Harry Guakomoli was on a mission to fuck up a cat. He had just broken the face and genitalia of a fellow street-level crime fighter and felt mighty good about doing it. Fucking scum, our hero thought about Travis. I should have done that a long time ago.
The Guak had stolen Travis' canary yellow cab and was hauling ass through The City towards the barrio. The Guak thought that maybe cruising at close to 100mph wasn't the wisest of ideas. It would sure have sucked to be stopped by the cops on the way to confront his once best friend. But the head wound he gave Travis caused blood to smear all over the hood. Attention was already drawn to the cab so fuck it.
The cab's speed allowed our hero to reach the barrio in record time. The Guak cut on to Lemon Street and continued to race, ignoring the traffic lights and stop signs and went crazy with his horn. His apartment building, Oslo The World's Smartest Cat's apartment building, was only half a block away, and The Guak could see a trademark lowrider of Los Fuegos Pollos parked across the street with two gangbangers behind it playing craps. They looked up to see the taxi barreling down on them at full speed. They sprang up and tried to run, but it was too late for the cholos; the cab collided into the back of the lowrider with the pair caught between the two vehicles. The men died immediately upon impact.
The Guak, who was smart enough to have buckled up as he rocketed down the streets of The City, was spared the brunt of the crash due to the cab's safety belt. He quickly unbuckled and exited the Crown Vic. Across the street, in front of the building our hero once called home, stood four more Los Fuegos Pollos staring in disbelief at what just happened to their homeboys. They did not realize it was The Guak who murdered their amigos until he charged towards them. One of them was punched in the throat, his windpipe crushed the second he snapped out of his paralyzing astonishment. Another reached for the semi-automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his low-hanging jeans. Our hero wrapped one of his mighty mitts around his neck and grabbed a handful of hair with the other. He pulled until the gangbanger's head became separated from the rest of his body. A torrent of blood erupted from his neck. A cholo pointed his pistol at The Guak who countered by hurling the previous victim's head at him. The head connected with El Fuego Pollo's own head which threw off his aim. The barrage of bullets ventilated the other breathing homeboy. Or he was breathing before the bullets tore through his heart. Our hero shortened the gap between him and the gunman in an instant. The Guak grabbed his wrist and stepped behind him, twisting and cracking the Latino man's arm as he did so. Our hero grabbed the other wrist and violently yanked its arm behind him as well. The Guak kicked the gangbanger's legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. Our hero placed his foot between the gunman's shoulder blades and pushed down while he pulled up and back on his arms until they were torn from their sockets. The cholo wailed like a banshee until he was silenced by a stomp to the back of the neck.
Our hero kicked the severed head down Lemon Street before he bolted up the stoop to the front door. It was locked so he ripped it from its frame. The Guak chucked the door behind him, and he heard it hit a car. He reckoned it was the Camry. Regardless of the vehicle's make and model, the impact of the door hitting it set off the car's alarm. The Guak chuckled and then proceeded up the stairs. The thuds of his march were not as impressive in the cheap Velcro sneakers as they would if he was wearing his shit kickers, but they were still loud enough that The Guak knew Oslo would hear them. Slowly, deliberately, he climbed up the stairs.
The Guak stood in front of the door of the fourth floor apartment he once called home. He knew the door would be locked with a dead bolt, and he knew that wouldn't stop him. He kicked the door hard, causing the frame to split and the door to violently swing open. The impact disconnected the door from its hinges.
Our hero looked in and immediately saw Yo-Yo Ramirez naked as the day is long. A shock of horror swept across her face, and the sexy curvaceous Latina pointed at him.
"¡Mi Dios! El Guako!"
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Part XXVII: Travis' Big Night
Harry Guakomoli had been dead for six months, and Travis really couldn't care less. Sure, The Guak was helpful when they were both gunning for the same son of a bitch and they would join forces. Well, Travis would gun for him while The Guak used his fists, feet, head, and the occasional improvised weapon when it was time for violence.
It was always time for violence for Travis. It was the only thing the mongrels understood. These thugs didn't understand anything else. So they had to pay...and pay dearly.
No, The Guak's absence merely meant Travis didn't have a self-righteous blowhard to act as a target when the vigilante sent the drug pushers and flesh peddlers to Hell with his twin Glocks.
Travis prowled the streets for prey in his cab: a 1998 canary yellow Crown Vic. The degenerates and lowlifes never suspected a taxi cruising the 'hoods looking for the creeps that taint and sully this once great city. This once great nation. The limp-wristed politicians and their minions in the police force were too soft to do what needed to be done. If they were hard enough to make the tough choices and take action they were corrupt. Just as bent as the whores and skinners and methheads and skunk pussies they should have bee fighting to eliminate.
Travis was alone in his crusade. Sure, there was The Guak and his negress girlfriend. Uppity bitch. Then Guakomoli traded her in for that fucking cat. One brown pussy for another. Travis had spent hours coming up with that. His cleverness made him chuckle.
Laughter did not come easily for Travis. He lead a joyless existence; there was no time for mirth in this street soldier's one-man war against the killers, pimps, fairies, rapists, dope-peddling shines, and the rest of The City's trash. Travis was a hard rain washing over this modern day Sodom. His deluge of hot lead will cleanse the streets. Yes, he was God's lonely hand of justice.
But Travis' forlornness was about to end. He had a date with destiny. He was going to march up to Leisure and shoot the creep in the sack, then the gut, and finally in his fucking head.
The vigilante would take Lily away from the abuse and depravity and make her pure again. His plan was to take her to Driscoll's and treat her to a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. Then take her home to the efficiency apartment he shared with his mother. The next morning a Justice Of The Peace would make the pair man and wife. The plan was perfect, the only snag would be Travis fighting the temptation to consummate their righteous union before they were to be wed.
It was only half an hour until showtime. Travis leaned on the hood of his cab feeling like the shit. His trademark mohawk, aviator shades, and ratty Army coat were in attendance as always, but he also needed to impress his dream girl, his bride-to-be, his Lily. God's lonely hand of justice accomplished this by wearing a tight short-sleeved tan button-up shirt and a fat mahogany tie. The slacks, also mahogany in color, clung snugly to his lower body. He had been doing fifty pushups and fifty pullups every day since early summer, and he wanted to show off his physique to his beloved.
It had been a long Friday night for Travis, and before his murdering of Leisure and rescuing of Lily he shot the breeze with fellow hacks Warlock, Cole Snorter, and Crackerjack. He worked hard, and soon he would kill hard then play hard.
But then there he was. Travis rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He was not: standing before him, in hobo clothes, was The Guak. Travis stared at the walking dead man, mouth agape. Said walking dead man walked right over to the cabbie/exterminator.
"Travis," stated The Guak. "A word."
Travis' fellow drivers looked at The Guak's stone cold countenance and Travis' own expression of shock and terror. The men decided to let the crime fighters have their space and entered the diner.
"How? What?" asked Travis beside himself. "How can this be? I was at your funeral."
"I had a funeral?" The Guak was amused.
"Yeah, it was put on by your fairy priest friend and a bunch of spics."
Travis noticed he had hit a nerve as The Guak clenched and unclenched his fists and clenched them again.
"No offense," Travis lied. He couldn't figure out if the walking dead man was a queer or just a race traitor. Probably both.
"I need to borrow your cab," said The Guak as he barely managed to control his wrath.
"No can do, man. I'm swinging by Leisure's soon and picking up Lily. We've got a date, and I need my wheels."
"I understand," The Guak said. "Tell me about your dream girl."
"She's the salt of the earth, my Lily," began Travis. "But with a real potty mouth too. I love that about her. Long dirty blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Perky tits. So young, so innocent."
"Sweet, my man," responded The Guak. "How young is the little darling?"
"She'll be fourteen in November."
"Yum! Do you have a picture of the lucky lady?"
"Yeah! I've got a few on my phone!"
Travis was a lot of things: driven, hardcore, bat shit crazy. But intelligent was not a quality God's lonely hand of justice possessed. He should have suspected The Guak was putting on a ruse; our hero had always voiced his disapproval of Travis' predilection towards teenage girls. The Guak had called him a pervert, a pedophile, and a sick fuck. But Travis was blinded by the fact someone finally expressed positive interest in his predisposition towards underage flesh. Except for Oslo. That fucking cat was always trying to move in on his action. The lunatic gunman, to put it bluntly, was a fucking idiot. He surmised no untoward action against him as he dug around in his military-issued coat pocket for his cellular telephone, which doubled as a treasure trove of photographs of jail bait in various stages of undress.
The lightning quick elbow hit Travis hard. He felt his face crack as the strongest man he knew smashed it in. The crime fighter/cab driver/statutory rapist was knocked off his feet from the blow, hitting his mohawked head on the car's hood, the fender, and finally the asphalt of Driscoll's parking lot. It did not take long for the the blood to begin seeping out of his noggin. The Guak stook his hand into his victim's pocket and withdrew Travis' phone and car keys.
"What the fuck, man?!" Travis exclaimed as he gargled his own blood.
"I should have done this a long time ago, and I'm disgusted with myself that I didn't."
Our hero crushed the cell phone with his hand. Tiny bits of plastic and electronics fell to the ground and landed in the puddle of Travis' head blood. Then The Guak stomped hard on the groin of God's lonely hand of justice. Our hero always felt attacking another man's genitals was strictly forbidden. The Guak was just as dirty a fighter as the next guy when forced, but he still had something of a code. No going after the junk. Yet in that one instance he made an exception. A broken dick and ruptured nuts would ensure Travis would not be sticking it to minors any time soon.
"Thanks for the car, shitheel," our hero said through clenched teeth as he made his way to the cab's driver's side front door.
"But-but-but I was going to kill Leisure tonight," lamented Travis as more blood poured from his cranium.
"Maybe when I get back we'll do a team-up."
It was always time for violence for Travis. It was the only thing the mongrels understood. These thugs didn't understand anything else. So they had to pay...and pay dearly.
No, The Guak's absence merely meant Travis didn't have a self-righteous blowhard to act as a target when the vigilante sent the drug pushers and flesh peddlers to Hell with his twin Glocks.
Travis prowled the streets for prey in his cab: a 1998 canary yellow Crown Vic. The degenerates and lowlifes never suspected a taxi cruising the 'hoods looking for the creeps that taint and sully this once great city. This once great nation. The limp-wristed politicians and their minions in the police force were too soft to do what needed to be done. If they were hard enough to make the tough choices and take action they were corrupt. Just as bent as the whores and skinners and methheads and skunk pussies they should have bee fighting to eliminate.
Travis was alone in his crusade. Sure, there was The Guak and his negress girlfriend. Uppity bitch. Then Guakomoli traded her in for that fucking cat. One brown pussy for another. Travis had spent hours coming up with that. His cleverness made him chuckle.
Laughter did not come easily for Travis. He lead a joyless existence; there was no time for mirth in this street soldier's one-man war against the killers, pimps, fairies, rapists, dope-peddling shines, and the rest of The City's trash. Travis was a hard rain washing over this modern day Sodom. His deluge of hot lead will cleanse the streets. Yes, he was God's lonely hand of justice.
But Travis' forlornness was about to end. He had a date with destiny. He was going to march up to Leisure and shoot the creep in the sack, then the gut, and finally in his fucking head.
The vigilante would take Lily away from the abuse and depravity and make her pure again. His plan was to take her to Driscoll's and treat her to a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. Then take her home to the efficiency apartment he shared with his mother. The next morning a Justice Of The Peace would make the pair man and wife. The plan was perfect, the only snag would be Travis fighting the temptation to consummate their righteous union before they were to be wed.
It was only half an hour until showtime. Travis leaned on the hood of his cab feeling like the shit. His trademark mohawk, aviator shades, and ratty Army coat were in attendance as always, but he also needed to impress his dream girl, his bride-to-be, his Lily. God's lonely hand of justice accomplished this by wearing a tight short-sleeved tan button-up shirt and a fat mahogany tie. The slacks, also mahogany in color, clung snugly to his lower body. He had been doing fifty pushups and fifty pullups every day since early summer, and he wanted to show off his physique to his beloved.
It had been a long Friday night for Travis, and before his murdering of Leisure and rescuing of Lily he shot the breeze with fellow hacks Warlock, Cole Snorter, and Crackerjack. He worked hard, and soon he would kill hard then play hard.
But then there he was. Travis rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He was not: standing before him, in hobo clothes, was The Guak. Travis stared at the walking dead man, mouth agape. Said walking dead man walked right over to the cabbie/exterminator.
"Travis," stated The Guak. "A word."
Travis' fellow drivers looked at The Guak's stone cold countenance and Travis' own expression of shock and terror. The men decided to let the crime fighters have their space and entered the diner.
"How? What?" asked Travis beside himself. "How can this be? I was at your funeral."
"I had a funeral?" The Guak was amused.
"Yeah, it was put on by your fairy priest friend and a bunch of spics."
Travis noticed he had hit a nerve as The Guak clenched and unclenched his fists and clenched them again.
"No offense," Travis lied. He couldn't figure out if the walking dead man was a queer or just a race traitor. Probably both.
"I need to borrow your cab," said The Guak as he barely managed to control his wrath.
"No can do, man. I'm swinging by Leisure's soon and picking up Lily. We've got a date, and I need my wheels."
"I understand," The Guak said. "Tell me about your dream girl."
"She's the salt of the earth, my Lily," began Travis. "But with a real potty mouth too. I love that about her. Long dirty blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Perky tits. So young, so innocent."
"Sweet, my man," responded The Guak. "How young is the little darling?"
"She'll be fourteen in November."
"Yum! Do you have a picture of the lucky lady?"
"Yeah! I've got a few on my phone!"
Travis was a lot of things: driven, hardcore, bat shit crazy. But intelligent was not a quality God's lonely hand of justice possessed. He should have suspected The Guak was putting on a ruse; our hero had always voiced his disapproval of Travis' predilection towards teenage girls. The Guak had called him a pervert, a pedophile, and a sick fuck. But Travis was blinded by the fact someone finally expressed positive interest in his predisposition towards underage flesh. Except for Oslo. That fucking cat was always trying to move in on his action. The lunatic gunman, to put it bluntly, was a fucking idiot. He surmised no untoward action against him as he dug around in his military-issued coat pocket for his cellular telephone, which doubled as a treasure trove of photographs of jail bait in various stages of undress.
The lightning quick elbow hit Travis hard. He felt his face crack as the strongest man he knew smashed it in. The crime fighter/cab driver/statutory rapist was knocked off his feet from the blow, hitting his mohawked head on the car's hood, the fender, and finally the asphalt of Driscoll's parking lot. It did not take long for the the blood to begin seeping out of his noggin. The Guak stook his hand into his victim's pocket and withdrew Travis' phone and car keys.
"What the fuck, man?!" Travis exclaimed as he gargled his own blood.
"I should have done this a long time ago, and I'm disgusted with myself that I didn't."
Our hero crushed the cell phone with his hand. Tiny bits of plastic and electronics fell to the ground and landed in the puddle of Travis' head blood. Then The Guak stomped hard on the groin of God's lonely hand of justice. Our hero always felt attacking another man's genitals was strictly forbidden. The Guak was just as dirty a fighter as the next guy when forced, but he still had something of a code. No going after the junk. Yet in that one instance he made an exception. A broken dick and ruptured nuts would ensure Travis would not be sticking it to minors any time soon.
"Thanks for the car, shitheel," our hero said through clenched teeth as he made his way to the cab's driver's side front door.
"But-but-but I was going to kill Leisure tonight," lamented Travis as more blood poured from his cranium.
"Maybe when I get back we'll do a team-up."
Monday, November 14, 2011
Part XXVI: A Conversation of Death and Rebirth and Other Things (Part II)
Harry Guakomoli gazed into the dark doe eyes of Dinah. He had always been a sucker for a pretty face. Before our hero had always been able to play it cool, not letting the objects of his affection (and lust) know they had him hook, line, and sinker. But there was something about this one that he felt incredibly drawn towards, and it was getting harder for The Guak to maintain the front.
"It's too bad you're not going to stay. We did a lot to put you back together again, Humpty Dumpty. Even that perfect set of teeth that brute Sasquatch smashed up is back."
The Guak, for the first time, ran his tongue along his teeth and Dinah was right. The jagged shards of busted enamel were gone and replaced with his original pearly whites.
"As good as new," she continued. "Where's the love, ingrate?"
"I got killed by a mad scientist who promised to fix me," answered The Guak still fixated on those big brown eyes. "I'm not eager to get involved with another one."
Dinah giggled.
"Dr. Triangle is a weird one," the lady said. "But I'm not sure if he's crazed."
Dinah reached into the pocket of her rubber jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. She put her cigarette in her mouth and kept it in place with her full crimson lips while she jotted something down. Dinah tore off the sheet and put the pad and pen back into the pocket. The woman took a drag off her vanilla-flavored cigarette before finally taking it from her lips.
"Here," Dinah said as she handed The Guak the slip of paper. Her small pale hands were dwarfed by our hero's ham-sized mitts. "I know the doctor can be off-putting and hard to take, so if you change your mind you can call me directly."
The Guak looked at the note.
"What's this address under your number? Who's Yvonne?"
"When you weren't ejaculating all over yourself in your sleep you often mumbled something about your mother," Dinah replied. "About wanting to know who she was. Talk to Yvonne. She might be able to give you some insight."
"Hmm. I need to go."
"I understand," Dinah said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Go home. Change out of these clothes. Find mi cucaracha."
"There's something you should know," she said after taking another drag and exhaling. "Not only were you dead, but you were also declared dead. Your last will and testament read, your assets given away. The cat owns your building and has shacked up with that hot senorita you gave the business to,"
The Guak clenched his fists. Though he had only one night with the vivacious Yo-Yo Ramirez, he had intended to rekindle the romance. That our hero's best friend had swooped in, in The Guak's own bed at that, pissed him off.
"Not only that," Dinah continued. "But it looks like he's in cahoots with Los Fuegos Polos. They've taken back the barrio, and it's not pretty, The Guak. The whole neighborhood looks like a war zone. Except for Oslo's building. He spends all day and night chugging forties."
Our hero felt the searing heat of rage start in his belly and grow. The frenzy spread quickly until it consumed him.
"I...I need to get over there," our hero uttered through clenched teeth.
"It's 3am on a Saturday. Driscoll's Diner is right around the corner," Dinah pointed out. "Travis is there."
The Guak stormed off towards the street to find Travis. And then Oslo.
"Hey, The Guak."
Our hero spun around to face the beguiling creature.
"Give me a call when you're ready for me," Dinah said with a wink.
"It's too bad you're not going to stay. We did a lot to put you back together again, Humpty Dumpty. Even that perfect set of teeth that brute Sasquatch smashed up is back."
The Guak, for the first time, ran his tongue along his teeth and Dinah was right. The jagged shards of busted enamel were gone and replaced with his original pearly whites.
"As good as new," she continued. "Where's the love, ingrate?"
"I got killed by a mad scientist who promised to fix me," answered The Guak still fixated on those big brown eyes. "I'm not eager to get involved with another one."
Dinah giggled.
"Dr. Triangle is a weird one," the lady said. "But I'm not sure if he's crazed."
Dinah reached into the pocket of her rubber jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. She put her cigarette in her mouth and kept it in place with her full crimson lips while she jotted something down. Dinah tore off the sheet and put the pad and pen back into the pocket. The woman took a drag off her vanilla-flavored cigarette before finally taking it from her lips.
"Here," Dinah said as she handed The Guak the slip of paper. Her small pale hands were dwarfed by our hero's ham-sized mitts. "I know the doctor can be off-putting and hard to take, so if you change your mind you can call me directly."
The Guak looked at the note.
"What's this address under your number? Who's Yvonne?"
"When you weren't ejaculating all over yourself in your sleep you often mumbled something about your mother," Dinah replied. "About wanting to know who she was. Talk to Yvonne. She might be able to give you some insight."
"Hmm. I need to go."
"I understand," Dinah said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Go home. Change out of these clothes. Find mi cucaracha."
"There's something you should know," she said after taking another drag and exhaling. "Not only were you dead, but you were also declared dead. Your last will and testament read, your assets given away. The cat owns your building and has shacked up with that hot senorita you gave the business to,"
The Guak clenched his fists. Though he had only one night with the vivacious Yo-Yo Ramirez, he had intended to rekindle the romance. That our hero's best friend had swooped in, in The Guak's own bed at that, pissed him off.
"Not only that," Dinah continued. "But it looks like he's in cahoots with Los Fuegos Polos. They've taken back the barrio, and it's not pretty, The Guak. The whole neighborhood looks like a war zone. Except for Oslo's building. He spends all day and night chugging forties."
Our hero felt the searing heat of rage start in his belly and grow. The frenzy spread quickly until it consumed him.
"I...I need to get over there," our hero uttered through clenched teeth.
"It's 3am on a Saturday. Driscoll's Diner is right around the corner," Dinah pointed out. "Travis is there."
The Guak stormed off towards the street to find Travis. And then Oslo.
"Hey, The Guak."
Our hero spun around to face the beguiling creature.
"Give me a call when you're ready for me," Dinah said with a wink.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Part XXVI: A Conversation of Death and Rebirth and Other Things (Part I)
Harry Guakomoli watched as the woman stepped into the light. She was short; The Guak had close to a foot in height on her. Her complexion was a flawless milky white, and her long raven locks obscured much of her big brown chocolate eyes. The lady's waist-length black rubber jacket was zipped and clung tightly to her petite frame, as did her gray pleated skirt. Black nylons and knee-high combat boots completed the ensemble. The Guak thought her eyeliner was a little too thick, but overall he really liked the cut of her jib.
"So tell me, The Guak," said the woman. "What's it like to die?"
"Who are you?"
The woman brought the cigarette to her dark crimson, nearly black, lips. Our hero noticed her fingernails were painted a similar shade. She took a long drag from her smoke. The strong smell of vanilla permeated the still air of the alley. She parsed her lips and and exhaled as slowly and deliberately as she inhaled
"I asked you first."
"Well," our hero replied, less than pleased with the woman's rejoinder. "Do you mean what did it feel like melting to death?"
"No," she started to clarify. "What did you experience after you died, but before we brought you back?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she asked. She stepped closer to The Guak until there was only a foot separating them. She stared up into his green eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"I remember burning alive and then spending a lot of time dreaming."
"They were naughty dreams too," she said with a smirk. "You had a mind-numbing number of nocturnal emissions."
Like I mentioned in the previous chapter, dear reader, The Guak never felt embarrassment; while the word was in his vocabulary it was an emotion he had never experienced. But right then, right there, the man came dangerously close.
"Well..." he said before trailing off.
"It's okay," the lady reassured him. "I realize those things have minds of their own."
She took another long drag. The vanilla smoke rolled out of her mouth and ascended into the face of our hero.
"Speaking of ejaculate," the woman continued. "Did you know you're sterile? A couple of girls on the staff are bummed out by this discovery. Another is happy; she's allergic to latex. And one of the men is disappointed as well curiously enough."
"And which one are you?" The Guak inquired.
"I'm the man of course."
"Now answer my question: who are you?" asked The Guak.
"I'm Dinah."
"So tell me, The Guak," said the woman. "What's it like to die?"
"Who are you?"
The woman brought the cigarette to her dark crimson, nearly black, lips. Our hero noticed her fingernails were painted a similar shade. She took a long drag from her smoke. The strong smell of vanilla permeated the still air of the alley. She parsed her lips and and exhaled as slowly and deliberately as she inhaled
"I asked you first."
"Well," our hero replied, less than pleased with the woman's rejoinder. "Do you mean what did it feel like melting to death?"
"No," she started to clarify. "What did you experience after you died, but before we brought you back?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she asked. She stepped closer to The Guak until there was only a foot separating them. She stared up into his green eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"I remember burning alive and then spending a lot of time dreaming."
"They were naughty dreams too," she said with a smirk. "You had a mind-numbing number of nocturnal emissions."
Like I mentioned in the previous chapter, dear reader, The Guak never felt embarrassment; while the word was in his vocabulary it was an emotion he had never experienced. But right then, right there, the man came dangerously close.
"Well..." he said before trailing off.
"It's okay," the lady reassured him. "I realize those things have minds of their own."
She took another long drag. The vanilla smoke rolled out of her mouth and ascended into the face of our hero.
"Speaking of ejaculate," the woman continued. "Did you know you're sterile? A couple of girls on the staff are bummed out by this discovery. Another is happy; she's allergic to latex. And one of the men is disappointed as well curiously enough."
"And which one are you?" The Guak inquired.
"I'm the man of course."
"Now answer my question: who are you?" asked The Guak.
"I'm Dinah."
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Part XXV: Frank and Harry
Harry Guakomoli stepped out of the recovery room and into a hulking brute of a man. He had a few inches on The Guak's modestly impressive seventy-four inches of height and slightly more bulk. His auburn hair appeared freshly buzzed. His bushy beard easily contained as much hair as the rest of his head, if not more. The Guak sized him up: his black combat fatigues suggested career soldier who couldn't play nice.
"Move it," The Guak growled.
"Make me," snarled the man in response.
Bushy cracked his neck and then his knuckles, causing our hero to notice his right forefinger was missing. Bullshit posturing. The Guak was looking forward to breaking him.
"Have it your way, Trigger," said The Guak as he clenched his fist and pulled back his arm.
"Nownowgentlemen," Dr. Lawrence Triangle said as he stepped into the hallway and stood behind our hero.. "Frank, please be so kind as to escort Mr. Guakomoli out of the facility. Gently."
Frank neither moved a muscle nor made a sound.
"Now, Mr. Guakomoli, in the sweatshirt pocket is a cellphone with only one number programmed into it: mine. If you change your mind, and I hope you do, do not hesitate to call me."
"Sure. Whatever," The Guak replied. He did not take his eyes off of Frank.
The stare down between Frank and our hero continued in icy silence for nearly a minute before Triangle's apparent subordinate stepped aside and motioned down the hallway.
"That way."
Our hero was always reluctant to put his back to a man eager to scrap, but The Guak reckoned Frank was obedient and in control of himself enough to not try something unless provoked. And while The Guak badly wanted to provoke the grunt, he wanted out of this sterile whatever-it-was even more.
The pair walked down the hallway, The Guak in front and Frank closely behind him. Our hero could feel the seething, barely contained, hatred beating down on him. They walked in silence save for the one time the soldier barked "left" and twice "right" as they changed direction. The Guak passed several metal doors, all unmarked. He was tempted to ask Frank what were behind the doors or, better yet, try to enter one to see what would happen. But our hero simply wasn't in the mood to force feed the goon his testicles.
The Guak and Frank ascended a flight of cement steps that ended at another metal door.
"Hold up," Frank ordered.
The Guak did not care for the other man's tone but stepped to the side nonetheless, fighting his urge to rip Frank's ears off.
Frank withdrew some small black electronic device from his utility belt. An image flickered on a previously unseen screen. Frank tapped the screen a few times. Our hero attempted to sneak a peak, but his escort blocked The Guak from getting a visual with his shoulder.
"God dammit," Frank muttered under his breath before opening the door and exiting.
Our hero followed Frank out the door and into an alleyway. It was night and the narrow alley was dimly lit.
"L.T. said you were not to smoke this close to the entrance," Frank growled into the darkness.
From the shadows of a nearby set of metal stairs the ember of a cigarette being drawn flared followed by the barely audible slow exhale. The Guak distinctly smelled vanilla.
"Blow me. Since I'm not allowed to smoke inside I need to go outside, and I'm not walking around the block," a throaty feminine voice responded from the shadows. Now leave us. I want to talk with The Guak alone."
"The fuck you are," Frank retorted. "I'm not leaving you alone with this monster."
"Yes, you are. That's an order, soldier boy. Now respect the rank, bitch."
Frank stood quietly. His rage threatened to finally erupt, but instead the military man turned around and went back through the door, slamming it behind him.
A woman stepped out from under the cover of darkness and into the light. The Guak was finally able to put a face to the voice as short woman in her early thirties with alabaster skin and waist-length straight glossy black hair emerged from out of the shadows.
"Okay, The Guak. Let's talk."
"Move it," The Guak growled.
"Make me," snarled the man in response.
Bushy cracked his neck and then his knuckles, causing our hero to notice his right forefinger was missing. Bullshit posturing. The Guak was looking forward to breaking him.
"Have it your way, Trigger," said The Guak as he clenched his fist and pulled back his arm.
"Nownowgentlemen," Dr. Lawrence Triangle said as he stepped into the hallway and stood behind our hero.. "Frank, please be so kind as to escort Mr. Guakomoli out of the facility. Gently."
Frank neither moved a muscle nor made a sound.
"Now, Mr. Guakomoli, in the sweatshirt pocket is a cellphone with only one number programmed into it: mine. If you change your mind, and I hope you do, do not hesitate to call me."
"Sure. Whatever," The Guak replied. He did not take his eyes off of Frank.
The stare down between Frank and our hero continued in icy silence for nearly a minute before Triangle's apparent subordinate stepped aside and motioned down the hallway.
"That way."
Our hero was always reluctant to put his back to a man eager to scrap, but The Guak reckoned Frank was obedient and in control of himself enough to not try something unless provoked. And while The Guak badly wanted to provoke the grunt, he wanted out of this sterile whatever-it-was even more.
The pair walked down the hallway, The Guak in front and Frank closely behind him. Our hero could feel the seething, barely contained, hatred beating down on him. They walked in silence save for the one time the soldier barked "left" and twice "right" as they changed direction. The Guak passed several metal doors, all unmarked. He was tempted to ask Frank what were behind the doors or, better yet, try to enter one to see what would happen. But our hero simply wasn't in the mood to force feed the goon his testicles.
The Guak and Frank ascended a flight of cement steps that ended at another metal door.
"Hold up," Frank ordered.
The Guak did not care for the other man's tone but stepped to the side nonetheless, fighting his urge to rip Frank's ears off.
Frank withdrew some small black electronic device from his utility belt. An image flickered on a previously unseen screen. Frank tapped the screen a few times. Our hero attempted to sneak a peak, but his escort blocked The Guak from getting a visual with his shoulder.
"God dammit," Frank muttered under his breath before opening the door and exiting.
Our hero followed Frank out the door and into an alleyway. It was night and the narrow alley was dimly lit.
"L.T. said you were not to smoke this close to the entrance," Frank growled into the darkness.
From the shadows of a nearby set of metal stairs the ember of a cigarette being drawn flared followed by the barely audible slow exhale. The Guak distinctly smelled vanilla.
"Blow me. Since I'm not allowed to smoke inside I need to go outside, and I'm not walking around the block," a throaty feminine voice responded from the shadows. Now leave us. I want to talk with The Guak alone."
"The fuck you are," Frank retorted. "I'm not leaving you alone with this monster."
"Yes, you are. That's an order, soldier boy. Now respect the rank, bitch."
Frank stood quietly. His rage threatened to finally erupt, but instead the military man turned around and went back through the door, slamming it behind him.
A woman stepped out from under the cover of darkness and into the light. The Guak was finally able to put a face to the voice as short woman in her early thirties with alabaster skin and waist-length straight glossy black hair emerged from out of the shadows.
"Okay, The Guak. Let's talk."
Monday, November 7, 2011
Part XXIV: Back To Life. Back To Reality.
Harry Guakomoli woke up in a hospital bed but not in a hospital. It was a small room with cement walls, floor, and ceiling, It reminded The Guak of a cell in a prison...or an asylum. A catheter connected to an IV drip ran into each arm.
Our hero was groggy and confused but first things first. The needles in his arms had to fucking go. He reached over to his left arm with his right and grabbed the tube sticking out of his forearm.
"I can remove those for you, Mr. Guakomoli," a voice called from outside our hero's peripheral before he could yank out the PVC tube.
The Guak turned his head to see a short skinny man standing in the doorway. His long platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His faux turtleneck and slacks were both black and mostly hidden under a crisp white lab coat. The man crossed over to the hero and slowly removed one catheter and then the other.
"Do I know you?" The Guak asked.
"No, no you do not," answered the man, a broad grin plastered to his pale face. "I'm Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle, and I hope we get to know each other better."
"I'm not into dudes."
Our hero had nothing against homosexuality. Shit, he had even dabbled in it briefly while in The Pink before he decided it just wasn't his bag. Despite The Guak's indifference, he found it best to nip this in the bud. So to speak.
"Oh no no nonono," said Dr. Triangle, his speech briefly accelerating before slowing backing down to a normal level. "I meant my team and I spent a great amount of time, effort, and resources bringing you back from the dead."
"So I really died?" The Guak asked with skepticism.
"Oh, yes!" Triangle exclaimed. The Guak found the doctor's enthusiasm off-putting. "You melted, Mr. Guakomoli. Literally. We were not able to find any of you at the explosion site, but we recovered some teeth and blood after your skirmish with Sasquatch McGillicuddy. And we collected some of your pubic hairs from your bathroom toilet and head hairs from a comb."
"You were in my apartment?" The Guak asked angrily.
"Wellllllllllllllll, yes. We were unable to acquire any samples of you at Neuneuschwanstein so I had an operative conduct some clandestine hair collecting."
"I need to get out of this fucking bed."
"Of course. Stretching is good. On the night stand beside you you will find some clothes: sweatshirt, dungarees, and the like. They are not the most fashionable, but we are operating on a limited budget. I shall turn my back to you so that you may have some privacy while making yourself presentable."
And Dr. Lawrence Triangle did just that. He stepped back towards the doorway and turned his back to The Guak. Our hero, who then just realized he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, in one quick motion swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down to the floor. He landed on his feet and immediately crumpled, falling to the cement floor.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Triangle said after hearing the loud thud and some strong words from The Guak. "Your muscles have atrophied due to disuse. Actually, those particular muscleshaveneverbeenusedbutIca
"Stay where you are!" The Guak barked. Already he found the doctor annoying and wanted him dead.
Our hero slowly pulled himself back up to his feet and began the arduous task of getting dressed. Triangle was in no way lying about the attire being less than chic: a black hooded Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a ratty pair of pleated blue jeans, and gray Velcro sneakers. The Guak was hardly one to adhere to the latest trends, but after looking at himself in the mirror our hero, possibly for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment.
"Tell me, doctor," said The Guak. "How did you do it? How did you supposedly bring me back from the dead?"
"You know, Mr. Guakomoli. I do not rightly know. We tried a number of disciplines: hermetic hedge magic, Babylonian sha etemmu black arts, Renaissance-era nigramancy, Haitian vodou, bushmandemoncraftandweevenutil
"Ugh. Now you're boring me."
"Apologies. A large part of your resurrection was due to your incrediblehealingcapabilities.
The Guak's eyes had already glazed over; the night of his death was spent listening to the babbling of one whack job doctor, and our hero was not eager to spend his first waking moment with the ramblings of another. The Guak had already tuned out Dr. Triangle, but there was something the fast-talker mentioned that set him off. In one rapid motion our hero slammed Triangle against the wall and wrapped his ham-sized mitt around the man's throat. Triangle, understandably, was shocked and terrified..
"Say it, piss ant," The Guak growled. "I know what 'special' is code for, so just say it, egghead. Call me retarded."
"What?!" Triangle cried with an even greater expression of surprise on his face. "Nonononononono! ThatwasnotwhatIwasimplyingatal
"Shut. Up."
Dr. Lawrence Triangle did what he was told. The Guak stared into his eyes and tightened his grip. The doctor was perspiring profusely, sweat streaming down into his platinum eyebrows before they absorbed as much as they could and dripped into his eyes. Our hero sneered as the much smaller man's face began to turn purple.
"Please," Triangle struggled to get out. "Please believe me."
The Guak's sneer turned into a malicious grin.
"I do believe you. I wanted to see what happened first: someone to save your annoying ass or you piss yourself. But I'm tired of this game."
Our hero released his grip around the doctor's neck and took a step back. Triangle dropped to his knees and desperately gasped for breath.
"And I'm tired of you," The Guak said while he looked down at the scientist. "How do I get out of here?"
"Wait, you're leaving? You can't leave."
"Are you threatening me?" asked The Guak as he clenched his fists. "I thought I just proved I could snap you like a twig. Maybe I should rip off your scalp and wear it as a chapeau."
Our hero didn't know what a chapeau was, or how he knew it was a word, but he said it and it appeared to work.
"No, that is not what I meant," Triangle responded as he got back on his feet. "There is a war on the horizon, Harry, may I call you 'Harry?' and we spent an awful lot of our resources bringing you back."
"I never asked you to bring me back from the dead. That's on you. But thanks, I guess, Larry. Can I call you 'Larry?'"
"Actually, it is Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle."
"Actually, I don't fucking care."
The Guak stepped out of the recovery room.
Our hero was groggy and confused but first things first. The needles in his arms had to fucking go. He reached over to his left arm with his right and grabbed the tube sticking out of his forearm.
"I can remove those for you, Mr. Guakomoli," a voice called from outside our hero's peripheral before he could yank out the PVC tube.
The Guak turned his head to see a short skinny man standing in the doorway. His long platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His faux turtleneck and slacks were both black and mostly hidden under a crisp white lab coat. The man crossed over to the hero and slowly removed one catheter and then the other.
"Do I know you?" The Guak asked.
"No, no you do not," answered the man, a broad grin plastered to his pale face. "I'm Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle, and I hope we get to know each other better."
"I'm not into dudes."
Our hero had nothing against homosexuality. Shit, he had even dabbled in it briefly while in The Pink before he decided it just wasn't his bag. Despite The Guak's indifference, he found it best to nip this in the bud. So to speak.
"Oh no no nonono," said Dr. Triangle, his speech briefly accelerating before slowing backing down to a normal level. "I meant my team and I spent a great amount of time, effort, and resources bringing you back from the dead."
"So I really died?" The Guak asked with skepticism.
"Oh, yes!" Triangle exclaimed. The Guak found the doctor's enthusiasm off-putting. "You melted, Mr. Guakomoli. Literally. We were not able to find any of you at the explosion site, but we recovered some teeth and blood after your skirmish with Sasquatch McGillicuddy. And we collected some of your pubic hairs from your bathroom toilet and head hairs from a comb."
"You were in my apartment?" The Guak asked angrily.
"Wellllllllllllllll, yes. We were unable to acquire any samples of you at Neuneuschwanstein so I had an operative conduct some clandestine hair collecting."
"I need to get out of this fucking bed."
"Of course. Stretching is good. On the night stand beside you you will find some clothes: sweatshirt, dungarees, and the like. They are not the most fashionable, but we are operating on a limited budget. I shall turn my back to you so that you may have some privacy while making yourself presentable."
And Dr. Lawrence Triangle did just that. He stepped back towards the doorway and turned his back to The Guak. Our hero, who then just realized he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, in one quick motion swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down to the floor. He landed on his feet and immediately crumpled, falling to the cement floor.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Triangle said after hearing the loud thud and some strong words from The Guak. "Your muscles have atrophied due to disuse. Actually, those particular muscleshaveneverbeenusedbutIca
"Stay where you are!" The Guak barked. Already he found the doctor annoying and wanted him dead.
Our hero slowly pulled himself back up to his feet and began the arduous task of getting dressed. Triangle was in no way lying about the attire being less than chic: a black hooded Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a ratty pair of pleated blue jeans, and gray Velcro sneakers. The Guak was hardly one to adhere to the latest trends, but after looking at himself in the mirror our hero, possibly for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment.
"Tell me, doctor," said The Guak. "How did you do it? How did you supposedly bring me back from the dead?"
"You know, Mr. Guakomoli. I do not rightly know. We tried a number of disciplines: hermetic hedge magic, Babylonian sha etemmu black arts, Renaissance-era nigramancy, Haitian vodou, bushmandemoncraftandweevenutil
"Ugh. Now you're boring me."
"Apologies. A large part of your resurrection was due to your incrediblehealingcapabilities.
The Guak's eyes had already glazed over; the night of his death was spent listening to the babbling of one whack job doctor, and our hero was not eager to spend his first waking moment with the ramblings of another. The Guak had already tuned out Dr. Triangle, but there was something the fast-talker mentioned that set him off. In one rapid motion our hero slammed Triangle against the wall and wrapped his ham-sized mitt around the man's throat. Triangle, understandably, was shocked and terrified..
"Say it, piss ant," The Guak growled. "I know what 'special' is code for, so just say it, egghead. Call me retarded."
"What?!" Triangle cried with an even greater expression of surprise on his face. "Nonononononono! ThatwasnotwhatIwasimplyingatal
"Shut. Up."
Dr. Lawrence Triangle did what he was told. The Guak stared into his eyes and tightened his grip. The doctor was perspiring profusely, sweat streaming down into his platinum eyebrows before they absorbed as much as they could and dripped into his eyes. Our hero sneered as the much smaller man's face began to turn purple.
"Please," Triangle struggled to get out. "Please believe me."
The Guak's sneer turned into a malicious grin.
"I do believe you. I wanted to see what happened first: someone to save your annoying ass or you piss yourself. But I'm tired of this game."
Our hero released his grip around the doctor's neck and took a step back. Triangle dropped to his knees and desperately gasped for breath.
"And I'm tired of you," The Guak said while he looked down at the scientist. "How do I get out of here?"
"Wait, you're leaving? You can't leave."
"Are you threatening me?" asked The Guak as he clenched his fists. "I thought I just proved I could snap you like a twig. Maybe I should rip off your scalp and wear it as a chapeau."
Our hero didn't know what a chapeau was, or how he knew it was a word, but he said it and it appeared to work.
"No, that is not what I meant," Triangle responded as he got back on his feet. "There is a war on the horizon, Harry, may I call you 'Harry?' and we spent an awful lot of our resources bringing you back."
"I never asked you to bring me back from the dead. That's on you. But thanks, I guess, Larry. Can I call you 'Larry?'"
"Actually, it is Dr. Triangle. Dr. Lawrence Triangle."
"Actually, I don't fucking care."
The Guak stepped out of the recovery room.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)