The sound of sloshing through a substance not entirely liquid fills the cavernous hallways. Dimly lit by the low wattage bulbs of the wall sconces, the two burly men drag their catch by the wrists through the muck and filth of the under-dungeon. It wasn't really a dungeon, but that sounded more foreboding.
"You know, with as many recruits as we haul through here you'd think the bodies would seem to get lighter" Goon #1 said gruffly under his breath.
"I hear that" Goon #2 replied.
"Ever with the witty repartee" #1 thought to himself. "I guess that's the thing with bodies, it's like trying to move a futon mattress, it's never easy" he said aloud to his compatriot and continuing to wonder why he stayed in this line of work. "I'm going to get out of here some day, out of this dungeon, away from this shit!" he said in a moment of self defeating irony as his foot slowed to a halt, the weight of his body crushing human fecal matter beneath it.
"What was that?" #2 asked with the naivety of a 7 year old, and an IQ not far behind.
"Don't' worry about it, let's just get this guy into cell block 6 already. I'm tired of dragging his horny ass through all this filth. It's bad enough that we have to plod through this hell hole, but that every guy we drag has an erection when we do it? We really need another way" #1 said, with a disdainful undertone.
As they rounded the corner, Jared's body was so pulled with such force that his left foot swung out and kicked a rat. The rat looked back, limping off with a look in it's eyes as if to convey it's thoughts. Fuck you man, I know you're knocked out but really? That's just low.
Countless fluorescent lights bulbs -all seemingly flickering on their last leg- later, they arrived. The door was freshly painted, seemingly queerly out of place. The door number which read either "C3" or "C8" could not be readily discerned. While it had been recently painted, nobody bothered to post a new sign on the door so someone took the liberty upon themselves to write it in with a marker. "Classy" #1 thought.
The door creaked open as the rusty hinges struggled to release the door from the death grip of the frame.
"Oh can I open it? Please please please?" #2 begged.
#1's eyes rolled, and with a heavy sigh (not that he really needed to empower his cohort) he replied with a lackluster "Yeah buddy, have at it." And he did. The door flew open with a loud *CLANG* against the walls. Metal walls were always a nice touch, the constant echoing had been known to drive some men mad.
As his lifeless body was unceremoniously heaved into the room, #1 and #2 brushed their hands off and reached for the door. Just as it was about to shut, Jared's body had skidded to the walls and something blunt had caught him in the ribs. He let out a small groan.
"What the fuck was that?" I muttered to myself.
"MY FUCKING FOOT IN YOUR RIBS YOU PUSSY! WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING JARED, DAYDREAMING AGAIN?" came the yells of his commanding officer, Nolan. His voice would have been grating if it wasn't for the hilarious hint of Canadian in his voice which still lingered since his taking.
"No, Sir, I thought I had seen a maid undressing. You know, you guys really should schedule us conjugal visits, if we ever went up against a militia of chicks in bikinis we'd all be slack jawed and brainless." I said without so much as a hint of sarcasm, really. If you'd only known how long it had been since we'd been with more than Palmela Handerson or Lefty Wrister and her five sisters.
"WELL WHY IN THE NAME OF GOD'S ALMIGHTY FUCKING HEAVEN DID YOU NOT TELL ME, JARED, YOU DOUCHE BOX!" screamed Nolan. Insults weren't really his strong suit. "GET TO YOUR FEET, WE GOT WORK TO DO!" once again screaming. I'm pretty sure this man was born with the volume nob on his voice constantly set to "intense."
So I did as a good Blitzer would do, I scrambled to my feet, nearly knocking him over. No need to brush off the sand, it never sticks to the Burn Suit. God I love this thing! Seriously, I bet all the guys in R&D probably get all the ladies at the Compound's bars, Lord knows they've seen enough of the "I'm a bad boy and I kill people for a living" routine. Brainy guys seem to get all the chicks. It really is a cruel twist of fate. Any other bar in the world and you'd be swimming in women, probably having to kill them to get them off of you, but no, here you're nothing more than a piece of mindless meat to them. Oh well, what can ya do?
"ARE YOU DAYDREAMING AGAIN?" coming through with a somehow higher intensity. And no, he never shuts up.
Setting flashbacks aside, we all gear up. There is a strict order to precisely how one gears up, though. First, your all purpose grenade belt consisting of: 2 flares, 4 flash grenades, 2 shrapnel grenades and 4 extra ammo clips. Yes, even evil organizations are superstitious and as such we're trained never to trust odd numbers. Such is the word of our leader, the fearless and seemingly omnipresent leader Claude Montrose, or at least that's what we're told is his name. People in the outside world just know him as The Rev. Really, it never gets old.
The observers had signaled that attack time was eminent. We all grabbed our guns (automatic with grenade launchers, because anything less would be uncivilized), locked, loaded, took off the safeties and pulled our masks down. The Gas was about to fly and breathing that would be like kissing death himself. Grimy,acrid and immediately corrosive to your senses, causing you to keel over with your eyes melting out of their sockets, seizing so hard that you bite your tongue in half and your last breath of air isn't really a breath at all, it's the feeling of all oxygen escaping your lungs.
"ALRIGHT, ASS MAGNETS (I told you he was bad), LET'S GET A FUCKING MOVE ON. THIS EXTORTION MONEY ISN'T JUST GOING TO COME WITH OUT SOME WORK. NOW GET YOUR WITS ABOUT (aboot) YOURSELVES AND MARCH GOD DAMMIT! 12X3 FORMATION. BLITZERS, LET'S DO WHAT WE DO BEST!" And nothing else was said. We all knew what to do and we all took our positions.
"Time to get messy" I thought, and chuckled to myself with a grin which was bordering on insanity.
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