toys, toys, toys....up in the attic

This was a new world of suck..for both of them.

Meeting "V" at a rest stop on I-5 some distance from Seattle, they were given the proper codes and information to find their target, the stolen SemTex. Returning to the Fed.Way house with Hal, they opened laptops devoid of manufacturers insignia or any identifying remarks. After a series of audible clicks/beeps/whirs, and one sim-fart noise, the screen lit up and pronounced "Clear" and brought up...the google homepage.What?You have a homepage right? Well, "Hamsters @ play" isn't acceptable on THIS computer so don't judge ok?Now, back to the task? Ty...

Opening a special built program that could find Waldo (in an opium den in Thailand when last spotted btw) she entered the code for the 1st block of SemTex and after a short period google-earth opened and the globe spun around to show a dot in Marseille France. Zooming to street level, the trio spotted the address and intersection immediately. "Thats outside of Savate Internationale DeClerqure" Hal said. Both girls were impressed and said "Yes it is...the cafe across the street..whiskey tango foxtrot indeed". They noted this and entered the next code. Instead of re-focusing to it's standard height and staying in France, the program pulled up to 200m altitude, and spun to show a place in Birmingham England..Focusing to local street level took them to a tree in a field. Writing down the co-ord's Janelle spoke "Great, it's a global hunt for shit that goes boom. Fuckin' Overnight courier services. I can't get a cup of coffee to my table in Denny's w/out 2 sherpas and guide dog to find the dam waitress, but I can ship explosives to fuckall nowhere overnight!" Ranelle laughed her ASS off at this one. "I know we ain't related to him by blood, but if Poppa heard you talk like that he'd tell you it was YOUR fault for entering a Denny's in the first dam place." Hal looked at them and said "Your Dad's a character eh?" Both stared at him with jade green eyes and Ranelle said "Our Dad is a douchebag fucktard of a waste of skin and oxygen. Our Father who raised us is the one Man in the world we can both say we love and respect". Noting the distinctly artic feel of the room suddenly, Hal grunted in the way all Males do to indicate hearing/understanding but having no other comment.
After repeating this process, they found another four addresses "Spanning the globe" as Marv Albert would say (To hell w/sportscenter..wheres G.Michaels SportsMachine and Marv Albert presents?..Tv has gone to HELL I say..and btw..The RENT...is TOO dam high)

Calling "V" outside on a secure sat-phone, Hal said "It's what we didn't want to find..6 addresses, 3 people, we're short a few no?" V's response was classic "It's my bus bitch, sit down and ride and don't forget, there's other passengers. You take the ones South of the equator, I'll handle the others. go".

'Where do you get your wonderful toys?"

Waking up the next morning, they found the rain still hadn't stopped. The house, wired for, well,everything, noted the girls awakening and played appropriate music in their separate rooms, then bathrooms. Janelle enjoyed "Fool in the Rain" while Ranelle enjoyed "November rain'. Neither payed attention to the irony of the house suiting music to not just weather, but individual moods and tempo's of the home. If the sensors detected elevated heart rates and enhanced activity, it adjusted lighting and music accordingly as well. All of this could be over ridden, but there was no need to. It was..freakin' almost scary how well this program did. From auto-temp showers to reminding you the milk is about to go bad, this house did it all. Apparently some video-geek from Colorado designed the whole program on a hacked phone from his employer, then dloaded all the code to his PC at night and debugged it. The people "Vulgar" knew was truly broad in depth and skillset. Having learned his lessons well,he had everyone from white collar to his favorites "the dirtbags" trade guys. Guys who can build, or tear down, things. People who can fly, and fight, and learn other things as well. If his roster of people was ever on paper, it would scare hell out of most intelligence officers, for they would see it as what it was.

The most rag tag, semi trained and therefore unpredictable,well organized and funded yet TOTALLY below the radar, most normal group of people You could ever ask for. Individually, most of them weren't impressive. Until You found that 'thing' that "V" found in all his "people' as he called them. That one thing they absolutely fucking know, in and out, port to starboard, fore to aft. Without a doubt, no thought needed, it just happens, now, and well, without being told or asked to happen. Then, he fit them in somewhere. Who knows where? Hell, other than the Sisters, most "people' never met each other for the most part. Op's were conducted "blind, blind, then Ray Charles". That is to say, nobody knew freakin' nuttin' ya hear? *smack* I sed ya he-sorry, Anyhow. This not only kept things compartmented, and therefore easier yet harder to track, this also kept his 'people' from having to expose themselves too much. Unless absolutely needed, no one left tracks. No one left a trail. Those that did, well..those weren't his "people". Those were "Them" and if "Them" were sent, you had two options and only one of them was attractive, and that was death. Janelle and Ranelle were part of..well...who knows?

'how the fuck did you two, fuckin', FUCKS.....FUCK!" 'well that certainly explores the diversity of the word" Wayne said with a chuckle and a quick duck from the lighter "V' hurled at him. Much like some people say "lol' in conversations and other fun lil computer borne habits, "V" had a habit of speaking in movie/song quotes. Sprinkle in some curses, a few random thoughts, Bake lightly w/a Bong and add Patron, shake well and let simmer...Absolute brilliance could follow, or fuckin' gibberish, but chances are it'd be funny as HELL and involve one movie, two songs, and a popular quote or two. He didn't notice it and neither did anyone else who knew him. Those who met him got used to it quick simply due to the immense amount of information he threw at you in a given period of time. If you are a computer on 56k, 'V' transmits at t1 speed, period. Or, he's in "standby" mode. That's it. That's how it is. Get on the bus, shut up, listen, ask a few questions, shut up,listen, get the fuck off the bus" and wonder HOW the fuck you ended up in Yakima or Pascagoula. He HATED to fuckin' fly so he bought a old tour bus, had it thoroughly de-loused and customized, he traveled the Country on this "land yacht" as he called it. A.F. one would be somewhat jealous if they knew what this dam thing carried and could do. In fact, last time they spoke to W.H.C.C. or White House Communications Center, or, as he called it, 'ShottyQueens office". 'Shotty queen" was indeed "people' however, she was also knows as Debbi Renee Anhoulue. All 5'1 of her, 5'3 in heels, she was a curious mix of influences that had the most observant finally losing all tact and couth and most often merely asking bluntly "Debi, this is rude but what the fuck ARE you'? Instead of being offended, she'd from the start not only giggled, but replied "I tell everyone what my Mom told me I am, Korean, Dutch, Islander, and Long beach". Most in her office called her "Major Ma'am" and this suprised all who knew her when she signed up. She kept her promise and signed up for something 'safe' computer.What her parents didn't know was the current state of affairs is such that our average soldier carries three times the computing power of NASA in the 60's on his PERSON, computers, and the need for repair, was everywhere on the battlefield. When her post in Firebase Tarantino was mortar'd, she ran for the shelters like everyone did. On the way she saw a Marine and a Soldier helping one another to the shelters when the 3rd mortar hit 70 or so foot away. Spraying them w/more dirt than shrapnel, the concussion lifted all three of them and didn't drop them, but SLAMMED them on the ground as hard as if R.Couture had you elevated and on the way down in the octagon. She regained the ability to breathe and see at the same time and saw them both down, and not moving. She low crawled to them and saw them pockmarked with shrapnel and impact debris, and bleeding from the ears.Concussion and blast injuries both, which means if they DID wake up, or weren't already dead....nope, still breathing, they were NO help to walk, they had no balance with blown eardrums. Not thinking, just doing, she stood up, again, all 5'0 of her(they made her take out the 1" lifts in her boots) and grabbed the nearest, the Soldier. Grabbing him by his 'handle' in the rear of his vest, she leaned into the task and drug his ass another 2o yards to the mouth of the shelter and tapped the Marine in the opening on the shoulder and pointed down at the Soldier. He dropped to his knees to attend to him and drag him in further as she turned and strode to the Marine still down but now moaning and gurgling in a way that says not good things in this Man's future unless he gets aid, now. She ran to him and flopped down quickly on top of him. She felt under his tunic and shirt and found a ragged 1 inch hole with air/blood escaping with every breath. She found his aid pack and pulled the Ascherman chest seal from it and applied it. Basically a one way flutter valve, it lets the chest expand while keeping air from entering the chest cavity and causing, or in this case, worsening, a pneumothorax. (Google it ya lazy so n so's..not gonna give em ALL to ya)Satisfied He probably most likely shouldn't die between here and there, there being the shelter, she repeated her earlier efforts. Leaning into the task, she found it mush easier to pull this Marine. Then found herself face up staring at first concrete then a concerned Naval Corpsman. "Ma'am, if you move, you'll die for dam sure. Keep still, let me do my job and I promise You, you will live". Recognizing the Man, or in this case barely more than a boy, meant it, she went to her childhood home. Pho in the air and bowls steaming on the table, her grandmothers kindly face and her grandfathers aftershave he seemed to bathe in. She still couldn't stand the smell of Skin Bracer. She wrinkled her nose in memory and the Corpsman apologized for hurting her. She never heard the blades of the helicopter nor felt the trip to the CASH in the rear. Her next conscious thought was "wow, they've really upgraded the CASH' when she saw drop ceiling acoustic tiles and painted white walls. That was the last time she noted the color of the walls. All efforts were focused on walking again and getting mobile. Her third month in the Rehab unit at Walter, a loud 'TEN-HUT, attention on DECK!" and all snapped to. Some upright, some in wheelchairs, some blind, some missing a limb, or limbs. All stood tall. a bevy of people wearing more stars and bars than a gay revue strolled in whilst a earnest faced young Ensign strode forward of where they assembled and said "ATTENTION TO ORDERS". Calling two names, two Marines strode forward proudly. One leaning on his friends wheelchair handles as he pushed him forward. Both saluted smartly and loudly, as Marines are wont to do, announced their presence. Both had citations of conduct read and awards presented to them, bronze stars, combat ribbons, and Purple Hearts. Finally Her name was called. Debi Renee Anholoue Attention! She strode forward, confident on her new right leg and nearly without a limp. Her commedation, read in part as follows.

'...Under mortar attack from insurgent forces and on the way to shelter, Sgt. Anholoue noted two wounded U.S.Servicemen struggling to make the shelter. After pulling the first one to safety, at great risk and giving up 140lbs to the Man in the process, she returned, now under consistent mortar attack. The next barrage struck her former operating center and threw her to the ground. She arose seconds later to find her base under direct action attack from unknown number of well organized insurgents. Locating the only weapon she could find at the time, she defended the shelter with a Standard issue Remington CombatMaster shotgun. After depleting the shotgun and it's associative ammo she was able to find, she drew the Marine's pistol from his holster and emptied all 6 clips he carried, in the process stopping another concerted rush and inflicting disproportionate casualties to the enemy, driving him to turn his attack to a retreat. In doing so, Sgt. Anhloue sustained multiple wounds to her right leg. Despite the efforts of surgeons, she was unable to retain her leg but in showing her fighting spirit still rides tall, she is only the 4th American, and first Female, to be certified, as of this date, to return to full duty. Furthermore, it my duty and honor, not to mention distinct privellege, to offer a invitation to the White House. It seems someone of a higher authority wants to meet 'Betty BadAss" as the newpapers called her when her story broke. The whirlwind that followed is when, somehow, she met "V' as he's known...and how she became the President's personal operator. And direct line for...special people..People like..well.."V'. See, ya never know...


who 'people' are...

Shirley, You can't be serious...

Frank, Or, as his friends knew him as Frank. Most people called him "Hal" as in "open the pod bay doors Hal". It was ostensibly because of his sonorous voice. He was given this name after his first mission in Iraq, by his Company Commander. Usually a C.O. doesn't travel outside of the wire, but all hands were needed for this op. They travelled easily to their destination, a sign of things to come. All hell broke loose when the convoy of HUMVV's and L.A.V's pulled onto the street that was their objective. RPG's, Mortars, small arms fire, and rotten vegetables he was SURE were shot, though none were accurate. Things went to hell quickly and many of his team were wounded, and the C.O. was screaming orders into his radio, ineffectively I might add. Frank went into "soldier" mode and just...took...care...of fucking buisness. He pilote'd his M4 until he had exhausted all of his magazines, and those around him. He picked up the SAW on the other side of the truck and provided cover for the medics picking up the wounded and dead. THEN he commanded, thats right, he COMMANDED a squad of rifleman to "follow me!" and they did so without hesitation. The C.O. got on the radio and asked "WTF are you doing?" Frank, ever mindfull of his job said "what I was told too Sir"and then, shut his radio off. What followed was, as a Sgt. who'd been in country for several tours, absolutely a lethal ballet of death, destruction, and a Marine kickin' MUCH ASS, and, GOT SOME! Frank took point and entered the house next to the target home. When asked "ok, were next door, now what?" Frank merely smiled and said "Why I'm making a side entry" when it was pointed out that they, and he, were standing in front of a solid wall, Frank smiled and said nothing. Taking some Det-Cord, he drew a rough outline of a door on the wall and attached it thusly. He then put a 1/4 lb block of C4, complete with cute lil pen-det, in the middle and said "you might wanna be elsewhere in about 12 seconds" and lit the fuse. The resulting explosion opened a hole perfect in the home they were in.It demolished the wall next door of the target home. Frank got up, threw too "bangers" in the target home, then went about picking up debris until he found his man. In this case, a Woman however. Known as "Betty the Bomber"she was responsible for most of the I.E.D's in this section of town. She was wailing about her dead son,a toddler about the age of Franks own son. His reply, given through a face of dust, tear tracks, and set in stone said "well my Marines you're responsible for killing with your bombs were shown the same mercy. Now stand up or I'll drag you up by your broken limbs" She was hooded, secured, and transported to a C.A.S.H. nearby. He ordered she was to be given no pain med's until she gave up the cache of weapons. Her face turned to a mask of pure hatred and fury. "I will give you nothing you seek but death". When translated, Franks response was pure, well, computer..Logical and delivered with all the emotion of Bill Gate's best computer voice. "I seek not Death, but nor do I fear it. For every minute that cache exists, you will feel pain beyond knowledge, and will welcome Death itself, but I will myself, keep you alive. Merely to make sure we find the weapons. THEN you might, just MIGHT get to see a Dr. Frank took the "long way" to the C.A.S.H. and made sure to hit every pothole, curb, and small rock he could find..After two blocks, she was singing like a well trained contestant on Simon's lil show back home. Frank and his team got back to F.O.B. Freedom and submitted their A.A.R.'s. When the stories were told of his actions, the bronze star, and a new name, followed him home.

Truth be told, Frank was the nicest, most laid back you'd want to meet. Women often said he was "sweet". Usually the kiss of death, but not for Frank. People sensed it in his eyes. He may be kind, polite, and in fact, a bit of a sweet guy,but he was, no doubt, a man of ability and skill, and to cross him would be very, very bad. For all involved. Frank pulled up to the park and walking to a large tube, said to Janelle "I thought you were joking, there IS a gasworks park..Huh, thought it was a park next to a taco stand or something." Ranelle, ever one for a good fart joke, replied with "youknow what you call a guy who farts loud in prison?" Frank, thought it out and said "victim?" They all got a laugh from the gallows humor and got down to buisness. "ok, heres the dealy yo. this guy, Mohammed Archimedes Mohammed, is responsible for the kidnapping of two M.P.'s from Ft.Lewis, as well as the murders of four more M.P.s from the Ft." Frank was referring to a pair of M.P.'s who were kidnapped from a early morning run. The next day, both were found dead, decapitated, 40mi. from the base. That night, several men, entering through the rear fence, assaulted the bases Armory. Four of the five M.P.'s were killed, and the fifth on duty was wounded in the firefight that resulted. The tally was 20lbs of SEMTEX explosive being taken. They hadn't done anything with the explosives...yet.

"well thats great. We got 48hrs to track these assholes, and go get 'em" Janelle sighed and wondered exactly HOW long Chris expected them to work miracles...Her answer was forthcoming. "well it seems a plankowner from Team Six came up with a lil idea. Since we know there are sleeper cells in country, we needed a way to keep track of our explosives. Ever hear of RFID's?" Both gals considered this and it was Ranelle who spoke up "those are Radio Frequency Identification Devices no?" Frank, told these girls weren't stupid, said "Yes, exactly. If we can tag liquor in a store we can tag our hole makers".. Janelle then said "well fine, we know where the tango is, lets go get 'em.I wanna go see if there's a decent band at the Hurricane up in Queene Anne, if not, I'm going to the Owl n Thistle downtown and gettin' shitty. I need it". Frank laughed and said "well, Ok then. Lets go get the sumbitch".

manic panic

The image leapt off of the front page of the "Bostonian" newspaper. It was the picture Janelle had taken of one "nuclear ali" in his bed, asleep, in his home. Trouble was, the date...The date was two months previous,and everyone knew that he was captured and brought to the US not two days before. Islamabad was crying foul and threatening to expel teh US ambassador, Washington was in a hue and cry, wondering which CIA/FBI/ATF/USMC, or someother acronym'd agency, idiot it was. Washington would have to remain in a hue and cry, for something more pressing was ringing?Wait, what?Ringing?Yes, a phone call...Nice segue no?

"Hey girls, its Vulgar. We have two targets, both are expected 48hr ops, and both of you will be playing backup to one Frank J. , you'll know him, and call him, HAL..as in HAL9000. He'll have the information needed".

Ranelle pondered this and said "we've got to get Chris out more...he's coming up w/codenames from teh movies he's been watching I think"..

Coming home, again, part Deux.

Motoring into the non-descript open dock on the North side of Seattle, the girls tied up the almost claustrophobically small skiff they'd stolen after leaving the old fishing vessel up north. The people who owned the skiff were most likely mad. Then again, two days later a new one had been left, along with some "sorry" money. Using knots like they'd tied them daily all their lives, the girls hoisted their daypacks over their shoulders, climbed out of the skiff, and walked into the misty, cold, and somewhat typical late January night. First stop? That place. In sight of a large spinning globe, a high end car dealership, on a corner, the name had long ago been forgotten. It used to be on the building, but some overzealous "Huskys" had taken a scavenger hunt while rushing just a little too far. Everyone called it "that place" now, and everyone knew what you were talking about. A counter with about six stool, several tables on two levels, seperated by a stunning 6" difference, and a few outdoor tables were all that was there. However, four enormous Studio Monitors were mounted on the bare support columns, and a eclectic mix of music was usually cranked up to uncomfortable levels, was on from 8pm til about 5am. The menu is what you would expect at a 24hr joint in Seattle. Something with goat cheese, something with fennel, and a lot of standards. The coffee, c'mon, it's Seattle! It was absolute rocket fuel. The first four cups would clean out your lower g.i. tract within the hour. I'm talking, dumb n dumber moment in the trainspotting bathroom. The next two cups would have you wearing out Jim Carrey on crack. Seriously. Janelle ordered the "d.b.b." or, as her sister called "meat-o-rama" burger. "death by burger" was a 15$ hamburger, and worth at least twice that. Made with Kobe beef mixed with a little bit of lamb, it was covered with Havarti and Feta cheeses, and guaranteed to make you soil yourself, juuust a lil bit. Add the wonderful garlic fries in and you're set! Ranelle, being queasy still from the recent boat excursion, ate light. A eggwhite omelet and some toast with Earl Grey tea, lemon no sugar thank you very much, was all she had. The conversation was terse and almost indecipherable, unless your name was Janelle or Ranelle.

"Ok Janelle, I'm going to the houuse in Federal way. I need to check in and so do you. However,you need to get our footage uploaded and submitted to the server for immediate processing, and we seriously, no, really, need a pedi/mani, and I mean, like stat!"
The house in Federal Way she referred to was your basic three bedroom, tri-level house common in Federal Way. The yellow/white paintjob was current, the lawn well kept, and the people who never saw anyone actually come in or out never paid the house any mind. As if it simply, was a hole in the street of like houses. The minute Ranelle turned onto the street, her cars license plate was read by a high definition camera on a telephone pole at the opposite end of the street, some 2oo yards away. It was processed and id'd before she'd made it three houses in, and by the time she reached the house she was aiming for, the garage door was opening and lightw were turning on inside. Pulling the Prius into the garge, she admired the little cars near silent running, and thought it sad that the styling lookek as if it came from crashed vehicles. She entered the house on the second level and turning right, entered the kitchen. Motion sensitive lights followed her movements about the house, and opening a built in wine chiller, she took out a bottle of something red and most likely, from Napa valley. Pouring a glass and kicking off her shoes, she opened the sliding glass door out to the patio, and flicked a lightswitch on the wall outside. The burbling of a un-seen spa began, and soft music, Dave Matthew band if you must know, began to play. She stepped out of her pants and her panties followed, leaving a trail of clothing across the lawn as she headed towards the spa at the far end, hidden behind shrubs and totally hidden from view. Her bra was the last to go as she stepped into the spa, sinking to chin deep and settling into a seat underneath one of the bose speakers. Letting DMB talk to her gently about a gravedigger, she allowed herself to relax, her eyes closed, and forgetting the last two months of planes, death, and finally, a small victory, she did not fall asleep. Rather, she meditated. Her breathing slowed to less than five breaths per minute. Her heartrate would've made a cardiologist want to do surgery immediately. Yet, if you could hook her up to an EEG, you'd see she was in fact, very, very busy. Yet at peace.

Janelle, cursing mightily, wondered why she always got to file the reports,upload the intel, and generally, be office bitch. She HATED the office. O, the people were in fact great, and top notch, but it was...well, an office. Half dead plants, poor lighting, and a carpet that was more dirt than fabric, and the typical Office superstore supplied furniture was functional but horrible to be kind. In any event, she passed through this area with a few smiles and head nods, and unlocking a door with a placard that said "J.Peters" she entered her office. It was no better in here, but here was not where she actually was going. She went into the coat closet, closed the door, and moving to the back of it, sat down. Immediately, a screen lit up before her that interrogated her eyes and fingerprints, satisfied, it opened with the theme familiar to all PC users, dam Bill Gates IS everywhere. She waved a hand over the small bit of desk,and a laser keyboard immediately appeared on the desk. She began to type and checking email,she used a usb flashdrive to upload all the footage, images, and other reports they'd managed to generate in the field recently. She also sent terse explanations of the image, the footage from their cam's would speak for itself,finally, convinced she'd gotten the idea across, she snapped her fingers and the keyboard dissappeared. Twenty seconds later, the screen also dissappeared, and she exited the closet. Sitting at the desk in her office finally, she sat and pondered. Did she go to the house in Federal Way, or was it finally time for her to maybe get her own house. She'd never lived apart from her Sister. Lately however, she'd felt a, well, a stirring. She wanted her own space for some reason. It frightened her, as much as it felt normal. She thought a phone call might help, and dialing a number from memory, she waited intermittently for the ringing to stop. "Hello and thanks for calling Millet Fighting systems! We currently offer self defense training, brazilian ju-jitsu,MMA, and the famous Millet fighting system. Come by our gym for a tour and class schedule and see if YOU could be the next champion! Wait for the beep....beep!". Chuckling at how far her "papa Pat" had come from the gruff, nearly hostile and unfriendly loner to the openly hostile, friendly charismatic trainer of several UFC champions, as well as any other acronym laden Fight competition she spoke quickly" "It's Ursa Minor Papa Pat. I, and Major, are home. Get ahold of me, I have question, o great on-"HEY you lil shit. Wtf? You can't call more often than every 90 or so days?" Papa pat picked up the phone and began immediately berating her, hearing the dejection and absolute exhaustion in her voice. Having raised both of them for years as his own, he knew them as only he could. He knew the only way for her to her his answer was to piss her off, focus her energy somewhere other than inward,for she was her own worst enemy. "I'm pissed the fuck off at you lil bear. I'm sure one of my first year students could kick your ass, and furthermore, there's no one here who'll eat thai peppers with me." Janelle never heard the pepper comment. She knew for a fact HE couldn't kick her ass now, well, she was pretty sure he could'nt. "You know what Pal, you bring your biggest n baddest, to hell with a first year student, and I'll let em tap or nap, their choice, you got that old man?"
Pat, giggling quietly, asked in a much more quiet and less confrontational manner, "now that you're truly on the phone with me, here and now, what is wrong? I hear the tread of your feet and it's a exhausted little girl I hear at the end of her run. What are you running from? I didn't raise you to ever run, from anything." Janelle, tears pouring down her face, immediately returned to 14 yrs old,like she always did when she cried, she hated herself for it, but it's the way it was. Redfaced and snot flying, she huffed and puffed, shuddering breaths and nose blowing giving way to a more understandable rant. Now she was truly furiously angry for some reason. Near enraged. Pat, used to her mercurial change in mood, in fact, could time trains by it, recognized the anger for what it was. Misplaced frusteration. "Ok, so you want your own space? The house isn't whats scaring you, it's the space the house represents. You know dam well you'll be able to survive, and thrive, without your Sister by your side forever. Both of you know that. And don't put on the yoke of having to watch out for her because she doesn't know any different. THAT is utter self-serving bullshit. You are angry because you refuse to admit your frusteration, and in all of this, you never ONCE said you've talked to your Sister about this. Why the hell are you even calling me with this bullshit?" CLICK! was the next sound Papa Pat heard, and laughing openly now, he wiped his eyes, proud of his lil bear as surely as if he'd birthed her himself. He put on his "smoke yellow' trademark glasses, adjusted his do-rag, and exiting his office,he went into his gym to make yet another champion, for thats just what he did.

Janelle left her office, got in her car, and drove to the house in Federal Way. She considered heading for the spa, but never made it that far. Ranelle found her asleep, nee unconcsious nearly, on the couch in front of Conan O'brien. She put her in bed, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and covered her up, sinking to sleep in her own bedroom to the sound of a light rain beginning to fall on the palmfronds behind her home.

The ties that bind...and gag.

Cruising at a steady 18kts., the F/V Flyer made good time on the trip, ending up @ the Sea-Tac docks at the appointed time, o'dark thirty. He let anchor approximately 2 mi. out and decided to tell the"cargo" as he referred to the two Women aboard, that they had reached their destination, and as such, it was time to "gtfo". The old fishing vessel rode easy in the 2-3 ft chop, not bothered in the least by the deck motion, the Capt. moved with the speed and ease of a 20 yr.old, not the 75 he was. "Allright ye lil scurvy Maidens, time to put on your best and get the hell off of my ship!" the Capt. bellowed down the hatch where the ladies had esconced themselves. He busied himself loading a pipe of borkum riff and cherry flavored tobacco. The mix allowed him to think, and ruminate on the past events. Being approached by a Woman, no less two at a time, had flustered him, and surely he'd be the talk of the docks when he returned, for everyone there saw them climb aboard, and then pull out no less than ten minutes later. 50,000 dollars will do that to a man whose average net per year was far below that. After some time, he noticed the ladies hadn't come up, and bitching mightily, for the climb hurt his knees, he descended the ladder into the belly of his ship. "Ladies. I know it's dark and cold and very early in the morning, but we are where you told me to go, and it's time for you go get off my ship! I'm expected back in S.F. in four days and I have people depending on me to go to work!". The last part is what kept the old Salty Dog at the helm. Teaching the next generation of "idiots, nerds, and the occasional dipshit" as he put it, the tricks of the trade of commercial fishing was his passion. He'd made and lost fortunes in his lifetime, but to see someone succeed and enjoy something he knew all about...well that just about "put a knot in my knickers" as he said.
No reply REALLY pissed him off..he stormed into the bunkroom where the Women should be, and fell unconscious just inside the doorway. Blinding light and a feeling of warmth on his legs was all he felt.

Waking up groggy, cold, wet, and disoriented weren't new to the Capt. He was a bit of a drinker after all. However, this was different. Like he couldnt "connect" things for a moment. He awoke when he heard his radio crackle "Attention F/V Flyer. This is the Canadian Coast Guard, are you in distress or adrift?" This made no sense. He was in Seattle wasn't he? "Ahhh, copy that canuck coastie, I'm aboard and ok now. I fell down the gangway and knocked myself out, clumsy move" This brought the 45' cutter alongside, with a admonition to "Not move a nautical inch". A tiny figure carrying a large black bag swung easily from the railing of the cutter to the deck of the lil boat. The Capt. was amazed to find a tiny waif of a Woman who called herself "Doc" planting his ass in a chair and shining lights in his eyes, feeling him up, and generally, asking way too many questions. After a 1/2 baked excuse, regarding how he fell, when, etc, the "Doc' began to fawn over him as if he was her own grandfather. Checking his pitiful stock of rations, she refused to "cut him loose" until he ate a meal and his ship was checked for damage. The crew jumped at the chance to spoil someone, and 3 hours later, the Capt. motored away SOUTH chuckling, then figuring out HOW he got here, 40 miles off the coast of Northern Canada. His Gps system, never as easy as his old maps, was "pooped" or not working..Opening the drawer beneath it, he took out the manual, well thumbed and smelling vaguely of fish, and a note fell upon the deck. Curious, the Capt. picked up the note and read..

Capt. We are sorry for this, but it's to keep you safe. You see, we are not who we appear, and are only the beginning. You were rendered unconscious by a electric stun-gun. We placed you in your bunk and sailed your ship to where you are now. We have gone, and apologize for any trouble or problems we have caused you. In the main hold, you will find a bag that you may find usefull."

p.s. just plug the Gps into the socket...it works fine!

The Capt. chuckled, wondered what the hell was going on, and setting a course for S.F., he went below to find a old Navy "Seabag" in the corner. Heavier than "Donald Trumps hairspray bill" it took him ten minutes to drag up the stairs, interrupted by a shrill warning that sounded impending doom from his ships radar. The M/V Independence, a processing ship owned and operated by Trident Seafoods, was bearing down on him quickly. A flick of the wheel and he was safe...Now, to the bag.

The bag was filled with 100 dollar bills, with strange bits of shredded paper mixed in. At the bottom of the bag was a lockbox similar to that used by garage sales professionals the world over. Opening it, he found a key, attached to a silver necklace and a note. "This is your key to the kingdom. When the time is right, and you will know the time, present this to the correct people, and you will be assured all is well". Cryptic as hell, he pondered the money, his engine happily burbling away due to the minstrations of Janelle, a "Shade tree mechanic" who'd done a lil work to it. He threw the chain and key into a drawer, hid the money aboard his ship, a far harder task than one would think, and wondered exactly what he was going to do with 100,000 dollars..

Feb 26

Andrew Michael Dawson, Or, "Drewdog" to his friends and one family member, was hot, sweaty, and not in the mood..it was 115 degrees already, and it was only o eight hundred hours. Despite the rivulets of sweat running down his forehead, chest, and thighs, he was completely 100% focused on a building 100 meters away. His tool was a spotters scope. He found it lying on a parapet earlier in the day, and after verifying it didn't belong to his unit's sniper or spotter, he "took possession of said item" and submitted the appropriate paperwork. That is, he told his battalions quartermaster the serial no. and what not via radio, and put it away...two hours later, he was dam near ass over head in a ditch, staring at a building reported to hide 14 Al Queda resistance fighters, and the indiscriminate sniper fire from teh aforementioned abode convinced him SOMEONE was in their, not friendly, and therefore a target. He'd been scanning the windows and roofline for 20 min. when a glint of metal on the east corner of the building caught his eye. He called his units sniper on the radio "3/1 eye in the sky catcher ready". The aural null earpiece crackled, seemingly inside his head, "go ahead 3, whats the sign?" His reply was a cryptic to anyone else as it was crystal clear to the sniper. "Loomit, I got a high fastball on the east corner of the secondary building, metal shine and a big fat catchers mitt 3 deg. from the corner"...Translated..a headshot was available on a enemy about 3deg on the downwind parapet of the east corner of the building. Loomit was the snipers name. Back to the scintillating radio action."Copy that, fastball, down the pipe, smile pretty for daddy". Drew placed his eyepiece on the cup and focused just in time to see a jerk of the enemys head, and a pink mist explode behind it as the body flew backwards hard enough for Drew to see the enemies feet above the parapet, and clearly watch a battered sandal fall three stories to the street, landing absurdly in a puff of dust that reminded him of the poor coyote in those old cartoons chasing the dam roadrunner off a cliff at least once per episode, only too hold up a sign that said "yikes' then, poof!.."3/1, that is in fact Sir, in the 10ring. Pretty in pink, 18 and life to travel, traveling willburys". "Copy that, they call me the breeze"..chuckling, Drew kept his attention on the building..according to his score sheet, it was the 2nd inning, and the count was 0-1 w/12 more to go. Pretty in pink was the sign for a positive headshot kill.18 and life to travel is a line from an old hairband song, in this case, referring to the snipers confirmed 18th kill this tour. The travelling willburys were a supergroup formed in the 90's and here, means that the sniper oughta move out. The response, they call me the breeze, is self-explanatory. If it's not, ask someone to explain it to you, then go ram your head into a large object twice for being so dam dumb.

"HOW IN THE POSSIBLE FUCK CAN YOU ABSOLUTELY DESTROY NOT ONE,NOT TWO, BUT THREE STRYKERS IN AS MANY DAYS YOU DUMB FUCKIN' BEDROCK IDIOT?" Walking across the row after row of battle scarred armor of all types, the Sgt. laughed to himself and said "Well he's in fine fettle today". Entering the Vietnam Era quonsonet hut that was the temporarily permanent motor pool, he followed the sound of continued bellowing. "I just don't get it Rub. How the hell could you, of all people, find the largest, biggest, baddest IED's out there, and then promptly run over them? AND manage not to kill anyone of your passengers?" The Cpl. being addressed turned his head sideways at the motor pool Gunnery Sgt and said "Sir, I have no idea, but as far as no one dying. Thats the makers of the Strykers doing Sir. Great Vehicle, and if you're done chewing on me, I have to fill that requistion order in your hands, posthaste." His nameplate said "Daddy" but everyone who'd ever heard him talk for more than five minutes called him Vulgar...cause he was...The mans mouth made even septic tank cleaners gag. He could talk "pretty" as he called it, but living his life in the Marine Corp motor pool in every 1/2 assed action his Corp had seen in the past 20 years, he was as untouchable as the Commandant of the Corp himself. He was foul mouthed, un-even tempered, and capable of working miracles and suggesting improvements that made their way to manufacturers who in turn, assured him he would make vast amounts of money when he left the Corp. Most of them didn't realize that they day he signed his DD-214 was the day Vulgar died inside. He missed the fight, but he'd be dammed if he let 'His Marines" ride in anything he hadn't personally signed off on. Its' just the way it was, no questions. "Well, I guess I gotta give ya a brand new one, cause I don't have any others available, but if you destroy this one, I'm gonna personally ban your ass for a month, and and and, you're going back to HtR asshat" Smiling, he got nose to nose with the Cpl and said in a much softer tone "you all right Rubble? you good to go still?" The Cpl looked at the G.Sgt and said "I'm good Chris...my bell was rung and I was a lil goofy, but I'm good now..Sorry Brother". Handing him the ignition and assorted manuals the Sgt. dismissed the Cpl. with a curt "Away to me" and turned to go back to his assorted train wrecks. The Cpl. smiled, got into the Stryker, and left 8 trails of rubber and a cloud of smoke nearly impenetrable on the motor pool pad, making The old Sgt. smile and shake his head "dumbass..."

On his way back to the FOB, the Cpl thought about nothing. He had that rare ability to just "be" and in fact, was in the beginning stages of shellshock. Six tours had left him a bit rattled, but so far, the shakes and terrors happened only at night, The corpman was able to get him some valiums, but keeping it on the "dl" meant they were precious,and only to be used when the meditation, walk,and obligatory vomiting didn't work. They were getting better. He no longer ever thought of when he'd get out of the Marine's. Since the death of his Wife in a car accident during his fourth tour, he signed up for extended duty in country, committed another 20yrs to the Corp. He had nothing or no one waiting "in the RL" so there was no reason to go anywhere else in his mind. It was one of the last things to go through his mind before a pair of RPG-7's tore through the same place in the Stryker, 4 seconds apart. The 1st RPG exploded on the "fence"or set of metal rails encircling the entire vehicle, designed to defeat the very thing that attacked the vehicle. The second one performed as advertised.The warhead detonated, forming a jet of molten steel that bored through the armor as if it didn't exist. Exiting into the air of the drivers compartment, the metal cooled immediately, forming shrapnel that then tore through the entire compartment, shredding the torso and head of the Cpl and causing shorts as the radios and electric systems were struck and destroyed..The Stryker ground to a halt in the middle of the road, and there it sat until a helicopter of the 1st Armored div. returning to base, noticed it not moving..unable to reach the vehicle by radio, they relayed the information to a army unit two blocks away who went to investigate. His remains were sent to the States two days later, where they remained in the care of the Marines, unclaimed,for five years before they were buried, with his brethren like him, dead and unclaimed, in a full military honors burial at Arlington National Cemetary. He got his final wish "to reside among his fellow warriors, until the final bugle call is sounded to announce the battle of good and evil, and the halls of Valhalla are filled with soldiers of all types, ready to fight once again" The Cpl attended his own funeral, pleased that he got the honors he felt a man who died in combat deserved...he then strode into the mist surrounding the rolling hills of graves of the warriors of the United States, got into a typically non-descript black, gov't issue, one, black sedan, and drove out of the cemetary and made a phone call "NOW I'm good to go V. C u in da pubz" and hanging up his phone, pointed the car westward.

Checking his VM, Chris got the message he waited to hear for it seemed an eternity. The Sgt,sitting next to him said, "Nice to know the last piece is in place and we can finally get to work". Chris nodded and said "I've had deaddrop msgs from him and all that but to finally hear the sonofabitches voice and know for sure he made it..wonder where he's been?". In fact, the Cpl had been in Sierra Leone for four years. After exiting the Stryker through the rear hatch, he performed his own "Mogadishu Mile" extraction. Four days, three carjackings, and three cold ass nights in the desert, he made his way to Saudi Arabia and using papers provided by some guy named Anon, he flew to France and without Fanfare, Recruit Pierre Montiseau was welcomed into the French Foreign Legion. Like deserters, criminals, and thrill seekers before him for time nearly untold, he served his time honorably, as he had done so before, now with a glint in his eye, for he now had a reason to live. A life waiting for him..A goal. The emptiness and vast cold he'd felt since his Wife had died was replaced with a new feeling. Rage. The chance to visit upon others what had been brought to him. He smiled as his new identity was handed to him and he walked out the door into the bright sunlight of a wonderful Paris spring day. Headed off to America to watch himself laid to rest. "See you when you get here, btw, you owe me for flowers" Chris hung up the phone and laughed "thats just wrong, making the man pay for his own funeral flowers"He then hit "Clifford, the big red bong" put on his headphones and said into the microphone "jea bitches, daddys back"