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An American Dream: Vagabond's lame ATS story
page: 1share:
I read the first chapter of Pisky's story a while back and it sort of inspired me. I actually had to keep myself from reading the rest just to make
sure my storyline would stay independent. I fully expect this to pale in comparrison to Pisky's work, but I think I've got at least a few chapters
worth of a short ATS story in me for all the day-dreaming I've done in my life. Feel free to cheer me on or boo me down. So here goes Chapter 1.
For as long as I can remember, I was horrified of the police. I guess I was too smart too young. They were so damned powerful, and for what? They only made sense when you were naive enough to believe in bad guys. Who was so evil that you needed men with guns and cages and chains to
contain them? That stuff wasn't for badguys, it was for people!
As I walked into the courthouse that day though, I begged god to give me that idle fear I'd always held; it would have passed for calm by comparison. The dull tan tile and walls reflected the morning sun brilliantly. The lobby was a sauna and my sweat fell like sleet. The swirling of hot and cold on
my face begat a hurricane in my lungs. I gave police too much credit. They were people at work. They barely even saw me as I handed over my keys and stepped through the metal detector.
Frank wasn't sweating, nor was he invisible like me. He smiled and offered the police officer a cheerful, "good morning" as he entered behind me, hanging just far enough back to pass as a stranger to me. So calm, and not because he was faking it. Frank loved everything about this. I detested him for it, but truth be told I would never get anything done without him. Frank was a fixer. He lived for disaster. If need be he'd cause one, just to escape it.
Joe was outside in the car. I didn't have to see him to know what was on his face. He would be as nervous as I was, maybe worse, and he'd have a blank smile on his face. He was probably rolling a joint, but he seemed to function better under the influence. I could only pray that nobody noticed him smoking out there. Strangely enough the mere thought of him smoking was enough to calm me. I wasn't one for drugs- literally just the idea of them gave me that sedated focus that Joe kept his habit for.
I couldn't hear anybody else as Frank and I proceeded up the corridor. Click Click Click Squeek Click; There I go again, driving my heels. Bootcamp was a long time ago but I still marched. Most of the habits never took, or I'd have passed, but some of the habits never died. Frank would have made it. Thank God he was on our side. Clop...Clop..Clop..Clip..Clip. Clop: Much better. I wonder if my marching was noticed. I wonder if my pathetic attempts not to march were noticed. As always, something must have been wrong with me. But nobody was staring, maybe there was nothing wrong with me.
We reached the courtroom, number 158: The people versus Erma Kaiser. The people didn't even know her. The system versus my highschool government teacher. There was definately nothing wrong with me. I took the seat furthest from the door, second from the back. I calculated it to be the closest thing to a blind spot in the whole room. It didn't feel that way anymore. The plan was sure to fail, I was terrified. I had to calm down. I looked to the most familiar face in the room, Miss Kaiser. She looked back. Her face was wise beyond her few years. It said everything I'd ever lectured about what was right and what was wrong, and about how we could get things back to right. It said everything that had gotten her into this mess.
As the judge made his way to the bench I saw Miss Kaiser make her way out from behind her desk in the classroom, and as he began the proceedings all I could hear was Miss Kiaser's teaching.
"Last night you were asked to read the copied news article along with chapter six in the text. Now those of you who didn't do it because there was no turn-in work are going to look very silly, because we're going to discuss it and the only way to get credit for lastnights homework is to contribute. Somebody explain the article."
The apple polishers all jumped on the opportunity to prove that they were really thinking- to challenge Miss Kaiser's implication and show how rational and level headed and completely blind they were.
"The article is about the Supreme Court's ruling last week. The ruling isn't even directed at citizens. It allows the SSB to operate within the United States in a defensive military capacity. It's a good thing. Terrorists who come here are enemy invaders, and military intelligence is allowed to monitor and act against them and treat them as enemy soldiers intead of as criminals. I mean come'on Miss Kaiser, the SSB was watching the plantiff to begin with because military police found out he was buying dud artillery shells from some crooked soldiers."
Kaiser had to stir the pot, didn't she? You'd think such a rebel would know to watch what she said after the subversive public address clause was added to Patriot Act II. Not only did she have to rock the boat, but she had to do it illegally, and she had to be right about it... so there I was ready to...
The ruffle of Frank's clothes as he stood was deafening. CAUGHT DREAMING AGAIN!? I was thinking too fast for anything to register. We were doing it now... actually Frank was. He hurled the first grenade at the baliff as he rushed across the room to get the gun. I hesitated for a split second before gathering myself and throwing my grenade. The clay ball stuck to the wall behind the judge... It didn't work? The catalyst made it's way through the smashed clay slowly... finally it went off, peppering the judge with hardened pellets of resin. Frank had the fallen officer's gun, the audience had all but evacuated the room by now and there was not a hero among them. So far so good. I hopped the rail into the main courtroom, taking Miss Kaiser by the hand. I looked back for Frank as I made my way to the emergency exit behind the judge's bench.
Frank was grinning ear to ear as he strode forward, checking the weapon. The door behind him burst open. He hadn't even turned to see the shooter before he fell forward. In the racing of my mind a single thought caught hold- "What now!?" That was the last thought I had. God only knows what happened next...
Frank lay on his back behind the Jury box, just feet from the exit. He knew he couldn't break for the door. He knew he couldn't come out from cover to fight. THINK! How did Ryan make his grenade delay like that?
Of course! Frank winced in anticipation of death as he slammed the makeshift grenade against the jury box with all of his might. The clay ball pinched tight around the crushed bags inside, sealing the chemicals off from eachother as their packages were ruptured.
quickly you fool
"I'm coming out! Here's my gun!" The gun came sailing out from behind the jury box with a mysterious clay ball pressed into the trigger guard. Before the officer had any chance to examine it, the grenade burst.
can't rely on that kind of luck too often.
If he had lived much of a life it might have been flashing before his eyes still
from that grenade stunt. He opened the car door and hopped into the back. Joe didn't say a word as they sped away. Even as Frank began to tourniquet the gushing wound in his upper thigh he smiling. He'd never been shot at before.
[edit on 26-1-2005 by The Vagabond]
[edit on 26-1-2005 by The Vagabond]
For as long as I can remember, I was horrified of the police. I guess I was too smart too young. They were so damned powerful, and for what? They only made sense when you were naive enough to believe in bad guys. Who was so evil that you needed men with guns and cages and chains to
contain them? That stuff wasn't for badguys, it was for people!
As I walked into the courthouse that day though, I begged god to give me that idle fear I'd always held; it would have passed for calm by comparison. The dull tan tile and walls reflected the morning sun brilliantly. The lobby was a sauna and my sweat fell like sleet. The swirling of hot and cold on
my face begat a hurricane in my lungs. I gave police too much credit. They were people at work. They barely even saw me as I handed over my keys and stepped through the metal detector.
Frank wasn't sweating, nor was he invisible like me. He smiled and offered the police officer a cheerful, "good morning" as he entered behind me, hanging just far enough back to pass as a stranger to me. So calm, and not because he was faking it. Frank loved everything about this. I detested him for it, but truth be told I would never get anything done without him. Frank was a fixer. He lived for disaster. If need be he'd cause one, just to escape it.
Joe was outside in the car. I didn't have to see him to know what was on his face. He would be as nervous as I was, maybe worse, and he'd have a blank smile on his face. He was probably rolling a joint, but he seemed to function better under the influence. I could only pray that nobody noticed him smoking out there. Strangely enough the mere thought of him smoking was enough to calm me. I wasn't one for drugs- literally just the idea of them gave me that sedated focus that Joe kept his habit for.
I couldn't hear anybody else as Frank and I proceeded up the corridor. Click Click Click Squeek Click; There I go again, driving my heels. Bootcamp was a long time ago but I still marched. Most of the habits never took, or I'd have passed, but some of the habits never died. Frank would have made it. Thank God he was on our side. Clop...Clop..Clop..Clip..Clip. Clop: Much better. I wonder if my marching was noticed. I wonder if my pathetic attempts not to march were noticed. As always, something must have been wrong with me. But nobody was staring, maybe there was nothing wrong with me.
We reached the courtroom, number 158: The people versus Erma Kaiser. The people didn't even know her. The system versus my highschool government teacher. There was definately nothing wrong with me. I took the seat furthest from the door, second from the back. I calculated it to be the closest thing to a blind spot in the whole room. It didn't feel that way anymore. The plan was sure to fail, I was terrified. I had to calm down. I looked to the most familiar face in the room, Miss Kaiser. She looked back. Her face was wise beyond her few years. It said everything I'd ever lectured about what was right and what was wrong, and about how we could get things back to right. It said everything that had gotten her into this mess.
As the judge made his way to the bench I saw Miss Kaiser make her way out from behind her desk in the classroom, and as he began the proceedings all I could hear was Miss Kiaser's teaching.
"Last night you were asked to read the copied news article along with chapter six in the text. Now those of you who didn't do it because there was no turn-in work are going to look very silly, because we're going to discuss it and the only way to get credit for lastnights homework is to contribute. Somebody explain the article."
The apple polishers all jumped on the opportunity to prove that they were really thinking- to challenge Miss Kaiser's implication and show how rational and level headed and completely blind they were.
"The article is about the Supreme Court's ruling last week. The ruling isn't even directed at citizens. It allows the SSB to operate within the United States in a defensive military capacity. It's a good thing. Terrorists who come here are enemy invaders, and military intelligence is allowed to monitor and act against them and treat them as enemy soldiers intead of as criminals. I mean come'on Miss Kaiser, the SSB was watching the plantiff to begin with because military police found out he was buying dud artillery shells from some crooked soldiers."
Kaiser had to stir the pot, didn't she? You'd think such a rebel would know to watch what she said after the subversive public address clause was added to Patriot Act II. Not only did she have to rock the boat, but she had to do it illegally, and she had to be right about it... so there I was ready to...
The ruffle of Frank's clothes as he stood was deafening. CAUGHT DREAMING AGAIN!? I was thinking too fast for anything to register. We were doing it now... actually Frank was. He hurled the first grenade at the baliff as he rushed across the room to get the gun. I hesitated for a split second before gathering myself and throwing my grenade. The clay ball stuck to the wall behind the judge... It didn't work? The catalyst made it's way through the smashed clay slowly... finally it went off, peppering the judge with hardened pellets of resin. Frank had the fallen officer's gun, the audience had all but evacuated the room by now and there was not a hero among them. So far so good. I hopped the rail into the main courtroom, taking Miss Kaiser by the hand. I looked back for Frank as I made my way to the emergency exit behind the judge's bench.
Frank was grinning ear to ear as he strode forward, checking the weapon. The door behind him burst open. He hadn't even turned to see the shooter before he fell forward. In the racing of my mind a single thought caught hold- "What now!?" That was the last thought I had. God only knows what happened next...
Frank lay on his back behind the Jury box, just feet from the exit. He knew he couldn't break for the door. He knew he couldn't come out from cover to fight. THINK! How did Ryan make his grenade delay like that?
Of course! Frank winced in anticipation of death as he slammed the makeshift grenade against the jury box with all of his might. The clay ball pinched tight around the crushed bags inside, sealing the chemicals off from eachother as their packages were ruptured.
quickly you fool
"I'm coming out! Here's my gun!" The gun came sailing out from behind the jury box with a mysterious clay ball pressed into the trigger guard. Before the officer had any chance to examine it, the grenade burst.
can't rely on that kind of luck too often.
If he had lived much of a life it might have been flashing before his eyes still
from that grenade stunt. He opened the car door and hopped into the back. Joe didn't say a word as they sped away. Even as Frank began to tourniquet the gushing wound in his upper thigh he smiling. He'd never been shot at before.
[edit on 26-1-2005 by The Vagabond]
[edit on 26-1-2005 by The Vagabond]
Good story and it's not a pathetic attempt it's a good attempt and it's a good story and if you ever need a character i'm you man
Originally posted by cpr12r
Good story and it's not a pathetic attempt it's a good attempt and it's a good story and if you ever need a character i'm you man
Well there's a slightly foreshadowed pattern in the characters so far, but the story is very much alive; I'm not mapping it out ahead of time. If the need for a character evolves I'll tell you first. =)
Thanks for the praise.
Not lame at all, Vagabond, and an interesting choice of weaponry too
Well, the initial thrill of sharing the story helped me churn out another chapter tonight. Thanks for the nod on the weapons... I wasn't 100% sure
they would come across as credible, but the idea of resin projectiles and low grade home made explosives for security breaching seemed pretty credible
to me when I first dreamed it up a few years ago.
Here we go again!...
Frank sat alone on the cold floor of his missing friend's garage. The prospect of what he had to do now filled him with only a dull terror. He'd been hurt before, right? The blood loss wasn't too pressing- it had clotted mostly, and it was mostly vodka now anyways. He looked at the razor and pump beside him. He'd nearly had to beat Joe bloody to make him go into the sex shop and buy the pump, but the bullet had to come out somehow. A piece of rubber hose epoxied into the lip of of the pump brought it down to size for a bullet nicely- he hoped. If he couldn't get it out and cauterize the wound he'd have to go to the hospital. All that schooling wasn't good for Doctors; it made them naturally curious people, and Frank couldn't answer questions about this injury.
He started to put the razor to his wound and hesitated... ICE! Ice would numb it! He couldn't even move his leg to stand now though. His quad muscle was had been stiffening and cramping progressively worse every since he had got in the car. He'd barely made it into the house. He grabbed the bottle of Vodka, still almost entirely full, and chugged fiercely until he had to spit the last out. He didn't wait for the burning to stop or for his eyes to open as he dug the razor into his flesh above the wound until the incision met the hole.
He pushed the rubber hose into the wound as it began to pour blood again, this time worse than before. The incredible wetness on his fingers as he worked with the wound scared him. He braced the pump against his body and worked the handle furiously. Blood pumped in, more, less... nothing came with the next pump. He had it. He began to ease the hose from his wound. He gasped in frustration and fear as he felt the bullet slip from the hose at the last second, but he plucked it from the top of his wound easily with the corner of the razor.
Time for the fun part. Where was that weakling Joe... never around when things got really bad somehow. They had Frank for that stuff. As Frank reached for the iron his drunken slur was wet and choked with tears, but somehow still gruff and fearsome, "I hate being the Fixer." As he pressed the iron into the bloody mess he had created he lost all composure. He closed his eyes and tried to command his arm but couldn't, the iron stayed still though. For once in his life, Joe had shown up to really help.
If Ryan didn't somehow make it back Joe was going to be a lot more important suddenly. Frank knew he needed somebody over him after all, but he couldn't imagine Joe being it. Frank took a glance at the now half empty bottle and suddenly felt scared to go to sleep, but it wasn't up to him...
Twelve hours later Joe still hadn't rested. He'd laid down in Ryan's room, but he couldn't sleep. He'd never been in the house without Ryan around before. He felt like he was stealing something. He felt wrong and pathetic. Ryan was gone, Frank was shot, and he was just a little tired. The sheer guilt gave him a faint hint of Frank's pain- he was sure his imagination could not hold a candle to what he'd watched Frank do earlier though. He stared at the walls of his friend's room. He didn't understand any of it.
A plaque from the California Cadet Corps in recognition of dedicated
service. A United States Marine Corps Flag under which hung a picture of a strange-looking young man in dress blues. Hard to believe that was Ryan. Hard to believe they sent him the picture; they take those before you graduate... or before you fail.
Then there were the newspaper clippings. Joe hadn't read a news paper in his life. They have the news on TV. The news on TV right now was talking about a ruthless young man who had bombed a courtroom, killing three, then escaped. Apparently they were only in time to chase Ryan and didn't even know about Frank. The cameras would change that soon enough of course.
Joe was strangely compelled by the newspaper clippings. Ryan wasn't the nerd he was made out to be mostly. What would he collect something so boring for? He looked them over, checking those with pictures mostly and reading their headlines.
"America attacked!"... "US Rules Afghan Skies"...
a picture of 4 grizzled looking old men in their early 20s in a humvee, racing to the front no doubt "Bin Laden Trapped In Mountain Citadel"...
"Iraqi Freedom!"... "Saddam Captured"...
"Insurgents Disrupt Election- Over 100 Marines Dead"...
"Iraqi Troops Surround Green Zone, Demand Pullout"...
"Iraq Violence Mirrored In US Streets"... "Patriot II Reformed"...
"Local teacher accussed of encouraging subversive violence".
Joe had never thought about it really. He knew bad when he saw it. He knew bad when Ryan told him about it. He knew when he didn't know everything and he knew when to shutup and back his friends.
He only felt more horrible for this glimpse into his friend's life. All he'd ever done is say "yeah" and offer a hit off of his pipe in hopes of calming Ryan down. All he'd ever done is wait in the car while Frank fought his way out for all three of them. He was gonna have to do something for them now. Frank was going to be a wanted man, and he was all but crippled for the moment. If Ryan made it God only knew what shape he'd be in. Joe caught himself holding his breath under the weight of it all. He caught his breath like he was hitting a bong with a tremendous gasp and an instinctive pause before he let it back out. He could do this for them. He'd get the funds, get them out of town, and help them lay low until they knew their next move.
He produced his cellphone- he noticed his clothes were a bloody mess from Frank. He'd have to leave himself time to clean up. He dialed his older brother; the luckiest cop in the world, who patrolled the happiest place on Earth: Desert Hot Springs, CA.
"Listen Tom, I've got problems- the kind that you don't call police about in this town. I've got gorillas after me."
Here comes big brother's substitute dad routine...
"Look... no... LISTEN Tom, I don't have time to explain the ins and outs. The next time J or his guys see me it's him or me bro- a certain amount of something has gone missing somebody needed a name to spit out to save their own skin. I didn't do nothin'."
"So what Joe, you want me to go tell him to play nice with my little brother or I'll arrest him? Listen, J ain't the top dog and neither are his cops. Everyone's got a boss and everyone's got a job to do if they wanna be safe, you know. You gotta skip town little bro."
"You're not listening Tom. I'm marked by name. By LAST name. Me, you, mom- we're all just became worth our own weight in something more expensive than gold. We gotta knock his place over and take him out like it was another dealer before word about us spreads."
"I'm gonna fck you up over this, you know that don't you? How could you get us into this?"
"I DIDN'T!"
"You go to the church on 7th street behind J's. You set up in the second story with dad's .306- you kept it didn't you?"
"Yeah, of course... are you serious though?"
"You said it's kill them or they kill mom. Are you BSing me?"
"No!"
"Then be in the church, second story in a window you can see J's backyard from. 3AM you'll see me go in. You shoot anyone who comes out."
This was a job for Frank, Joe thought as he checked his watch and peered out the window of the chruch. Knocking over the biggest drug dealer in DHS because we needed quick cash without the hassle of robbing a bank. Something told him that Ryan would never have gone for it...
Here we go again!...
Frank sat alone on the cold floor of his missing friend's garage. The prospect of what he had to do now filled him with only a dull terror. He'd been hurt before, right? The blood loss wasn't too pressing- it had clotted mostly, and it was mostly vodka now anyways. He looked at the razor and pump beside him. He'd nearly had to beat Joe bloody to make him go into the sex shop and buy the pump, but the bullet had to come out somehow. A piece of rubber hose epoxied into the lip of of the pump brought it down to size for a bullet nicely- he hoped. If he couldn't get it out and cauterize the wound he'd have to go to the hospital. All that schooling wasn't good for Doctors; it made them naturally curious people, and Frank couldn't answer questions about this injury.
He started to put the razor to his wound and hesitated... ICE! Ice would numb it! He couldn't even move his leg to stand now though. His quad muscle was had been stiffening and cramping progressively worse every since he had got in the car. He'd barely made it into the house. He grabbed the bottle of Vodka, still almost entirely full, and chugged fiercely until he had to spit the last out. He didn't wait for the burning to stop or for his eyes to open as he dug the razor into his flesh above the wound until the incision met the hole.
He pushed the rubber hose into the wound as it began to pour blood again, this time worse than before. The incredible wetness on his fingers as he worked with the wound scared him. He braced the pump against his body and worked the handle furiously. Blood pumped in, more, less... nothing came with the next pump. He had it. He began to ease the hose from his wound. He gasped in frustration and fear as he felt the bullet slip from the hose at the last second, but he plucked it from the top of his wound easily with the corner of the razor.
Time for the fun part. Where was that weakling Joe... never around when things got really bad somehow. They had Frank for that stuff. As Frank reached for the iron his drunken slur was wet and choked with tears, but somehow still gruff and fearsome, "I hate being the Fixer." As he pressed the iron into the bloody mess he had created he lost all composure. He closed his eyes and tried to command his arm but couldn't, the iron stayed still though. For once in his life, Joe had shown up to really help.
If Ryan didn't somehow make it back Joe was going to be a lot more important suddenly. Frank knew he needed somebody over him after all, but he couldn't imagine Joe being it. Frank took a glance at the now half empty bottle and suddenly felt scared to go to sleep, but it wasn't up to him...
Twelve hours later Joe still hadn't rested. He'd laid down in Ryan's room, but he couldn't sleep. He'd never been in the house without Ryan around before. He felt like he was stealing something. He felt wrong and pathetic. Ryan was gone, Frank was shot, and he was just a little tired. The sheer guilt gave him a faint hint of Frank's pain- he was sure his imagination could not hold a candle to what he'd watched Frank do earlier though. He stared at the walls of his friend's room. He didn't understand any of it.
A plaque from the California Cadet Corps in recognition of dedicated
service. A United States Marine Corps Flag under which hung a picture of a strange-looking young man in dress blues. Hard to believe that was Ryan. Hard to believe they sent him the picture; they take those before you graduate... or before you fail.
Then there were the newspaper clippings. Joe hadn't read a news paper in his life. They have the news on TV. The news on TV right now was talking about a ruthless young man who had bombed a courtroom, killing three, then escaped. Apparently they were only in time to chase Ryan and didn't even know about Frank. The cameras would change that soon enough of course.
Joe was strangely compelled by the newspaper clippings. Ryan wasn't the nerd he was made out to be mostly. What would he collect something so boring for? He looked them over, checking those with pictures mostly and reading their headlines.
"America attacked!"... "US Rules Afghan Skies"...
a picture of 4 grizzled looking old men in their early 20s in a humvee, racing to the front no doubt "Bin Laden Trapped In Mountain Citadel"...
"Iraqi Freedom!"... "Saddam Captured"...
"Insurgents Disrupt Election- Over 100 Marines Dead"...
"Iraqi Troops Surround Green Zone, Demand Pullout"...
"Iraq Violence Mirrored In US Streets"... "Patriot II Reformed"...
"Local teacher accussed of encouraging subversive violence".
Joe had never thought about it really. He knew bad when he saw it. He knew bad when Ryan told him about it. He knew when he didn't know everything and he knew when to shutup and back his friends.
He only felt more horrible for this glimpse into his friend's life. All he'd ever done is say "yeah" and offer a hit off of his pipe in hopes of calming Ryan down. All he'd ever done is wait in the car while Frank fought his way out for all three of them. He was gonna have to do something for them now. Frank was going to be a wanted man, and he was all but crippled for the moment. If Ryan made it God only knew what shape he'd be in. Joe caught himself holding his breath under the weight of it all. He caught his breath like he was hitting a bong with a tremendous gasp and an instinctive pause before he let it back out. He could do this for them. He'd get the funds, get them out of town, and help them lay low until they knew their next move.
He produced his cellphone- he noticed his clothes were a bloody mess from Frank. He'd have to leave himself time to clean up. He dialed his older brother; the luckiest cop in the world, who patrolled the happiest place on Earth: Desert Hot Springs, CA.
"Listen Tom, I've got problems- the kind that you don't call police about in this town. I've got gorillas after me."
Here comes big brother's substitute dad routine...
"Look... no... LISTEN Tom, I don't have time to explain the ins and outs. The next time J or his guys see me it's him or me bro- a certain amount of something has gone missing somebody needed a name to spit out to save their own skin. I didn't do nothin'."
"So what Joe, you want me to go tell him to play nice with my little brother or I'll arrest him? Listen, J ain't the top dog and neither are his cops. Everyone's got a boss and everyone's got a job to do if they wanna be safe, you know. You gotta skip town little bro."
"You're not listening Tom. I'm marked by name. By LAST name. Me, you, mom- we're all just became worth our own weight in something more expensive than gold. We gotta knock his place over and take him out like it was another dealer before word about us spreads."
"I'm gonna fck you up over this, you know that don't you? How could you get us into this?"
"I DIDN'T!"
"You go to the church on 7th street behind J's. You set up in the second story with dad's .306- you kept it didn't you?"
"Yeah, of course... are you serious though?"
"You said it's kill them or they kill mom. Are you BSing me?"
"No!"
"Then be in the church, second story in a window you can see J's backyard from. 3AM you'll see me go in. You shoot anyone who comes out."
This was a job for Frank, Joe thought as he checked his watch and peered out the window of the chruch. Knocking over the biggest drug dealer in DHS because we needed quick cash without the hassle of robbing a bank. Something told him that Ryan would never have gone for it...
I'm more than a little unsure about this chapter. I've finally comitted to a plot, maybe thats whats the only reason. Feel free to critique here or
via U2U if you see something that doesn't read well.
Tom parked his patrol car in front of the house in plain sight of the window. Typical proceedure. He took his time making his way up to the door. Nobody hurries, nobody freaks out- just as long as no customers happened to walk out right then to meet the uniformed officer walking up to a notorious crackhouse. He knocked at the door and waited no more than 30 seconds before it swung open.
"Yo officer, you gotta come like this? It's bad for biz-ness, man."
"Sorry James, it's important. I waited a few hours so I wouldn't cost you business."
Tom shifted his gaze away briefly, stealing a glance into the house. The blinds on the back door were swinging, but Joe hadn't fired. J's men would be waiting to come into the house behind him if there was trouble now. There was no making a move in this spot, but there was no backing out. He'd have to come up with some reason to talk now.
Tom nodded his head back to the house across the street with a grin and asked if they could speak indoors. J nodded his head upward to the federal agents hiding behind the tinted windows across the way. No doubt there were radio microphones trained on them.
Across the street, sitting in a lawn chair in front of a binoculars on a tripod sat a tired looking sign-post of a man in his early 40s. As the agent stared out his window at the dumb rookie cop harassing his drug dealer he was not aiming a microphone. He was fuming into a cellular phone as he waited for an answer.
"Chief we had an arrangement. Who the hell have you got bothering our man?"...
"You haven't got a uniform hitting up James Franco? The guy I'm looking at is just some asshole making up new assignments for himself?"...
"Well I hope you're friggin sure, because I'm gonna kill him and I'm gonna be thinking real hard about who else might be a liability afterward!"
Joe was still fighting with his jammed rifle. He should have thrown that round away; he'd noticed the dent. He'd been lazy.
30 seconds can be an eternity... THERE!
He took a nice steady aim and squeezed off his first shot. The first target fell in a cloud of pink mist. Yes, just a target he assured himself... Joe drew another slow breath as he let the sights rest over the man's shoulders, with the head resting atop the front sight post just like his dad had taught him. The horrified young man in Joe's sights was crouching just around the
corner of the house, almost directly in front of Joe. He had been wrong about the direction of the first shot- he was in the open.
The motion didn't feel strange to Joe at all... he held half a breath as he gently squeezed the trigger back- the shot actually surprised him when it went off. Zero anticipation of recoil- a perfect squeeze, a perfect shot. The warmth in Joe's face surpirsed him- he was happy with himself. He could still see Frank's sick elation in the rear view mirror as they fled the courthouse. He pretended not to know it was the same look on his face now.
Inside, the third of J's men rushed out from the bedroom at the sound of the rifle's report. Three men and the principle, only one car outside. That's it. Tom turned from his investigation by the back yard door and drew his weapon. Tom's first fight was measured in split seconds. A single clap of thunder rang in his ears- the young street-soldier's shot filling the void between the double-tap shots that put him down.
J froze, unarmed but not unnerved. What the hell did this man know? Tom wanted answers, but if J wasn't scared then there wasn't time. One last clap of the Baretta forever drowned out the answers and protected Joe's secret. Now where in the hell was the FBI?
Joe wanted nothing more than to go down and get the money now. His friends needed it to travel. He was curious what was going on inside, and what Tom might do. What had transpired inside though? Could Tom come running out in dire need of Joe's help any minute? The possibilities seemed infinite and unknowable, and Joe felt paralyzed.
He crouched lower, trying to see a little more of the room below from his window. With his eyes barely above the window sill he could see his brother's lower half as he made his way from the front of the house towards the back rooms. Going to establish robbery as the motive for this killing, Joe hoped. He sighed and started to lower himself further then thought better of sitting down. As he started back to his knees the stucco of the ledge before him burst, showering his face. His eyes stung from the shower of pebbles and dust as he fell back into the room.
WHAT THE HELL!? The rifle hadn't gone off; he hadn't heard a thing...
Somebody is shooting at me!
Quickly Joe crawled to the next room, up to the window. He peeked out quickly, saw nothing and ducked again. god dammit, what do I do?! He peeked up again, the window shattered just to his side.
CHRIST! You are one sorry shot asshole
He crawled to the door quickly and down the dark hall towards the stairwell. The narrow hall, dimly lit by patches of yellow light from windows
in open rooms smelled of decay in the rough flat woven carpet and the peeling water-damaged walls.
Dying here would be too cliche... come-on!
He'd never been so horrified. He couldn't stand for fear of being shot. He couldn't stand to crawl for fear of being too late. He hurled himself down the hallway in leaping, awkward crawls, thumping ferociously on the old wooden floor beneath the painfully rough carpet and the assorted debris trapped in it's threads. He didn't hear the clatter of men ascending the stairs over his own racket.
He turned into the stairwell. He glanced over his shoulder- no window in sight. He gripped the stair rail and hurled himself to his feet, just in time to meet eyes with the grey suit clad men on the landing between him and his escape. He eyed over his shoulder at the rifle slung on his back. All he could do was stare at them over the muzzles of their weapons. He raised his hands and lowered his head. He didn't know whether or not to be glad it wasn't J's men.
For Tom the plan was going perfectly. The FBI across the street was apparently oblivious to the shooting. He'd have to go over and inform them when he was ready to leave that he had been attacked while trying to buy information.
If TV shows were well-researched, there should be a stash hidden in the tank of the toilet... Only a padlock key.
He wandered back out into the master bedroom. If he couldn't find something to take and make obvious there were going to be some very curious people milling around this house in a few hours trying to catch him. There was nothing to be found though... the addic perhaps. But the door wouldn't budge. Standing on tip-toe he struck it harder. Solid.
So where does the key go?
The flash of blue and red lights filled the windows... too late. This would have to wait. What the hell was he going to say about this... and did J's cops know the next men up?
Sweet jesus, don't let these men know who they work for with J dead.
As the agents loaded Joe into their car the chirp of sirens outside the dealer's house announced that the sniper had cost them too much time. "What a clusterfck. Pull into the garage and lay low. We'll take custody of the uniform later."
TO BE CONTINUED
Tom parked his patrol car in front of the house in plain sight of the window. Typical proceedure. He took his time making his way up to the door. Nobody hurries, nobody freaks out- just as long as no customers happened to walk out right then to meet the uniformed officer walking up to a notorious crackhouse. He knocked at the door and waited no more than 30 seconds before it swung open.
"Yo officer, you gotta come like this? It's bad for biz-ness, man."
"Sorry James, it's important. I waited a few hours so I wouldn't cost you business."
Tom shifted his gaze away briefly, stealing a glance into the house. The blinds on the back door were swinging, but Joe hadn't fired. J's men would be waiting to come into the house behind him if there was trouble now. There was no making a move in this spot, but there was no backing out. He'd have to come up with some reason to talk now.
Tom nodded his head back to the house across the street with a grin and asked if they could speak indoors. J nodded his head upward to the federal agents hiding behind the tinted windows across the way. No doubt there were radio microphones trained on them.
Across the street, sitting in a lawn chair in front of a binoculars on a tripod sat a tired looking sign-post of a man in his early 40s. As the agent stared out his window at the dumb rookie cop harassing his drug dealer he was not aiming a microphone. He was fuming into a cellular phone as he waited for an answer.
"Chief we had an arrangement. Who the hell have you got bothering our man?"...
"You haven't got a uniform hitting up James Franco? The guy I'm looking at is just some asshole making up new assignments for himself?"...
"Well I hope you're friggin sure, because I'm gonna kill him and I'm gonna be thinking real hard about who else might be a liability afterward!"
Joe was still fighting with his jammed rifle. He should have thrown that round away; he'd noticed the dent. He'd been lazy.
30 seconds can be an eternity... THERE!
He took a nice steady aim and squeezed off his first shot. The first target fell in a cloud of pink mist. Yes, just a target he assured himself... Joe drew another slow breath as he let the sights rest over the man's shoulders, with the head resting atop the front sight post just like his dad had taught him. The horrified young man in Joe's sights was crouching just around the
corner of the house, almost directly in front of Joe. He had been wrong about the direction of the first shot- he was in the open.
The motion didn't feel strange to Joe at all... he held half a breath as he gently squeezed the trigger back- the shot actually surprised him when it went off. Zero anticipation of recoil- a perfect squeeze, a perfect shot. The warmth in Joe's face surpirsed him- he was happy with himself. He could still see Frank's sick elation in the rear view mirror as they fled the courthouse. He pretended not to know it was the same look on his face now.
Inside, the third of J's men rushed out from the bedroom at the sound of the rifle's report. Three men and the principle, only one car outside. That's it. Tom turned from his investigation by the back yard door and drew his weapon. Tom's first fight was measured in split seconds. A single clap of thunder rang in his ears- the young street-soldier's shot filling the void between the double-tap shots that put him down.
J froze, unarmed but not unnerved. What the hell did this man know? Tom wanted answers, but if J wasn't scared then there wasn't time. One last clap of the Baretta forever drowned out the answers and protected Joe's secret. Now where in the hell was the FBI?
Joe wanted nothing more than to go down and get the money now. His friends needed it to travel. He was curious what was going on inside, and what Tom might do. What had transpired inside though? Could Tom come running out in dire need of Joe's help any minute? The possibilities seemed infinite and unknowable, and Joe felt paralyzed.
He crouched lower, trying to see a little more of the room below from his window. With his eyes barely above the window sill he could see his brother's lower half as he made his way from the front of the house towards the back rooms. Going to establish robbery as the motive for this killing, Joe hoped. He sighed and started to lower himself further then thought better of sitting down. As he started back to his knees the stucco of the ledge before him burst, showering his face. His eyes stung from the shower of pebbles and dust as he fell back into the room.
WHAT THE HELL!? The rifle hadn't gone off; he hadn't heard a thing...
Somebody is shooting at me!
Quickly Joe crawled to the next room, up to the window. He peeked out quickly, saw nothing and ducked again. god dammit, what do I do?! He peeked up again, the window shattered just to his side.
CHRIST! You are one sorry shot asshole
He crawled to the door quickly and down the dark hall towards the stairwell. The narrow hall, dimly lit by patches of yellow light from windows
in open rooms smelled of decay in the rough flat woven carpet and the peeling water-damaged walls.
Dying here would be too cliche... come-on!
He'd never been so horrified. He couldn't stand for fear of being shot. He couldn't stand to crawl for fear of being too late. He hurled himself down the hallway in leaping, awkward crawls, thumping ferociously on the old wooden floor beneath the painfully rough carpet and the assorted debris trapped in it's threads. He didn't hear the clatter of men ascending the stairs over his own racket.
He turned into the stairwell. He glanced over his shoulder- no window in sight. He gripped the stair rail and hurled himself to his feet, just in time to meet eyes with the grey suit clad men on the landing between him and his escape. He eyed over his shoulder at the rifle slung on his back. All he could do was stare at them over the muzzles of their weapons. He raised his hands and lowered his head. He didn't know whether or not to be glad it wasn't J's men.
For Tom the plan was going perfectly. The FBI across the street was apparently oblivious to the shooting. He'd have to go over and inform them when he was ready to leave that he had been attacked while trying to buy information.
If TV shows were well-researched, there should be a stash hidden in the tank of the toilet... Only a padlock key.
He wandered back out into the master bedroom. If he couldn't find something to take and make obvious there were going to be some very curious people milling around this house in a few hours trying to catch him. There was nothing to be found though... the addic perhaps. But the door wouldn't budge. Standing on tip-toe he struck it harder. Solid.
So where does the key go?
The flash of blue and red lights filled the windows... too late. This would have to wait. What the hell was he going to say about this... and did J's cops know the next men up?
Sweet jesus, don't let these men know who they work for with J dead.
As the agents loaded Joe into their car the chirp of sirens outside the dealer's house announced that the sniper had cost them too much time. "What a clusterfck. Pull into the garage and lay low. We'll take custody of the uniform later."
TO BE CONTINUED
I'm looking for 2 or 3 new characters. CPR12R has already spoke up to be one. Anybody else want to post or U2U their character. I've only got one
more chapter before I introduce the new ones, so it would be nice to get them this week.
In the broad strokes, I'm looking for ATS-member based characters who have begun resisting the NWO in a world only a tad more NWOish than our curren real world.
Expect chapter 4 in a day or two.
In the broad strokes, I'm looking for ATS-member based characters who have begun resisting the NWO in a world only a tad more NWOish than our curren real world.
Expect chapter 4 in a day or two.
OK, it's gonna get stranger before it get's normal, but in a chapter or two you're actually going to know what's going on and I think the story
will be more fun and exciting than suspenseful after that.
The two officers spread themselves apart and rushed up the front lawn, weapons readied. "Clear.",
Tom called unenthusiastically. The officers stepped in, taking stock of the bloody scene before them. Tom recognized them both. He didn't know if he trusted them.
"What the hell happened here Connors?", Officer Nichols' curiousity seemed innocent but pointed. He was a short, average sort of fellow with with a deeply obscured fire in his eyes to match his not-quite-red hair. Tom didn't expect Nichols to be a problem.
The two bodies in the back yard dawned upon him in the nick of time, just as he had opened his mouth to tell the wrong lie in fact.
"I heard shots... I pulled up the street here and this fella here stopped me. He rushes me back here saying someone's shot then J says otherwise and tells me to get out. I promised to help and keep it quiet- we all know the drill here. His partner here drew on me then, and I put him down. J tries to rush me then... just did what I had to".
Officer Morales spoke up with a harsh and inquisitive snap to his voice. Morales was a product of that city- a rough wiry man of remarkable reason despite being a highschool dropout. Tom eyed him suspiciously as he pressed, "You didn't radio in rookie."
"I was busy checking the two in the back yard. They're dead."
"Good, fewer witness statements for us to type up.", Morales glared right through Tom as he spoke. Morales was definately going to be a problem.
"Nichols, go out to the car, get the coroner down here to clean up after the kid and get the watch commander over here too, just tell him I think he needs to see something."
Nichols walked out cheerfully without bothering to say anything. Tom glanced back down at the corpses as Morales faced him again. He knew what the street-wise cop was thinking already.
"I wonder if this means that we get severance pay", Tom grinned darkly. He caught a blink in Morales' eyes and a pause before he responded.
"Depends who all this ends up belonging to... And there's different payscales for veterans and FNGs like yourself.", his tone had become almost jovial in a cautious and restrained way.
Tom was more than a little uncomfortable playing bad cop, but he'd been around long enough to know that bad cops always land on their feet.
"You figure anyone's gonna miss the weapons?"
Morales shook his head slightly and supressed a smile as he adopted the tone of a fool's big brother. "The weapons rookie? You're out of your mind. You're lucky I didn't hear that. It's a different game all together. Just be your usual boyscout self and don't shoot nobody else. You'll get your
cut from now on, but whatever you heard about some artillery just wasn't true."
What in the hell does that mean???
"I gotta use the can. You sure you can go a few minutes without shooting anybody kid?" Tom didn't answer, he was still trying to decide what to make of the weapons issue. It obviously had nothing to do with the AK-47 propped in the corner of the bedroom. Wait a minute
Tom stepped into the bedroom just in time to hear the rattle of Morales replacing the lid over the toilet tank. Oh crap... He removed the key from his pocket and glanced around for a hiding place. This house was going to be turned inside out though! Better than nothing... he
placed the key carefully atop the bedroom door. Hopefully nobody would be slamming it tonight.
His head was all but spinning. He made his way out towards his car. As he approached the door a well dressed detective he had not met before stopped him. "One moment officer, everyone has to be searched coming and going; Chief's orders." As Tom began emptying his pockets he marveled as the detective began to examine each key on his ring.
Joe set his jaw hard and squinted his eyes into a defiant glare as his captors stepped out of the car. The door opened and he began to step out, maddogging the slim, perturbed looking agent. He imagined that he'd look something like that when he was 40, and he was a pushover. Given half the chance he could take a loser like that.
The other was another story. He threw his eyes to the large man making his way around the car. Joe wore Frank's sickening smile yet again and confided to his future self, "The gorilla can't help you babysit me all the time. You might want to keep your distance." There was no response. The
agent smugly turned his back and entered the house. Joe began to follow, but was stopped short as "the gorilla" siezed him by his shirt and hurled him onto him backwards. His legs entangled in a small wooden stool and he collapsed on his back. His cuffed wrists pulsed with pain and went
numb, crushed into the metal bands by his full weight.
"Sit!". There was something distinctly military about the Gorilla. The strength and snap of the shove reminded Joe of his friend's drill-instructor stories, and the bark of his command was right out of a movie.
"You're a mean little fcker aren't you? Why don't I think you're gonna talk to me?"
Joe braced himself to stand if his interrogator should strike him. "Why, is this the part where you hook me up to a car battery? My girlfriend's a dominatrix." Joe couldn't even remember the last time he'd been with a woman. Frank's ex girlfriend had been a dominatrix. He could feel the
fear of being caught in a lie already and he hadn't even been interrogated.
"That's not my job devil, and neither is babysitting. Just keep that boot-camp face of yours on and behave so I don't have to be dick."
"I'm not in the military." The answer seemed to disappoint the Gorilla.
"Somebody else teach you to shoot then?"
It's goodcop-badcop... keep antagonizing him.
"Learned it at church" Joe scowled as he nodded his head towards the garage door.
"Suit yourself kid. Between that cop and running your background we're gonna know your angle without a word from you. You can level with me though if you want to make this simple for yourself. I'm not the bad guy here, whatever you may think. All you have to tell me is where your orders came from, or of this is your own little enterprise."
Joe shook his head and tried not to pay attention. Maybe they were just trying to throw him off. It was working.
The Gorilla have up his questioning easily enough, and scared as he was Joe never the less slept easily. He'd been up all night. He could see a faint hint of light under the garage door as he laid his head down on the concrete. It'd had been a long strange night, and oddly familiar. Thought eased into dream so quickly that he never knew he was asleep...
"Shut up! You get to raise me, my REAL dad already did it!". Frank's lip quivered a little as he squared his shoulders to the mountain of a man who had invaded his family only months before. Thank God that Tom had been there to pull him out. Frank's first words may well have been his last. "Easy Joe, let's get away for a while. Just show a little respect." The name didn't even phase him, he just shook at the mention of respect for the intruder.
"Fine damn job your old man did too arrogant little sht! I ain't hearin' no lip from a dmn fifteen year old! You're gonna learn some respect."
"Dammit Tom, lemme go, I'll fight back you old fart, let's see how you do when nobody's afraid!"
It's just a dream... you don't have to do it again. Even in his dreams Joe couldn't change it. It must have been fate. Fate... and again Joe found himself whisked off to another place...
CHRIST! This was not happening again. It had been months since his step dad had dared. If he didn't learn before he would this time. As Ryan stumbled out of his bed onto one foot, being dragged by his shirt, he let fly a wild left hook. It was the most girlish slap the young recruit had ever
thrown, and enough to stop a small truck. As the drill instructor tumbled back into the floor of the squadbay and the platoon gasped, Ryan knew that he'd just made the worst mistake of his life. Tom had been right... he'd let the intruder get to him, and now he'd ruined everything.
Joe awoke panting and drenched in sweat. His face skin was freezing but he could feel the snot welled up in his face boiling. He doubled over on his side to vomit but had only mucus and saliva to expell. His leg was killing him, he could feel the pressure of his swollen festering wound as he worked his way up to a sitting position leaning against the car.
They had to be messing with him... they'd given him something. He couldn't remember Frank and Ryan's lives... he couldn't- have Frank's wound, could he? He felt like he was dying, and his only regret was that it was taking so long. He cleared his throat and made a pathetic display of hardening his face as he had before. "GORILLA! Bring Water! I need a doctor! Get your monkey arse in here!"
"Jesus Christ, no wonder you slept so long kid. Here... you alright?" good cop... whatever. Joe gasped through his wet throat after chugging the cup of water down. "Thanks."
"I can't get you a doctor over a fever kid."
Joe began to take down his pants to display the wound on his thigh. One look at the Gorilla's face told him he didn't want to see it for himself.
The two officers spread themselves apart and rushed up the front lawn, weapons readied. "Clear.",
Tom called unenthusiastically. The officers stepped in, taking stock of the bloody scene before them. Tom recognized them both. He didn't know if he trusted them.
"What the hell happened here Connors?", Officer Nichols' curiousity seemed innocent but pointed. He was a short, average sort of fellow with with a deeply obscured fire in his eyes to match his not-quite-red hair. Tom didn't expect Nichols to be a problem.
The two bodies in the back yard dawned upon him in the nick of time, just as he had opened his mouth to tell the wrong lie in fact.
"I heard shots... I pulled up the street here and this fella here stopped me. He rushes me back here saying someone's shot then J says otherwise and tells me to get out. I promised to help and keep it quiet- we all know the drill here. His partner here drew on me then, and I put him down. J tries to rush me then... just did what I had to".
Officer Morales spoke up with a harsh and inquisitive snap to his voice. Morales was a product of that city- a rough wiry man of remarkable reason despite being a highschool dropout. Tom eyed him suspiciously as he pressed, "You didn't radio in rookie."
"I was busy checking the two in the back yard. They're dead."
"Good, fewer witness statements for us to type up.", Morales glared right through Tom as he spoke. Morales was definately going to be a problem.
"Nichols, go out to the car, get the coroner down here to clean up after the kid and get the watch commander over here too, just tell him I think he needs to see something."
Nichols walked out cheerfully without bothering to say anything. Tom glanced back down at the corpses as Morales faced him again. He knew what the street-wise cop was thinking already.
"I wonder if this means that we get severance pay", Tom grinned darkly. He caught a blink in Morales' eyes and a pause before he responded.
"Depends who all this ends up belonging to... And there's different payscales for veterans and FNGs like yourself.", his tone had become almost jovial in a cautious and restrained way.
Tom was more than a little uncomfortable playing bad cop, but he'd been around long enough to know that bad cops always land on their feet.
"You figure anyone's gonna miss the weapons?"
Morales shook his head slightly and supressed a smile as he adopted the tone of a fool's big brother. "The weapons rookie? You're out of your mind. You're lucky I didn't hear that. It's a different game all together. Just be your usual boyscout self and don't shoot nobody else. You'll get your
cut from now on, but whatever you heard about some artillery just wasn't true."
What in the hell does that mean???
"I gotta use the can. You sure you can go a few minutes without shooting anybody kid?" Tom didn't answer, he was still trying to decide what to make of the weapons issue. It obviously had nothing to do with the AK-47 propped in the corner of the bedroom. Wait a minute
Tom stepped into the bedroom just in time to hear the rattle of Morales replacing the lid over the toilet tank. Oh crap... He removed the key from his pocket and glanced around for a hiding place. This house was going to be turned inside out though! Better than nothing... he
placed the key carefully atop the bedroom door. Hopefully nobody would be slamming it tonight.
His head was all but spinning. He made his way out towards his car. As he approached the door a well dressed detective he had not met before stopped him. "One moment officer, everyone has to be searched coming and going; Chief's orders." As Tom began emptying his pockets he marveled as the detective began to examine each key on his ring.
Joe set his jaw hard and squinted his eyes into a defiant glare as his captors stepped out of the car. The door opened and he began to step out, maddogging the slim, perturbed looking agent. He imagined that he'd look something like that when he was 40, and he was a pushover. Given half the chance he could take a loser like that.
The other was another story. He threw his eyes to the large man making his way around the car. Joe wore Frank's sickening smile yet again and confided to his future self, "The gorilla can't help you babysit me all the time. You might want to keep your distance." There was no response. The
agent smugly turned his back and entered the house. Joe began to follow, but was stopped short as "the gorilla" siezed him by his shirt and hurled him onto him backwards. His legs entangled in a small wooden stool and he collapsed on his back. His cuffed wrists pulsed with pain and went
numb, crushed into the metal bands by his full weight.
"Sit!". There was something distinctly military about the Gorilla. The strength and snap of the shove reminded Joe of his friend's drill-instructor stories, and the bark of his command was right out of a movie.
"You're a mean little fcker aren't you? Why don't I think you're gonna talk to me?"
Joe braced himself to stand if his interrogator should strike him. "Why, is this the part where you hook me up to a car battery? My girlfriend's a dominatrix." Joe couldn't even remember the last time he'd been with a woman. Frank's ex girlfriend had been a dominatrix. He could feel the
fear of being caught in a lie already and he hadn't even been interrogated.
"That's not my job devil, and neither is babysitting. Just keep that boot-camp face of yours on and behave so I don't have to be dick."
"I'm not in the military." The answer seemed to disappoint the Gorilla.
"Somebody else teach you to shoot then?"
It's goodcop-badcop... keep antagonizing him.
"Learned it at church" Joe scowled as he nodded his head towards the garage door.
"Suit yourself kid. Between that cop and running your background we're gonna know your angle without a word from you. You can level with me though if you want to make this simple for yourself. I'm not the bad guy here, whatever you may think. All you have to tell me is where your orders came from, or of this is your own little enterprise."
Joe shook his head and tried not to pay attention. Maybe they were just trying to throw him off. It was working.
The Gorilla have up his questioning easily enough, and scared as he was Joe never the less slept easily. He'd been up all night. He could see a faint hint of light under the garage door as he laid his head down on the concrete. It'd had been a long strange night, and oddly familiar. Thought eased into dream so quickly that he never knew he was asleep...
"Shut up! You get to raise me, my REAL dad already did it!". Frank's lip quivered a little as he squared his shoulders to the mountain of a man who had invaded his family only months before. Thank God that Tom had been there to pull him out. Frank's first words may well have been his last. "Easy Joe, let's get away for a while. Just show a little respect." The name didn't even phase him, he just shook at the mention of respect for the intruder.
"Fine damn job your old man did too arrogant little sht! I ain't hearin' no lip from a dmn fifteen year old! You're gonna learn some respect."
"Dammit Tom, lemme go, I'll fight back you old fart, let's see how you do when nobody's afraid!"
It's just a dream... you don't have to do it again. Even in his dreams Joe couldn't change it. It must have been fate. Fate... and again Joe found himself whisked off to another place...
CHRIST! This was not happening again. It had been months since his step dad had dared. If he didn't learn before he would this time. As Ryan stumbled out of his bed onto one foot, being dragged by his shirt, he let fly a wild left hook. It was the most girlish slap the young recruit had ever
thrown, and enough to stop a small truck. As the drill instructor tumbled back into the floor of the squadbay and the platoon gasped, Ryan knew that he'd just made the worst mistake of his life. Tom had been right... he'd let the intruder get to him, and now he'd ruined everything.
Joe awoke panting and drenched in sweat. His face skin was freezing but he could feel the snot welled up in his face boiling. He doubled over on his side to vomit but had only mucus and saliva to expell. His leg was killing him, he could feel the pressure of his swollen festering wound as he worked his way up to a sitting position leaning against the car.
They had to be messing with him... they'd given him something. He couldn't remember Frank and Ryan's lives... he couldn't- have Frank's wound, could he? He felt like he was dying, and his only regret was that it was taking so long. He cleared his throat and made a pathetic display of hardening his face as he had before. "GORILLA! Bring Water! I need a doctor! Get your monkey arse in here!"
"Jesus Christ, no wonder you slept so long kid. Here... you alright?" good cop... whatever. Joe gasped through his wet throat after chugging the cup of water down. "Thanks."
"I can't get you a doctor over a fever kid."
Joe began to take down his pants to display the wound on his thigh. One look at the Gorilla's face told him he didn't want to see it for himself.
"I'm not in the military." The answer seemed to disappoint the Gorilla.
"Somebody else teach you to shoot then?"
It's goodcop-badcop... keep antagonizing him.
"Learned it at church" Joe scowled "
Good stuff, Vagabond, Good stuff. Looking forward to reading the next one.
BTW, if you still need a charachter I wouldn't mind putting my name in the hat........I like to think that my posts have established me as anti-NWO............
"Somebody else teach you to shoot then?"
It's goodcop-badcop... keep antagonizing him.
"Learned it at church" Joe scowled "
Good stuff, Vagabond, Good stuff. Looking forward to reading the next one.
BTW, if you still need a charachter I wouldn't mind putting my name in the hat........I like to think that my posts have established me as anti-NWO............
I hope everbody likes this chapter. In case anybody is wondering, I'm writing this story into a setting that I have been around: the slums and the
golf resort of former president Carter really are about 20 miles apart, I've been to all of these places, and yes the breakin trick that I describe
would theoretically work. . If anybody does something stupid and blames me though I'm going to hurt them.
Memoryshock: you debut next chapter.
Reikuro: i haven't forgotten about you either .
"Sir, we can't hold the kid in the field, we're not set up for wounded here. We have the security clearances- I can hop military transports from here to Ramstein with the kid doped up, pass him off as a casualty from Iran, and be back in four or five days with him alive and speaking coherently."
"Is this a professional decision, or is it because the kids almost as much of a savage as you?"
The gorilla shook his head in exasperation. "To hell with it, I'm gonna go in there and shoot him. No sense making him die slow if we're not gonna let him live to talk to us."
The thin balding agent glared back at his massive subordinate with chilling confidence and authority.
"Do you read the bible Gunnery Sergeant?"
"Only before deployments.", the Marine's words were as full of pride and self reliance as the meaning behind them was.
"Did you ever read about what King David did to Uria the Hittite?"
"Why sir? Did he let him die when he was supposed to be getting answers from him instead?"
The Gorilla's resentment was becoming tangible in the air, but the smaller agent squared his shoulders as he stepped closer and glared right back.
"Uria was a soldier, and Solomon was a king with something to hide. To make sure it stayed hidden, he had Uria sent into battle on a suicide mission. Now can you do your job or should we talk some more about casualties from Iran?"
"I can do my job, sir. How should I handle this."
"You don't. You find that cop. I'll get the kid a foreign background and have him transfered to Guantanimo."
Night had fallen yet again. The criminal always returns the scene of the crime, He hopped the back fence and rushed to the window in a hunched stance, staying low and peering through the windows. The police had wrapped things up, nobody home. He stepped up to the sliding glass door and pushed it carefully, feeling to any movement. It was loose in its tracks, just loose enough that he could shake the latch loose.
He surveyed the house more carefully than he had before now, wary of being caught, or of missing some important detail. What a place to live; the carpet was a mat of grit and thread- nearly worn through in several places. The lynoleum tile nearly peeling up from the kitchen floor cracked and squeaked underfoot. The faint glare of a streetlight through the houses smoke-tinted windows reflected off of the dirty walls and carpet making the darkness more brown than black. Tom turned into the hallway marveling at how such a house could hold a bigscreen TV and an Escalade in the driveway. The whole place gave Tom the jitters, and just then the quiet peeling sound as his shoes tracked over the bloody strains in the carpet thundered like a tell-tale heart, causing him to freeze in his tracks before realizing what it was.
He flexed his neck, turning it to one side till the crack of joints released some of the pressure weighing down on him. Steadying himself now he began to stand on his toes and press his fingertips into the attic door and the ceiling around it. It wouldn't budge. He knocked on it carefully- is sounded remarkably solid and gave no hint of an echo. Something over it? He looked around the ceiling in frustration then moved on to the closet at the end of the hall. Nothing there either, or if there had been the police had taken it.
The front door rattled against the hinges as somebody began to open it. Dammit, burglar alarm? He slipped into the closet quietly and shut the door, then lowered himself to a crouching position to peer under the door. The lights came on and several sets of boots made their way into the hall and stopped in the middle, facing towards one wall. The water-heater closet?
The water heater came out immediately, clattering onto the carpet, dry as a bone.
what the hell?
One by one the sets of boots disappeared into the closet.
Either that's a lot bigger than it looks or else this is where the "closet" metaphor came from, ey boys?
Minutes past without a sound. He couldn't stay till they were gone. He had to know what was being moved. He drew his gun and crouched, slowly easing the closet door open. Not a sound. He threw the door open and scrambed into the master bedroom just feet away, completely unnoticed as he spun and leveled his gun at the doorway behind him.
Crap, the closet door. A quick peak assured him he coast was clear, and he stepped into the hall quickly, easing the closet door shut. He moved back into the room and slid his hand over the door. The key he had hidden fell to the carpet. He grabbed it and quietly excused himself via the window.
The side of the house was pitch black and somewhat noisy compliments of the air-conditioner fan just feet from the window he had exited. Nobody would notice him here. He slipped down the side of the house to the side door of the garage. A screen vent beside the door offered both an excellent view of the garage, and a nice full smell of the filthy rags and assorted household chemicals stored nearby. A black van was backed into the garage, back doors open and seats removed. The cargo area already held several boxes and a few thick green tubes witch black octagonal ends.
I don't know what it is, but I think I'd like to know.
Two men walked into the garage. The first carried a massive tripod. The second carried what Tom could only identify as the largest and most sinister looking weapon he had ever seen. The black-fatigue clad soldiers struggled briefly with the weapon as they fit it into the cargo compartment, then returned to the house. Tom couldn't see anybody else in the garage. Feet, don't fail me now!
He turned the doorknob and threw his shoulder into door. The door was solid, but the two small screws holding its latch were not. Tom burst into the room and swept the room with his gun, coming to rest on the door leading into the house just in time to see his assailant. The soldier struck the weapon from Tom's hand expertly, swinging his knuckles sharply into Tom's wrist as his other hand seized the back of Tom's palm. Tom's arm went numb and began to give almost immediately, turning the gun in towards his own body under the force of the soldier's grip. Instantly Tom pivoted to his left, and rotated his shoulder, leaving his shooting arm behind him and effectively in an arm bar and throwing his left elbow at the attacker, catching him squarely in the eye.
Tom could barely feel his arm as he squared off with the soldier, only bothering to raise it at all out of habit. The soldier feigned a lunge and Tom caught him with a jab. The soldier backed up instinctively and Tom took advantage, stepping in with a stomping kick at the soldiers knee and finishing him with an elbow as he folded to his knees. The soldier fell into the shelves on the wall beside him with a tremendous clatter.
fcking ametuer Tom turned and rushed to the van; the keys had been left in it. DEFINATELY ametuers
The rest of the men in the house arrived only in time to watch their their vehicle accelerating down the street. From the church window that Joe had fired from the night before, Gunnery Sergeant Hunt could only watch. He'd expected his quarry to come investigate his accomplice's last position. Apparently they were professional afterall, he thought to himself. Joe's "act" had almost taken him in. Joe had seemed off to him; if the kid wasn't an independent he must have been a trained monkey. Apparently he was a trained monkey, and the cop was the one with the sense.
The gunny leaned against the wall and peered out the window as the hired help below stormed the neighboring house, presumably to get keys to a vehicle. That's just great, make a big mess guys. I wonder who's gonna have to pick up after you. He left the room and finished his thought out loud, "I should have stayed with Recon.".
Tamarisk Country Club was the last place on in the world a manhunt would ever begin. Gerald Ford golfed there! Surely President Ford and his neighbors weren't harboring any criminals. At least not blue-collar ones. The security guard took one glance at Tom's badge and let him in. He didn't even remember to take down the van's license plate number. Seven dollars an hour didn't buy what it used to- the guard didn't even see Tom come back on foot and steal the customer contact book and key box out of the patrol car. Who would have thought Tom would be glad for having once been a rental cop?
It was late spring, and in the deserts of Southern California temperatures were supposed to be creeping into the 90s from time to time by now. Of course they weren't, but it had only been two years and most of the "snow birds" had not yet figured out that climate change was turning their winter golf resort into a year-round habitable climate. Most of the yards were completely dark- not even a garden light. A sure sign that the home owners were away for the summer already.
Too modern-looking. I may as well squat with taste... Jesus when did all of these pretentious old snobs suddenly give up on the old manor look? WOAH, that one could be a modern art masterpiece... I'd burn it down if I could afford to blow my cover.
The foolishness passed soon enough. The one hidden behind a long yard and a small hobby grove was nice and isolated, and the golden monogram on the mailbox would make finding the right entry in the contact book easy. He parked and flipped through the book.
"G, G, G... OK, so do you belong to the Garrets or the Glovers... Number 03, Golden way... you are the Glover house. Alarm code 1225."
I want to live on a street so exclusive I can have a two digit address. And now I do!
Tom pulled the van into the driveway and turned out the lights, then produced the leatherman pocket tool from his belt. The toolbox containing the security guards key was guarded by a nice strong master lock, and a pair of pathetic little made-in-Taiwan hinges. Ten minutes after arriving at the gate with a badge and a plan, Tom was a resident at one of the most exclusive clubs in Palm Springs, a short walk from a PGA golf course.
[edit on 24-2-2005 by The Vagabond]
Memoryshock: you debut next chapter.
Reikuro: i haven't forgotten about you either .
"Sir, we can't hold the kid in the field, we're not set up for wounded here. We have the security clearances- I can hop military transports from here to Ramstein with the kid doped up, pass him off as a casualty from Iran, and be back in four or five days with him alive and speaking coherently."
"Is this a professional decision, or is it because the kids almost as much of a savage as you?"
The gorilla shook his head in exasperation. "To hell with it, I'm gonna go in there and shoot him. No sense making him die slow if we're not gonna let him live to talk to us."
The thin balding agent glared back at his massive subordinate with chilling confidence and authority.
"Do you read the bible Gunnery Sergeant?"
"Only before deployments.", the Marine's words were as full of pride and self reliance as the meaning behind them was.
"Did you ever read about what King David did to Uria the Hittite?"
"Why sir? Did he let him die when he was supposed to be getting answers from him instead?"
The Gorilla's resentment was becoming tangible in the air, but the smaller agent squared his shoulders as he stepped closer and glared right back.
"Uria was a soldier, and Solomon was a king with something to hide. To make sure it stayed hidden, he had Uria sent into battle on a suicide mission. Now can you do your job or should we talk some more about casualties from Iran?"
"I can do my job, sir. How should I handle this."
"You don't. You find that cop. I'll get the kid a foreign background and have him transfered to Guantanimo."
Night had fallen yet again. The criminal always returns the scene of the crime, He hopped the back fence and rushed to the window in a hunched stance, staying low and peering through the windows. The police had wrapped things up, nobody home. He stepped up to the sliding glass door and pushed it carefully, feeling to any movement. It was loose in its tracks, just loose enough that he could shake the latch loose.
He surveyed the house more carefully than he had before now, wary of being caught, or of missing some important detail. What a place to live; the carpet was a mat of grit and thread- nearly worn through in several places. The lynoleum tile nearly peeling up from the kitchen floor cracked and squeaked underfoot. The faint glare of a streetlight through the houses smoke-tinted windows reflected off of the dirty walls and carpet making the darkness more brown than black. Tom turned into the hallway marveling at how such a house could hold a bigscreen TV and an Escalade in the driveway. The whole place gave Tom the jitters, and just then the quiet peeling sound as his shoes tracked over the bloody strains in the carpet thundered like a tell-tale heart, causing him to freeze in his tracks before realizing what it was.
He flexed his neck, turning it to one side till the crack of joints released some of the pressure weighing down on him. Steadying himself now he began to stand on his toes and press his fingertips into the attic door and the ceiling around it. It wouldn't budge. He knocked on it carefully- is sounded remarkably solid and gave no hint of an echo. Something over it? He looked around the ceiling in frustration then moved on to the closet at the end of the hall. Nothing there either, or if there had been the police had taken it.
The front door rattled against the hinges as somebody began to open it. Dammit, burglar alarm? He slipped into the closet quietly and shut the door, then lowered himself to a crouching position to peer under the door. The lights came on and several sets of boots made their way into the hall and stopped in the middle, facing towards one wall. The water-heater closet?
The water heater came out immediately, clattering onto the carpet, dry as a bone.
what the hell?
One by one the sets of boots disappeared into the closet.
Either that's a lot bigger than it looks or else this is where the "closet" metaphor came from, ey boys?
Minutes past without a sound. He couldn't stay till they were gone. He had to know what was being moved. He drew his gun and crouched, slowly easing the closet door open. Not a sound. He threw the door open and scrambed into the master bedroom just feet away, completely unnoticed as he spun and leveled his gun at the doorway behind him.
Crap, the closet door. A quick peak assured him he coast was clear, and he stepped into the hall quickly, easing the closet door shut. He moved back into the room and slid his hand over the door. The key he had hidden fell to the carpet. He grabbed it and quietly excused himself via the window.
The side of the house was pitch black and somewhat noisy compliments of the air-conditioner fan just feet from the window he had exited. Nobody would notice him here. He slipped down the side of the house to the side door of the garage. A screen vent beside the door offered both an excellent view of the garage, and a nice full smell of the filthy rags and assorted household chemicals stored nearby. A black van was backed into the garage, back doors open and seats removed. The cargo area already held several boxes and a few thick green tubes witch black octagonal ends.
I don't know what it is, but I think I'd like to know.
Two men walked into the garage. The first carried a massive tripod. The second carried what Tom could only identify as the largest and most sinister looking weapon he had ever seen. The black-fatigue clad soldiers struggled briefly with the weapon as they fit it into the cargo compartment, then returned to the house. Tom couldn't see anybody else in the garage. Feet, don't fail me now!
He turned the doorknob and threw his shoulder into door. The door was solid, but the two small screws holding its latch were not. Tom burst into the room and swept the room with his gun, coming to rest on the door leading into the house just in time to see his assailant. The soldier struck the weapon from Tom's hand expertly, swinging his knuckles sharply into Tom's wrist as his other hand seized the back of Tom's palm. Tom's arm went numb and began to give almost immediately, turning the gun in towards his own body under the force of the soldier's grip. Instantly Tom pivoted to his left, and rotated his shoulder, leaving his shooting arm behind him and effectively in an arm bar and throwing his left elbow at the attacker, catching him squarely in the eye.
Tom could barely feel his arm as he squared off with the soldier, only bothering to raise it at all out of habit. The soldier feigned a lunge and Tom caught him with a jab. The soldier backed up instinctively and Tom took advantage, stepping in with a stomping kick at the soldiers knee and finishing him with an elbow as he folded to his knees. The soldier fell into the shelves on the wall beside him with a tremendous clatter.
fcking ametuer Tom turned and rushed to the van; the keys had been left in it. DEFINATELY ametuers
The rest of the men in the house arrived only in time to watch their their vehicle accelerating down the street. From the church window that Joe had fired from the night before, Gunnery Sergeant Hunt could only watch. He'd expected his quarry to come investigate his accomplice's last position. Apparently they were professional afterall, he thought to himself. Joe's "act" had almost taken him in. Joe had seemed off to him; if the kid wasn't an independent he must have been a trained monkey. Apparently he was a trained monkey, and the cop was the one with the sense.
The gunny leaned against the wall and peered out the window as the hired help below stormed the neighboring house, presumably to get keys to a vehicle. That's just great, make a big mess guys. I wonder who's gonna have to pick up after you. He left the room and finished his thought out loud, "I should have stayed with Recon.".
Tamarisk Country Club was the last place on in the world a manhunt would ever begin. Gerald Ford golfed there! Surely President Ford and his neighbors weren't harboring any criminals. At least not blue-collar ones. The security guard took one glance at Tom's badge and let him in. He didn't even remember to take down the van's license plate number. Seven dollars an hour didn't buy what it used to- the guard didn't even see Tom come back on foot and steal the customer contact book and key box out of the patrol car. Who would have thought Tom would be glad for having once been a rental cop?
It was late spring, and in the deserts of Southern California temperatures were supposed to be creeping into the 90s from time to time by now. Of course they weren't, but it had only been two years and most of the "snow birds" had not yet figured out that climate change was turning their winter golf resort into a year-round habitable climate. Most of the yards were completely dark- not even a garden light. A sure sign that the home owners were away for the summer already.
Too modern-looking. I may as well squat with taste... Jesus when did all of these pretentious old snobs suddenly give up on the old manor look? WOAH, that one could be a modern art masterpiece... I'd burn it down if I could afford to blow my cover.
The foolishness passed soon enough. The one hidden behind a long yard and a small hobby grove was nice and isolated, and the golden monogram on the mailbox would make finding the right entry in the contact book easy. He parked and flipped through the book.
"G, G, G... OK, so do you belong to the Garrets or the Glovers... Number 03, Golden way... you are the Glover house. Alarm code 1225."
I want to live on a street so exclusive I can have a two digit address. And now I do!
Tom pulled the van into the driveway and turned out the lights, then produced the leatherman pocket tool from his belt. The toolbox containing the security guards key was guarded by a nice strong master lock, and a pair of pathetic little made-in-Taiwan hinges. Ten minutes after arriving at the gate with a badge and a plan, Tom was a resident at one of the most exclusive clubs in Palm Springs, a short walk from a PGA golf course.
[edit on 24-2-2005 by The Vagabond]
You gotta admire my taste.
The house had everything Tom could have asked for. In the back it looked out on a fairly remote corner of the golf course- only a couple of hundred yards from the walls. He could be out to the street unnoticed at will. There were two computers sharing a DSL connection by wireless network- with any luck that would mean anonymous internet access through a neighbor's network. The place wasn't exactly an eyesore either. There was plenty of space, hardwood floors, good furniture, a small library, and perhaps most importantly, the owner hadn't though to take the humidor from the bedroom.
The temptation to relax and enjoy the achievement was matched only by Tom's curiosity over the contents of the boxes he'd unloaded in the garage. He set down the cigar which he had yet to light and removed this utility belt and uniform shirt. After a brief metal debate he retrieved his gun from the holster and slipped it into the waistband of his pants. On top of the annoyance of feeling the need to keep a weapon close, the cold steel chilled his back through his undershirt. It seemed the prudent thing to do though. He retrieved his cigar and returned to the garage. He'd arranged the boxes and along one wall and the tubes which appeared to be rockets along the adjacent wall. He struck a match and lit his cigar as he eyeballed the heavy locks guarding each of the large steel cases. I hope thats what the key is for.
One by one he tried the key in the locks, and one by one the locks clicked open, 13 cases in all, each one of more impressive contents than the next, and as his aching back could attest, each one significantly heavier than the next. Dumbstruck did not even come close. What in the hell was all of this for, and how could J have gotten it?
All but two of them were self explanatory to anyone who'd ever owned a playstation. Tom counted 36 M-16s- your basic assault rifle, 12 M-249 SAWs- belt-fed machine guns, more ammunition than he could ever hope to count- it had to be in the tens if not hundreds of thousands of rounds- 3 tremendous cases full of it. Several dozen hand grenades and claymore mines, and a case full of the large bullet-like grenades of the M-203 grenade launcher. More intriguing still were the last two cases. These weren't in any video game Tom had seen. 8 of what appeared to be sawed-off bazookas, and several dozen black tubes. This was no typical street gang firepower. Was J bringing in mercs? What the hell in a hole in the wall like Desert Hot Springs could need this much killing? He definitely needed help figuring this one out. He knew where to find great minds- he just didn't know how to pose his question without a moderator trash canning it as either a hoax or felony in progress. He'd also have to think up a good name; the single greatest hurdle to ending ones status as a Lurker.
Eric couldn't get home fast enough. He'd been pouring over that mornings exchange on ATS all day. A work day had never seemed so long before. He loved his job and liked to be kept busy. Today though the computer had been laughing in his face. If only he'd had a few minutes he could have signed in and looked further into the mysterious post he'd found that earlier.
Just another newbie with a fantastic story, hardly worth a second though... until Reikuro's thread.
Eric arrived home with a pretty good idea of what he needed to find out. He raided te fridge for coke as he went over his plan. First he'd have to check every angle of this story and find exactly where the contradictions were to see what was being covered up. He'd have to pay special attention to local media in IdiotSavant's area: if the weapons were being advertised in his area and now had been seized... could they be the same weapons? Researching would take forever- contrary to popular belief, not every obscure fact in the world was easily had online; the search engines all favored the mainstream sources.
Ok, MemoryShock and Awe time...
A little over an hour passed as the curious ATSer ran down every imaginable angle of the story. No names on the terrorists, no details about who had custody of them, nothing about the military personel who sold the weapons. There was NOTHING online- less than nothing, there was nothing even close. It was as if nobody had ever heard about it all except him. He went back to Reikuro's post to check for more details; it was gone. Upgraded back to ATSNN?... Member, Reikuro, search..... no result?! Had Reikuro been banned? I gotta get to IdiotSavant- he's my one thin lead now... BANNED?!
That was game over- there was no where to take it from here. Nowhere legal anyway. This was Strange though. How could you ignore a question like this right in front of your face though? Oh well, it won't exactly be my first online felony. Forgive me Mr. Gray Soon enough both IdiotSavant and Reikuro's IPs were in his possession- he could find them now.
Idiotsavant was from Palm Springs. Eric wondered if he might find something there if he narrowed his search to that area then used broader criteria. todays date + Palm Springs + arrested... too easy! The third result looked promising. "Channel 3 News- special correction notice".
If this coverup is as hasty as it looks... all of these names could be right, and there could be mistakes!
Hacking is a nice skill, but if you really want to know whats going on, you have to be comfortable with the system. Always know who to call, what to say to them, and (god forbid) what forms to fill out.
"Hello, Desert Hospital, how may I direct your call?"
"Morgue Please."
"One Second..."
"Hello, this is Raymond"
"Raymond, hi, this is Agent Jones with the FBI, Palm Springs Office. We are trying to clear up a paperwork error with DHSPD. You should have a DOA with gunshot wounds from early this morning, and we have an inconsistency with in the paperwork regarding his Social Security Number that you could hopefully clear up for us."
"One second... this morning? I'm afraid we haven't had that person today."
"Hmm, it was very early, why don't you try yesterday- perhaps there was a mistake about the time."
"OK... I have four actually, but they aren't from late- they all came in very early yesterday."
"James Franco?"
"Yes, he's one of them. The social you need is in our computer as 927-36-1040"
"But you say that he arrived early yesterday? Could that be a mistake or would it be more likely that the date I've been given is wrong?"
"Our computers record the date and time automatically and we have not had any problem with it recently sir."
"Thanks, bye."
Ok, so Franco was killed yesterday... why are they reporting it today. Let's see how everything pans out on Intellius. Here goes $20 down the drain.
"Memoryshock" couldn't believe what he was reading in Franco's background check. The man was wanted for every crime known to man. The local police said in the news that they weren't on to him until they caught on to the dirty cop. Time to ask the neighbors
Take one number off Franco's address and you have the house across the street. Search for it on Intellius and there's the phone number for one... Timothy Hunt.
"Hello."
"Yes, Mr. Hunt?"
"May I ask who is calling."
"Detective Jones from the Sheriffs Department."
The slim balding agent rolled his eyes at the disturbance by local officials he had already instructed to stand down.
"What is it?"
"Well sir there have been some incidents in your neighborhood over the last couple of days and we are trying to screen possible witnesses for interview. Would you happen to have heard gunshots in the early morning hours yesterday?"
"One second, I bet my wife would know a lot more about that."
He picked up his cellphone and stepped into the next room.
"This is Agent King, I need a carnivore flag on my number's connection- record, trace, voice compare to files, and internet packets from the past 72 hours."
"Ok, hang on detective my wife should be coming to the phone in just a few minutes. Have you got any other questions for me in the meantime..."
[edit on 9-3-2005 by The Vagabond]
The house had everything Tom could have asked for. In the back it looked out on a fairly remote corner of the golf course- only a couple of hundred yards from the walls. He could be out to the street unnoticed at will. There were two computers sharing a DSL connection by wireless network- with any luck that would mean anonymous internet access through a neighbor's network. The place wasn't exactly an eyesore either. There was plenty of space, hardwood floors, good furniture, a small library, and perhaps most importantly, the owner hadn't though to take the humidor from the bedroom.
The temptation to relax and enjoy the achievement was matched only by Tom's curiosity over the contents of the boxes he'd unloaded in the garage. He set down the cigar which he had yet to light and removed this utility belt and uniform shirt. After a brief metal debate he retrieved his gun from the holster and slipped it into the waistband of his pants. On top of the annoyance of feeling the need to keep a weapon close, the cold steel chilled his back through his undershirt. It seemed the prudent thing to do though. He retrieved his cigar and returned to the garage. He'd arranged the boxes and along one wall and the tubes which appeared to be rockets along the adjacent wall. He struck a match and lit his cigar as he eyeballed the heavy locks guarding each of the large steel cases. I hope thats what the key is for.
One by one he tried the key in the locks, and one by one the locks clicked open, 13 cases in all, each one of more impressive contents than the next, and as his aching back could attest, each one significantly heavier than the next. Dumbstruck did not even come close. What in the hell was all of this for, and how could J have gotten it?
All but two of them were self explanatory to anyone who'd ever owned a playstation. Tom counted 36 M-16s- your basic assault rifle, 12 M-249 SAWs- belt-fed machine guns, more ammunition than he could ever hope to count- it had to be in the tens if not hundreds of thousands of rounds- 3 tremendous cases full of it. Several dozen hand grenades and claymore mines, and a case full of the large bullet-like grenades of the M-203 grenade launcher. More intriguing still were the last two cases. These weren't in any video game Tom had seen. 8 of what appeared to be sawed-off bazookas, and several dozen black tubes. This was no typical street gang firepower. Was J bringing in mercs? What the hell in a hole in the wall like Desert Hot Springs could need this much killing? He definitely needed help figuring this one out. He knew where to find great minds- he just didn't know how to pose his question without a moderator trash canning it as either a hoax or felony in progress. He'd also have to think up a good name; the single greatest hurdle to ending ones status as a Lurker.
Eric couldn't get home fast enough. He'd been pouring over that mornings exchange on ATS all day. A work day had never seemed so long before. He loved his job and liked to be kept busy. Today though the computer had been laughing in his face. If only he'd had a few minutes he could have signed in and looked further into the mysterious post he'd found that earlier.
Originally posted by IdiotSavant
Found this picture in the advertisement of a magazine. Claims to provide legitimate military weapons, not duds, and offers serial numbers for confirmation. Anyway to prove if its for real and where they would be coming from? There must be some sort of a reward if it turns out to be illegal, and we would probably make the news.
oringinally posted by Memoryshock
Oh yeah, throw the serial numbers at us, that'll help a lot. I'll just mytically guess what base they came from, commit a felony by hacking in to see if those weapons were issued from that base (if the records are computerized) and then we'll all know if you're serious or not. I hate to be mean but come on. Scan the advertisement from that magazine... that's a great start.
Just another newbie with a fantastic story, hardly worth a second though... until Reikuro's thread.
SSB Makes Domestic Weapons Bust (moved from ATSNN)
This story is still developing, but the Department of Defense says that at this very moment, private military contractors working under the SSB are raiding terrorist weapons caches. The DoD has not waited until morning for this story, but has alerted the media immediately saying that this the interception of an imminent terrorist attack is not run of the mill daily briefing news. The DoD is celebrating this as proof that Patriot Act II is serving its purposes "in a way that answers all controversy.."
AP Article: "A daring infiltration operation by the Pentagon's Strategic Services Branch has lead them to an undisclosed location in Southern California, where they say they have foiled a terrorist plot just hours from execution. With backup from private military contracters who had been assigned as a security detail at Marine Corps Air Station 29 Palms, SSB agents are reported to be in the process of clearing a terrorist arms cache where domestic enemy combatants were preparing for a strike. A source which asked not to be identified has confirmed the nature of the weapons cache, saying that US Military weapons were sold to terrorists by disgruntled veterans, angry that stoploss orders have prevented them from returning to civilian life.
DoD aides say that full details and statements from Secretary Rumsfeld will be given in a press conference later this morning, but that "It's important that people have the facts, especially on subjects like this where a false rumor or distorted news leak could create a panic if the truth isn't put out there. Contrary to what certain alarmist lawmakers might claim, this government and its intelligence services are committed to having a transparent and honest relationship with the people."
Analysis: Wow, I wonder what exactly happened? The article is pretty vague, but military weapons sold to terrorists by our own troops? Could it have just been an undercover op?
Posted by FredT
Sorry to be the badguy, but your link is dead and I couldn't find the story anywhere online. Thread moved.
Posted by MemoryShock
There is obviously something wrong with that news release, especially considering that it has come down. Look at the language in it. How many times does this nameless official refer to being "honest"? Anyone who pays attention knows that when a person starts a sentence with "To tell you the truth" it means they are lying.
On top of that, look at the references to false rumors and such, then the story just happens to disappear. Something went wrong. They realized at the last minute that there was an obvious hole in their propaganda or something and they scrapped it.
Last but not least, think about the timing. Why did Washington make a special release of this at 6AM EST when there was a regularly scheduled news briefing just an hour later, especially when they didn't have the details yet? This event was being inflated and glossed over. They wanted it already going on when people woke up to go to work so that we wouldn't have time to think about it too much when it first hit us.
This is standard format propaganda for the department of defense lately, I've been pointing out other stories with elements like this for months. This one is more chock-full of it than most though. Something must have gone WAY wrong.
I've got to get to work, I'll look into this more when I get off. I think I have an angle on the weapons they were confiscating.
Eric arrived home with a pretty good idea of what he needed to find out. He raided te fridge for coke as he went over his plan. First he'd have to check every angle of this story and find exactly where the contradictions were to see what was being covered up. He'd have to pay special attention to local media in IdiotSavant's area: if the weapons were being advertised in his area and now had been seized... could they be the same weapons? Researching would take forever- contrary to popular belief, not every obscure fact in the world was easily had online; the search engines all favored the mainstream sources.
Ok, MemoryShock and Awe time...
A little over an hour passed as the curious ATSer ran down every imaginable angle of the story. No names on the terrorists, no details about who had custody of them, nothing about the military personel who sold the weapons. There was NOTHING online- less than nothing, there was nothing even close. It was as if nobody had ever heard about it all except him. He went back to Reikuro's post to check for more details; it was gone. Upgraded back to ATSNN?... Member, Reikuro, search..... no result?! Had Reikuro been banned? I gotta get to IdiotSavant- he's my one thin lead now... BANNED?!
That was game over- there was no where to take it from here. Nowhere legal anyway. This was Strange though. How could you ignore a question like this right in front of your face though? Oh well, it won't exactly be my first online felony. Forgive me Mr. Gray Soon enough both IdiotSavant and Reikuro's IPs were in his possession- he could find them now.
Idiotsavant was from Palm Springs. Eric wondered if he might find something there if he narrowed his search to that area then used broader criteria. todays date + Palm Springs + arrested... too easy! The third result looked promising. "Channel 3 News- special correction notice".
Please read before emailing: Channel 3 would like to appologize for the confusion over a story which ran this morning. This mornings police raid on 7th street in Desert Hot Springs was not related to the leaked announcement of a terrorist plot being foiled in Southern California this morning. The story can be read here link.
SWAT Team Raids Drug House
At 3AM this morning, a Riverside County Sheriffs SWAT Team raided the home of James Franco, a drug dealer and suspect in several gang-related murders over the past year. Four gang members were killed, including Franco himself, and one surrendered. Corporal Sean Tellman, a military policeman from 29 Palms and decorated veteran of both the Iraqi Freedom campaign as well the ongoing war in Iran, was found in the house, heavily under the influence of meth-amphedamine. At least one person escaped the bust however. Sources inside the internal affairs division of Desert Hot Springs Police Department say that the bust was made possible when they found out that one of their own was crooked and in business with the drug dealers. They have identified this fugitive as officer Tom Connors, saying that he escaped the raid, broke into a neighboring house and murdered a family of three there to obtain a get away car; a 1996 Ford E-350 Van, black in color, license plate 6L0644. Police warn that neither this fugitive or the vehicle should be approached, but that if you see them you should call 911 immediately.
If this coverup is as hasty as it looks... all of these names could be right, and there could be mistakes!
Hacking is a nice skill, but if you really want to know whats going on, you have to be comfortable with the system. Always know who to call, what to say to them, and (god forbid) what forms to fill out.
"Hello, Desert Hospital, how may I direct your call?"
"Morgue Please."
"One Second..."
"Hello, this is Raymond"
"Raymond, hi, this is Agent Jones with the FBI, Palm Springs Office. We are trying to clear up a paperwork error with DHSPD. You should have a DOA with gunshot wounds from early this morning, and we have an inconsistency with in the paperwork regarding his Social Security Number that you could hopefully clear up for us."
"One second... this morning? I'm afraid we haven't had that person today."
"Hmm, it was very early, why don't you try yesterday- perhaps there was a mistake about the time."
"OK... I have four actually, but they aren't from late- they all came in very early yesterday."
"James Franco?"
"Yes, he's one of them. The social you need is in our computer as 927-36-1040"
"But you say that he arrived early yesterday? Could that be a mistake or would it be more likely that the date I've been given is wrong?"
"Our computers record the date and time automatically and we have not had any problem with it recently sir."
"Thanks, bye."
Ok, so Franco was killed yesterday... why are they reporting it today. Let's see how everything pans out on Intellius. Here goes $20 down the drain.
"Memoryshock" couldn't believe what he was reading in Franco's background check. The man was wanted for every crime known to man. The local police said in the news that they weren't on to him until they caught on to the dirty cop. Time to ask the neighbors
Take one number off Franco's address and you have the house across the street. Search for it on Intellius and there's the phone number for one... Timothy Hunt.
"Hello."
"Yes, Mr. Hunt?"
"May I ask who is calling."
"Detective Jones from the Sheriffs Department."
The slim balding agent rolled his eyes at the disturbance by local officials he had already instructed to stand down.
"What is it?"
"Well sir there have been some incidents in your neighborhood over the last couple of days and we are trying to screen possible witnesses for interview. Would you happen to have heard gunshots in the early morning hours yesterday?"
"One second, I bet my wife would know a lot more about that."
He picked up his cellphone and stepped into the next room.
"This is Agent King, I need a carnivore flag on my number's connection- record, trace, voice compare to files, and internet packets from the past 72 hours."
"Ok, hang on detective my wife should be coming to the phone in just a few minutes. Have you got any other questions for me in the meantime..."
[edit on 9-3-2005 by The Vagabond]
Originally posted by The Vagabond
Ok, MemoryShock and Awe time...
Yeah!!!!!!!!! Every time I sign on to ATS from now on I'm going to be thinking that!!!
This is an enjoyable read, Vagabond, and I am looking forward to seeing this unfold.
Edit for grammatical eror
[edit on 9-3-2005 by MemoryShock]
Eric had all but forgotten about the phenomenal cover-up he'd discovered earlier. Memoryshock was just a cocky rebellious young mind exploring the
world over the phone lines. When it came time to log off and get some dinner he was just another ordinary person, and an upstanding young citizen.
Memoryshock might not have a lily white record if law enforcement knew who he was, but man behind the name had no such concerns. He was completely
awestruck that evening when the awful splintering of his door-jam and slam of the door against the wall heralded the arrival of federal agents in his
apartment.
"GET ON THE GROUND!", the agent took a thrusting step forward as if the handgun trained on Eric were a spear. "I SAID GET DOWN!"
A sharp pain shot down Eric's calf as one of the agents stepped on his Achilles tendon and shoved him down.
"Jesus! You trying out for the LAPD or something?"
"Be Quiet! Who else is here?"
"My lawyers gonna be here jackass! Now where the heck is your warrant?!"
Eric tried to look up for a response but is face was pressed flat to the ground quickly and a knee dug into his lower back as his hands were being cuffed behind him.
"You are being detained for questioning in a matter related to terrorism as governed by the Patriot Act. You do not have the right to remain silent and anything you say can be used against you in a court of law or other appropriate legal venue. You will have access to a properly cleared legal professional at the earliest possible time. Do you understand?"
"NO, I don't friggin understand!"
Apparently that didn't matter. They patted him down, took his wallet and phone, and dragged him out to a waiting car.
It was a nice Los Angeles evening- cool, not too windy, and aided by street lights and light from the surrounding buildings, the daylight seemed to be lingering just a little longer than it would in most places, even as the sun was rapidly vanishing. MemoryShock left himself in the laying position in back of the car just as he was thrown in. It would be good cover if he could just reach his pockets. He contorted his shoulders carefully, trying not to make too much of a show of it as he forced his pants to twist a bit and reached into his pocket for the pen the agents had missed. He had it... then he carefully pulled the pocket inside out and started picking at the stitches with the tip of the pen.soon he had it loose. He shifted in the seat and made himself sit up, cursing and carrying on to distract from the noise as he ripped the cloth of his pants pocket pulling it loose from his pants. Hopefully he could write legibly with his hands behind him...
kidnapped. tell John Glover, Palm Springs, CA- prove it. MS
He started down at the message, barely visible on the cloth and hardly recognizable as English. His message in a bottle. Now he'd have to find a way to get it found. He palmed it and began to examine the surrounding outside the car. He'd have to find a good place to make his get away.He scooted away from the window a bit as the car stopped at an intersection, just across the street from a McDonalds.... perfect.
He looked around the car one last time- it wasn't a crown victoria- didn't have a screen to separate him from the drivers- probably wasn't a police model. He tested the door handle- it had child locks. The agent in the passenger seat looked back at him but didn't seem too concerned.
The car started to move and it was time to act. MemoryShock pivoted sideways and kicked against the window with both feet, shattering it easily, he kicked his legs out and begin to squirm his way out. The passenger was out long before him and pulled him the rest of the way out of the car. As Memoryshock was being pushed up against the car he saw two men getting out of the car behind them. The driver of the car produced a badge and approached them- this was his chance. He drove a knee up into the groin of the agent holding him. The man doubled over and Memoryshock made his awkward sprint for the gate of the McDonald's play land, with both hands still cuffed behind him.
For a man of primarily intellectual gifts, Memoryshock was at least quite coordinated. As he approached the small fence he stepped up onto the small brick base upon which the welded metal fence sat, and bounded up onto it, throwing his chest over and hanging over by his mid section. The sudden landing of all his weight on his chest left him coughing for air, but he forced himself to shift his legs over the gate and in a heap he collapsed inside the playground area. The agents were right on his heels, but the fence bought him a split second more as he dashed inside he dropped his note beside the entrance to the play-ground equipment and proceeded inside. He bolted for the restroom, scarcely getting the door slammed and locked as the thump on the door announced that the agents had arrived just a split second too late.
I can't fight with these stinking cuffs on...
He sat down on the sink hooking the chain of his cuffs on the faucet and pulling himself up hard. His shoulders and wrists went hot with pain as he stretched, then his mind felt with terror as he felt the grinding of metal breaking- the sink was about to give. Just as he got himself seated atop the faucet the sink broke from the wall. Sink, prisoner, and cuffs collapsed to the ground with a clatter and the as MemoryShock lay writhing in pain it was all he could do to keep his arms still. He had the cuffs under his butt now- the hard part was over and he couldn't ruin that. He leaned forward and pushed his arms further forward as he folded his legs and one by one pulled the cuffs from behind his legs. He had his hands in front if him now at least, and none too soon. He could hear the rattling of keys as the manager arrived to assist the agents. He gripped the pen in his clenched fists- a desperate weapon for a very desperate situation. He had no intention of becoming another suppressed horror story of an innocent man locked away in a secret camp without trial for over a year. He'd wondered if the stories like that were true- and now he felt that he had a pretty good idea.
The door opened and Memoryshock threw himself into the opening, thrusting the pen into the first agents throat. As the second agent drew his weapon Memoryshock hastily snatched the weapon from his victims holster and retreated into the restroom. He trained the weapon on the door- waiting for somebody to come through. The terror of the situation closed in around him. He hated violence. He'd just been attacked, then killed a man! Maybe it would be best to turn the gun on himself.
No- they started it. He'd never even been in a fist fight before, but he fancied himself as being at least man enough to go down swinging. Now he'd find out.
He stood up, wiped the sweat from his face, and marched three short paces to his destiny. Whipping his arms around the corner and firing immediately, he dispatched the agent with his first shot, point blank to the face, and didn't even know it. Without counting his shots or thinking to come our from cover he proceeded to blindly empty the clip into the hallway. Out of ammo- he hadn't planned on living this long; he didn't know what came next. All he could think to do was run. So he did.
"GET ON THE GROUND!", the agent took a thrusting step forward as if the handgun trained on Eric were a spear. "I SAID GET DOWN!"
A sharp pain shot down Eric's calf as one of the agents stepped on his Achilles tendon and shoved him down.
"Jesus! You trying out for the LAPD or something?"
"Be Quiet! Who else is here?"
"My lawyers gonna be here jackass! Now where the heck is your warrant?!"
Eric tried to look up for a response but is face was pressed flat to the ground quickly and a knee dug into his lower back as his hands were being cuffed behind him.
"You are being detained for questioning in a matter related to terrorism as governed by the Patriot Act. You do not have the right to remain silent and anything you say can be used against you in a court of law or other appropriate legal venue. You will have access to a properly cleared legal professional at the earliest possible time. Do you understand?"
"NO, I don't friggin understand!"
Apparently that didn't matter. They patted him down, took his wallet and phone, and dragged him out to a waiting car.
It was a nice Los Angeles evening- cool, not too windy, and aided by street lights and light from the surrounding buildings, the daylight seemed to be lingering just a little longer than it would in most places, even as the sun was rapidly vanishing. MemoryShock left himself in the laying position in back of the car just as he was thrown in. It would be good cover if he could just reach his pockets. He contorted his shoulders carefully, trying not to make too much of a show of it as he forced his pants to twist a bit and reached into his pocket for the pen the agents had missed. He had it... then he carefully pulled the pocket inside out and started picking at the stitches with the tip of the pen.soon he had it loose. He shifted in the seat and made himself sit up, cursing and carrying on to distract from the noise as he ripped the cloth of his pants pocket pulling it loose from his pants. Hopefully he could write legibly with his hands behind him...
kidnapped. tell John Glover, Palm Springs, CA- prove it. MS
He started down at the message, barely visible on the cloth and hardly recognizable as English. His message in a bottle. Now he'd have to find a way to get it found. He palmed it and began to examine the surrounding outside the car. He'd have to find a good place to make his get away.He scooted away from the window a bit as the car stopped at an intersection, just across the street from a McDonalds.... perfect.
He looked around the car one last time- it wasn't a crown victoria- didn't have a screen to separate him from the drivers- probably wasn't a police model. He tested the door handle- it had child locks. The agent in the passenger seat looked back at him but didn't seem too concerned.
The car started to move and it was time to act. MemoryShock pivoted sideways and kicked against the window with both feet, shattering it easily, he kicked his legs out and begin to squirm his way out. The passenger was out long before him and pulled him the rest of the way out of the car. As Memoryshock was being pushed up against the car he saw two men getting out of the car behind them. The driver of the car produced a badge and approached them- this was his chance. He drove a knee up into the groin of the agent holding him. The man doubled over and Memoryshock made his awkward sprint for the gate of the McDonald's play land, with both hands still cuffed behind him.
For a man of primarily intellectual gifts, Memoryshock was at least quite coordinated. As he approached the small fence he stepped up onto the small brick base upon which the welded metal fence sat, and bounded up onto it, throwing his chest over and hanging over by his mid section. The sudden landing of all his weight on his chest left him coughing for air, but he forced himself to shift his legs over the gate and in a heap he collapsed inside the playground area. The agents were right on his heels, but the fence bought him a split second more as he dashed inside he dropped his note beside the entrance to the play-ground equipment and proceeded inside. He bolted for the restroom, scarcely getting the door slammed and locked as the thump on the door announced that the agents had arrived just a split second too late.
I can't fight with these stinking cuffs on...
He sat down on the sink hooking the chain of his cuffs on the faucet and pulling himself up hard. His shoulders and wrists went hot with pain as he stretched, then his mind felt with terror as he felt the grinding of metal breaking- the sink was about to give. Just as he got himself seated atop the faucet the sink broke from the wall. Sink, prisoner, and cuffs collapsed to the ground with a clatter and the as MemoryShock lay writhing in pain it was all he could do to keep his arms still. He had the cuffs under his butt now- the hard part was over and he couldn't ruin that. He leaned forward and pushed his arms further forward as he folded his legs and one by one pulled the cuffs from behind his legs. He had his hands in front if him now at least, and none too soon. He could hear the rattling of keys as the manager arrived to assist the agents. He gripped the pen in his clenched fists- a desperate weapon for a very desperate situation. He had no intention of becoming another suppressed horror story of an innocent man locked away in a secret camp without trial for over a year. He'd wondered if the stories like that were true- and now he felt that he had a pretty good idea.
The door opened and Memoryshock threw himself into the opening, thrusting the pen into the first agents throat. As the second agent drew his weapon Memoryshock hastily snatched the weapon from his victims holster and retreated into the restroom. He trained the weapon on the door- waiting for somebody to come through. The terror of the situation closed in around him. He hated violence. He'd just been attacked, then killed a man! Maybe it would be best to turn the gun on himself.
No- they started it. He'd never even been in a fist fight before, but he fancied himself as being at least man enough to go down swinging. Now he'd find out.
He stood up, wiped the sweat from his face, and marched three short paces to his destiny. Whipping his arms around the corner and firing immediately, he dispatched the agent with his first shot, point blank to the face, and didn't even know it. Without counting his shots or thinking to come our from cover he proceeded to blindly empty the clip into the hallway. Out of ammo- he hadn't planned on living this long; he didn't know what came next. All he could think to do was run. So he did.
I'm sorry it's been so long coming. I've got this story on a feeding tube right now but prospects aren't great. I've tried to be too complicated
in some places and I've been mind numbingly simple in other places- I'm not happy with it.
Anyway I hope to read through what I've got so far and basically fast-forward into a more NWOish world so that things will really get rolling. I'll bring Rika into the story during that process.
Right now my priorities are basically to get my main character back into the story (I think taking him out of action was a huge mistake) bring the protagonists all together, and start one or two long-term conflicts to carry the story for a while.
I'll make myself finish the next chapter this weekend.
Anyway I hope to read through what I've got so far and basically fast-forward into a more NWOish world so that things will really get rolling. I'll bring Rika into the story during that process.
Right now my priorities are basically to get my main character back into the story (I think taking him out of action was a huge mistake) bring the protagonists all together, and start one or two long-term conflicts to carry the story for a while.
I'll make myself finish the next chapter this weekend.
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