It's A Living; Henchmen for Hire

We've got one on the floor

2009-02-24T20:08:00.000-08:00

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.

So that's where I left it...

2009-02-18T21:49:00.000-08:00

So here I am, standing in my favorite burn suit. The burn suit, a slightly misleading moniker with only one real meaning: things are going to get messy. This suit is truly a marvel of engineering with a vented back (great for those hot days), stretchable sleeves for those times when you need just a little more give to catch an escaping child and even slip-resistant boots because, in this business, there are more slippery fluids than water. The gloves are a wonderful blend of synthetic suede (stain-proof I might add), the boots are lined with the finest of sheep's wool because really, when you're sacking the child of an Arab Sheik, it really pays off to be at your peak comfort level.

Now, you'd imagine this to be some really flashy suit, with it's back vents and synthetic suede, maybe an amalgamation of clashing bright and dark colors, but you'd be wrong. It's a gentle pairing of greens and grays, the kind that really lulls you into a nice sense of security. When wearing this suit, I'm never more calm and add the occasional splash of burgundy-red and you've put me in Blitzer heaven: a place filled with free hookers, and rich, spineless people who pay their ransom without question. What can I say, we're not a very creative kind.

Standing atop a sand dune, the dry air is blowing across my face, it burns a little and I can feel my lips beginning to chap. I grab the chapped part in my front teeth and tug until it comes free. Chewing on that bit of skin really brings me back to when I first started. Well, you never really "start" here, you're just given the option and trust me, this option is far more favorable than the other one you're presented with. Believe me, the first result from a wrong answer (see: no) is a little more drastic than a noogie or a an Indian Rope Burn. Imagine your testicles in a vice smothered in Bengay while simultaneously being pinched by incalculable amounts of pissed off crawfish and having your IQ slowly and painfully lowered to the point of mental retardation by a non-stop duet of Micheal Bolton and Barbra Striesand singing Christmas carols. I've seen the product -they become our janitors- and it's not pretty.

As the salt of my skin pervades my taste buds, I am sent into a euphoric state. It's a good thing I appear to be staring intently into my binoculars at our target, otherwise my compatriots would have seen the look of complete and utter distance in my gaze, like our janitorial crew. Instead, I stared intently out through the lenses starting at everything and nothing all at once.

The world swirls around me (or it could be a sand storm, I'm not quite sure), and I'm taken back to that moment. A boardwalk, long, seemingly miles long. It's just under 5,000,000 degrees outside and I'm trying to get into the unbearably tight pants of the snow cone girl. The trailer she was in was of the commonplace sort. White, pictures of perfectly crafted monochromatic snow cones on the outside. A hinged window in the front with a termite infested stick holding it up. You wouldn't want to stand under this thing longer than you had to. The paint was chipping off exposing the 10 previous paint jobs. In the corner of my eye, I saw a piece I just had to reach out and break off, oddly reminisce of my chapped lip. Fidgeting with her hair, she showed signs of obvious dismay that I hadn't yet ordered my frozen delight. "Soooooo, decided on a flavor yet?" She asked, that inquisitive little thing. I knew at once; I had to have her. "Yeah, I'll take one of every flavor, but I don't want to pay for the extras." She was bouncy, young, and all too eager to give me the extras for free

"I'm so In" I thought, attempting to sport my best 'cool guy' smirk. Not completely sold that she was really staying true to her word, I pulled out the big guns "So am I going to have to pay for this thing or do I have to take you on a date?" yeah, I was smooth. "That'll be 5$" she said so matter-of-fact that I simultaneously felt my heart shrivel up and my sperm count plummet. "$5 fucking dollars? The sign said $4!!! You're damn lucky you're attractive because otherwise I'd cuff you and take you to jail for extortion." I said in a stifled yell. Then, in an instant so fast I couldn't have began to blink she made my anger disappear and turn into nothing more than a distant and suppressed memory. "I'm sorry about that. Tell you what, if you have those handcuffs I'd love to extort that dollar right out of you" she said in a tone so buttery smooth I could have slathered it on my morning toast. "Jared, this is NASA, preparing your sperm count to blast through the stratosphere in 3...2...1..." Ignition.

She winked a shining blue eye which all but glinted with a *bling* when she did it. "This seriously can't be fucking happening. No fucking way. I flip out on her and now she wants my extorted sperm all over her? Fuck, did she just nod to the left or to the right. SHIT. I can't even see straight I hope I can fuck straight. Oh wait, it was definitely to the left. Alright Jared, move quickly but not too quickly, you don't want to seem desperate" my internal monologue mimicking a coach's' half-time speech to his ailing team. Taking a breath, I pivoted, and made every brazen attempt I could to not burst into a full bore, 10' sprint to the left side of the trailer. The painted on cones streaming past in a blur, appearing like a delicious rainbow. It was white, it was tiny, it was a sideways refrigerator on cinder blocks, but in about 30 seconds it was going to be hotter than the face of the damned sun. Under my breath, I blurted out another line of incomparable smoothness "Get your sunglasses on baby." I really should work on those. "What was that?" She asked in a coy I-know-what-you-said-but-I'll-pretend-I-didn't-hear-it voice.

I wish I could say that my last memory was taking this girl and blasting the innocence out of her and this place, tainting the thoughts of everyone seeking refreshment. "Yes, can I get a snow cone? Flavor? Oh I would love hot, steamy, passionate sex. That's the only one you have?! I guess I'm in luck." Yeah, that sounds about right. No, the last thought through my mind was the sound of an 8 flavor, $5 snow cone hitting the pavement. *Splot*. You can hear the ice crunching and melting at the same time. Refreshing dreams splaying out onto Satan's own griddle. A faint scent of lime, amaretto, blueberry, cherry, ocean spray, lemon, watermelon and apple hit me. It hit me hard, like the butt of an AK47 assault rifle to the back of my head. For a moment, everything turned red, like I'd been looking through one side of a pair of 3-D glasses. All the blood rushed to the front of my head and I swore my eyes would have just flown right out of their sockets. I was damn sure that the gun had just lodged itself in my head and that guy would've been looking, dumbfounded, wondering "How in the fuck did that happen?" and spending the next ten minutes standing on the back of my head trying to pry the butt of his assault rifle from my sex-driven brain. I knew it was too good to be true and now I've been had. Sadly though, only one thought blared in my brain in what would have been an ear splitting, glass shattering, teeth grinding noise had it been aloud. Just one thing, found it's way in, and I was certain it was the first thing I was going to say when I came to.

"Dammit, I knew she was a tease."

Even My Boss Wears Gloves

2009-02-13T16:57:00.000-08:00

"Jared, did you see that new chick down in Sector 10?" Edgar had asked his best friend with an almost palpable enthusiasm. I shook my head and imagined my eyes going for a nice liesurely roll. "Oh god dammit, here we go again," I stopped short of thinking aloud. "Yeah man, you know the one I'm talking about. she's just a few inches shorter than me, short brunette hair and one hell of an amazing ass. When she wears that black little number it puts my mind through a loop. Not to mention that I almost got offed during the last raid I was so caught up in thinking about her...you think that might be why they don't let the blue recruits come out with us?"

"A stunning revelation" I mused. There really wasn't a better way of responding, Edgar usually just rants about the new recruits until he's out of breath and just short of excusing himself to the bathroom. But that's how it was with Edgar; always craning his neck to get a good look at the newest additions to "the team" as it is so quaintly referred to. He never stopped running his mouth, even though it's understood that fraternizing with the fairer sex only ended up with you in a bloody heap at the end of a hallway. We've all seen it happen: Guy meets girl, guy and girl flirt, guy and girl have sex, guy can't get girl out of his head and next thing you know, we're on a mission to kidnap the daughter of some dignitary from who-gives-a-fuck and his brains paint the wall that nice dried brick color (it's the brains which really add to the effect).

So here we are, I'm sitting in an uncomfortable steel chair, the fold up kind you've seen bashed into the faces of countless braindead wrestlers. Nothing fancy about it, some rusty hinges, missing the back left foot so it constantly wobbles, impossible to unfold and painted that cumbersome grey. Nobody likes grey, I don't know why they bother. Edgar is posed, looking rather pensive and staring off into space. A passerby might look in and note that perhaps he's thought of something worth sharing, but really he's staring at pencil marks in the ceiling tile and wondering how he can get the new girl to relinquish her panties to him. His right knee is precariously balanced on a stool which is seemingly falling apart faster than your child's first shop project.You reminisce, your child coming home with a dinner tray consisting of more hot glue than actual wood. You smile, and thank him, but you know it's horrible and you're going to throw it out before year's end. Yes, that's just how nice this stool was. At any moment his foot was destined to break the support and send him crashing to the ground, but alas, today was not my day.

Just before he talks, his left nostril flares, hinting to me that a barrage of verbal diahrea is about to be spewed my way. "So, do you think I could get her? You know, like GET HER." he asked with a dreamy glint in his eye, though that could have been the flourescent lights above. "No, I don't" I responded dryly "And furthermore, could you for even one second think about something other than a girl with short hair and a black get-up? I mean really, THEY ALL wear the same clothes and they ALL thave the same haircut. It's standard procedure, moron." He really is difficult sometimes. What can I say though, he's my best friend, which doesn't really count for much around here, at least, not for anything more than consistent company which (though expendable) manages to not die. I guess when you work as a foot soldier (a "Blitzer" as we're known) in what may be the world's foremost evil organization, you tend to lighten up and accept company as it is.

"Do you think she'd give up anal? White chicks love that!" Edgar spewed out in what seemed an all too brief epiphany.

"Probably. You should ask."