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- Apr 14, 2009
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In celebration of the heroic (and 100% legal) shooting of the terrorist traitor Rapter, Lieutenant Yeti and I decided to hit up the local bar. I guess the excitement of the previous day caught up to us as I find myself waking up in what’s left of a legally commandeered vehicle safely tucked into what looks like a slide and/or jungle gym. I feel like I've been asleep for months and the burning of my retinas from the sun is nothing compared to the shocks to my brain delivered by the back then front of the Lt.’s hand.
I fell asleep like this. Except with a nicer shirt and not in a stock photo.
The Lt. grabs the emergency whiskey bottle we were smart enough to store in the glove compartment while I back the car out of the wreckage of a playground that some careless citizen left in the middle of what is obviously an automobile driving field.
Lieutenant Yeti and I reverted to our days in Nam and decided to burn down any evid-- wreckage that remained from an illegal scrap metal dump site. As the Lt. put it; “the flames dance… the fire cleanses with its sumptuous glow! …and it keeps the wildlife and children safe or something.”
I slam the accelerator to the floor and start honking and cursing at the traffic since this legally commandeered vehicle lacks a proper siren. I toss the Lt. a pocketful of instant coffee that I always have on my person. The Lt. adds the instant coffee to the whisky and shakes it, our day of crime fighting begins again. Mmmmhhh nothing like a standard brand name whiskey with instant coffee crystals early in the 2 PM.
I call dispatch.
I'll see you again my poor little Johann Sebastian Bach. That damn union lawyer better come through!
Damn, it looks like we missed the radio call about a new killing spree being carried out by the terrorist traitors. Going by my last figures and factoring new information telexed by dispatch, my calculations are totally off. I’ll need to crunch some numbers and factor in everything we’ve learned since two months ago—I mean, since yesterday. I hand the bottle of coffee to Lieutenant Yeti as I carefully place some eye drops in my eyes while steering the car with my knee. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my detective’s journal while I roll my eyes around, try not to make it look like I’m crying, and make sure my eyeballs are moistened properly.
The included pencil, eraser, and sticker set are also crucial to any investigation.
New intel states clearly that no more than 25% of the original 30 suspects can be terrorist traitors. I know what you’re thinking, and yes the moon cycle has a significant effect on terrorist traitors, werewolves, the tide, and pack animals. There need not be a great fear as the Planting Moon gives way to the Waning Crescent. Adding up the current numbers of casualties and the confirmed kill of the “suspected” terrorist traitor Rapter, there are two dead. The first dead was the innocent that got this whole mess started. The second dead was Rapter. I could have sworn there was more killing than that, criminals are getting soft nowadays. This means that out of the 30 suspects, 7 are traitors and 23 are innocents… probably. Math isn’t exactly a skill a hardened detective needs to hone, thank goodness I was fortunate enough to receive public education here in the U.S. of A.
We better hope Cthulhu doesn't get involved with these terrorist traitor street gangs.
I park carefully on the sidewalk/storefront window/bicycle rack in front of a large multiple story building as I finish my calculations in my detective’s journal. This looks like the right crime scene and dispatcher Dutch confirms it via radio. We’re in downtown and surrounded by skyscrapers. Your usual terrorist traitor blood bath. I count a total of seven bodies in the lobby with blood trails leading upstairs. The lieutenant and I start our scan.
I think this is the right picture of the crime scene. Either that or this is a Kieth Haring piece.
The Lt. and I clear the main stairwell together and split up as we clear each floor on our way to the rooftop of the building. Sometimes I forget how big this town is. This whole damn mess started in the squalor of the some bright and cheerful suburb known as Kakariko, now we’re headed to the rooftops in a cluster of downtown buildings.
I don't know how I got up here... help.
It feels like I’ve been climbing these stairs for hours. My legs are burning almost as bad as my lungs as I hock out chunks of my esophagus and thousands of dead capillaries. I light a cigarette as I glance up at the landing of the current set of stairs I’m climbing “Floor 3.” I feel the rich tobacco flavor fill my lungs and let out more coughs, but this time they’re healthy coughs of 100% U.S. grown tobacco and domestically made additives (some health-mongers and the State of California call them "carcinogens"-- but that's hippie-talk). I feel rejuvenated as that rich tobacco flavor fills me with pep. Good thing I left behind the radio so I could carry two extra packs, I still have 30 or so floors to climb.
As a man concerned with his health, I make sure to drink more than the recommended whiskey minimum and I smoke six packs a day to fight the tuberculosis.
I finally reach the rooftop and see what can only be described as a bath of blood. Bodies are strewn all about, the people who aren’t already dead have fear in their eyes and are standing in small groups a short distance from the carnage. Around this grotesque scene there are remnants of fires and I spot a red oil drum about to blow. It’s too late to yell out a warning, the drum explodes and rains down fire on a poor guy who runs around on fire screaming and flailing his arms. As I hold back laughter (sorry, but when you see a guy running around waving his arms it’s funny… sometimes it’s even funny when they’re on fire) and grab the nearest bystander’s coat to put him out. No way was I going to ruin my fine Gentleman’s Warehouse custom fitted suit coat. Poor guy has burns over half his body. I tell him to hang on and that I’ll get him a medic. He replies with “I just wanted to be a part of it… I didn’t want this to happen.” As I light a cigarette for him, I tell him to shut his facehole so I can get him some help.
I could go for a steak right about now.
I rush to the opposite side of the roof to find Lieutenant Yeti. As I’m about to open the stairwell door, Yeti pops out. He’s out of breath and I offer him a cigarette. “Wow, what the hell happened here?” he asks between gasps of air and that smooth tobacco flavor. I reply “traitors, that’s what happened.” After the Lt. sizes up the situation we ask the nearest group of people if they know where a medic can be found. We’re directed to the back of a stairwell where Compton is performing chest compressions on one of the victims of this coldblooded attack.
I lead Compton and Yeti back to slaughterfest near the middle of the rooftops and find the burn victim huddled against a short rooftop wall. He’s clutching the coat I gave him earlier and still moaning. “this looks bad” said Compton. The Lt. and I only nodded our heads in agreement. Compton crouches down and approaches the victim. Compton turns his head towards me and says “I’m gonna need your help on this one Sarge. Open up that medic bag and hand me items as I need them.” “No problem,” I reply.
That poor guy. At least Compton was there to comfort him in his last moments. Well, we still had a job to do. I pull out my scanner and point it at the body of that one guy who just died. Immediately, the scanner reads “Traitor.” This guy not only ruined an innocent civilian’s coat with his char, he wasted time that Paramedic Compton could have used to treat other victims. I think the Lt. is as surprised as I am, that this guy who we felt a little sorry for was actually a traitor. I can’t even begin to understand how Compton must feel.
Now that the initial surprise wore off, Compton asks me to help him pick up his gear. He looks solemn and mostly looks at his feet or the ground. I get down on one knee to pick up some items that got strewn about in the effort to save that what’s-his-face traitor. As I turn away from Compton I feel a sharp poke on the left cheek of my buttocks.
I hear Compton almost whispering “Sorry Sarge, we’ll always have that firefight in Takistan.” I’m confused by what he just said, “of course we had a good time there” I reply as I grab the object that was stabbed into my pristine and favorite buttock cheek. I pull it out and I’m shocked to see it is a large nearly empty syringe. I feel sluggish and confused, I say “Compton, I’m still on shift. This isn’t cool man” as my head begins to spin. I see Compton who is about 10 feet away from me reach into his medic bag and pull out a pocket revolver. I instinctively turn to the left as I go to draw my handgun that sits in my shoulder holster. Out of the corner of my eye I see Yeti sprinting to me while he draws his magnum revolver.
Why couldn’t he have used one of these?… on a croissant… with some whiscey coffee.
The last things I remember on those hellish rooftops were an ear-splittling “BANG,” falling to the ground and seeing Compton. As darkness slowly encircled my field of vision, I watched as Compton clutched at his chest, began to slouch, fell to his knees, and slowly rested his head and shoulders on the ground, leaving his butt high in the air. As he lay in the previous stated position, we locked eyes as he passed on and I passed out. Compton was our squad medic in the ‘Tak but he was also a friend. We’d been through so much, Compton. At least you died with dignity. As my vision fades to black the last thing I hear is the brave Lieutenant Yeti yelling “Stormy! Stormy! Don’t you die on me!”
Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter of The True Made-up Tales of Det. Sgt. Stormy Part 2.5: Flashback-to-back.
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Bonus Teaser of The True Made-up Tales of Det. Sgt. Stormy Part 2.5: Flashback-to-back.
I find myself waking up to the familiar front then back of Lieutenant Yeti's hand. As he continues to slap me, I can't help but feel I've been here before. Sure enough, I find myself looking at the ceiling of a Bell UH-1 Huey. I sit up and find the Lt. looking a bit younger and donning a pair of nice aviators and a blue U.S. Cavalry Stetson hat. Either this is a flashback or I'm in a lucid dream. Having undergone lucid dream training and the Lt. having not transformed into a beautiful woman by now can only mean one of two things: One, this actually is a flashback and two, a possibility I don't feel like thinking about since the Lt. didn't turn into a beautiful woman. With one last slap, the Lieutenant asks "You okay Stormy?" I reply with "yeah.. sorry, flashback. But why the hell isn't our door gunner shooting those Vietcong?"
I find myself waking up to the familiar front then back of Lieutenant Yeti's hand. As he continues to slap me, I can't help but feel I've been here before. Sure enough, I find myself looking at the ceiling of a Bell UH-1 Huey. I sit up and find the Lt. looking a bit younger and donning a pair of nice aviators and a blue U.S. Cavalry Stetson hat. Either this is a flashback or I'm in a lucid dream. Having undergone lucid dream training and the Lt. having not transformed into a beautiful woman by now can only mean one of two things: One, this actually is a flashback and two, a possibility I don't feel like thinking about since the Lt. didn't turn into a beautiful woman. With one last slap, the Lieutenant asks "You okay Stormy?" I reply with "yeah.. sorry, flashback. But why the hell isn't our door gunner shooting those Vietcong?"
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