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".
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
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"..
"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"..
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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.
"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.
Friday, February 27, 2009
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..
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..
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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"
"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"
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Feb. 25th's episode
Chugging out of the docks in Frisco, the Captain, not one to ask questions but rather muse among his own thoughts, wondered in fact why a town renamed a famous street after a gossip columnist. It was odd to be sure, many people are sure to have gotten lost looking for the Embarcadero, only to find part of it renamed Herb Caen blvd. The water was not bad today, and his passengers, the most beautiful thing this old fishing boat had ever seen surely, were not in any hurry it seemed. Turning west at the shipping channel, the Captain of the F/V Flyer increased his speed to 18kts as he slipped through the chop of the Golden Gate undercrossing, and setting a nearly true North course, began the slow trip up the coast of California.
"My god, it smells like that girl at the "place" we had to bunk with until she dissappeared". The riotous laughter from Janelle was her Sisters best panacea for the horrible conditions they found themselves in. Bunking in a room that merely contained two plywood bunks haphazardly bolted to the walls, and on one end, balanced on old 5 gallon buckets, the stench of uncleaned holds and old fishing gear was enough to make them both purge their stomachs. "Come on nasal fatigue" chortled Ranelle as she used apparently potable water to wash the vomitus from the ends of her otherwise nearly blindly white hair. Not a true blonde, but rather a "tow head" this wasn't her most striking feature. Neither was the incredible, gravity defying, infant attracting chest she and her Sister possessed.It was the Height, or rather, disparity in their height. Ranelle was a 5'10" 150 lb. model like Woman. Often said to have the body of Marilyn Monroe, the mind of Harvard professor, and the joke's of a Gunnery Sgt. in the Marines, it shocked people when they were introduced to her Sister. Janelle, also possessed of the shocking white hair, nearly nipple length, was a pert 5'3" tall, and would also never, ever, need a flotation device. Other than the obvious height differential, the two were near reflections of one another. Down to the way their mouths curled up in a cheshire Cat type smile. However, it was a second, rude shock to most peoples systems when they found out the sisters were in fact, 2 yrs apart. Ranelle served in the Marines, most notably under fire while working with the 3rd M.E.U. as a Transport driver. She volunteered for the most dangerous work, "route sword" transfers. The drive to and from "Psychopathic Megalomaniac International" was the most dangerous drive in the world currently. If not the I.E.D's, ambushes, and what-not, the 114 degree heat often killed vehicles just as surely as a mortar to the engine block. Her three purple hearts, or, "enemy marksmanship awards" attested to her fortitude. The two silver stars, with "V" device, and THREE bronze stars w/Oak leaf device, attested to her bravery and skills as a Marine Rifleman. The last Silver Star was awarded after a 14 hour firefight that started with a small arms ambush, and at one point, was a full scale attack by no less than 1,000 hardcore insurgent fighters. Two Q.R.F.'s of the U.S. Marines, and one Army Patrol in the area, fought for survival, to hell with the job at this point. Ranelle, being ever mindful that she was "ordered to obtain one Iraqi national Treasury head, and deliver him safely to the green zone" she took the opportunity, during the firefight, to move her and her squad to the home of the treasury official. Lucky for them, it was a three story house. Sending her sniper team to the roof, the pushed the goats, hay, and other livestock out of the way and began sending death through the heads of their enemies. Ms. Patricia Hornthorten was awarded a Bronze medal that day, along with the coveted "Ace of spades" awarded by the U.S. SOCOM community to snipers with ten confirmed kills. The home came under direct mortar attack, killing most her squad immediately, leaving her, two Sgt's, and the treasury official to fend for themselves. Finding a 'Prick 90" on one of the dead Army soldiers in front of the house, she set up a plan which would allow her and the rest to escape. Details are still classified, however, one account details a four hour rooftop to basement flight, during which she is reported to have killed no less than 12 enemy single handedly, three of them hand to hand combat. As her Sister put it "she's one bad bitch."
Janelle, the shorter of the two, was no less a mean female dog, but preferred stealth to abject invasion. Don't get me wrong. She and her sister were more capable of taking care of themselves physically than most men. Both were raised in the same place, the same way. Both of them learned at the knee of a man named only "Papa Pat". His ballistic eyewear and do-rag always in place, he taught them a style of combat known to few then, and all the rage now. MMA as it is know, or, mixed martial arts, combines, as the name would imply my dear reader, different aspects of many of the martial arts. Boxing, kick boxing, judo, and Brazilian Ju-Jitsu were the order of the day. Both girls were capable of benching over twice their body weight, though not built like weightlifters. They were also capable of defeating four physical attacks at one time. Handy in bars, bad areas, and later on, this line of work. Her specialty was intelligence. No matter how it was obtained. Her first two years, while Ranelle was serving in Iraq, was spent at the "ranch" learning at the knee of one Richard "Dick" Marcinko. She served with him and his trusty band of malcontents all over the world, engaged in everything from foreign gov't requests for otherwise un-obtainable intelligence, to crawling through third world shitholes on "snatch n grab" operations to extract the intelligence needed. The most notable of which, or, at least the one everyone knows about, is the capture of "Nuclear Ali" the Dr. Death who sold nuclear weapon info to anyone with money to spend. After several years of house arrest, he was allowed to leave his home. Bad move. Within 24 hours of the house arrest removal, he was on a "lil bird" being piloted by the MEANEST Woman Janelle had ever seen. Known only at "Trace" she was a mix of American Indian and, apparently, a 1/2 mad wolverine. Bound, gagged, hooded, and drugged, he was found 1 day later, with a 1/2 empty bottle of mad-dog 20/20 by his side, underneath the G.W. Expressway in D.C. Only after his NCIC was run did the D.C. police realize who they had on their hands.
"My god, it smells like that girl at the "place" we had to bunk with until she dissappeared". The riotous laughter from Janelle was her Sisters best panacea for the horrible conditions they found themselves in. Bunking in a room that merely contained two plywood bunks haphazardly bolted to the walls, and on one end, balanced on old 5 gallon buckets, the stench of uncleaned holds and old fishing gear was enough to make them both purge their stomachs. "Come on nasal fatigue" chortled Ranelle as she used apparently potable water to wash the vomitus from the ends of her otherwise nearly blindly white hair. Not a true blonde, but rather a "tow head" this wasn't her most striking feature. Neither was the incredible, gravity defying, infant attracting chest she and her Sister possessed.It was the Height, or rather, disparity in their height. Ranelle was a 5'10" 150 lb. model like Woman. Often said to have the body of Marilyn Monroe, the mind of Harvard professor, and the joke's of a Gunnery Sgt. in the Marines, it shocked people when they were introduced to her Sister. Janelle, also possessed of the shocking white hair, nearly nipple length, was a pert 5'3" tall, and would also never, ever, need a flotation device. Other than the obvious height differential, the two were near reflections of one another. Down to the way their mouths curled up in a cheshire Cat type smile. However, it was a second, rude shock to most peoples systems when they found out the sisters were in fact, 2 yrs apart. Ranelle served in the Marines, most notably under fire while working with the 3rd M.E.U. as a Transport driver. She volunteered for the most dangerous work, "route sword" transfers. The drive to and from "Psychopathic Megalomaniac International" was the most dangerous drive in the world currently. If not the I.E.D's, ambushes, and what-not, the 114 degree heat often killed vehicles just as surely as a mortar to the engine block. Her three purple hearts, or, "enemy marksmanship awards" attested to her fortitude. The two silver stars, with "V" device, and THREE bronze stars w/Oak leaf device, attested to her bravery and skills as a Marine Rifleman. The last Silver Star was awarded after a 14 hour firefight that started with a small arms ambush, and at one point, was a full scale attack by no less than 1,000 hardcore insurgent fighters. Two Q.R.F.'s of the U.S. Marines, and one Army Patrol in the area, fought for survival, to hell with the job at this point. Ranelle, being ever mindful that she was "ordered to obtain one Iraqi national Treasury head, and deliver him safely to the green zone" she took the opportunity, during the firefight, to move her and her squad to the home of the treasury official. Lucky for them, it was a three story house. Sending her sniper team to the roof, the pushed the goats, hay, and other livestock out of the way and began sending death through the heads of their enemies. Ms. Patricia Hornthorten was awarded a Bronze medal that day, along with the coveted "Ace of spades" awarded by the U.S. SOCOM community to snipers with ten confirmed kills. The home came under direct mortar attack, killing most her squad immediately, leaving her, two Sgt's, and the treasury official to fend for themselves. Finding a 'Prick 90" on one of the dead Army soldiers in front of the house, she set up a plan which would allow her and the rest to escape. Details are still classified, however, one account details a four hour rooftop to basement flight, during which she is reported to have killed no less than 12 enemy single handedly, three of them hand to hand combat. As her Sister put it "she's one bad bitch."
Janelle, the shorter of the two, was no less a mean female dog, but preferred stealth to abject invasion. Don't get me wrong. She and her sister were more capable of taking care of themselves physically than most men. Both were raised in the same place, the same way. Both of them learned at the knee of a man named only "Papa Pat". His ballistic eyewear and do-rag always in place, he taught them a style of combat known to few then, and all the rage now. MMA as it is know, or, mixed martial arts, combines, as the name would imply my dear reader, different aspects of many of the martial arts. Boxing, kick boxing, judo, and Brazilian Ju-Jitsu were the order of the day. Both girls were capable of benching over twice their body weight, though not built like weightlifters. They were also capable of defeating four physical attacks at one time. Handy in bars, bad areas, and later on, this line of work. Her specialty was intelligence. No matter how it was obtained. Her first two years, while Ranelle was serving in Iraq, was spent at the "ranch" learning at the knee of one Richard "Dick" Marcinko. She served with him and his trusty band of malcontents all over the world, engaged in everything from foreign gov't requests for otherwise un-obtainable intelligence, to crawling through third world shitholes on "snatch n grab" operations to extract the intelligence needed. The most notable of which, or, at least the one everyone knows about, is the capture of "Nuclear Ali" the Dr. Death who sold nuclear weapon info to anyone with money to spend. After several years of house arrest, he was allowed to leave his home. Bad move. Within 24 hours of the house arrest removal, he was on a "lil bird" being piloted by the MEANEST Woman Janelle had ever seen. Known only at "Trace" she was a mix of American Indian and, apparently, a 1/2 mad wolverine. Bound, gagged, hooded, and drugged, he was found 1 day later, with a 1/2 empty bottle of mad-dog 20/20 by his side, underneath the G.W. Expressway in D.C. Only after his NCIC was run did the D.C. police realize who they had on their hands.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Todays episode
Starts thus..
The two catsuited figures normally wouldn't have drawn any attention at all, considering the fact that this WAS San Francisco, however, the fact that both of them were female, blonde, and stacked like a pyramid of beer cans at a frat party sort of got peoples attention. The fact that they walked a bearded, swarthy man who was bound, gagged, and hood covered made people scatter from the front steps of U.S.District Court, 9th circuit as they marched up Golden Gate Avenue and lifting the man by the elbows, cleared two steps at a time on their way into the building.
Both guards on duty put their hands on their holsters, reminding themselves perhaps of where they were. They did absolutely no good as that was the last time they would remember anything for the remainder of the day. Pulling down Lo-Pro Industries latest gadgets, they put on what appeared to be sunglasses as they both lobbed two hairspray shaped cans to opposite ends of the foyer, never missing a step as the glass exploded, people fell to the ground, and the guards were unconscious. Entering the elevator, they removed the glasses and smiling at one another, slipped them in the neck of their suits, climbing for the 16th floor.
Exiting the elevator, they found the floor strangely empty. Moving towards the clerks office, the door opened to show Mrs. Eleanor Eugenia Thermaple. 74 yrs young, and moving with the speed of one 1/2 her age, she looked at the trio and never batting an eye says "Dears, you've missed prisoner holding by four floors." and continues on to deliver her most recent load of mail. E.E., as she's called by those who absolutely adore her, has lived through the purge, immigration, depressions, and three husband. Naught disturbs her, for she's seen it once before at least.
Opening the clerks office 1/2 glass, 1/2 wooden door, and ignoring the shocked looks and meek protests of the faceless receptionist in her 3" nails and cloud of dept. store funkwater, they strode down hallways as if they had built them, to place a necklace shaped object on a non-descript wooden door's knob with a numerical cypher keypad on the wall next to it. A noise not much louder than a good popcorn fart on a church pew, with considerably more smoke, and the doorknob was scorched, but merely a hole in the door now. Opening the door and peering either direction in unison, the pair thrust the prisoner in front of them, and each removed a pen charge from their waists, which seemed to hold an endless assortment of wonderful toys, though appearing to the untrained eye to be form fitting, and in fact, skin tight. The fourth door on the right was their objective and upon finding it, forced the prisoner to his feet while Janelle, the younger of the two sisters, placed her boot on his neck, just hard enough to show him who was in fact, bosslady, while Ranelle, her Sister, placed the pen charges on the exposed door hinges. Dragging the complacent prisoner with them 20ft. down the hallway, Ranelle took out her cell phone and dialing a number, entered a four digit code. With a terrific clap of near thunder, the door propelled itself into Courtroom 16B, the bench of the Most honorable Justice Morgan. Peterson Cargile. Having sat for over two decades, he was most ready to, as he so politely put it "Un-ass this AO finally and go obtain a wonderfully decadent drinking problem in a location where the locals wear next to nothing, and the beach is so close, you can feel it beneath your toes". You may have guessed the Judge was an ex-military Man. Congratulations. Keep that in the back of your mind. Meanwhile, back to the carnage.
Or, lack thereof. Despite the fact that the door was near the public entrance to the courtroom, across the room some 60ft, and people were obviously disoriented and a few had vomited from the overpressure, no one was fatally wounded. The pair of Sisters dragged the prisoner to his feet,and together, all three presented themselves in front of the aforementioned Judge, who, upon regaining his composure, rose to his feet, all 5'8 of them, and contorting his face into a mask of rage looked at the trio and inquired as to, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHESTY PULLER IS GOING THE FUCK ON HERE?". Janelle spoke first. "Your honor, we apologize for any destruction and mayhem, our people will be in contact with your Goverment as we speak, working out the bill. However, more pressing buisness is our reason for, if I may, barging into your courtroom so explosively." This drew a chuckle from the baliff, and a stern look from hizzoner, Ranelle decided to end the suspense. "We present to you, and the 9th District court of the United States Of America, One Abdullah Omar Mohammed. He has been identified by both his fingerprints, DNA sample, and vocal analysis. He was captured after a 14 day chase across most of SouthEast Asia. The full report is being submitted, less dramatically, to the your FBI field office here, and CC'd to your Dept. Of Homeland defense. With regards to the 50 million dollar reward offered for the capture and delivery alive of this man, we ask that is returned to the American people, and that finally, Justice will be served upon this man." Janelle tranferred the prisoner to the care of the baliff, and much easier than they entered, and with absolutely no explosives nor helicopters, made their way out of the building to return to their boat to watch Anderson Coopers reaction to the capture and delivery of the most notorious terrorist since that bin laden idiot.
The two catsuited figures normally wouldn't have drawn any attention at all, considering the fact that this WAS San Francisco, however, the fact that both of them were female, blonde, and stacked like a pyramid of beer cans at a frat party sort of got peoples attention. The fact that they walked a bearded, swarthy man who was bound, gagged, and hood covered made people scatter from the front steps of U.S.District Court, 9th circuit as they marched up Golden Gate Avenue and lifting the man by the elbows, cleared two steps at a time on their way into the building.
Both guards on duty put their hands on their holsters, reminding themselves perhaps of where they were. They did absolutely no good as that was the last time they would remember anything for the remainder of the day. Pulling down Lo-Pro Industries latest gadgets, they put on what appeared to be sunglasses as they both lobbed two hairspray shaped cans to opposite ends of the foyer, never missing a step as the glass exploded, people fell to the ground, and the guards were unconscious. Entering the elevator, they removed the glasses and smiling at one another, slipped them in the neck of their suits, climbing for the 16th floor.
Exiting the elevator, they found the floor strangely empty. Moving towards the clerks office, the door opened to show Mrs. Eleanor Eugenia Thermaple. 74 yrs young, and moving with the speed of one 1/2 her age, she looked at the trio and never batting an eye says "Dears, you've missed prisoner holding by four floors." and continues on to deliver her most recent load of mail. E.E., as she's called by those who absolutely adore her, has lived through the purge, immigration, depressions, and three husband. Naught disturbs her, for she's seen it once before at least.
Opening the clerks office 1/2 glass, 1/2 wooden door, and ignoring the shocked looks and meek protests of the faceless receptionist in her 3" nails and cloud of dept. store funkwater, they strode down hallways as if they had built them, to place a necklace shaped object on a non-descript wooden door's knob with a numerical cypher keypad on the wall next to it. A noise not much louder than a good popcorn fart on a church pew, with considerably more smoke, and the doorknob was scorched, but merely a hole in the door now. Opening the door and peering either direction in unison, the pair thrust the prisoner in front of them, and each removed a pen charge from their waists, which seemed to hold an endless assortment of wonderful toys, though appearing to the untrained eye to be form fitting, and in fact, skin tight. The fourth door on the right was their objective and upon finding it, forced the prisoner to his feet while Janelle, the younger of the two sisters, placed her boot on his neck, just hard enough to show him who was in fact, bosslady, while Ranelle, her Sister, placed the pen charges on the exposed door hinges. Dragging the complacent prisoner with them 20ft. down the hallway, Ranelle took out her cell phone and dialing a number, entered a four digit code. With a terrific clap of near thunder, the door propelled itself into Courtroom 16B, the bench of the Most honorable Justice Morgan. Peterson Cargile. Having sat for over two decades, he was most ready to, as he so politely put it "Un-ass this AO finally and go obtain a wonderfully decadent drinking problem in a location where the locals wear next to nothing, and the beach is so close, you can feel it beneath your toes". You may have guessed the Judge was an ex-military Man. Congratulations. Keep that in the back of your mind. Meanwhile, back to the carnage.
Or, lack thereof. Despite the fact that the door was near the public entrance to the courtroom, across the room some 60ft, and people were obviously disoriented and a few had vomited from the overpressure, no one was fatally wounded. The pair of Sisters dragged the prisoner to his feet,and together, all three presented themselves in front of the aforementioned Judge, who, upon regaining his composure, rose to his feet, all 5'8 of them, and contorting his face into a mask of rage looked at the trio and inquired as to, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHESTY PULLER IS GOING THE FUCK ON HERE?". Janelle spoke first. "Your honor, we apologize for any destruction and mayhem, our people will be in contact with your Goverment as we speak, working out the bill. However, more pressing buisness is our reason for, if I may, barging into your courtroom so explosively." This drew a chuckle from the baliff, and a stern look from hizzoner, Ranelle decided to end the suspense. "We present to you, and the 9th District court of the United States Of America, One Abdullah Omar Mohammed. He has been identified by both his fingerprints, DNA sample, and vocal analysis. He was captured after a 14 day chase across most of SouthEast Asia. The full report is being submitted, less dramatically, to the your FBI field office here, and CC'd to your Dept. Of Homeland defense. With regards to the 50 million dollar reward offered for the capture and delivery alive of this man, we ask that is returned to the American people, and that finally, Justice will be served upon this man." Janelle tranferred the prisoner to the care of the baliff, and much easier than they entered, and with absolutely no explosives nor helicopters, made their way out of the building to return to their boat to watch Anderson Coopers reaction to the capture and delivery of the most notorious terrorist since that bin laden idiot.
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