GwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwD G R E E N Y w o r l d D o m i n a t i o n T a s k F o r c e Presents: "One Hand Clapping" by Spanky McDougal, Sir! PART I The Beginning It was only about a year after I "retired" from the force that they started tracking me down. They just don't let people like me walk off like that, I guess. I staggered into the foyer of my hotel, trying like hell to avoid anyone who looked like they had a bill for me. I had been on the beach all day, doing my damnedest to put myself in a tequila coma. It was pretty damn hard to find tequila in, well, wherever the hell I was, Philippines probably, but I was good at that kind of thing. I stopped my financial observations to notice the rather shapely legs of the waitress in the dimly lit bar off of the main lobby. I only glanced for one testosterone-filled second, but it was a second too long. The door ape had spotted me coming in, and was moving to intercept. He was a good guy, not too bright, and the kind to know when to stay bought. Makes me wish there were more politicians like him. I made sure to tip him real well, so he took good care of me, even when I was too drunk to wet myself properly. "Mistah Armand, you alright? You shouldn't drink outside like that, the locals roll you chop chop! You want me to get you a good drink from the bar?" Why not? I ordered up two fingers of Everclear, neat, and he sauntered off, looking puzzled. I wondered if the bar actually stocked the stuff. Probably. As he walked away, he tossed some words of warning over his shoulder. "Mistah Armand, someone short and rude was looking for you. Maybe a bill, eh?" Oh shit. He didn't know it, but he had saved my bacon then. That bastard Hale was after me again! When I "retired" from the Force a few years back, he'd sworn that he'd be the one they sent after me , even if he had to do it on his own time. Bastard probably did. Short and rude, yeah, that was Hale. I wandered up to the desk, slapping down some greasy, counterfeit bank notes to cover my tab, and asked if there was any mail for me. I knew there was. The desk clerk handed the box to me after checking my ID. The ID was for Elvis Costello, the fixer's idea of a joke, but this guy had no concept of the greats of comedy. I shook the box, relieved to feel the comforting weight inside. I had mailed the Mac 10 to myself a few weeks back, so I would always have access to it, even if my room was searched. I climbed up the fire escape, since I didn't trust elevators, and stared at my door. The doorman was right. The rose petal I always keep propped on the bottom of the door was moved. My door had been opened. Not likely the maids, half of them were in the VD clinic and the other half were doing their damnedest to get there, what with cheap "bedwarming" services and all. No, it was probably Hale or one of his goons. The goddamned little elf wouldn't get away with it this time! I reached over to the firebox and pulled out the spare clips for the Mac 10 I had substituted for the fire extinguisher a little over a week before. I had left the ax and the hose just in case, but they wouldn't be needed today. I grabbed the trash can, and emptied it into a smoky fire I lit with a back issue of cosmo and my Boy Scout firestarter. I always knew the connections to BS central would come in handy. They're like a covert army, and those Eagle Scouts are better than the Green Berets. I pulled out my trademark Pez dispenser, lit its head on fire for good luck, and popped one of those flaming Prozac pills down my throat for better luck (I never use candy, the prescription drugs pack more of an offensive punch. I know a guy who once took down a pack of Nazi attack dogs with a box of Halcion). I jammed the trash can over my head, and burst into my room. The maid looked up from the vacuum cleaner past her hairy legs and over her even hairier chin, but she didn't have to blink before I was all over her, shoving Pez into her throat and thumbing every happy pill I had into her system. That stuff is pretty nasty in large quantities, and she had enough coursing through her veins to stop a sex-crazed rhinocerous on bad acid. Pretty soon, she couldn't even track her eyes, and the medecine started to congeal on her breath. I dragged her over to the bathroom cubicle, shoved her head into the toilet and yelled, "Talk! Talk, goddamn it or I'll flush you down this thing!" Her answer, after the Prozac and throat burns, was a gurgle and a string of drool, but I was well practiced in the ways of mood altering drugs. I quickly deciphered her answer, and pulled her head out of the drink and, coincidentally, the pipes and all four walls of the cubicle. She was indeed Hale's goon, and the sharpened end of her mop had my name on it. As I was pulling her body out of the bathroom, I heard a chuckle behind him. "Well done, Armand, the flaming Pez was a nice touch." Hale! I spun around, spraying lead with the Mac 10, and demolishing every picture, speaker, potted plant, and TV screen in the room. I missed Hale completely. I had made the same goddamn mistake I had made the last time, forgetting that the midget queer was only three feet high! Hale returned fire with a highly tuned Curly routine, and I remembered only too late how good he was at it. The only defense was a standard #3 Moe act, but I had never bothered to learn it. By the time I was face down on the floor, bleeding and humiliated, I wished to hell I had. I managed to get up, but Hale had a portable CD player and the opening bars to "Achy Breaky Heart" strated ripping through the room. I didn't stand a chance with my low C&W tolerance, and I was on the floor again, screaming the antidote ("Call Me Al") at the top of my lungs. It didn't help because two twin goons connected at the shoulder strutted in and banged me around until my fillings were loose. "You should not have left us, Armand! The Boss is not pleased, and he wants you back! They say you are the best, but I think I have proven how much better I am. Hmm. I have no idea why the Boss might want you back, but it might have something to do with the Tierlich project. Guido! Nunzio! Take this slab of meatout to the car." The Duo of Destruction, one on each arm, marched me out to the car like some out of tune drill team. On the way, Hale practiced his degree in the Dark Side of Chiropracty on my shoulders. Such pain I had felt only once before, when my frat brothers convinced me to chug a bottle of Mad Dog and then pumped my stomach with a vacuum cleaner. On the ride to the train station, they sealed up the back seat and then the blackhearted bastards started pumping Indigo Girls into the back whilst a pleasant rendition of Beethoven echoed in the front seats. Over the strained chords of "Walking in Memphis" I noticed that the two Italian meatloafs were Siamese twins. So we were an equal opportunity employer now, eh? Well, at least I would get to see Cindy and the girls again... End of Part I Next: Reunion GwD Command Centers- Chaos (806)797-7501 SysOp-Seth The Man (Mission Control) GridPoint (XXX)XXX-XXXX SysOp-Transderm-Nitro (First Conquest, don't know new number) Federation Slayers' (806)799-1184 SysOp-Big Red Fed The Starchy White Boy BBS (806)842-3270 SysOp-Fastjack (Down until May of 1994) Light My Fire (806)795-4926 SysOp-Ailanthus The Snake's Den (806)793-3779 SysOp-Diamondback The Siege Perilous (806)762-0948 SysOp-Longshot Brazen's Hell (301)776-8259 SysOp-Brazen (Eastern Outpost) copyright (c) 1994 by Spanky McDougal, Sir! of GwD Inc. GREENY world Domination Task Force copyright (c) 1993 by Lobo All rights reserved to the guy in the woods (the woods are green!) GwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwDGwD22