly burbs
Road Rage (Story Tag)  Reply with quote  

Road Rage

By some goofy people at the Chris Moore BBS

Prologue: The Boulevard

By Dave S.

The Boulevard emanates a menacing vibe. Seventeen miles of tar, asphalt and paint. Sixty-six traffic lights, six lanes heading south into the city and six lanes north towards the ‘burbs. There are three median strips; trenches of grass and mud, filled with debris like blown tire remnants, various rusty auto parts and the occasional mattress or small refrigerator. Steel guardrails sporadically materialize along the medians, and then disappear into the earth. The medians divide the twelve lanes into four groups of three lanes each, two groups of lanes north, and two groups south. Every few traffic lights there’s a crossover; a small lane that allows you to cut across the median from the outer three lanes to the inner lanes, or vice versa. Left turns can be made from the central lanes only, right turns from the external lanes.
The Boulevard wouldn’t be quite as intimidating, if it weren’t for all the damn traffic. Morning rush hour (between 6:00 and 10:00 AM) brings well over a hundred thousand vehicles of all shapes and sizes. The afternoon rush (3:00 to 7:00 PM) produces just as many. The traffic lights are inconveniently timed so if you’re going the speed limit you’ll hit all sixty-six red lights from one end to the other, but if you’re going about seventy-five or eighty, you’ll make two or three greens in a row. There’s an average of fourteen accidents per day on The Boulevard, eight of which are usually fender-benders. In four of these accidents people will probably end up with serious injuries, and statistics tell us that the other two accidents will be fatal. Keep in mind folks, that these are just averages. On a nice spring day or a beautiful day in early autumn, we might get away with one fender-bender or maybe even no accidents at all. On a sweltering, sticky summer day or bitter, icy winter day… well, lets just say those figures will triple, maybe even quadruple. If there’s a full moon about, double the numbers once more.
Our story takes place on Friday, July 13th; Accu-weather says it’s going to be the hottest, most humid day all year. Oh and uh… full moon tonight.

Chapter 1: Morons and Assholes

By Dave S.


About 30 minutes before the break of dawn, Tony Finger backed his Cadillac into the driveway of his target’s house on Revere Street. Tony’s boss, Sal Vinzoni, told him to whack Art Barnaby, high school principal. Barnaby also happens to be a degenerate gambler whose payments to Sal are way overdue. Barnaby already fucked up once before and Sal was easy on him, gave him a deferred payment plan. Sal never lets anyone fuck him twice.
As Tony approached the front door, he screwed the silencer on his .44 magnum. Tony rang the bell and put his finger over the peephole, blocking the view to the front porch.
The bell jostled Barnaby out of his twin bed. Barnaby glanced at the digital clock. 4:55 AM. “Who the fuck’s ringing my bell at this ungodly hour?”
Barnaby swung his legs off the bed, got up and tripped over a pile of dirty clothes next to his bed. “Fuck!”
47-year-old, gangly, bachelor-for-life does that every morning.
Barnaby shuffles over to the front door in a sleep-deprived haze, doesn’t bother spying through the peephole, he just opens the front door. “Who the fuck…”
As the front door starts opening, Tony kicks the door right into Barnaby, hits him on the forehead and he goes crashing backwards on his ass. Tony walks in, closes the front door, points the magnum at Barnaby and asks, “You know who I am?”
“No.” Barnaby whimpers.
“You know who I work for though, right?”
“That’s Mr. Vinzoni to you, you fuck!”
“Right, right, Mr. Vinzoni.”
“But you don’t know who I am?”
“Well I’m gonna tell ya.”
Tony brings down the heel of his Italian leather shoe hard on Barnaby’s bare toes with a crunch. “TOE!”
Barnaby screams.
Then Tony outward kicks with his heel and shatters Barnaby’s left kneecap. “KNEE!”
More wails from Barnaby.
Tony grabs Barnaby’s right hand and bends his index finger back until it snaps. “FINGER!”
Barnaby screams louder this time, tears are streaming down his face.
“TOE – KNEE – FINGER! TONY FINGER, that’s my name. Last time I asked you this question you gave me the wrong answer, now who am I, mutherfucker?”
Barnaby manages to snivel some words between his whimpers, “Tony Finger… Tony Finger.”
“That’s right, Barnaby. Good job. Since you answered the million dollar question correctly, I ain’t gonna whack you just yet. Come with me.”
Tony scoops frail Barnaby up with his massive arm and drags him out to his Seville. He pops the trunk and drops Barnaby inside. Slamming down the trunk Tony chuckles “Now that fucknut knows who I am. Heh heh.”
Tony heads back in the house to fix himself some breakfast before starting up the Cadillac and heading towards The Boulevard, back to the city.


Chad Wexler awakens when his bedside clock clicks to 5:14 AM, exactly sixty seconds prior to his alarm going off. He turns off his alarm before it kicks on, so as not to disturb his trophy wife, Karen (Bleach blonde, fake double D boobs, a hundred pairs of shoes; you know the type.), from her beauty sleep.
The thing about Chad is, he’s always on time. He’s got to be in court down at City Hall at 7:30 AM to tri his first murder case. Chad plans on getting there at 7:00, plenty of time to prepare. Basically, this gives Chad forty-six minutes to shower, get dressed and suck down a coffee while reading the front page of this morning’s Legal Intelligencer before hitting The Boulevard. Chad usually takes The Interstate to work, but the increasing construction has been causing major delays during rush hour. Not wanting to chance tardiness on the first day of his first murder trial, Chad figures he’ll be better off taking The Boulevard.
As Chad steps out of the shower, he’s surprised to see Karen bending over the bathroom sink, looking back at him with a smile wearing nothing but black lace garters, black thigh-high stockings and a pair of black heels.
“Put it in me, Daddy Chaddy!”
“Can’t babe… Big trial today, you know that.” Chad smiles and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Hold that pose gorgeous, I’ll be back tonight, and when I get back you better be right here, waiting for daddy. Daddy’s gonna fuck you right where you stand.”
At exactly 6:00 AM Chad is coasting down his driveway, garage door closing behind him, in his shiny silver Lexus. Chad estimates a forty-five minute commute via The Boulevard, giving him a fifteen-minute buffer to arrive at City Hall by 7:00.


Justin Case is already in the kitchen, eating a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, when his dad lumbers in wearing nothing but a pair of tightie-whities.
“Yo, pops! Can I bizzorrow the Hummer?”
“What do you need it for, Justin? Where are you going?”
“Check-check-check this out pops! I’z is goin’ to M.C. Styles’z studio, downtown ‘n shit, recordin’ my dizzemo tape!!!”
“I don’t know son…”
“Pops! I got the mad rhymes, yo! I gotsta lay this shiznit down, yo!”
“Look Justin, your mother and I have been talking and…”
“Pops, wit dis dizzemo tape, I got game! I’ll be a playa! I’ll have ho’s all up over this shit!”
“…Your mother and I have been looking at some brochures, we need to talk…”
“Brochures? Nah, pops, you don’t understand, man, just check out this mad rhyme!” Stomping his foot Justin raps: “I’m Justin Case, I’m in your face, I gots dem ho’s all over da place! My niggaz…”
Justin stops rapping, his jaw’s agape.
Justin’s dad continues, a little calmer, but gritting his teeth “We think a Military Academy is the best thing for you right now, you need discipline son. All this ghetto culture isn’t good for you. You live in a nice suburban neighborhood, you’re not even black for Christ’s sake!”
Justin turns running towards the front door; he grabs his Dad’s keys off the hook on the wall, and slams the door behind him. Justin’s Dad starts to chase him, but by the time he reaches the front door he stops, realizing he’s still in his underwear. Looking out the window he watches Justin get into his brand new yellow Hummer.
“Fuck it!” Justin’s dad runs outside in his skivvies after him, but it’s too late. Justin took off down the street. “JUSTIN!” his dad screams “GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE NOW! JUSTIN! YOU’RE NOT BLACK!”


Tiny sat watching the sunrise from the small window in the back room of his tattoo parlor. Tiny’s been awake for 70 hours straight now, kooked to the hilt on crystal meth. Tiny doesn’t usually do that much crank, but he’s trying to lose some weight. You see; Tiny weighs three hundred and sixty-seven pounds. Even if he is six foot three inches tall, a weight of three sixty-seven is still a tad on the unhealthy side.
Tiny finally breaks his forty-minute gaze at the sunrise and stares down at one of the tattoos on his arm. It’s of a demon fucking a woman missionary position, she’s the tattoo equivalent of a Barbie doll. The demon is looking back over his shoulder with a sickly grin.
Tiny is covered from head to toe in tattoos. When Tiny ran out of skin to tattoo himself (or one of his associates to tattoo him in those hard to reach spots), Tiny became depressed. Tiny always looked forward to getting more ink, it was what kept him going, it was his life’s work. Now that his work was complete, Tiny needed a new obsession. In Tiny’s recent whirlwind depression, he decided that a crank binge to lose some weight would become his new purpose in life.
Tiny shifted his gaze once more from his tattoo to the Jack Daniels mirror on his card table. The mirror is clean except for the shiny razor blade. He realized that he’d already licked the meth residue off the mirror. In the instant Tiny realized he was out of crank, he bolted out the door and fired up his Harley chopper. Tiny needed to cop more meth right away. Tiny revved his chopper and took off towards The Boulevard.


Junior rolled out of his home; a cardboard refrigerator box, and did a little morning stretch, trying to work out the kinks in his back. He grabbed his cardboard sign that stated: WILL WORK FOR FOOD and started walking to work. Junior’s work was standing on the corner of Cottman and The Boulevard, holding up his sign and collecting change from folks stopped at the red light in their vehicles. He’d work morning rush hour and usually earn enough change to get a sandwich, a bottle of Mad Dog and a pack of cigarettes. He’d come back for the afternoon rush hour and earn enough to get him another bottle of Mad Dog, another sandwich and some leftover change to stash away for the weekend.
Even though Junior’s sign said: WILL WORK FOR FOOD, he never really did any work other than collect change. It’s not like anyone stopped at the red light, rolled down their window and said “I’ll cook you some pork chops if you mow my lawn.” Or anything.


Kali left the bachelor party at quarter to seven in the morning. She’s been dancing at “Easy Pieces” in center city for about three months now and last night was her first outing as a stripper; she and two other girls did a bachelor party performance. As soon as she got into her candy-apple red ‘vette, the world started spinning and the queasiness in her stomach began to expand and travel up through her esophagus. She opened the door in time to hurl some of the seven Alabama Slammers and three Long Island Iced-Teas on to the curb. She closed the door, popped an Altoid and started up the car.
Kali Greenberg is in full-on blackout mode. The majority of the previous evening has utterly vanished from her memory. The brain cells carrying that information had completely fried during the evening. If it was quiet enough and you listened very closely, you could hear her brain cells sizzling. A few jumbled remnants of her evening would flash through her head now and then, adding to the dull nausea throbbing in the pit of her stomach.
Kali wildly pulled away from the curb with a piercing screech, zigzagging and fishtailing her way towards The Boulevard.

Mac and Gutterball

Sean ‘Mac’ McKeown and Babs ‘Gutterball’ Bailey were relieved of their stakeout surveillance of mob boss Sal Vinzoni at precisely Six AM by Detectives Jim ‘Whitey’ Rice and Ralph ‘Fish’ Troutman.
Whitey rolled down his window and acknowledged the other detectives, “Mac… Gutterball.”
Mac asked, “Hows it hangin’ Whitey? Fish?” Gutterball just nods.
Whitey and Fish ignore the question and Fish asks, “Any activity?”
Gutterball chimes in, “Fuckin’ quiet as a cockroach.”
Whitey says, “I hope we get some action, I’m not in the mood to be sitting here with Fish, with our thumbs up our asses for twelve hours.”
Mac says with a chuckle, “Maybe if your thumbs up his ass, and vice versa, the time’ll go quicker.” he pulls away in the Crown Victoria with a smirk.
As Mac and Gutterball are heading towards The Boulevard, Mac turns to Gutterball to ask the same question he asks her everyday, “Why they call you Gutterball anyway?”
Gutterball gives him the same answer as always, “Ain’t got nuthin’ to do with bowling.”


Calvin Culpepper stumbles out of his trailer with a Marlboro dangling from his lips and a half bottle of Budweiser in his hand. He struts over to his primer’d Chevy pick-up and checks out his mullet in the side view mirror. Lookin’ good Calvin thinks and opens the door. He pats down his Levi cutoffs for his keys and realizes he left them back in the trailer. As he heads back towards the trailer, he notices a yellow piece of paper taped to his front door. Calvin tears it off and reads Notice of Foreclosure and Sheriff’s Sale Monday July 16, 2004 and a bunch of fine print that looks like a blur to Calvin this early in the morning.
“Goddamn yuppies!” Calvin barks, “I only had 9 payments left ‘till this baby was all mine! ‘tain’t my fault I was let go at the site, goddamn foreman had it comin’ to him! GODDAMMIT!!”
Calvin runs in the trailer, grabs his keys and his rifle. He puts his rifle on the gun rack in the back of his pickup and starts up the Chevy. As he’s pulling away, heading towards the boulevard, his neighbor looks out his window and catches the back of Calvin’s truck. Confederate flag sticker on the rear window, gun rack with the hunting rifle and two bumper stickers: ‘I’d rather be hunting’ and ‘My kid beat up your honor student’
Calvin hit play on his cassette player and Molly Hatchet was cranking through his speakers. He just kept chanting “Goddamn yuppies!” over and over “Goddamn yuppies!”


Wolfgang Ulrich has road rage like no other. He has the worst kind of road rage. Not the kind of road rage where someone reacts instantly, getting angry and wanting to cut some asshole off, or giving some moron the finger, or screaming all kinds of cusswords at a total and complete idiot who shouldn’t even have a drivers license. Wolfgang has the kind of road rage that festers within for a long, long time, the kind that slowly builds but never lets go; yet he keeps it under tight control, until…until Wolfgang is ready to unleash his road rage upon the unsuspecting drivers of The Boulevard. Unleash a terrorist fury of mayhem and macabre that will turn Wolfgang from an ineffectual nobody to an infamous madman.
Wolfgang has been channeling his road rage into building a car that James Bond would be jealous of. Style of a Ferrari, armor of a tank, built in machine guns, a flamethrower, rear oil slick release, bulletproof windshields, and a load of other dangerous gadgets for Wolfgang to play with. Wolfgang has named his car ‘Booger’ due to the yellow-green paint job he gave it.
Today, Friday July 13, 2004 is the day that Wolfgang will put Booger to the test. Wolfgang is heading into morning rush hour traffic at (you’ve guessed it) The Boulevard.

Morning Mayhem Begins

Traffic is backed up worse than usual on The Boulevard due to a jack-knifed tractor-trailer in the southbound center lanes. Chad looks at his watch for the umpteenth time; it’s 6:40 AM. Chad really is starting to sweat now (something Chad never usually does.). According to his schedule, Chad should be through at least twenty more lights by now. He realizes that not only is his 15-minute buffer already used up, but also this delay is seriously cutting into his half-hour of prep time at City Hall. If he doesn’t do something about this right away, he’s going to risk being late for his first murder trial. Chad puts his right turn signal on and slowly starts to make his way over from the left hand lane of the southbound center group to the middle lane and eventually right lane, so he can cut across the median at the next crossover and get to the outer southbound lanes, which appear to be moving quicker. It’s tough cutting across these lanes because traffic is at a slow crawl. It takes him ten minutes, but he finally makes it to the right hand lane. Another seven minutes and he’s at the crossover. There’s a primer’d Chevy pick-up truck in front of him at the end of the crossover, the outer lanes have been clear for ten seconds now and for some reason this moron in the pick-up is just sitting there in the crossover lane, blocking traffic. Chad honks his horn and mutters “White trash.” The pick-up’s still sitting there not moving.
As Calvin tries to read the fine print of the yellow foreclosure slip in traffic, he hears a horn from behind him and sees the yuppie in the silver Lexus through his rearview mirror. “Goddamn impatient yuppie! I’ll move when I’m good-n-ready to move!”
Chad blows his horn from the Lexus once more, “What the fuck is wrong with this idiot?” Chad cuts the wheel and brings the passenger side of his Lexus up on the curb that divides the crossover lane and the median, attempting to pass the pick-up. He swings fully around the pick-up blasting his horn as he goes yelling, “Fuckin’ degenerate moron!” as he pulls into the left lane of the outer group, he almost slams into a candy-apple red Corvette doing about one hundred ten miles per hour, but Kali swerves and fishtails out of his way. Chad takes off as fast as he can.
“GODDAMN YUPPIE SOMNA BITCH!!” the primer’d pick-up peels out after the silver Lexus with a raunchy, high-pitched tire squeal.

Tag Q's it..........
"All internet posts are true."
-Benjamin Franklin

Last edited by Dave S. on Thu Jun 10, 2004 5:25 am; edited 1 time in total

Post Fri May 28, 2004 6:47 pm   View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website

Joined: 19 May 2004
Posts: 297
XXXXXXXXXX  Reply with quote  


Last edited by Q on Fri Jul 29, 2005 1:38 am; edited 1 time in total

Post Thu Jun 03, 2004 9:50 am   View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website

Joined: 03 Apr 2004
Posts: 33
Location: Houston
Mission Impossible: The Not-So-Easy Rider  Reply with quote  

Mission Impossible: The Not-So-Easy Rider

Wolfgang flicked Booger into a small opening in traffic, once again feeling a twinge of disappointment that his budget had not allowed for a bigger car. A vintage muscle car like a souped-up Nova or an old Chevelle would have been perfect, and even a newer model Impala could have been great. But it was too late to do anything about that now, so he pushed those thoughts to the back of his head. As he drove the snot-green ’86 Fiero down The Boulevard, Wolfgang did is best to focus his full attention on what he now referred to as The Rage.
Wolfgang’s anger had built and festered for years, until he finally accepted it as his own and acknowledged it by name. Unfortunately, maintaining his focus on The Rage was becoming increasingly difficult this morning. It was supposed to be his motivating force, his purpose, and his energy for the plan he was about to put in action. But as he guided Booger along The Boulevard, a sense of satisfaction that came from finishing the car two weeks early kept flashing through his mind. Sure, he had taken a few shortcuts, and maybe he hadn't been able to afford a few of the features he wanted, but he was pleased with himself for finally getting some sleep and he was eager to get started. This pleasure diluted his focus on The Rage, and his awareness of the distraction was becoming a distraction in itself.
“Get your mind right, you wuss! First you get all happy for doing something you were supposed to do anyway, and now you’re getting pissed off because you’re happy? What the hell is the matter with you? Are you turning into a woman? Focus, dammit, focus! Work The Rage!”
Focus had never been one of Wolfgang’s strong suits, however, and even as he was finishing this outburst he was absent-mindedly reaching over to turn on the car stereo. The knob clicked, and Wolfgang’s mind was instantly jolted back to his mission, Booger’s weapons system, and the fact that the device in his dash was no longer a stereo.
A snapping of solenoids and a whirring of electric motors confirmed that Booger’s most powerful weapon was sliding into place in the front of the vehicle. The Fiero’s mid-engine design left much to be desired where handling and power were concerned, but this left plenty of room for Wolfgang to install his most elaborate devices right under the hood. Now, the most dangerous of them all was being activated at the wrong time, in the wrong place, and without a worthy target in sight.
“NOOOO!!!” shouted Wolfgang as he hastily turned the switch back to the off position. He held his breath for a moment, and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the solenoids snap open and the motors begin to spin in the opposite direction. “The Big One” settled back into its resting place. “I’ve GOT to get around to moving that switch,” Wolfgang muttered. A look of surprise registered on his face as he realized that he’d spoken all of these thoughts out loud. “When the fuck did I start talking to myself?”
He didn’t have a chance to answer before a deafening roar rattled all of Booger’s windows and threatened to shake the fillings out of Wolfgang’s teeth. He froze in panic as a million thoughts flew through his head, all of them involving catastrophic failures of Booger’s complex arsenal. Any of these would blow him and the snot-green Fiero straight into oblivion, and he cringed deep in his seat, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he waited for impact.
Gradually, it dawned on Wolfgang that he had not exploded. As he unclenched his teeth and looked out the driver-side window, he realized that the mind-numbing roar was coming from a Harley Davidson chopper that had slid up beside Booger. The helmetless rider’s bright Hawaiian shirt flew all around him, and underneath an even more garish layer flapped and billowed just as wildly. The chopper pulled ahead of Booger, and Wolfgang watched in amazement as the rider leaned his body to the right, straightened up, leaned his body further to the right, straightened up, and then leaned his body way over to the right once more, all without budging the Harley an inch from its course. He continued to watch as the frustrated rider slid half his ass off the right side of the seat and stuck has right leg out as far as it would reach. This time, the chopper finally tilted and swerved into Wolfgang’s lane, directly in front of Booger.
“This is perfect!” bellowed Wolfgang. “If anyone deserves to be first, this drugged-up loser’s the one!”
Wolfgang would have been surprised to learn that Tiny was not under the influence of any controlled substances, a fact that accounted for much of his inability to maneuver the large motorcycle. The rest of Tiny’s difficulty was caused by his wildly successful diet plan. Tiny’s crystal meth diet had not only worked miracles on his weight, it had caused an eleven day blackout that left him completely unaware of how long he’d been binging. Now, down to a measly 178 lbs, the subtle weight shifts Tiny typically used to ease the chopper from lane to lane were useless. Tiny was concerned about the trouble he had controlling the machine, but he was far too eager to score his next batch of “go-fast” to sort out the cause of his problem.
“Let the games begin!” Wolfgang reached towards the switch for Booger’s defroster, recently rewired to activate the forward machine gun. He touched his finger to the button, lined Tiny up for the shot, and then hesitated as he recalled the 15 gallons of oil he had accidentally sprayed all over the road beside his mailbox earlier that morning.
“Damn turn signal! You wired this thing, you should know better! Who signals a left turn out of their own freakin’ driveway?”
Thinking about the mess in front of his house was irritating. Knowing that he had unintentionally triggered one of Booger’s weapons was troubling. But suddenly remembering that the turn signal was supposed to activate the rear strobes instead of the oil-dump was absolutely terrifying. Wolfgang considered his “They Won’t Take Me Alive Device” and slowly pulled his hand away from the doctored defroster.

As the roaring Harley and Booger raced past, a dark green Bronco turned from The Boulevard onto a side street that lead to the Greater Valley Country Club. With a full health spa, Olympic size pool, and an all-weather tennis facility, Lue Cypress loved to brag that the club had “all you could ask for, and nothing but the best.” Lue did not work out or even take notice of his physical condition, so on any given day this could mean “nothing but rare beef,” “nothing but scotch,” or “nothing but rich women looking for extra-marital excitement.” Gage sped down the road in an effort to meet them before Joey made any promises that he would have to keep.

Last edited by JDJinTX on Fri Jun 25, 2004 8:00 am; edited 1 time in total

Post Mon Jun 07, 2004 1:41 pm   View user's profile Send private message
Paul R

Joined: 29 Mar 2004
Posts: 1827
Location: Kiribati
 Reply with quote  

who's next?
'la putain et le moitier-voleur ont perdu leurs boucliers de gencives pendant le dessus-dessous'

Post Mon Jun 07, 2004 9:29 pm   View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website MSN Messenger

Joined: 13 Apr 2004
Posts: 1767
Thong Meets Red Man  Reply with quote  

In the end, Kali could say the thong saved her life.

The T back was so far up her crack, she knew she’d be able to see it if she opened her mouth. That wasn’t a bad thing. The discomfort of having her girl bits halved cleared the blackout haze, and she jerked awake with a start. Wake up, bitch. Wake up. When the drunk-black seeped from her peripheral vision, she realized she wasn’t looking at the road. She was staring down at the new tits she’d bought last month.

Oh fucking wonderful. Much to the relief of the other drivers around her, she tore her head up and managed to swing the Corvette back into the breakdown lane. Her head rocked around on her shoulders, forcing bile to spill into her throat. She didn’t toss her cookies again, but God she felt like shit. Her stomach was like a nuclear fucking testing ground.

Her fingers crept down the back of her short skirt, tugging at the underwear. The bra and panty set had cost her a hundred bucks; small, lacy, black . . . stuff the boys wanted to see. Stuff she’d had to put on again this morning because she hadn’t planned on staying at that stupid fucking party.

The radio began blasting Prince’s Raspberry Beret. Kali cranked it, trying to keep her head together long enough to get home. Her foot raped the accelerator. The faster she got up this rotten, suck stretch of road, the faster she’d be in bed, to puke and pass out at her leisure. She rode the Boulevard like she owned the place.

I wouldn't change a stroke
Cause baby I'm the most
With a girl as fine as she was then

Kali loved Prince, or the Artist, or whatever the hell he was calling himself these days. She danced a little in her seat, trying not to disrupt her stomach.

Bad idea . . . the dancing. She moved just the right way and her nipple ring got caught on the lace of the new bra.

“Holy mother of FUCK!” She reached down her tank top, desperately trying to detach the material from her boob. Too bad her motor skills currently rivaled those of a toddler on speed. No matter how she fidgeted, she couldn't set her tit free. She glanced down to see what she had to do to liberate it, and when she looked up again, she realized she was on course to hit a nasty looking median.

She pounded the brakes, swerving around both traffic and guardrails in a spectacular display of squeals, smoke, and burnt rubber. When the ass end of her car finally stopped dragging, she had enough sense to realize two very bad things. First, she was now in the middle of a cross section and there was traffic inbound from two directions. Second, a silver Lexus was hauling ass right at her, with a Chevy truck licking at its tailpipe.

Oh fuck.


Mac stopped the Crown Victoria at the light. They were about to take a left onto the Boulevard, but traffic was lodged up tighter than a bull’s ass at fly time. He seriously reconsidered their course.

“What the hell?” Gutterball asked, spitting her Red Man chew out the window. Mac tried not to care, but every time she hucked like that, he felt his soul wither a little more. He knew when he checked later on there would be a brown river of spit slipping down his door.

Babs was a great detective, a hell of a partner, but she had lousy fucking aim with her chew. And concentrated tobacco gunk couldn’t be good on the paintjob.

Defeated, he craned his neck out the window to try and peer up the street. Nothing extraordinary came into view. Just cars, followed by cars, served alongside a heaping helping of more fucking cars. “Accident further up the way, I guess.”

“No shit, Sherlock. What do you think . . . “ Gutterball’s question was cut short by the sound of squealing brakes. A candy apple Corvette screamed into the intersection, spinning around in a cloud of smoke, overtaxed engine, and panic.

As soon as the noise died down, Mac sighed, skimming a hand across his balding head. “Doesn’t sound like she hit anything. We should go check it out, though.”

Gutterball managed a nod and a “Yeah, I suppose we should,” before more squealing, more braking, more smoky emissions and burnt rubber. This time, though, the chaos was followed by the distinguishable sound of metal colliding with metal; the crunching of frames, glass shattering, and the eerie silence that standardly followed vehicular trauma.

Gutterball blinked a few times, resignation settling in the pit of her stomach like a rock. “Hell. I wanted to go home, too. I’m tired.” She spit another mouthful of tobacco juice out the window, watching it settle upon the pavement. The ensuing blob reminded her of Florida . . . or maybe Italy, with its kinky little boot. She wanted to point the resemblance out to Mac, but she didn’t think he’d find it nearly as interesting as she did. He was too busy scowling.

Her hand grabbed for the car door handle, and she climbed out of the Crown Vic. Smoke blocked most of her view – she couldn’t yet see the cars or the accident. As she started walking forward, brushing the acrid gray stench out of her face, she distinctly heard a voice rising above the clamor, and she had to cringe at its fury – and bad grammar.


Last edited by Hillary on Wed Jun 16, 2004 6:39 pm; edited 2 times in total

Post Mon Jun 07, 2004 9:50 pm   View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website

Joined: 09 Mar 2004
Posts: 243
Location: The Enchanted Mitten
Will work for Boob  Reply with quote  

Chapter 5: Will work for Boob

by disco

Junior poked up the corner of his sign and risked a look at the chaos. As soon as the screetching of tires had started, he had hit the deck and covered his head with his arms, the cardboard sign landing on top of his head as a shield of the most useless variety. All he could see from his vantage point in the grass of the median was the clearing smoke and a few pieces of debris that had somehow missed him completely. He rolled over onto his back and sat up, now facing the opposite side of the street where traffic had slowed to a crawl as rubbernecker strained to get a better view of the carnage behind him. Behind him the eerie post-accident silence was lifting, and he could hear the start of wailing and whimpering. Time to investigate, accidents like that sometimes knocked valuables free of vehicles. If he got ahold of something good, he might be able to take a day or two off from the corner.

The pileup wasn't as bad as it had sounded, only involving three or four cars, but it was enough to halt traffic completely. The uninvolved drivers were still too dazed from the shock of witnessing the accident to be angry for the snarl, but that wouldn't last long. Junior saw movement at the end of the block, and could just make out the figures of the two cops who hassled him every day, getting out of their oh-so-obvious unmarked city sedan and walking toward him. He'd have to work fast if he wanted to get away with any choice debris. If he was lucky he might be able to liberate a radio from one of the cars.

He took a moment to survey the wreckage, sensitive to the impending arrival of the cops. They were being slowed down by the crowd as other drivers got out of their cars and tried to get a better look. Nosed up on the curb in front of him was a Caddy, not too bad from this angle but the trunk was popped, and the driver was slumped over the wheel. He must've hit his head or something. He wasn't wearing his seat belt, so he could have bounced into anything inside there. Sort of behind and sort of beside the Caddy was a silver Lexus, pretty smashed up on the driver's side from the tangle with the Caddy. But the real damage to the car was in the back, where what should have been the trunk was now the parking area for a giant of a Chevy pickup truck. The driver of the Lexus was struggling to free himself from the deflating air bag, and the driver of the truck was trying to free his rifle from behind the seat where it had fallen in the sudden stop. Junior could hear him yelling from the cab, "Goddam! Mother... Of all the useless... You wait right there yuppie somna bitch! I'm a gonna put my foot up your ass!"

Seeing the rifle and the attitude, Junior decided to investigate the scene farther away from the truck. At the head of the accident, sitting unscathed in the middle of the Boulevard, was a shiny red Corvette, it's driver's side door open and the driver hanging out retching. She straightened up, and Junior could see that somehow in the confusion she'd managed to have a wardrobe malfunction and her right breast was completely free of her halter top and the lacy bra underneath. This definitely warranted closer attention, and he headed that way to offer his assistance.

"Hey lady, you all right up there?" Junior's objective for the near future was to keep her distracted so she didn't realize that she was giving a free matinee performance.

"What? Oh, yeah, I think so." Kali hunched over and coughed up a few more ounces of alcohol and stomach acid. There was going to be a doozy of a pothole from that combination eating away the pavement. It wasn't doing much for her throat either.

"Damn lady, you smell worser than I do, what the fuck did you drink?"

"I haven't been drinking officer, I swear." Kali looked up again and got a better look at Junior. "Fuck off, loser."

"I's just trying to help." Junior was at her door now, and was addressing his comment to the obviously inflated super-sized scoop of flesh free in the morning breeze.

"Well you can start by backing the fuck off." Her stomach lurched, but she managed to keep it in check.

Junior's mind was racing, but his eyes were hopelessly fixated on the boob. As messed up as she was, Kali could still feel the stare. "What the fuck are you staring at?" Her hands went to her chest, "Oh Christ! My new bra! Shit! Fuck! Shit!" She tried in vain to pull up the cup of the bra, but the strap had snapped and there was no hope of coverage. The halter top was designed to show off the underwear, and it was almost useless as actual clothing.

Kali swung her legs out of the car and stood up, putting the protruding hooter in Junior's face. "Might as well get a good look while you can," She brought a knee up hard and connected with his groin, "Cocksucker."

Mac and Gutterballed walked around the pileup just in time to see Junior drop. Both sets of cop eyes followed Junior to the ground, and then back up to the exposed breast.

"Jesus, you can't leave that thing hangin' out like that." Gutterball said with a smile, "Someone's gonna lose an eye or something."

Mac's eyes flashed on nipple, and he immediately turned his back. He'd let Gutterball handle that one. He liked to think he fooled everyone by talking about his conservative upbringing and how it instilled a keen sense of chivalry and modesty in him, but the reality was that the sight of the female body freaked him out to no end. Ever since he was a little boy he'd only been interested in other boys, and though he wouldn't admit it out loud, the whole department knew he was gay and uptight. It was why the captain found it so amusing to partner him with Gutterball.

Mac watched as Chad and Calvin exited their vehicles simultaneously, both yelling about the idiocy of the other driver. Calvin's argument became much more persuasive when he swung up the barrel of the Winchester and pointed it at Chad. Chad's face drained of color and his shouts reduced to stammers. Mac quickly pulled his pistol and walked to where Calvin was standing. He put it against Calvins temple.

"Put the gun down, boy. You shoot the Yuppie and I'm just gonna have kill you."

Calvin's eyes flicked over toward Mac, but the gun stayed up. "This somna bitch damaged my truck, and he's goin' ta pay for it."

"Your truck going to look a lot worse after I spatter your brains all over the side of it."

Calvin lowered his barrel, but Chad's stammering only got louder and more high pitched. Mac looked over at him to see what his problem was, but Chad was pointing into the trunk of the Cadillac. "L-L-L-L Look!"

Mac grabbed the rifle out of Calvin's hands and turned around to see what Chad was pointing at. Calvin looked over his shoulder into the trunk, where Art Barnaby lay unconscious and bleeding.

The three of them looked up at the sound of a shell being racked into the chamber of the shotgun Tony Finger was pointing at them. "Now ain't this a bitch."

Post Wed Jun 09, 2004 10:54 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail

Joined: 02 Mar 2004
Posts: 521
Location: Massachusetts
 Reply with quote  

David Hasegawa watched as brake light dominoes raced towards him and the Kurosawa Kantina. He slammed his foot down on his own brakes and winced as he heard utensils and stock come loose to shower him and the Kantina’s dashboard.

“God damn it!” He swore as he picked a misshapen loaf of Wonder Bread off of the floor by his feet. What the hell was going on now? He peered ahead and could see a huge cloud of dust just over the next rise. David made a face and swore softly to himself again. He was already past the last exit between himself and the obvious accident. This meant he was now stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. Not just stuck, but completely stopped.

Great, he thought. He was never going to make it to the job site in time for 10:00 AM coffee break. It had taken David a full month to land the very lucrative time slot for the new downtown construction site after the last lunch wagon guy had fucked it up. He knew there were plenty of other four wheeled cafeterias ready to jump into his spot if he didn’t show up. He needed that gig to keep the Kantina stocked up. His supplier had just bumped his prices on almost everything he sold him so David needed to increase his sales quick or the Kurasowa Kantina would get repoed.

He looked ahead again and saw smoke billowing up from the top of the hill and knew he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He threw the Kantina into park and tried to call the construction foreman on his cell phone to let him know he wouldn’t be there. He hung up when he didn’t get an answer and went to the Kantina’s workspace and started cleaning up only to be interrupted by a small heart attack given to him by somebody banging on the side of the truck.

David opened up the side bay of the Kantina to see a skinny white kid wearing a Kangaroo beret, a black Snoop Doggy Dog t-shirt sloppily tucked into oversized jeans, jeans that were hanging about 10 inches below where his hips started, blue unlaced Addidas sneakers poked out from under the over flowing jeans. The kid thrust his hands out in front of him with his fingers splayed in some weird, uncomfortable looking pattern.

“Yo, yo, yo! S’up Hop Sing! You gots to be opening this here beyatch cause I’m mad hungry and I needs to get my eats on.”

David wasn’t sure whether to burst out laughing or jam his fist down the kid’s throat so instead he opted for feigned confusion, “excuse me?”

“Come on man, s’matter? You don’t speak English? Justin Case is in the hizouse! I needs me a pu pu platter or sumnin.” Justin struck his best gangsta pose.

David stared at him for a few seconds more before thinking, what the hell. “The menu is right in front of you there, DJ Squirrelly.”

His head was starting to pound and he realized the pounding was coming from a yellow Humvee blasting out NWA from its over-abundant speakers. Other people were starting to get out of their cars and make their way over to the Kantina. David was beginning to think that it might not be a bad day after all.

No sooner had the thought finished forming in his head that the sound of a shotgun blast rang out from the direction of the accident scene. This was followed by the quick pop, pop, pop of handgun fire. David instinctively ducked down and watched as other people hit the dirt.

Justin dove under David’s truck all the while shouting “Drive by! Drive by!”

David looked out over the sea of cars and drivers and was unsettled by the sight of many of those drivers pulling out weapons from glove compartments and trunks. He ducked back down under his counter and briefly wondered if road rage was infectious. The sun inched higher over the grid locked denizens of The Boulevard.

Meanwhile, in the back of the Kurosawa Kantina, a very small kitchen god was sitting in the microwave and wondering what to do. Dayu was a very minor god and he wasn’t all that bright, but what he had just heard had triggered an alarm in whatever small portion of his mind he had that wasn’t devoted to recipes and the best ways to avoid dishpan hands.

He had been in the microwave, caressing the smooth, white walls and running his fingers over the small circular holes where the magical flames came out and cooked the food.

Dayu had been overcome with awe the first time he had seen a microwave in old Yohei-san’s kitchen a few decades ago. Yohei’s grandchildren had bought him one for his small apartment in Tokyo. He could not understand how it cooked food so quickly. He had watched and studied but still could not figure it out. This had been somewhat upsetting to a kitchen god, seeing as it was a device used for cooking food in a kitchen. He had even gone so far as to become corporeal and set the timer himself before popping through the door, sitting Buddha like on the revolving tray. He had quite enjoyed spinning around and looking out the little window as it revolved into view, but he never felt any heat. All he had felt was a kind of tickle on his insides. He had found the sensation quite pleasant.

Dayu had been a kitchen god for over fifteen hundred years. He had started out as a simple chef serving under a benevolent shogun. He had become something of a minor celebrity when he had come up with the idea of wrapping raw fish in rolls of spiced sticky rice and seaweed. In one fell swoop he had taken the act of eating raw fish from barbaric to cultured. Unbeknownst to him, he had once even served Amaterasu, the sun-goddess. She had very much enjoyed his little bits of eel wrapped in rice. Amaterasu had come down and taken human form and had posed as one of the shogun’s guests. She had been so impressed with the eel that when the old chef died she had immediately promoted him to the status of kitchen god.

Being a kitchen god was a pleasant existence for Dayu. For countless years he had watched over various kitchens all over Japan. He mostly liked to pick the kitchens of his descendants, happily watching over the boiling rice and woks of his great, great, great granddaughter, or presiding over a hot pot of miso soup for his great, great, great, great, great grandnephew. It was a nice, if somewhat boring, existence. That is, until recently.

Although David didn’t know it, he was a direct descendant of Dayu and the kitchen god followed him wherever he went. He followed David as he had followed David’s father before him and his father before that. He had taken up residence in David’s Kurosawa Kantina and was enjoying himself immensely in the moving kitchen. He had been in rolling kitchens before but none like this, and none that could cook the different kinds of food that this one could. Oh, the smells he had smelled! The exotic foods he had seen! French, Indian, Mexican, American! And the devices used for cooking! They were magnificent! Dayu had once spent an entire month living inside a cuisinart, happily letting himself get diced up again and again with all manner of interesting foods. It was thrilling.

Now, however, he had been rudely yanked from his pleasant reverie of the microwave. He had definitely heard gunfire. This immediately brought forth memories of wartime kitchens and camps where men screamed and died. It was enough to put one off one’s food. He didn’t like it one bit. He fled the microwave and took up residence in the Mr. Coffee. There was a lovely Colombian breakfast blend already brewed up. Dayu nestled in amongst the used coffee grounds and let the soothing aroma chase away his fears.
"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy""

Post Mon Jun 14, 2004 9:15 am   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address

Chapter 8.  Reply with quote  

Junior was rather non plussed at this point, the man with the gun wasn't half as distracting as the boobs on the 'vette chick that smelled like a brewery called Chanel. Smells had that effect on Junior. Like most homeless, Junior had not woken up one morning with the idea that the indignious life was for him. It wasn't exactly the first choice (or even the fourth or fifth for that matter) he would have gone with. But it was helpful in keeping him off the radar screen so it was the way things were. Bettween the heat and the coming full moon this evening Junior was feeling a bit on the grouchy side. He could smell everything including the tension coming off the band of wild west rejects. The two with pistols looked like cops while the two with the shotguns looked like extras from Deliverance and possibly the Sopranos. It was looking more and more like the time to shuffle off but at the same time he also kept looking back to The Boob and fighting the urge to head over and take a whiff. All of this ran thru his mind pretty much in the space of a second or two.

Fight or flight? fight or flight? fight or flight? Fight or flight? Fight or flight? Fight or flight???

Kali meanwhile was still leaning over when she heard the shotgun go off which caused another round of dry heaves. She was starting to feel like the girls in her senior class that used to swear that bulimia was just a way to stay thin. If this kept up Kali figured she'd have the market on Laura Flynn Boyle groupies cornered. The skell was looking at her like she was either on a runway or a buffet she couldn't decide which creeped her out all the more. Looking up she saw a few familiar faces, Tony Fingers was not a friendly face in her experiance as he had once paid a visit to her pimp and he had been out of commision for a week or so afterwards. She saw him holding a shot gun on three people and she suspected this wasn't a collection. Since her brain wasn't firing on all four cylanders she figured ducking was the way to go at this point.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? fight or flight? fight or flight? Fight or flight???

Chad at this point was looking at four guns and was thinking the 7:00 was not an option at this point. He saw the potential for clients however and thought there were opportunities where you found them.
"Gentlemen! This is one big misunderstanding! I'm sure if we could just run this up the flagpole we could get a real synergy going here and come to a reasonable agreement..."
" GODDAMN YUPPIE BASTARD YOU DONE WRECKED MAH TRUCK AND IT'S COMIN OUTTA YOAH HIDE!!!" Calvin had failed at this point to grab the subtleties of the situation. He saw a brother NRA member (who might look a little on the greasy side he had to admit but you took help where you found it...) holding a shotgun on John and Jane Q. Law and he figured the odds were more in his favor. After all the other fella had what appeared to be another yuppie bastard in his trunk so he was obviously of the same opinion on the subject and the cop with the pistol looked a little fruity anyway and probably didn't have the stones to pull the trigger.
Chad knew that sometimes persistance paid off,
"Really now friend, why don't we just settle down and talk like reasonable adults here and..." He was cut off by the butt of Cal's shotgun.
Tony meanwhile was becoming seriously confused at this point. He was used to people becoming seriously chilled at the sight of the street sweeper. Shotgun plus BOOM equals silence normally. And who the fuck was this redneck maricon calling Guido? The fag and the dykey looking cops were looking fairly stressed and the fag was looking at his little buddy Art in the trunk and looking like he was gonna wanna do something about it soon. This might be time for a reasonable approach.
" OK now, let's all chill and come to a mettin o' da minds here..."
" Thats' what I was saying!" Chad threw in.
" Shut up slick or I help Bocephus here rearrange your hairdo." Tony said.
" YEAH YOU SHUT UP YOU YUPPIE SUMBITCH!" said Cal throwing in his two cents.
" And you shut the fuck up too redneck. when I want your two cents I'll beat it outta ya." Tony was in no mood for this.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? Fight or Flight? Fight or flight???

Mac was at this point in time really getting steamed, he had reached that point where he had gone with no sleep, no shower, and the coffee in his stomach was turning into tar as the sun climbed into the sky. Gutterball was no help at this point either. She had her gun out and trained on the Godfather reject (really who wore open necked shirts with that much gold and hair these days anyway?) and looked like she might have swallowed her chew at this point.
" OK people, We are police officers and I'm telling you right now to lay down your guns or there will be BIG trouble all around." he said thinking to himself "did I just lisp? I didn't lisp...who's he calling fruity?"
" There might be someone hurt over in that car there and this man needs obvious medical attention now everyone put the guns down and this'll all be over." He added with a bit more bass to his voice in a vain attempt to sound manly.
Gutterball figured it would be any minute now before things got hairy. She remembered the last time Mac had a gun pointed at him. It ususally ended ugly because Mac had a tendancy to overcompensate with machismo to hide his gayness and as a result when pushed he became supercop and this resulted in paperwork for days. Meanwhile she was looking at the red "Vette thinking it looked way to familiar. She also saw the derilict sort of standing there looking like he was on the verge of something but what that was she had no idea. Maybe he was on crack or something. She looked back to the Guido and saw that he looked more annoyed by the whole thing and that's when she recognized him from a previous case. Tony Fingers was not known for being a good citizen nor due for any humanitarian awards but he was wanted in connection to a racketeering charge. She just hoped she could get Mac to diffuse before they all went critical.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? Fight or flight???

At this point people had formed around the scene like a bunch of fifth graders waiting for the school bully to start whaling on the local nerd. David was just about set up and was starting to make money already on sodas and of all things popcorn. Living in the city seemed to do that to people he supposed. It was like watching a movie even to the point of having a horrible rap soundtrack provided by the skinny kid who seemed to think (if you could call it that.) he was Chinese. Fortunantely the Kurosawa Kantina was fairly well reenforced after an "I" beam had dropped on it and an apologetic construction crew had gone in and done some remodeling on the house by way of recompense. He prayed he would be safe from any stray rounds that might result from this bit of theatre.
" Pal, yer on yer own..." Said Mr. Coffee.
Justin Case was in the middle of a rappers delight. This was some mad source for some way stupid rhymes. That and the Sony he bogarted off the rent's would be the makings of a seriously dope video. Justin saw himself as next playa up. If Marshall Mathers could come outta da hood and make his mark with a candyass name like Eminem then J.C. could do the same. He just hoped the hottie with da killah rack would pop back up so he could get better footage (boobage heh heh..) for the video. He wished he had a nine so he could go in and bust a cap on dat wack cracker yo? After all street cred is everything to an artist. Maybe wack that dude wit da nappy looking head. But not the lady cop, she reminded him of a cross bettween Missy Elliot and Melissa Ethridge, Hey maybe he could sample some of that shit for the disc. Now if he could just get someone to hold the camera so's he could get in and bust a few moves. He could edit the sounds in later he figured. Maybe Charlie Chan over there.
" YO YO, mah man! Howz bout becoming a part of rap histizzy?" he said shoving the camera at David.
" Huh? What do you want now MC Hammerhead?" David said. He was amazed at how often he ran into idiot whites who assumed that because he was asian he spoke like that guy in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Worse was how often he heard them butcher what what was supposed to be their own language.
" Yo maaan, I want youz t' hold the camera for me so's I c'n get in and be part of the show!" Did this Chink not understand english or what?
David looked at the kid, looked at the scene in front of him, and thought maybe he should explain the facts of life to this kid and that life wasn't a rap video and maybe he should consider taking cover. He then thought of the way his Kantina was shaking from the base. And then he figured if nothing else he could sell the tape to the six o' clock news and pawn the camera for $150 at his cousin Vern's pawn emporium.
" SURAH! NO PLOBLAM! YOU HANDEE CAMELA HEAH! " He said in his best coolie imitation.
" Yo Word Up G-Miyagi dude!" said Justin as he handed off the Camera to David and turned to head off into the action like DMX in every video he had ever seen.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight???

And now a word about the migratory pattern and habits of the modern werewolf. Strangely enough the common misconception of a werewolf needing to be under a "full moon" is not in fact the case. The truth is that they prefer to come out at night but once the full moon is up as it has been for the past few nights werewolves store it up like a battery leaving them open to change at will for up to 3 full days after the moon has vanished from the sky. Needless to say they don't exactly advertise this the same way they don't advertise their presence simply because they are fully aware that the normal american population are seriously skeeved by the thought of a person turning into a canine. They call them freaks or worse. Then they put them on Riply's believe it or not with Dean Cain. Werewolves are seriously skeeved by Dean Cain. So they let the population go on believeing tht werewolves are a myth and that they can only change at night, and on a full moon to boot so that everyone can all sleep at night and we can al move on Man and Werewolf in an attitude of peace, brotherhood, and no Dean Cain. Oh the other myths about were wolves being only killable by silver, being inhumanly quick, and ferocous? All true.
We now return you to our regularly scheduled mayhem already in progress.

With the heat starting to beat down all participants were begining to feel the gravity of the situation, tension was thick in the air and Mac was deciding enough was enough.
" Last chance assholes! Drop the guns or things will get seriously messy here!" He said sounding remarkably like Don Cornelious at this point.
"No, you drop the piece or I splatter your fruit ass all over the fuckin street!" Tony replied.
"SHUT UP REDNECK!" They all chorused.
Chad looked up with to the sky and uttered,
" Can't we all just get along?" which almost got him plugged by everyone present.
Gutterball looked over towards the red 'vette while at the same time Kali looked up to see if the coast was clear.
" Kali?!"
" Babs?!"
" OMIGAWD!" they squealed.
Junior looked back and forth in confusion and saw "the Boob" again and saw the guns and goons, and cops as a growl rose in his throat.

Fight or flight?

Art Barnaby woke up looked around saw Tony and three other people with guns out and wisely decided to lay back down, close his eyes and hope for the best.

At this point a puke green Fiero came rocketing by the driver flailing madly at the dash which caused a pair of mini guns to pop out and let loose a few rounds of 55.6mm at the berm.


Hey Alan, tag yer it.... Twisted Evil

Post Tue Jun 15, 2004 4:48 pm   

Joined: 29 Mar 2004
Posts: 254
Location: Odenton, MD
 Reply with quote  

Meanwhile, back in the Mister Coffee, Dayu is realizing that David had put himself into the line of fire. Dayu’s first instinct is to wallow further into the joys of the Columbian breakfast blend and forget his problems until he comes to two conclusions: his good life in the rolling kitchen might be over if he does not do something to save David and that this is his chance to be elevated from minor kitchen god to a god important enough to have a capitol G. Dayu springs from the Mister Coffee, hears a howl and shrinks back towards the coffee machine. “I’m just a kitchen god and a minor one at that,” Dayu thinks. Then he thinks again “The capital G gods didn’t get capitalized by hiding in appliances. What can I do?”

Back on the street things are going from bad to worse for Mac. He was close enough to losing control before, now he notices the homeless guy is howling and seems to be contorting in strange ways. Fucking great. I have a redneck and a goomba with shotguns, a yuppie fuck who won’t shut up, a partner who is squealing like a girl with a hooker with a wardrobe malfunction and now a crazy homeless man who seems to be having a seizure. At this point, Mac did the only thing he could ever think to do. He opened fire.

Calvin was torn now on whom to shoot the Goddamn Yuppie, the fruity pig, the goomba who had the nerve to call him a redneck, the crazy howling man or the car that is plowing toward the group. Calvin stands frozen while what little brain he has struggles with the decision.

Babs and Kali’s reunion was short lived as they both were distracted by the car speeding toward them. They were distracted from that by the approach of the bum who had been staring at Kali’s boob the whole time. What was most distracting about him was the fact that he seemed much hairier than before and was in the thrall of some type of fit. Just as he was about to reach them, he was distracted by the man he saw out of the corner of his eye. As all three turned toward Chad they notice his uncanny resemblance to Dean Cain.

Post Wed Jun 16, 2004 8:23 am   View user's profile Send private message
  Display posts from previous:      
This forum is locked: you cannot post, reply to, or edit topics. This topic is locked: you cannot edit posts or make replies.

Jump to:  

Last Thread | Next Thread  >

Forum Rules:
You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum
You cannot vote in polls in this forum

Templates created by Vereor and Ken