“At least carry a sidearm Dad!” Jack advised his dad.
“No!” Rod retorted. “That’s so uncivilized! AND I’m a pacifist!”
“It’s probably not a good idea to attack an entire cartel with only samurai swords!”
Jose had enough and threw the tequila bottle against the wall. “The whole thing is a trap!” he screamed.
“No it’s not!” Rod replied.
“It’s definitely a trap,” Jack added.
“Why would they lead us into the United States?” Jose continued. “If we cross the border and kill a bunch of guys, then we’re subject to US law! How do we know that the authorities aren’t watching us?”
Rod picked up his sword and began twirling it around. “We have them on the ropes,” he said. “This might be our last opportunity to finish what we started, Jose.”
“Then we should lead them back across the border and attack them on Mexican soil!” Jose replied.
“No!”
“Dad, if we kill ‘em on Mexican soil then we can get away with this scott free!” Jack pleaded.
“No! Noooooooooooo!”
Rod threw his samurai sword into the air and with one swift kick, he broke the sword in two. Jack and Jose stood in awed silence before Jose picked up the two broken pieces and shook his head. “You’re marching towards your death, Rod,” Jose said, “and I want no part of it. Where will this madness end?”
Jose dropped the pieces on the ground and began walking towards the door. Rod looked out the window into the barren New Mexican landscape. “This is my last cry, as my last blood flows,” he uttered to himself. “Then, O my Tyrians, besiege with hate His progeny and all his race to come: No love, no pact must be between our peoples.”
Jose stopped in his tracks. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
“The Aenied,” Rod said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m an old man, Jose. I didn’t choose this life, and neither did you. Our whole lives, we’ve understood the risks but we rolled the dice anyway. Now’s not the time to back down. We don’t play defense. Now’s the time to attack! Right here, right now! NOW’S the time to make them pay for what they’ve done!”
“This bullet wound ain’t shit,” Jack said. The bikers were carrying him away while dodging fire from the high flying hueys. While deep in the cover from the surrounding jungle, Jack attempted to cauterize the wound Rambo-style. But this was a spectacular failure and he soon went into shock.
After spending five days in a coma, Jack awoke to find his father standing over him. “Goddamn you, Jack,” Rod said. Then he punched his son out.
Jack spent five more days in a coma due to a severe concussion. When he awoke again, he found himself in a shack far away from Juarez. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.
The scarred up biker sitting nearby put down the tequila bottle. “Puerto Paloma,” he said, then belched and farted.
“Mexico?”
“Nuevo Mexico.”
Jose barged in splashing water on his face and cursing. “Hijo de puta!” he yelled.
“Why are we in the United States?” Jack asked.
Jose picked up the tequila bottle and shook his head. “While you were in a coma, we tracked Pablo and the cartel across the border,” Jose explained. “Your father is a bastardo.”
“Where is he? Whatever business my father had with cartel is over. I’m taking him with me.”
“Good luck with that,” Jose retorted. “He’s not listening to anyone!”
Jack got up from the dusty floor and walked out into the blazing sun. A few yards away was another shack where Jack presumed his father to be. He swung open the door where he found Rod Hardcock in deep meditation. “We’re leaving,” Jack ordered after he kicked in the side.
Rod emerged from deep thought and picked up a pair of nunchucks. He swung them around his body just inches away from Jack. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Why did you come to Mexico?” Rod responded, still focused on nunchuck practice. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to get you away from this mess!”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re 76 years old dad! Why are you still running around with a murderous gang of bikers?!”
Rod threw down the nunchucks and looked his son square in the eye. “You think I can’t hang? Try me!”
“Dad, you don’t want none of this.”
“I don’t want to fight you! I’m a pacifist! But I see that you’re still carrying around that pathetic .38. Come on now! You’re a big boy! Give it a shot!”
Jack cocked his head. “You want me to shoot you?”
“Shiiiiiiit, that bullet won’t come near me!”
Jack shrugged, pulled out the .38 and pointed it at his father. “I don’t know what you think this will prove,” he said, “but if you really want me to shoot you…”. He fired a single round and in less than a blink of an eye, Rod threw a shuriken which completely deflected the bullet.
“Mother of god,” Jack gasped.
Rod chuckled. “You still think your old man has nothing left to prove?”
“Alright then,” Jack replied while he re-holstered his gun, “so you’re a pacifist, eh? I should have known that you’ve become a filthy heathen. But why chase the cartel? What’s the point?”
Rod pulled an immaculate Samurai sword from off the wall and slowly swung it around. “You’re a messenger of the Lord’s Word,” he explained, “but I live by the Way of the Blade. I don’t know why fate has chose me, but I know it’s my duty to purify this land of its violent ways…specially by the tip of my sword.”
“Okay dad,” Jack agreed, “I will help you, but only because I have some unfinished business with Pablo. And after we mercilessly kill all of them, you’re coming with me.”
“I didn’t know there were jungles around Juarez,” Jack said as he swatted away mosquitoes.
“Si Senor,” responded Jose. “Mexico is nothing but jungle.”
The darkness of night provided the perfect cover for Jack and Jose, along with their motley crew of biker vigilantes. The gang passed around a bottle of tequila as they watched and waited several hundred yards away from the cartel’s compound. “Are you sure my father is being held here?” Jack asked Jose.
“Sí. We’ve been watching this place for several days.”
“I know Pablo Santora is behind this,” Jack added. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”
One of the bikers whispered over to Jose. “no reconozco a esta persona,” Jack heard.
Jose gazed through the binoculars towards the compound. “Jack, come here,” Jose said, “do you recognize this woman?”
Jack took the binoculars and scratched his head. “I don’t know who that is,” he replied, “but goddamn she’s tall.” He continued watching this mysterious woman through the window as she handed a large metal briefcase to none other than Pablo Santora. “I knew it!” Jack uttered to himself. The exchange lasted no more than a few minutes before the woman departed in a stretched limousine.
“Now’s a good time to launch the attack,” Jose said. Jack nodded and readied his .38. “Let’s go,” he declared.
The group marched through the muggy jungle until they were right on the perimeter. Without hesitation, a biker launched a flare into the air while another unleashed hell with a 50 cal. Suddenly the compound was lit up with explosions and tracer rounds.
“This is a little much, wouldn’t you say?” Jack shouted to Jose. Then the watchtower exploded from an RPG. Shattered glass and smoldering debris fell onto the men below. “I think it’s the right amount,” Jose retorted.
With the compound covered in fire like it’s the coming apocalypse, the gang marched through the gates and fired on anything that moved. Jack kicked open every door and looked under every pile of rubble looking for his father. Jose found a critically injured member of the cartel whose skin was smoldering and guts splayed out over the ground.
“Donde esta Rod Hardcock?!” Jose shouted to the dying man. But all the poor bastard could utter was “agua…agua.” So Jose emptied his .45 into him.
“No luck so far,” Jose told Jack. Then one of the bikers shouted “lo encontré!” Jack rushed to the portly biker and beside him was a tipped over porter john. And inside the porter john was a shit-caked Rod Hardcock.
“Jack, goddamn you, why did you come?!” Senor Hardcock told his son.
“Don’t worry Dad, I’m gonna make Pablo pay for this!”
Jose inquisitively look around him. “Has anyone found Pablo?”
Suddenly Hueys began whooshing overhead. Before Jack could react, he felt a bullet cut clean through his abdomen.
Pablo Santora pushed a shot glass across the bar. Jack picked up the glass and took one look at the liquid. “Tequila is piss water,” Jack said, “fortunately I like piss.”
After he swallowed the drink, Jack asked for another. Pablo laughed as he unscrewed the bottle. “I know why you’re in Juarez, Jack,” he said.
“Why am I in Juarez, Pablo?”
Pablo poured the tequila and leaned forward. “The cartel the coming for you,” he warned, “you’re gonna need more than a gun that’s smaller than your dick.”
Jack reached for his .38 special and grabbed Pablo by the shirt. “How would YOU know how big my dick is?” he asked, “I know you are with the cartel. So give them a message for me: release my father or I’m coming for ALL OF YOU!”
“Estas loco Jack!” Pablo yelled.
Maria quickly broke up the fight. “Come to your senses Jack!” she pleaded. Jack released Pablo and placed .38 back in its holster. “I stopped by La Casa de La Muerte to deliver that message,” he said, “I’ll be back in a few days to see if that message was received.”
Jack straitened himself out and walked out the front doors. Maria rushed out after him. “I’m so sorry Jack,” she said, “but I couldn’t wait on you forever!”
Jack stopped in his tracks. “But why Pablo?” he asked.
She said nothing.
“What Pablo wants, Pablo gets,” Jack said, “and if it’s death he wants, then I’m happy to deliver.”
Jack walked away and a few blocks later he was kidnapped by some desperados in a pedo van.
The border crossing station stuck out against the barren desert. The two guards laughed as they contemplated their easy assignments. “Lo tenemos hecho,” one said to the other.
Suddenly a lone figure barged in. The guards stared in awe at the ominous character. “Passport, please?” one asked in broken English.
The mysterious figure pulled out his .38.
“Jack Hardcock,” a guard gasped.
“Which way to Juarez?” Jack asked.
The guards silently pointed to the west.
“Gracias,” he said.
As Jack walked away, the guards watched as marched towards the horizon. “Dios ayudanos,” they uttered.
Gunshots and Mariachi music echoed through the streets of Juarez. Jack feared no evil as he walked through the valley of death. He knew the city would face the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; God’s vengeance would soon reign.
If he himself was the one to deliver this vengeance, Jack did not know.
“I’m looking for La Casa de La Muerte,” Jack said to a random street vendor.
“Que?” the vendor replied.
“I’m an American,” Jack stated, “it’s my right to not speak Spanish. So you better answer me or answer to my .38!”
“sé lo que estás diciendo,” the vendor said, “pero no conozco este lugar.”
Jack pistol whipped the vendor and prepared to empty his revolver into the poor bastard. But Heaven granted the man a reprieve: at that moment, an angelic voice appeared. “Jack, no!” it ordered.
Jack’s hand began to shiver as he aimed the .38. He knew this voice.
“Maria,” he uttered.
Jack slowly turned around. Maria was as radiant as a bluebonnet under the Texas sun. He thought he’d never see her face again. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve been in Juarez for sometime,” she said, “why did you not respond to my letters?”
“Maria,” he pleaded, “I’m so sorry. I…”
That moment, Pablo Santora came marching up in his Wrangler jeans and snakeskin boots. He put his arm around Maria. “Jack,” Pablo smiled from underneath his mustache, “so pleasant to see you again.”
“Pablo,” Jack simply said. He had to restrain himself.
Pablo lifted a cigar to his mouth. “Jack, old friend,” he continued, “I am the proprietor of La Casa de La Muerte. Please, stop by and see us, yeah?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Pablo,” Jack said.
“Mi amigo,” Pablo chuckled, and he slowly strolled away.
“I can’t thank you enough for shooting me in the shoulder,” Brother Joses said, “sometimes all it takes is a bullet from the Lord to help one see the light.”
“Amen brother,” Jack replied, “Jesus wants you to know that I ain’t no puss. So don’t ever accuse me of that again. Or next time I’ll shoot you in the face.”
The sun beat down on the Preacher and Jack like a hellish balefire as they ate their afternoon brunch under the Utah sky. The two were conversing a lot in those days; they knew the plight of modern times represented the mark of the beast. They both trembled and reveled at the pending onslaught of blood and glory from the Lord.
“Tell me,” Joses spoke as he slapped down his napkin, “what’s this business with Johnson? He must know the Lord’s vengeance is near.”
“Oh yes, Brother Joses, he is well aware,” Jack retorted, “but there remains this business with our father.”
“Your father? I thought Rod Hardcock was dead.”
Jack looked out to the deserted horizon, wishing he could push the many years of pain off the edge of the earth. “I believed he was too,” Jack lamented, “unfortunately he was only in Mexico.”
“Mexico? Why the devil would he be sent to such a castoff corner of hell?”
“Drugs,” Jack replied, “and churros. But mostly drugs. He presumably shoves them up his ass and smuggles them into the United States.”
“A mule, in other words.”
“Precisely.”
“So your father has never heard the Good News of Jesus Christ and the impending destruction of earth and the violent demise of all unbelievers in His Name?”
Jack chugged his beer and spat on the ground. “I’m afraid not,” he said, “moreover, the cartel is holding him ransom for unknown reasons.”
“My word,” Joses gasped.
A haunting silence fell between the two as they pondered this unspeakable predicament. “Then you must go to Mexico,” Joses finally spoke, “deliver the Word to your father…and rescue him from the clutches of Satan…before it’s too late.”
Jack pulled out his .38 and looked down the sights as he pointed it in the direction of Mexico.
Jack stepped outside to take a piss. He held his dick in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Dear God…please take away this burden, he thought to himself.
When he was done, Jack zipped up, dropped the bottle to the ground and stumbled back into his trailer. He fell then vomited all over himself as he took the first step.
His brother rushed up to his side to help him up. “What happened to you, Jack?” he asked, “I was afraid that the devil would get you when you went to California.”
“Layla,” Jack kept mumbling.
Three of Jack’s plain wives helped him over to the couch and cleaned him off. His brother was afraid. He had never seen Jack so disheveled…so unkempt.
“The Mormons,” Jack kept mumbling, “The Mormons are helping me see the light.”
“But Jack,” his brother said, “you’re a drunk, you basically run a harem out of your dilapidated trailer in the middle of the desert, and Joseph Smith was a spawn of Satan.”
“You don’t get it Peter!” Jack retorted
“Peter? I’m your brother: John! Johnson Hardcock! Who is Peter?”
“Oh shit!” Jack realized, “I’m so sorry John! I can’t stop thinking about Peter Tucker!”
“Who?!”
One of the many wives walked up to deliver a glass of water to Jack. “He’s been calling everyone ‘Peter’ these days,” she explained.
“Uh huh,” John said, then pressed forward. “Jack, what are we going to do about dad?” he asked, “we can’t just let the cartel kill him!”
Jack let out a massive fart. “I think I shit myself,” he said.
“Focus!” John snapped, “The cartel wants $2 million in cash and I just don’t have that money!”
Jack sat up, uncapped a bottle of Jim Beam, and started chugging. He then loaded the .38 and began slurring out his words. “I’ve got a plan,” he said, “since Biden won’t build the wall, I’m gonna saw off Mexico from America.”
John threw up his hands. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he said. He stood up and looked out the window to the vast, shitty Utah landscape. “It’s been 2000 years since Jesus walked this earth,” John continued, “I just know in my heart that He’ll be returning at any moment. There’s no way that millions of people have been wrong about this. I know that I haven’t totally wasted my life believing in nonsense.”
Jack began to sober up. “I know what you mean, brother,” he said, “I too have felt that He’ll be coming soon. He’ll be coming hard, coming fast, and coming all over. And this time, there will be no kind words. He’ll be coming with a sword to vanquish His enemies. And I am that sword.”
John turned to face his brother. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“I don’t take this burden lightly,” Jack said, “Sometimes I feel like Jesus on the cross; sometimes I feel forsaken by God. It’s a responsibility I would wish on no man. But I am the chosen one; chosen to deliver God’s wrath. That is my duty and I will fulfill it.”
“Then you must find our father before it’s too late,” John replied.
Brother Joses stood over his parish like a specter from the past. He was no mere preacher; he was a prophet of things to come.
“The Lord is not a Lord of peace,” he proclaimed to his captive audience, “as Isaiah told us: See, the day of the Lord is coming — a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger. . . . I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty. . . . Their infants will be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses will be looted and their wives violated. I shout to the world with the power of a thousand trumpets: repent! For the Lord shall have His vengeance!”
The parishioners nodded, too awestruck to proclaim their faith with revelry.
In the front pew sat Jack Hardcock, his hands trembling. He had seen the wrath that Joses spoke of, for he was It’s one instrument. And Jack’s own instrument of Death was none other than the Smith & Wesson .38 special. It was holstered securely underneath his jacket. But the fiery message of Brother Joses was speaking to his God-given urge to kill.
Jack quietly stood up, buttoned his jacket, and proceeded to exit the chapel. Halfway to the door, with his back turned toward Brother Joses, the preacher shouted: “Brother Jack, the Lord does not call upon the faint of heart!”
Jack turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out the .38. The parishioners sat silently as he unloaded the revolver, leaving one in the chamber. “Do you trust the Lord?” asked Jack.
Joses said nothing as beads of sweat poured down his face. Jack spun the revolver and placed the stubbed barrel up to his chin. “I certainly do,” he said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
A few screams echoed through the chapel, but there was no gunfire. Jack stood there, barrel still to his chin, laughing at the weakhearted parishioners.
But Joses didn’t flinch.
“It appears as though I am one of God’s chosen,” Jack said to Joses. Then he pointed the .38 at the preacher.
“Are you?” he asked.
Jack pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet that went clean through Joses’ shoulder. Blood splattered all over the Christian flag. Pandemonium broke out as parishioners rushed to their preacher’s aid.
“Faint of heart?” Jack chuckled to himself. He shook his head and walked out the front doors. As he proceeded down the steps, Jack looked out into the barren Utah landscape. He noticed a lone figure standing in the dusty wind.
Jack squinted.
“Could it be?” he thought.
It was his own flesh and blood; his brother. It was Peter Hardcock.
“Don’t you know that Mormons are godless heathens?” Peter asked.
“Peter,” Jack said, “I’m so sorry. After my last case, I had to go somewhere. The Mormons were the only ones that would take me in. I’m sorry that I never reached out.”
“Nevermind that,” Peter replied, “our father is missing.”
“Our father?”
“Yes. Our father is missing and he needs your help. Rod Hardcock has been taken prisoner by Mexican cartels.”
“Here’s semi-automatic plasma rifle from World War XIV. You should be able vaporize 500 men with this dandy,” Rockwell explained.
I took one look at the weapon. “Why didn’t you say that you had all of this futuristic technology?” I asked.
“Well I thought that it would create all kinds of paradoxes in the space time continuum. But apparently none of that matters. Hell, being a good Irishman that I am, I got super drunk with Jesus Christ on the Last Supper and he ended up asphyxiating on his vomit. Good guy by the way, but it ended up changing nothing in the future. Peter got crucified instead. So fuck it.”
I scratched my head. “So are you from the future or past? Just what the fuck are you?”
“Stop thinking so much,” Rockwell replied, “let’s go kill some cowboys and get back to our timelines.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m gonna need this plasma rifle. I got a .357 Magnum.”
“Are you some kind of dipshit? That thing’s only got six shots. We’re going against hundreds of men.”
“Have I ever told you about the time I killed the west coast mafia up in Big Bear, slaughtered an army in the jungles of Honduras, then did it again in a dormant volcano in Hawaii? This ain’t my first rodeo.”
Rockwell shook his head. “Yeah well, whatever dude. You tell me every chance you get.”
“Come on men,” J. Robert Oppenheimer ordered, “let’s ride out. With our futuristic weaponry, we should be able to handle all of Dickleburg’s men. Don’t let them get close. If it moves, kill it.”
We rode out from the Rockwell homestead into Elkhorn. Everyone was armed to the teeth; Oppenheimer, Mr. Ree, and Rockwell we’re strapped with multiple pistols, shotguns, and assorted hand grenades. Fred Ward had a Gatling gun mounted to his carriage. When we arrived at the outskirts, Fred got into position while the rest of us dismounted and marched side by side into town.
When we reached the sheriff’s office, Billy Friedkin stepped out to greet us. “Well well well,” Billy taunted, “if it ain’t Wyatt Earp and his merry men.”
Oppenheimer immediately pulled out his laser pistol and fired. Billy Friedkin exploded into a million pieces. Bits of brain matter and guts were strewn around the town square.
“Jesus Christ BOB!!!” Dickleburg screamed when he saw the bloody scene, “Chill the fuck out!!!”
Oppenheimer pointed his pistol at Dickleburg. “Do you see what happened to Billy?” he asked, “This is what we’re prepared to do to you if you don’t release my family and leave this town!”
Dickleburg raised his hands and nodded. “I think we have another misunderstanding,” he said with genuine concern, “Look, I have a proposal that will make everyone happy.”
“Release my family first,” Oppenheimer ordered.
“Alright. Alright!” Dickleburg responded. He looked back into the sheriff’s office. “Bring ‘em out!”
One of Dickleburg’s men escorted Maybelline and Malachi out into the open. “James, save us!” Maybelline screamed at me.
“As you can see Bob, your family is perfectly fine,” Dickleburg added.
“Release them!”
“First, I want to go over our proposal.”
Oppenheimer cocked his pistol, which made a loud charging noise. “You better make it quick,” he threatened, “if you don’t, the next time I press the trigger there will be no remains to send back to your family.”
Dickleburg gave a nervous chuckle. “I make you and everyone in this town filthy rich,” he said, “and in return, my company has complete access to the mining rights of this town.”
I’m not gonna say I’m suffering from writer’s block. But I’m certainly lazy as shit.
So here’s another flashback from the early days. It was a sequel to Shoot Me, Deadly and it’s by far my least read story. It’s not nearly as good, plus it’s replete with grammatical errors.
But, eh.
Whatever.
The Man With the Golden Eye
The phones were ringing off the hook. Everyone was missing something: cat, dog, prosthetic arm, leg, penis, you name it. Business was booming.
But I needed help. I was on the phone all the time. Not solving cases.
Isabella brought in lunch: a Philly cheesesteak from Tony’s off 5th Avenue.
“Gee mister,” Isabella said. “After I sent a butthole pic to that producer on the internet, I’ve been getting all kinds of acting job offers!”
“That’s good to hear Izzy,” I replied. “But you can call me James.”
The calls kept coming. I couldn’t keep up. Unfortunately, between the court fees, medical bills, fines owed to the state of California for burning down a nature preserve, and replacing the window in my office after a man fell through it, I couldn’t afford help.
“Say James,” Izzy said. “You look swamped. Since you saved my life and all, the least I could do is help you out with your business.”
“Oh you’re a lifesaver Izzy. I had to let go of my secretary the other day. If you could sit at her desk and answer phones, that would be great. Just ignore the calls with a Sacramento area code,” I replied.
As I was explaining the job, Sgt. LP Anderson of the LAPD called.
“What do you know about Franco De Werner?” Anderson asked.
“He’s around 5’10.5 with a great head of hair. He’s the biggest arms manufacturer on this side of the Mississippi. He’s been a financier of various counter-revolutionary movements in South and Central America. In fact, his eye got shot out in Nicaragua for which he now wears an eye patch. He’s earned a reputation as a solid middleman between the CIA and various fruit companies in war-torn countries. He graduated summa cum laude from Emory, earned an MBA from Wharton. His wife is Becky, they have two children ages 15 and 18. His drink of choice is Kentucky Bourbon, and he enjoys the works of Dostoyevsky. Otherwise I don’t know much,” I said.
“Well the FBI called, seems like a shipment of Werner’s has gone missing en route to Costa Rica. If you provide your assistance, the FBI said they’ll drop their investigation into you. I’m assuming you know they’re talking about,” Anderson asked.
I sighed.
“Very well,” I said. “Tell your FBI contact that I’ll set up a meeting with Franco De Werner.” I hung up the phone.
“Lazy bastards,” I thought to myself.
I went to Izzy. “I need you to gather all the information you can find on Franco De Werner. Print it off and slide it under the door of the bathroom. I’ll be in there for awhile,” I instructed.
The Philly cheesesteak went out as fast as it went in.
***
I took the California 1 up to Malibu. Again, I got pulled over.
“You need to stop fuckin around,” the officer said. “I’ve seen your kind before. You come around here thinking you solve everything. But you can’t. You’re just one man. You can’t change the system.”
“First off,” I replied. “Weren’t you a sheriff in San Luis Obispo last week? And secondly, I’m just helping the FBI on an investigation into Franco De Werner’s missing property. I’m not trying to change any system. And third, how the hell do you know who I am? Hand me my ticket and fuck off.”
The officer glared at me for awhile then wrote up the ticket.
“I better not see your face around here again. And fuck this piece of machinery that you call a vehicle,” he warned.
“I’ll have you know that I get 12 mpg in this piece of machinery,” I replied.
The cop flipped me the bird and walked away.
I pulled up to Werner’s beachfront property. As I walked towards the house, a 50 cal. machine gun knocked up a bunch of sand and blew my bowler off. I dropped to the ground and pulled out my .45.
Seconds later, there was a laugh and a man walked up. His smile was perfect.
“Those commie bastards did me a favor by shooting out my eye. My aim has never been better,” the man said.
I stood up and knocked the sand off.
“Mr. Franco De Werner, I presume?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “You must be the investigator the FBI sent. Welcome to my humble abode. Can I offer a refreshment? A bourbon perhaps?”
“A change of underwear if you’ve got it.”
We went inside to Franco’s Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired home. His servants offered cucumber sandwiches and some 90 proof Elijah Craig.
“I heard you slaughtered an entire mafia up in the mountains,” Franco said.
“How did you hear about that?” I asked.
“For a man in my position, it pays to have eyes everywhere,” he replied. “I could use a man like you.”
“I’m just here to assist the FBI, Mr. Werner. Not for a job interview,” I said.
“Right”
Franco sat back in his seat and lit up a cigar. Villains love their cigars.
“There was a whole shipment of M4s and Carbon 15s going to counter-revolutionary forces in the jungle. The communists had to of intercepted it,” Franco explained.
“How could they have known?” I asked.
“I must have a rat in my midst,” he explained as he puffed on his cigar. “I need you to sniff him out Mr. James.”
“I’m a simple private investigator Mr. Werner. Not an undercover agent.”
Franco took a drink of his bourbon.
“I know about your troubles. I know about you burning down an apartment building, about the massacre in Big Bear, about your medical bills and unpaid fines to the California Highway Patrol. I can make all your problems go away if you do me this favor: join my team, and find this mole.”
I thought for a second, then poured a glass of Elijah’s.
“I’m all ears,” I said.
***
“Do be careful James,” Izzy said.
“Be sure to pack my Beretta 93R,” I replied. “Things might get heavy.”
Izzy handed me my aluminum edition suitcase and drove me to Burbank International. I was headed to Belize to pick up the trail of Franco De Werner’s missing arms shipment.
To infiltrate his elite team of mercenaries, Werner provided me with false credentials. My name: Carlos Newhouser…a half-Austrian, half-Mexican, former member of Spetsnaz.
My mission: snuff out the communists.
Kill, if necessary.
At the airport, a rag tag crew of rednecks, Arabs, fishermen, nomads, musicians, accountants, fur trappers, Canadians, dope heads, dope dealers, truckers, Canadians, hockey players, Arsenio Hall, and former special forces were there to greet me. This was Franco’s crack team.
“I’m Carlos,” I said.
Everyone glared.
“Anyone gonna say anything?” I asked.
A female stepped forward.
“Welcome to Belize, Mr. Newhouser,” she said. “I’m Angelika Anotolukolopolous.”
Angelika was red headed. She spoke with a Scottish accent.
“Let me take your bags,” she said.
“No thanks,” I replied. “I prefer to carry my own.”
We all piled into the bed of a jacked up 95 F-150. Anna tried to brief me on the situation while on our journey to the hotel.
“What?! I can’t hear you through this loud ass Diesel engine!” I said.
“Franco has tasked us with finding the missing arms shipment! He suspects the communists of stealing it!” she replied.
“I know! We’ve already gone over this!”
We arrived at Helena Bay Family Resort. The hardened crew gathered by the poolside bar while children ran and played about.
“I heard you torched a school in Sarajevo because you suspected they were harboring communists,” one of the mercenaries said to me. “You’re one cold blooded son of a bitch.”
“Better dead than red,” I replied. I looked over to the bartender. “Mai Tai please.”
Angelika stepped out in her bikini. The ruffians glanced over and went back to their mojitos. I stripped off my shirt and jumped into the pool.
Angelika looked me over through her Ray Bans.
“I see you have a good taste in music,” she said. She was referring to my Def Leppard tattoo.
I hopped out of the pool and dried off.
“Thanks,” I said. “Got it during their Slang Tour in 96.”
“I’d like to see what else you got,” Angelika replied. She was playing seductively with her straw between her lips.
“On my left ass cheek is the Whitesnake tour from 92,” I replied.
She slipped me the key to her room.
“Come see me tonight, after 10:30. I’ll show you what I got,” and with that Angelika got up and slowly walked away.
She suspected something. We suspected each other. But I had to follow my leads, and Angelika was at the top of my list.
After 10:30, I unlocked the door to her room.
“Angelika?” I asked.
From behind the bathroom door appeared Angelika in a purple corset and black undies.
“Well,” I said. “I don’t see your tattoos.”
“Hello James,” a woman’s voice said from behind.
I turned around and there stood another Angelika in the kitchenette.
“Sorry ladies, I only brought enough protection for one,” I said.
“Please sit down,” the Angelika in the kitchen replied.
I complied.
“Care for a drink?” she asked.
“Irish whisky,” I replied.
A third Angelika appeared and handed me a glass.
“Can I have the bottle please?” I asked. “What’s going on here?”
“We are genetically enhanced clones from the Ionian Liberation Front,” the first Angelika said. “We know you’re not Carlos Newhouser. You’re a hack detective from some agency in Los Angeles.”
“Genetically enhanced?” I asked.
The second Angelika took my glass and smashed it against her head.
“I see what you mean,” I said.
“We’re after Franco De Werner. Join us, or you won’t be leaving this room alive.”
I thought for a second, then I saw an opportunity: The burrito I ate earlier was roaring back with a vengeance. So I stood up.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said. “It must be Montezuma’s Revenge.”
“Very well,” one of the Angelika’s said begrudgingly.
I sat on the toilet and started thinking through my options. As I stunk up the room, a forth Angelika handed me a roll from behind the shower curtain.
“Don’t forget to wipe,” she said.
***
“If you stray a foot, I’ll murder you where you stand,” one of the Angelikas told me.
All the mercenaries, 40 of us in total, boarded the black hawks en route to the jungles of Honduras. The three other Angelikas disappeared hours earlier. Only one was left to watch me.
“Why are you after Franco De Werner?” I asked her.
“In addition to killing our comrades, he holds the key to a secret nuclear arsenal somewhere under the Gulf of Mexico. If we can capture him, we’d control enough fire power to destroy the Western Hemisphere,” she replied.
Well fuck me, I thought. Angelika(s) plan was to massacre the mercenaries in the jungle during their communist hunt, forcing Franco down to Honduras.
I was caught between a rock and a hard place: between a diabolical madman and a kill squad of four genetically enhanced clone-ladies
“But why me though?” I asked. “Are you aligned with the mafia? Are they still pissed because I torched the shit out of them in the woods?”
“Just shup and do what you’re told.”
The choppers dropped us off on the beach. We set up camp for the night. All the men gathered around the various fires, cracking open one Keystone Light after another.
It became a beach party.
I stood watch along the tree line. Angelika handed me an MK 556. She pushed me up against a tree and grabbed my dong.
“Remember,” she said. “I am always watching you.”
She then kissed me and disappeared into the jungle. I began to cry.
The men started to get rowdy. I told them to quiet down, that the communists could be watching.
“What are you afraid of, Carlos?” replied Tiger Tanaka, the most ruthless of the bunch. “You’re the most notorious arsonists in Eastern Europe. Quit being a puss.”
Tiger then pulled out a Henri Selmer saxophone and started rockin’ out like he was Clarence fucking Clemons. This noisy instrument was echoing across the bay and into the jungle.
“Damn it Tiger! If you don’t put that loud piece of shit away, I will shoot you myself!” I yelled.
“I ain’t afraid of nothin in this jungle!” he yelled back.
Ironically, a tiger then jumped out of the woods a mauled his face off. The men quickly scattered into the jungle, leaving their weapons behind. I fired a few rounds at the animal before it disappeared.
“There’s tigers in Honduras?!” one of the men yelled. I shrugged.
Angelika must have something to do with this, I thought.
The men attempted to retrieve their weapons. Every time they got close, the tiger would reappear and drag one of them into the woods.
“It’s an ambush,” I said. “We must fall back.”
“Fall back into the jungle?! WITHOUT OUR WEAPONS!” said Thomas Jane “Little” P.P., the explosives expert.
“Calm yourself, Little PP,” I replied. “Fall back and we’ll regroup.”
As the men retreated, trip wires began going off. A fireball would light up the sky and body parts would fall back into the trees.
“We’re gonna die!” screamed Little PP. He ran ahead a few yards in front of me before falling into quicksand.
I extended my rifle to pull him out, but he kept sinking deeper. “I don’t want to drown!” Little PP yelled. “Please kill me, Carlos!”
When I realized that I couldn’t rescue him, I lifted up my rifle and fired one round into Little PPs chest. I watched as his dead body sunk below the surface.
The screams of men continued to echo across the jungle. I heard growling behind me. The tiger was near. I fired a few rounds into the bushes and ran off.
I hopped across a trip wire and hid behind a tree. “Come at me mother fucker,” I said. The tiger jumped out and hit the wire. The explosion was brilliant.
Tiger blood rained from the sky.
I sat down and radioed in.
“To Angelika or whoever’s listening,” I said. “Tiger’s dead. Both tigers are. There can’t be very many of us left. But I’m still standing. If you want me, you’re gonna have to come down here and get me.
But be warned: it’s gonna take more than a tiger and a few land mines to kill me.”
***
The warm breeze blew through the trees while the sun beamed down. Dead and mangled bodies littered the jungle floor.
I rested beneath a tree, waiting for the Angelikas.
A chopper rattled in the distance. The trees rustled as it hovered overhead. Four ropes dropped down to a clearing in front of me.
The four Angelikas lowered down.
“You’re coming with us,” they said.
“Not today sisters!”
I attempted to fire off a clip, but my rifle jammed. I threw the weapon down. If it came down to hand-to-hand combat, I was fucked.
Three of the Angelikas attempted to corner me. One stood back. I threw a grenade, but one caught it and threw it back. The explosion knocked me back a few feet.
The chopper continued to hover overhead.
As I laid there in a daze, I suddenly remembered: Izzy packed my burst action Beretta. The Angelikas were inching closer. I pulled out the sidearm and unleashed the three rounds into the chopper.
I could see the pilot’s brains splatter across the glass. His body leaned forward and the helicopter came careening down into the jungle. As it exploded, fire rained down onto the three Angelikas.
They might’ve been genetically enhanced. But as I’ve learned time and time again, no one is immune to the destructive force of a fireball.
I walked towards the last remaining Angelika. She instantly cowered down.
“Don’t kill me! I’m the original, I’m not genetically enhanced,” she screamed.
“Where’s Franco?!”
“He’s holed up at the abandoned airstrip a few klicks away.”
“You’re taking me to him.”
I held her at gunpoint as we journeyed towards the airstrip. Franco was in the hanger while his private jet rested on the runway.
“Here’s your communist mole,” I told him.
“Excellent work, Mr. James,” he replied. “Now that I can trust you, I’ll reveal to you my secret plan.”
Franco turned around and removed his eye patch. A brilliant flash of gold appeared from where left eye once was. He laid a steel briefcase on the table.
Inside was a ridiculous looking retinal scanner.
“When I run my golden eye through this retinal scan,” he said. “50 scud missiles armed with nuclear warheads will fire from beneath the Gulf of Mexico. Each aimed at a major city in the Western Hemisphere.”
“You’re a madman, Mr. Werner,” I replied. “You’re not even gonna attempt to blackmail world leaders? What kind of villain are you?”
“Once when the world’s major cities have been destroyed,” Franco continued. “They’ll blame the communists, and leaders of the world will have no choice but to use my services to defeat them.”
“Billions of people will die, just so you can make a profit,” I replied.
“Basically, yeah.”
I’ve seen these cases hundreds of times: madman wants to destroy the world just so he can make a few extra pennies. People will do anything for money these days.
“With that type of destruction,” I interjected. “Nuclear winter could last ages. Are you sure that you completely thought the consequences of your plan, Mr. Werner?”
Franco pondered for a second.
“Shit, I guess I didn’t,” he replied. “Oh well, it’s a risk worth taking. But tonight, we feast!”
Franco left the hanger. Angelika was locked up behind a gate.
“James,” she said. “Franco killed my friends, my family. All I’ve ever wanted was justice. Please don’t let him do this.”
Franco returned with his servants. They were bringing in cartons full of local cuisine out of the jet. He poured a glass of bourbon, then lifted it to make a toast.
“To the future,” he said.
I had to act quickly.
***
Franco stuffed his face with Chile con queso and guacamole. When he finished, he pulled out a cigar.
“Time to get this show on the road,” he said.
Franco ran his golden eye through the retinal scan, which initiated a countdown. He laughed as he lit up the cigar. When the clock reached zero, the computer informed us that all fifty missiles were launched, all aimed at the fifty largest cities in the Western Hemisphere.
“We better get the fuck outta here,” Franco said. “We don’t want to be on the ground when those warheads hit.”
Angelika, myself, Franco, and a few of his minions boarded the private jet. When we were up in the air, Franco was still amused with himself.
“In 19 minutes,” he said as he puffed on his cigar. “We’ll be the richest fuckers in the universe.”
Then he leaned forward as his stomach cramped.
“Damn it,” Franco said. “Montezuma’s Revenge.” He got up and ran to the toilet.
I looked over to the steel briefcase that controlled the warheads. “James, do something!” Angelika yelled.
I swiftly leapt out of my seat and kicked the guard in the dick. “Ow! My groin,” he yelled as he fell to the ground.
With the guard incapacitated, I opened the briefcase and attempted to redirect the missiles. However, I didn’t know how to operate the computer.
“Remove the handcuffs James, I know how to do it,” Angelika said. I took the keys off the guard and set her free. She redirected the missiles into space, where they’d all converge to create one massive explosion.
Moments later, the sky lit up…almost as if there were two suns resting on the horizon.
“Congratulations Angelika, you saved the world,” I said.
“We still have a problem,” she replied. “One missile is not responding to the commands. It’s headed straight for Mexico City.”
I thought for a moment.
“What’s our flight path?”
I busted into the cockpit and knocked out the two pilots with the butt of my rifle. “Our path takes us near Mexico City. We can intercept the missile with this jet,” I said.
I took control of the cockpit in an attempt to steer the jet into the missile. I never flew a plane of that magnitude before. I flew a Cessna once. I figured that flying a Lear at 745mph couldn’t be that different.
“Two minutes to intercept,” Angelika yelled as she was putting on a parachute. I climbed out of the cockpit and began strapping into one on as well.
I kicked open the emergency exit and the cabin depressurized. At that moment, Franco ran out of the bathroom and began firing his Ruger. Angelika grabbed his arm and attempted to knock it out.
“Jump James!” she yelled.
I jumped out of the plane. Angelika engaged with Franco for a few more moments before throwing him out of the plane without a parachute. Then she jumped.
The missile crashed into the Lear, detonating the last nuclear weapon several thousand feet above us. We deployed our parachutes. When we were 20 feet above the ground, Franco rifled out of the sky like a lightning bolt, grabbing ahold of me and crashing us into the ground from his tremendous momentum.
Franco somehow managed to keep his cigar in.
We wrestled on the ground, with him getting the better of me. When Angelika landed, not even she could overtake him. I took out my Beretta, but Franco kicked it out.
While I was laying on the ground, Franco grabbed the gun and aimed it at me.
“Goodbye, Mr. Private Dick.”
The wind then kicked up and my parachute blew on top of him, obscuring his view. I jumped on top of him and began to strangle him.
By this point, I’ve probably killed hundreds of men. But there’s nothing like killing a man with your bare hands.
Franco gurgled for a bit, then the bones and muscles in his neck began to break. When his eyes rolled back into his head, I loosened my grip.
“Let him go, James,” Angelika said. “He’s dead.”
I took my hands off his lifeless body and stood up.
“That was fucking brutal. Jesus!” Angelika told me.
I began to strip off the parachute when a man fully decked out in military regalia came out of nowhere and began to clap.
“Well done, well done,” the strange man said.
He walked over to Franco’s body and picked up his cigar. “I am Admiral General Colonel Majors. United States Navy,” he explained.
“Where were you guys when we needed you?” I asked.
“You were never in serious danger. We were monitoring the situation the entire time.”
Angelika and I look at each other.
“But 50 nuclear missiles were launched,” I replied.
“Don’t worry about it,” Admiral Majors said. “What’s important is that I’m here to recruit you into my ultra top secret kill force, the most lethal unit in the world.”
“Why me?”
“You’re a killing machine James. You know that. You love the thrill of taking a man’s life. I watched it with my own two eyes. Face it James, you were born to kill.”
I finished taking off the parachute and threw down the Beretta. “I’m a simple LA detective, Admiral,” I replied. “I seek the truth. I’m not very good at it, but people pay me to do it. But I’m not a killer.”
“Suit yourself,” the Admiral said. “But this isn’t the last you’ll see of me.”
Angelika was later arrested due to being wanted by INTERPOL. Something to do with “terrorist activities” in 14 countries. I called Izzy.
“Mission complete,” I told her. “I’ll back in LA in a couple of days.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, James,” she replied. “Did you find that missing arms shipment? It would be really bad if all those weapons fell into the wrong hands.”
The Internet Ruined Everything 